X
Ivan Dmitritch was lying in the same position as on the previous day, with his head clutched in both hands and his legs drawn up. —-
His face was not visible.
“Good-day, my friend,” said Andrey Yefimitch. “You are not asleep, are you?”
“In the first place, I am not your friend,” Ivan Dmitritch articulated into the pillow; —-
“and in the second, your efforts are useless; —-
you will not get one word out of me.”
“Strange,” muttered Andrey Yefimitch in confusion. —-
“Yesterday we talked peacefully, but suddenly for some reason you took offence and broke off all at once. —-
. . . Probably I expressed myself awkwardly, or perhaps gave utterance to some idea which did not fit in with your convictions. . . .”
“Yes, a likely idea!” said Ivan Dmitritch, sitting up and looking at the doctor with irony and uneasiness. —-
His eyes were red. “You can go and spy and probe somewhere else, it’s no use your doing it here. —-
I knew yesterday what you had come for.”
“A strange fancy,” laughed the doctor. “So you suppose me to be a spy?”
“Yes, I do. . . . A spy or a doctor who has been charged to test me—it’s all the same ——”
“Oh excuse me, what a queer fellow you are really!”
The doctor sat down on the stool near the bed and shook his head reproachfully.
“But let us suppose you are right,” he said, “let us suppose that I am treacherously trying to trap you into saying something so as to betray you to the police. —-
You would be arrested and then tried. But would you be any worse off being tried and in prison than you are here? —-
If you are banished to a settlement, or even sent to penal servitude, would it be worse than being shut up in this ward? —-
I imagine it would be no worse. . . . What, then, are you afraid of?”
These words evidently had an effect on Ivan Dmitritch. He sat down quietly.
It was between four and five in the afternoon—the time when Andrey Yefimitch usually walked up and down his rooms, and Daryushka asked whether it was not time for his beer. —-
It was a still, bright day.
“I came out for a walk after dinner, and here I have come, as you see,” said the doctor. —-
“It is quite spring.”
“What month is it? March?” asked Ivan Dmitritch.
“Yes, the end of March.”
“Is it very muddy?”
“No, not very. There are already paths in the garden.”
“It would be nice now to drive in an open carriage somewhere into the country,” said Ivan Dmitritch, rubbing his red eyes as though he were just awake, “then to come home to a warm, snug study, and . —-
. . and to have a decent doctor to cure one’s headache. . . . —-
It’s so long since I have lived like a human being. —-
It’s disgusting here! Insufferably disgusting!”
After his excitement of the previous day he was exhausted and listless, and spoke unwillingly. —-
His fingers twitched, and from his face it could be seen that he had a splitting headache.
“There is no real difference between a warm, snug study and this ward,” said Andrey Yefimitch. —-
“A man’s peace and contentment do not lie outside a man, but in himself.”
“What do you mean?”
“The ordinary man looks for good and evil in external things—that is, in carriages, in studies—but a thinking man looks for it in himself.”
“You should go and preach that philosophy in Greece, where it’s warm and fragrant with the scent of pomegranates, but here it is not suited to the climate. —-
With whom was it I was talking of Diogenes? —-
Was it with you?”
“Yes, with me yesterday.”
“Diogenes did not need a study or a warm habitation; it’s hot there without. —-
You can lie in your tub and eat oranges and olives. But bring him to Russia to live: —-
he’d be begging to be let indoors in May, let alone December. He’d be doubled up with the cold.”
“No. One can be insensible to cold as to every other pain. Marcus Aurelius says: —-
‘A pain is a vivid idea of pain; make an effort of will to change that idea, dismiss it, cease to complain, and the pain will disappear. —-
’ That is true. The wise man, or simply the reflecting, thoughtful man, is distinguished precisely by his contempt for suffering; —-
he is always contented and surprised at nothing.”
“Then I am an idiot, since I suffer and am discontented and surprised at the baseness of mankind.”
“You are wrong in that; if you will reflect more on the subject you will understand how insignificant is all that external world that agitates us. —-
One must strive for the comprehension of life, and in that is true happiness.”
“Comprehension . . .” repeated Ivan Dmitritch frowning. “External, internal. . . . —-
Excuse me, but I don’t understand it. I only know,” he said, getting up and looking angrily at the doctor—“I only know that God has created me of warm blood and nerves, yes, indeed! —-
If organic tissue is capable of life it must react to every stimulus. And I do! —-
To pain I respond with tears and outcries, to baseness with indignation, to filth with loathing. —-
To my mind, that is just what is called life. —-
The lower the organism, the less sensitive it is, and the more feebly it reacts to stimulus; —-
and the higher it is, the more responsively and vigorously it reacts to reality. —-
How is it you don’t know that? A doctor, and not know such trifles! —-
To despise suffering, to be always contented, and to be surprised at nothing, one must reach this condition”—and Ivan Dmitritch pointed to the peasant who was a mass of fat—“or to harden oneself by suffering to such a point that one loses all sensibility to it—that is, in other words, to cease to live. —-
You must excuse me, I am not a sage or a philosopher,” Ivan Dmitritch continued with irritation, “and I don’t understand anything about it. —-
I am not capable of reasoning.”
“On the contrary, your reasoning is excellent.”
“The Stoics, whom you are parodying, were remarkable people, but their doctrine crystallized two thousand years ago and has not advanced, and will not advance, an inch forward, since it is not practical or living. —-
It had a success only with the minority which spends its life in savouring all sorts of theories and ruminating over them; —-
the majority did not understand it. A doctrine which advocates indifference to wealth and to the comforts of life, and a contempt for suffering and death, is quite unintelligible to the vast majority of men, since that majority has never known wealth or the comforts of life; —-
and to despise suffering would mean to it despising life itself, since the whole existence of man is made up of the sensations of hunger, cold, injury, and a Hamlet-like dread of death. —-
The whole of life lies in these sensations; —-
one may be oppressed by it, one may hate it, but one cannot despise it. —-
Yes, so, I repeat, the doctrine of the Stoics can never have a future; —-
from the beginning of time up to to-day you see continually increasing the struggle, the sensibility to pain, the capacity of responding to stimulus.”
Ivan Dmitritch suddenly lost the thread of his thoughts, stopped, and rubbed his forehead with vexation.
“I meant to say something important, but I have lost it,” he said. “What was I saying? —-
Oh, yes! This is what I mean: one of the Stoics sold himself into slavery to redeem his neighbour, so, you see, even a Stoic did react to stimulus, since, for such a generous act as the destruction of oneself for the sake of one’s neighbour, he must have had a soul capable of pity and indignation. —-
Here in prison I have forgotten everything I have learned, or else I could have recalled something else. —-
Take Christ, for instance: Christ responded to reality by weeping, smiling, being sorrowful and moved to wrath, even overcome by misery. —-
He did not go to meet His sufferings with a smile, He did not despise death, but prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane that this cup might pass Him by.”
Ivan Dmitritch laughed and sat down.
“Granted that a man’s peace and contentment lie not outside but in himself,” he said, “granted that one must despise suffering and not be surprised at anything, yet on what ground do you preach the theory? —-
Are you a sage? A philosopher?”
“No, I am not a philosopher, but everyone ought to preach it because it is reasonable.”
“No, I want to know how it is that you consider yourself competent to judge of ‘comprehension,’ contempt for suffering, and so on. —-
Have you ever suffered? Have you any idea of suffering? —-
Allow me to ask you, were you ever thrashed in your childhood?”
“No, my parents had an aversion for corporal punishment.”
“My father used to flog me cruelly; my father was a harsh, sickly Government clerk with a long nose and a yellow neck. —-
But let us talk of you. No one has laid a finger on you all your life, no one has scared you nor beaten you; —-
you are as strong as a bull. You grew up under your father’s wing and studied at his expense, and then you dropped at once into a sinecure. —-
For more than twenty years you have lived rent free with heating, lighting, and service all provided, and had the right to work how you pleased and as much as you pleased, even to do nothing. —-
You were naturally a flabby, lazy man, and so you have tried to arrange your life so that nothing should disturb you or make you move. —-
You have handed over your work to the assistant and the rest of the rabble while you sit in peace and warmth, save money, read, amuse yourself with reflections, with all sorts of lofty nonsense, and” (Ivan Dmitritch looked at the doctor’s red nose) “with boozing; —-
in fact, you have seen nothing of life, you know absolutely nothing of it, and are only theoretically acquainted with reality; —-
you despise suffering and are surprised at nothing for a very simple reason: —-
vanity of vanities, the external and the internal, contempt for life, for suffering and for death, comprehension, true happiness—that’s the philosophy that suits the Russian sluggard best. —-
You see a peasant beating his wife, for instance. Why interfere? —-
Let him beat her, they will both die sooner or later, anyway; —-
and, besides, he who beats injures by his blows, not the person he is beating, but himself. —-
To get drunk is stupid and unseemly, but if you drink you die, and if you don’t drink you die. —-
A peasant woman comes with toothache . . . well, what of it? —-
Pain is the idea of pain, and besides ‘there is no living in this world without illness; —-
we shall all die, and so, go away, woman, don’t hinder me from thinking and drinking vodka. —-
’ A young man asks advice, what he is to do, how he is to live; —-
anyone else would think before answering, but you have got the answer ready: —-
strive for ‘comprehension’ or for true happiness. —-
And what is that fantastic ‘true happiness’? There’s no answer, of course. —-
We are kept here behind barred windows, tortured, left to rot; —-
but that is very good and reasonable, because there is no difference at all between this ward and a warm, snug study. —-
A convenient philosophy. You can do nothing, and your conscience is clear, and you feel you are wise . —-
. . . No, sir, it is not philosophy, it’s not thinking, it’s not breadth of vision, but laziness, fakirism, drowsy stupefaction. —-
Yes,” cried Ivan Dmitritch, getting angry again, “you despise suffering, but I’ll be bound if you pinch your finger in the door you will howl at the top of your voice.”
“And perhaps I shouldn’t howl,” said Andrey Yefimitch, with a gentle smile.
“Oh, I dare say! Well, if you had a stroke of paralysis, or supposing some fool or bully took advantage of his position and rank to insult you in public, and if you knew he could do it with impunity, then you would understand what it means to put people off with comprehension and true happiness.”
“That’s original,” said Andrey Yefimitch, laughing with pleasure and rubbing his hands. —-
“I am agreeably struck by your inclination for drawing generalizations, and the sketch of my character you have just drawn is simply brilliant. —-
I must confess that talking to you gives me great pleasure. —-
Well, I’ve listened to you, and now you must graciously listen to me.”
XI
The conversation went on for about an hour longer, and apparently made a deep impression on Andrey Yefimitch. —-
He began going to the ward every day. He went there in the mornings and after dinner, and often the dusk of evening found him in conversation with Ivan Dmitritch. —-
At first Ivan Dmitritch held aloof from him, suspected him of evil designs, and openly expressed his hostility. —-
But afterwards he got used to him, and his abrupt manner changed to one of condescending irony.
Soon it was all over the hospital that the doctor, Andrey Yefimitch, had taken to visiting Ward No. 6. —-
No one—neither Sergey Sergevitch, nor Nikita, nor the nurses—could conceive why he went there, why he stayed there for hours together, what he was talking about, and why he did not write prescriptions. —-
His actions seemed strange. Often Mihail Averyanitch did not find him at home, which had never happened in the past, and Daryushka was greatly perturbed, for the doctor drank his beer now at no definite time, and sometimes was even late for dinner.
One day—it was at the end of June—Dr. Hobotov went to see Andrey Yefimitch about something. —-
Not finding him at home, he proceeded to look for him in the yard; —-
there he was told that the old doctor had gone to see the mental patients. —-
Going into the lodge and stopping in the entry, Hobotov heard the following conversation:
“We shall never agree, and you will not succeed in converting me to your faith,” Ivan Dmitritch was saying irritably; —-
“you are utterly ignorant of reality, and you have never known suffering, but have only like a leech fed beside the sufferings of others, while I have been in continual suffering from the day of my birth till to-day. —-
For that reason, I tell you frankly, I consider myself superior to you and more competent in every respect. —-
It’s not for you to teach me.”
“I have absolutely no ambition to convert you to my faith,” said Andrey Yefimitch gently, and with regret that the other refused to understand him. —-
“And that is not what matters, my friend; —-
what matters is not that you have suffered and I have not. Joy and suffering are passing; —-
let us leave them, never mind them. What matters is that you and I think; —-
we see in each other people who are capable of thinking and reasoning, and that is a common bond between us however different our views. —-
If you knew, my friend, how sick I am of the universal senselessness, ineptitude, stupidity, and with what delight I always talk with you! —-
You are an intelligent man, and I enjoyed your company.”
Hobotov opened the door an inch and glanced into the ward; —-
Ivan Dmitritch in his night-cap and the doctor Andrey Yefimitch were sitting side by side on the bed. —-
The madman was grimacing, twitching, and convulsively wrapping himself in his gown, while the doctor sat motionless with bowed head, and his face was red and look helpless and sorrowful. —-
Hobotov shrugged his shoulders, grinned, and glanced at Nikita. —-
Nikita shrugged his shoulders too.
Next day Hobotov went to the lodge, accompanied by the assistant. —-
Both stood in the entry and listened.
“I fancy our old man has gone clean off his chump!” said Hobotov as he came out of the lodge.
“Lord have mercy upon us sinners!” sighed the decorous Sergey Sergeyitch, scrupulously avoiding the puddles that he might not muddy his polished boots. —-
“I must own, honoured Yevgeny Fyodoritch, I have been expecting it for a long time.”
XII
After this Andrey Yefimitch began to notice a mysterious air in all around him. —-
The attendants, the nurses, and the patients looked at him inquisitively when they met him, and then whispered together. —-
The superintendent’s little daughter Masha, whom he liked to meet in the hospital garden, for some reason ran away from him now when he went up with a smile to stroke her on the head. —-
The postmaster no longer said, “Perfectly true,” as he listened to him, but in unaccountable confusion muttered, “Yes, yes, yes . —-
. .” and looked at him with a grieved and thoughtful expression; —-
for some reason he took to advising his friend to give up vodka and beer, but as a man of delicate feeling he did not say this directly, but hinted it, telling him first about the commanding officer of his battalion, an excellent man, and then about the priest of the regiment, a capital fellow, both of whom drank and fell ill, but on giving up drinking completely regained their health. —-
On two or three occasions Andrey Yefimitch was visited by his colleague Hobotov, who also advised him to give up spirituous liquors, and for no apparent reason recommended him to take bromide.
In August Andrey Yefimitch got a letter from the mayor of the town asking him to come on very important business. —-
On arriving at the town hall at the time fixed, Andrey Yefimitch found there the military commander, the superintendent of the district school, a member of the town council, Hobotov, and a plump, fair gentleman who was introduced to him as a doctor. —-
This doctor, with a Polish surname difficult to pronounce, lived at a pedigree stud-farm twenty miles away, and was now on a visit to the town.
“There’s something that concerns you,” said the member of the town council, addressing Andrey Yefimitch after they had all greeted one another and sat down to the table. —-
“Here Yevgeny Fyodoritch says that there is not room for the dispensary in the main building, and that it ought to be transferred to one of the lodges. —-
That’s of no consequence—of course it can be transferred, but the point is that the lodge wants doing up.”
“Yes, it would have to be done up,” said Andrey Yefimitch after a moment’s thought. —-
“If the corner lodge, for instance, were fitted up as a dispensary, I imagine it would cost at least five hundred roubles. —-
An unproductive expenditure!”
Everyone was silent for a space.
“I had the honour of submitting to you ten years ago,” Andrey Yefimitch went on in a low voice, “that the hospital in its present form is a luxury for the town beyond its means. —-
It was built in the forties, but things were different then. —-
The town spends too much on unnecessary buildings and superfluous staff. —-
I believe with a different system two model hospitals might be maintained for the same money.”
“Well, let us have a different system, then!” the member of the town council said briskly.
“I have already had the honour of submitting to you that the medical department should be transferred to the supervision of the Zemstvo.”
“Yes, transfer the money to the Zemstvo and they will steal it,” laughed the fair-haired doctor.
“That’s what it always comes to,” the member of the council assented, and he also laughed.
Andrey Yefimitch looked with apathetic, lustreless eyes at the fair- haired doctor and said: —-
“One should be just.”
Again there was silence. Tea was brought in. —-
The military commander, for some reason much embarrassed, touched Andrey Yefimitch’s hand across the table and said: —-
“You have quite forgotten us, doctor. But of course you are a hermit: —-
you don’t play cards and don’t like women. —-
You would be dull with fellows like us.”
They all began saying how boring it was for a decent person to live in such a town. —-
No theatre, no music, and at the last dance at the club there had been about twenty ladies and only two gentlemen. —-
The young men did not dance, but spent all the time crowding round the refreshment bar or playing cards.
Not looking at anyone and speaking slowly in a low voice, Andrey Yefimitch began saying what a pity, what a terrible pity it was that the townspeople should waste their vital energy, their hearts, and their minds on cards and gossip, and should have neither the power nor the inclination to spend their time in interesting conversation and reading, and should refuse to take advantage of the enjoyments of the mind. —-
The mind alone was interesting and worthy of attention, all the rest was low and petty. —-
Hobotov listened to his colleague attentively and suddenly asked:
“Andrey Yefimitch, what day of the month is it?”
Having received an answer, the fair-haired doctor and he, in the tone of examiners conscious of their lack of skill, began asking Andrey Yefimitch what was the day of the week, how many days there were in the year, and whether it was true that there was a remarkable prophet living in Ward No. 6.
In response to the last question Andrey Yefimitch turned rather red and said: —-
“Yes, he is mentally deranged, but he is an interesting young man.”
They asked him no other questions.
When he was putting on his overcoat in the entry, the military commander laid a hand on his shoulder and said with a sigh:
“It’s time for us old fellows to rest!”
As he came out of the hall, Andrey Yefimitch understood that it had been a committee appointed to enquire into his mental condition. —-
He recalled the questions that had been asked him, flushed crimson, and for some reason, for the first time in his life, felt bitterly grieved for medical science.
“My God. . .” he thought, remembering how these doctors had just examined him; —-
“why, they have only lately been hearing lectures on mental pathology; —-
they had passed an examination—what’s the explanation of this crass ignorance? —-
They have not a conception of mental pathology!”
And for the first time in his life he felt insulted and moved to anger.
In the evening of the same day Mihail Averyanitch came to see him. —-
The postmaster went up to him without waiting to greet him, took him by both hands, and said in an agitated voice:
“My dear fellow, my dear friend, show me that you believe in my genuine affection and look on me as your friend! —-
” And preventing Andrey Yefimitch from speaking, he went on, growing excited: —-
“I love you for your culture and nobility of soul. Listen to me, my dear fellow. —-
The rules of their profession compel the doctors to conceal the truth from you, but I blurt out the plain truth like a soldier. —-
You are not well! Excuse me, my dear fellow, but it is the truth; —-
everyone about you has been noticing it for a long time. —-
Dr. Yevgeny Fyodoritch has just told me that it is essential for you to rest and distract your mind for the sake of your health. —-
Perfectly true! Excellent! In a day or two I am taking a holiday and am going away for a sniff of a different atmosphere. —-
Show that you are a friend to me, let us go together! —-
Let us go for a jaunt as in the good old days.”
“I feel perfectly well,” said Andrey Yefimitch after a moment’s thought. —-
“I can’t go away. Allow me to show you my friendship in some other way.”
To go off with no object, without his books, without his Daryushka, without his beer, to break abruptly through the routine of life, established for twenty years—the idea for the first minute struck him as wild and fantastic, but he remembered the conversation at the Zemstvo committee and the depressing feelings with which he had returned home, and the thought of a brief absence from the town in which stupid people looked on him as a madman was pleasant to him.
“And where precisely do you intend to go?” he asked.
“To Moscow, to Petersburg, to Warsaw. . . . —-
I spent the five happiest years of my life in Warsaw. —-
What a marvellous town! Let us go, my dear fellow!”
XIII
A week later it was suggested to Andrey Yefimitch that he should have a rest—that is, send in his resignation—a suggestion he received with indifference, and a week later still, Mihail Averyanitch and he were sitting in a posting carriage driving to the nearest railway station. —-
The days were cool and bright, with a blue sky and a transparent distance. —-
They were two days driving the hundred and fifty miles to the railway station, and stayed two nights on the way. —-
When at the posting station the glasses given them for their tea had not been properly washed, or the drivers were slow in harnessing the horses, Mihail Averyanitch would turn crimson, and quivering all over would shout:
“Hold your tongue! Don’t argue!”
And in the carriage he talked without ceasing for a moment, describing his campaigns in the Caucasus and in Poland. —-
What adventures he had had, what meetings! —-
He talked loudly and opened his eyes so wide with wonder that he might well be thought to be lying. —-
Moreover, as he talked he breathed in Andrey Yefimitch’s face and laughed into his ear. —-
This bothered the doctor and prevented him from thinking or concentrating his mind.
In the train they travelled, from motives of economy, third-class in a non-smoking compartment. —-
Half the passengers were decent people. Mihail Averyanitch soon made friends with everyone, and moving from one seat to another, kept saying loudly that they ought not to travel by these appalling lines. —-
It was a regular swindle! A very different thing riding on a good horse: —-
one could do over seventy miles a day and feel fresh and well after it. —-
And our bad harvests were due to the draining of the Pinsk marshes; —-
altogether, the way things were done was dreadful. —-
He got excited, talked loudly, and would not let others speak. —-
This endless chatter to the accompaniment of loud laughter and expressive gestures wearied Andrey Yefimitch.
“Which of us is the madman?” he thought with vexation. —-
“I, who try not to disturb my fellow-passengers in any way, or this egoist who thinks that he is cleverer and more interesting than anyone here, and so will leave no one in peace?”
In Moscow Mihail Averyanitch put on a military coat without epaulettes and trousers with red braid on them. —-
He wore a military cap and overcoat in the street, and soldiers saluted him. —-
It seemed to Andrey Yefimitch, now, that his companion was a man who had flung away all that was good and kept only what was bad of all the characteristics of a country gentleman that he had once possessed. —-
He liked to be waited on even when it was quite unnecessary. —-
The matches would be lying before him on the table, and he would see them and shout to the waiter to give him the matches; —-
he did not hesitate to appear before a maidservant in nothing but his underclothes; —-
he used the familiar mode of address to all footmen indiscriminately, even old men, and when he was angry called them fools and blockheads. —-
This, Andrey Yefimitch thought, was like a gentleman, but disgusting.
First of all Mihail Averyanitch led his friend to the Iversky Madonna. —-
He prayed fervently, shedding tears and bowing down to the earth, and when he had finished, heaved a deep sigh and said:
“Even though one does not believe it makes one somehow easier when one prays a little. —-
Kiss the ikon, my dear fellow.”
Andrey Yefimitch was embarrassed and he kissed the image, while Mihail Averyanitch pursed up his lips and prayed in a whisper, and again tears came into his eyes. —-
Then they went to the Kremlin and looked there at the Tsar-cannon and the Tsar-bell, and even touched them with their fingers, admired the view over the river, visited St. Saviour’s and the Rumyantsev museum.
They dined at Tyestov’s. Mihail Averyanitch looked a long time at the menu, stroking his whiskers, and said in the tone of a gourmand accustomed to dine in restaurants:
“We shall see what you give us to eat to-day, angel!”
XIV
The doctor walked about, looked at things, ate and drank, but he had all the while one feeling: —-
annoyance with Mihail Averyanitch. He longed to have a rest from his friend, to get away from him, to hide himself, while the friend thought it was his duty not to let the doctor move a step away from him, and to provide him with as many distractions as possible. —-
When there was nothing to look at he entertained him with conversation. —-
For two days Andrey Yefimitch endured it, but on the third he announced to his friend that he was ill and wanted to stay at home for the whole day; —-
his friend replied that in that case he would stay too—that really he needed rest, for he was run off his legs already. —-
Andrey Yefimitch lay on the sofa, with his face to the back, and clenching his teeth, listened to his friend, who assured him with heat that sooner or later France would certainly thrash Germany, that there were a great many scoundrels in Moscow, and that it was impossible to judge of a horse’s quality by its outward appearance. —-
The doctor began to have a buzzing in his ears and palpitations of the heart, but out of delicacy could not bring himself to beg his friend to go away or hold his tongue. —-
Fortunately Mihail Averyanitch grew weary of sitting in the hotel room, and after dinner he went out for a walk.
As soon as he was alone Andrey Yefimitch abandoned himself to a feeling of relief. —-
How pleasant to lie motionless on the sofa and to know that one is alone in the room! —-
Real happiness is impossible without solitude. —-
The fallen angel betrayed God probably because he longed for solitude, of which the angels know nothing. —-
Andrey Yefimitch wanted to think about what he had seen and heard during the last few days, but he could not get Mihail Averyanitch out of his head.
“Why, he has taken a holiday and come with me out of friendship, out of generosity,” thought the doctor with vexation; —-
“nothing could be worse than this friendly supervision. —-
I suppose he is good-natured and generous and a lively fellow, but he is a bore. —-
An insufferable bore. In the same way there are people who never say anything but what is clever and good, yet one feels that they are dull-witted people.”
For the following days Andrey Yefimitch declared himself ill and would not leave the hotel room; —-
he lay with his face to the back of the sofa, and suffered agonies of weariness when his friend entertained him with conversation, or rested when his friend was absent. —-
He was vexed with himself for having come, and with his friend, who grew every day more talkative and more free-and-easy; —-
he could not succeed in attuning his thoughts to a serious and lofty level.
“This is what I get from the real life Ivan Dmitritch talked about,” he thought, angry at his own pettiness. —-
“It’s of no consequence, though. . . . —-
I shall go home, and everything will go on as before . . . .”
It was the same thing in Petersburg too; —-
for whole days together he did not leave the hotel room, but lay on the sofa and only got up to drink beer.
Mihail Averyanitch was all haste to get to Warsaw.
“My dear man, what should I go there for? —-
” said Andrey Yefimitch in an imploring voice. —-
“You go alone and let me get home! I entreat you!”
“On no account,” protested Mihail Averyanitch. “It’s a marvellous town.”
Andrey Yefimitch had not the strength of will to insist on his own way, and much against his inclination went to Warsaw. —-
There he did not leave the hotel room, but lay on the sofa, furious with himself, with his friend, and with the waiters, who obstinately refused to understand Russian; —-
while Mihail Averyanitch, healthy, hearty, and full of spirits as usual, went about the town from morning to night, looking for his old acquaintances. —-
Several times he did not return home at night. —-
After one night spent in some unknown haunt he returned home early in the morning, in a violently excited condition, with a red face and tousled hair. —-
For a long time he walked up and down the rooms muttering something to himself, then stopped and said:
“Honour before everything.”
After walking up and down a little longer he clutched his head in both hands and pronounced in a tragic voice: —-
“Yes, honour before everything! Accursed be the moment when the idea first entered my head to visit this Babylon! —-
My dear friend,” he added, addressing the doctor, “you may despise me, I have played and lost; —-
lend me five hundred roubles!”
Andrey Yefimitch counted out five hundred roubles and gave them to his friend without a word. —-
The latter, still crimson with shame and anger, incoherently articulated some useless vow, put on his cap, and went out. —-
Returning two hours later he flopped into an easy-chair, heaved a loud sigh, and said:
“My honour is saved. Let us go, my friend; —-
I do not care to remain another hour in this accursed town. —-
Scoundrels! Austrian spies!”
By the time the friends were back in their own town it was November, and deep snow was lying in the streets. —-
Dr. Hobotov had Andrey Yefimitch’s post; —-
he was still living in his old lodgings, waiting for Andrey Yefimitch to arrive and clear out of the hospital apartments. —-
The plain woman whom he called his cook was already established in one of the lodges.
Fresh scandals about the hospital were going the round of the town. —-
It was said that the plain woman had quarrelled with the superintendent, and that the latter had crawled on his knees before her begging forgiveness. —-
On the very first day he arrived Andrey Yefimitch had to look out for lodgings.
“My friend,” the postmaster said to him timidly, “excuse an indiscreet question: —-
what means have you at your disposal?”
Andrey Yefimitch, without a word, counted out his money and said: “Eighty-six roubles.”
“I don’t mean that,” Mihail Averyanitch brought out in confusion, misunderstanding him; —-
“I mean, what have you to live on?”
“I tell you, eighty-six roubles . . . I have nothing else.”
Mihail Averyanitch looked upon the doctor as an honourable man, yet he suspected that he had accumulated a fortune of at least twenty thousand. —-
Now learning that Andrey Yefimitch was a beggar, that he had nothing to live on he was for some reason suddenly moved to tears and embraced his friend.
XV
Andrey Yefimitch now lodged in a little house with three windows. —-
There were only three rooms besides the kitchen in the little house. —-
The doctor lived in two of them which looked into the street, while Daryushka and the landlady with her three children lived in the third room and the kitchen. —-
Sometimes the landlady’s lover, a drunken peasant who was rowdy and reduced the children and Daryushka to terror, would come for the night. —-
When he arrived and established himself in the kitchen and demanded vodka, they all felt very uncomfortable, and the doctor would be moved by pity to take the crying children into his room and let them lie on his floor, and this gave him great satisfaction.
He got up as before at eight o’clock, and after his morning tea sat down to read his old books and magazines: —-
he had no money for new ones. Either because the books were old, or perhaps because of the change in his surroundings, reading exhausted him, and did not grip his attention as before. —-
That he might not spend his time in idleness he made a detailed catalogue of his books and gummed little labels on their backs, and this mechanical, tedious work seemed to him more interesting than reading. —-
The monotonous, tedious work lulled his thoughts to sleep in some unaccountable way, and the time passed quickly while he thought of nothing. —-
Even sitting in the kitchen, peeling potatoes with Daryushka or picking over the buckwheat grain, seemed to him interesting. —-
On Saturdays and Sundays he went to church. —-
Standing near the wall and half closing his eyes, he listened to the singing and thought of his father, of his mother, of the university, of the religions of the world; —-
he felt calm and melancholy, and as he went out of the church afterwards he regretted that the service was so soon over. —-
He went twice to the hospital to talk to Ivan Dmitritch. —-
But on both occasions Ivan Dmitritch was unusually excited and ill-humoured; —-
he bade the doctor leave him in peace, as he had long been sick of empty chatter, and declared, to make up for all his sufferings, he asked from the damned scoundrels only one favour—solitary confinement. —-
Surely they would not refuse him even that? —-
On both occasions when Andrey Yefimitch was taking leave of him and wishing him good-night, he answered rudely and said:
“Go to hell!”
And Andrey Yefimitch did not know now whether to go to him for the third time or not. He longed to go.
In old days Andrey Yefimitch used to walk about his rooms and think in the interval after dinner, but now from dinner-time till evening tea he lay on the sofa with his face to the back and gave himself up to trivial thoughts which he could not struggle against. —-
He was mortified that after more than twenty years of service he had been given neither a pension nor any assistance. —-
It is true that he had not done his work honestly, but, then, all who are in the Service get a pension without distinction whether they are honest or not. —-
Contemporary justice lies precisely in the bestowal of grades, orders, and pensions, not for moral qualities or capacities, but for service whatever it may have been like. —-
Why was he alone to be an exception? He had no money at all. —-
He was ashamed to pass by the shop and look at the woman who owned it. —-
He owed thirty-two roubles for beer already. There was money owing to the landlady also. —-
Daryushka sold old clothes and books on the sly, and told lies to the landlady, saying that the doctor was just going to receive a large sum of money.
He was angry with himself for having wasted on travelling the thousand roubles he had saved up. —-
How useful that thousand roubles would have been now! —-
He was vexed that people would not leave him in peace. —-
Hobotov thought it his duty to look in on his sick colleague from time to time. —-
Everything about him was revolting to Andrey Yefimitch—his well-fed face and vulgar, condescending tone, and his use of the word “colleague,” and his high top-boots; —-
the most revolting thing was that he thought it was his duty to treat Andrey Yefimitch, and thought that he really was treating him. —-
On every visit he brought a bottle of bromide and rhubarb pills.
Mihail Averyanitch, too, thought it his duty to visit his friend and entertain him. —-
Every time he went in to Andrey Yefimitch with an affectation of ease, laughed constrainedly, and began assuring him that he was looking very well to-day, and that, thank God, he was on the highroad to recovery, and from this it might be concluded that he looked on his friend’s condition as hopeless. —-
He had not yet repaid his Warsaw debt, and was overwhelmed by shame; —-
he was constrained, and so tried to laugh louder and talk more amusingly. —-
His anecdotes and descriptions seemed endless now, and were an agony both to Andrey Yefimitch and himself.
In his presence Andrey Yefimitch usually lay on the sofa with his face to the wall, and listened with his teeth clenched; —-
his soul was oppressed with rankling disgust, and after every visit from his friend he felt as though this disgust had risen higher, and was mounting into his throat.
To stifle petty thoughts he made haste to reflect that he himself, and Hobotov, and Mihail Averyanitch, would all sooner or later perish without leaving any trace on the world. —-
If one imagined some spirit flying by the earthly globe in space in a million years he would see nothing but clay and bare rocks. —-
Everything—culture and the moral law—would pass away and not even a burdock would grow out of them. —-
Of what consequence was shame in the presence of a shopkeeper, of what consequence was the insignificant Hobotov or the wearisome friendship of Mihail Averyanitch? —-
It was all trivial and nonsensical.
But such reflections did not help him now. —-
Scarcely had he imagined the earthly globe in a million years, when Hobotov in his high top-boots or Mihail Averyanitch with his forced laugh would appear from behind a bare rock, and he even heard the shamefaced whisper: —-
“The Warsaw debt. . . . I will repay it in a day or two, my dear fellow, without fail. . . .”
XVI
One day Mihail Averyanitch came after dinner when Andrey Yefimitch was lying on the sofa. —-
It so happened that Hobotov arrived at the same time with his bromide. —-
Andrey Yefimitch got up heavily and sat down, leaning both arms on the sofa.
“You have a much better colour to-day than you had yesterday, my dear man,” began Mihail Averyanitch. —-
“Yes, you look jolly. Upon my soul, you do!”
“It’s high time you were well, dear colleague,” said Hobotov, yawning. —-
“I’ll be bound, you are sick of this bobbery.”
“And we shall recover,” said Mihail Averyanitch cheerfully. —-
“We shall live another hundred years! To be sure!”
“Not a hundred years, but another twenty,” Hobotov said reassuringly. —-
“It’s all right, all right, colleague; —-
don’t lose heart. . . . Don’t go piling it on!”
“We’ll show what we can do,” laughed Mihail Averyanitch, and he slapped his friend on the knee. —-
“We’ll show them yet! Next summer, please God, we shall be off to the Caucasus, and we will ride all over it on horseback—trot, trot, trot! —-
And when we are back from the Caucasus I shouldn’t wonder if we will all dance at the wedding. —-
” Mihail Averyanitch gave a sly wink. “We’ll marry you, my dear boy, we’ll marry you. . . .”
Andrey Yefimitch felt suddenly that the rising disgust had mounted to his throat, his heart began beating violently.
“That’s vulgar,” he said, getting up quickly and walking away to the window. —-
“Don’t you understand that you are talking vulgar nonsense?”
He meant to go on softly and politely, but against his will he suddenly clenched his fists and raised them above his head.
“Leave me alone,” he shouted in a voice unlike his own, blushing crimson and shaking all over. —-
“Go away, both of you!”
Mihail Averyanitch and Hobotov got up and stared at him first with amazement and then with alarm.
“Go away, both!” Andrey Yefimitch went on shouting. “Stupid people! Foolish people! —-
I don’t want either your friendship or your medicines, stupid man! Vulgar! Nasty!”
Hobotov and Mihail Averyanitch, looking at each other in bewilderment, staggered to the door and went out. —-
Andrey Yefimitch snatched up the bottle of bromide and flung it after them; —-
the bottle broke with a crash on the door-frame.
“Go to the devil!” he shouted in a tearful voice, running out into the passage. —-
“To the devil!”
When his guests were gone Andrey Yefimitch lay down on the sofa, trembling as though in a fever, and went on for a long while repeating: —-
“Stupid people! Foolish people!”
When he was calmer, what occurred to him first of all was the thought that poor Mihail Averyanitch must be feeling fearfully ashamed and depressed now, and that it was all dreadful. —-
Nothing like this had ever happened to him before. Where was his intelligence and his tact? —-
Where was his comprehension of things and his philosophical indifference?
The doctor could not sleep all night for shame and vexation with himself, and at ten o’clock next morning he went to the post office and apologized to the postmaster.
“We won’t think again of what has happened,” Mihail Averyanitch, greatly touched, said with a sigh, warmly pressing his hand. —-
“Let bygones be bygones. Lyubavkin,” he suddenly shouted so loud that all the postmen and other persons present started, “hand a chair; —-
and you wait,” he shouted to a peasant woman who was stretching out a registered letter to him through the grating. —-
“Don’t you see that I am busy? We will not remember the past,” he went on, affectionately addressing Andrey Yefimitch; —-
“sit down, I beg you, my dear fellow.”
For a minute he stroked his knees in silence, and then said:
“I have never had a thought of taking offence. Illness is no joke, I understand. —-
Your attack frightened the doctor and me yesterday, and we had a long talk about you afterwards. —-
My dear friend, why won’t you treat your illness seriously? You can’t go on like this . . . . —-
Excuse me speaking openly as a friend,” whispered Mihail Averyanitch. —-
“You live in the most unfavourable surroundings, in a crowd, in uncleanliness, no one to look after you, no money for proper treatment. —-
. . . My dear friend, the doctor and I implore you with all our hearts, listen to our advice: —-
go into the hospital! There you will have wholesome food and attendance and treatment. —-
Though, between ourselves, Yevgeny Fyodoritch is mauvais ton, yet he does understand his work, you can fully rely upon him. —-
He has promised me he will look after you.”
Andrey Yefimitch was touched by the postmaster’s genuine sympathy and the tears which suddenly glittered on his cheeks.
“My honoured friend, don’t believe it!” he whispered, laying his hand on his heart; —-
“don’t believe them. It’s all a sham. —-
My illness is only that in twenty years I have only found one intelligent man in the whole town, and he is mad. —-
I am not ill at all, it’s simply that I have got into an enchanted circle which there is no getting out of. —-
I don’t care; I am ready for anything.”
“Go into the hospital, my dear fellow.”
“I don’t care if it were into the pit.”
“Give me your word, my dear man, that you will obey Yevgeny Fyodoritch in everything.”
“Certainly I will give you my word. But I repeat, my honoured friend, I have got into an enchanted circle. —-
Now everything, even the genuine sympathy of my friends, leads to the same thing—to my ruin. —-
I am going to my ruin, and I have the manliness to recognize it.”
“My dear fellow, you will recover.”
“What’s the use of saying that?” said Andrey Yefimitch, with irritation. —-
“There are few men who at the end of their lives do not experience what I am experiencing now. —-
When you are told that you have something such as diseased kidneys or enlarged heart, and you begin being treated for it, or are told you are mad or a criminal—that is, in fact, when people suddenly turn their attention to you—you may be sure you have got into an enchanted circle from which you will not escape. —-
You will try to escape and make things worse. —-
You had better give in, for no human efforts can save you. —-
So it seems to me.”
Meanwhile the public was crowding at the grating. —-
That he might not be in their way, Andrey Yefimitch got up and began to take leave. —-
Mihail Averyanitch made him promise on his honour once more, and escorted him to the outer door.
Towards evening on the same day Hobotov, in his sheepskin and his high top-boots, suddenly made his appearance, and said to Andrey Yefimitch in a tone as though nothing had happened the day before:
“I have come on business, colleague. I have come to ask you whether you would not join me in a consultation. Eh?”
Thinking that Hobotov wanted to distract his mind with an outing, or perhaps really to enable him to earn something, Andrey Yefimitch put on his coat and hat, and went out with him into the street. —-
He was glad of the opportunity to smooth over his fault of the previous day and to be reconciled, and in his heart thanked Hobotov, who did not even allude to yesterday’s scene and was evidently sparing him. —-
One would never have expected such delicacy from this uncultured man.
“Where is your invalid?” asked Andrey Yefimitch.
“In the hospital. . . . I have long wanted to show him to you. A very interesting case.”
They went into the hospital yard, and going round the main building, turned towards the lodge where the mental cases were kept, and all this, for some reason, in silence. —-
When they went into the lodge Nikita as usual jumped up and stood at attention.
“One of the patients here has a lung complication. —-
” Hobotov said in an undertone, going into the yard with Andrey Yefimitch. —-
“You wait here, I’ll be back directly. —-
I am going for a stethoscope.”
And he went away.
XVII
It was getting dusk. Ivan Dmitritch was lying on his bed with his face thrust unto his pillow; —-
the paralytic was sitting motionless, crying quietly and moving his lips. —-
The fat peasant and the former sorter were asleep. It was quiet.
Andrey Yefimitch sat down on Ivan Dmitritch’s bed and waited. —-
But half an hour passed, and instead of Hobotov, Nikita came into the ward with a dressing-gown, some underlinen, and a pair of slippers in a heap on his arm.
“Please change your things, your honour,” he said softly. “Here is your bed; —-
come this way,” he added, pointing to an empty bedstead which had obviously recently been brought into the ward. —-
“It’s all right; please God, you will recover.”
Andrey Yefimitch understood it all. Without saying a word he crossed to the bed to which Nikita pointed and sat down; —-
seeing that Nikita was standing waiting, he undressed entirely and he felt ashamed. —-
Then he put on the hospital clothes; the drawers were very short, the shirt was long, and the dressing-gown smelt of smoked fish.
“Please God, you will recover,” repeated Nikita, and he gathered up Andrey Yefimitch’s clothes into his arms, went out, and shut the door after him.
“No matter . . .” thought Andrey Yefimitch, wrapping himself in his dressing-gown in a shamefaced way and feeling that he looked like a convict in his new costume. —-
“It’s no matter. . . . It does not matter whether it’s a dress-coat or a uniform or this dressing-gown.”
But how about his watch? And the notebook that was in the side-pocket? And his cigarettes? —-
Where had Nikita taken his clothes? Now perhaps to the day of his death he would not put on trousers, a waistcoat, and high boots. —-
It was all somehow strange and even incomprehensible at first. —-
Andrey Yefimitch was even now convinced that there was no difference between his landlady’s house and Ward No. 6, that everything in this world was nonsense and vanity of vanities. —-
And yet his hands were trembling, his feet were cold, and he was filled with dread at the thought that soon Ivan Dmitritch would get up and see that he was in a dressing-gown. —-
He got up and walked across the room and sat down again.
Here he had been sitting already half an hour, an hour, and he was miserably sick of it: —-
was it really possible to live here a day, a week, and even years like these people? —-
Why, he had been sitting here, had walked about and sat down again; —-
he could get up and look out of window and walk from corner to corner again, and then what? —-
Sit so all the time, like a post, and think? —-
No, that was scarcely possible.
Andrey Yefimitch lay down, but at once got up, wiped the cold sweat from his brow with his sleeve and felt that his whole face smelt of smoked fish. —-
He walked about again.
“It’s some misunderstanding . . .” he said, turning out the palms of his hands in perplexity. —-
“It must be cleared up. There is a misunderstanding.”
Meanwhile Ivan Dmitritch woke up; he sat up and propped his cheeks on his fists. He spat. —-
Then he glanced lazily at the doctor, and apparently for the first minute did not understand; —-
but soon his sleepy face grew malicious and mocking.
“Aha! so they have put you in here, too, old fellow? —-
” he said in a voice husky from sleepiness, screwing up one eye. “Very glad to see you. —-
You sucked the blood of others, and now they will suck yours. Excellent!”
“It’s a misunderstanding . . .” Andrey Yefimitch brought out, frightened by Ivan Dmitritch’s words; —-
he shrugged his shoulders and repeated: “It’s some misunderstanding.”
Ivan Dmitritch spat again and lay down.
“Cursed life,” he grumbled, “and what’s bitter and insulting, this life will not end in compensation for our sufferings, it will not end with apotheosis as it would in an opera, but with death; —-
peasants will come and drag one’s dead body by the arms and the legs to the cellar. Ugh! —-
Well, it does not matter. . . . We shall have our good time in the other world. . . . —-
I shall come here as a ghost from the other world and frighten these reptiles. —-
I’ll turn their hair grey.”
Moiseika returned, and, seeing the doctor, held out his hand.
“Give me one little kopeck,” he said.
XVIII
Andrey Yefimitch walked away to the window and looked out into the open country. —-
It was getting dark, and on the horizon to the right a cold crimson moon was mounting upwards. —-
Not far from the hospital fence, not much more than two hundred yards away, stood a tall white house shut in by a stone wall. —-
This was the prison.
“So this is real life,” thought Andrey Yefimitch, and he felt frightened.
The moon and the prison, and the nails on the fence, and the far-away flames at the bone-charring factory were all terrible. —-
Behind him there was the sound of a sigh. —-
Andrey Yefimitch looked round and saw a man with glittering stars and orders on his breast, who was smiling and slyly winking. —-
And this, too, seemed terrible.
Andrey Yefimitch assured himself that there was nothing special about the moon or the prison, that even sane persons wear orders, and that everything in time will decay and turn to earth, but he was suddenly overcome with desire; —-
he clutched at the grating with both hands and shook it with all his might. —-
The strong grating did not yield.
Then that it might not be so dreadful he went to Ivan Dmitritch’s bed and sat down.
“I have lost heart, my dear fellow,” he muttered, trembling and wiping away the cold sweat, “I have lost heart.”
“You should be philosophical,” said Ivan Dmitritch ironically.
“My God, my God. . . . Yes, yes. . . . —-
You were pleased to say once that there was no philosophy in Russia, but that all people, even the paltriest, talk philosophy. —-
But you know the philosophizing of the paltriest does not harm anyone,” said Andrey Yefimitch in a tone as if he wanted to cry and complain. —-
“Why, then, that malignant laugh, my friend, and how can these paltry creatures help philosophizing if they are not satisfied? —-
For an intelligent, educated man, made in God’s image, proud and loving freedom, to have no alternative but to be a doctor in a filthy, stupid, wretched little town, and to spend his whole life among bottles, leeches, mustard plasters! —-
Quackery, narrowness, vulgarity! Oh, my God!”
“You are talking nonsense. If you don’t like being a doctor you should have gone in for being a statesman.”
“I could not, I could not do anything. We are weak, my dear friend . . . . —-
I used to be indifferent. I reasoned boldly and soundly, but at the first coarse touch of life upon me I have lost heart. —-
. . . Prostration. . . . . We are weak, we are poor creatures . . . —-
and you, too, my dear friend, you are intelligent, generous, you drew in good impulses with your mother’s milk, but you had hardly entered upon life when you were exhausted and fell ill. —-
. . . Weak, weak!”
Andrey Yefimitch was all the while at the approach of evening tormented by another persistent sensation besides terror and the feeling of resentment. —-
At last he realized that he was longing for a smoke and for beer.
“I am going out, my friend,” he said. “I will tell them to bring a light; —-
I can’t put up with this. . . . I am not equal to it. . . .”
Andrey Yefimitch went to the door and opened it, but at once Nikita jumped up and barred his way.
“Where are you going? You can’t, you can’t!” he said. “It’s bedtime.”
“But I’m only going out for a minute to walk about the yard,” said Andrey Yefimitch.
“You can’t, you can’t; it’s forbidden. You know that yourself.”
“But what difference will it make to anyone if I do go out? —-
” asked Andrey Yefimitch, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t understand. —-
Nikita, I must go out!” he said in a trembling voice. “I must.”
“Don’t be disorderly, it’s not right,” Nikita said peremptorily.
“This is beyond everything,” Ivan Dmitritch cried suddenly, and he jumped up. —-
“What right has he not to let you out? How dare they keep us here? —-
I believe it is clearly laid down in the law that no one can be deprived of freedom without trial! —-
It’s an outrage! It’s tyranny!”
“Of course it’s tyranny,” said Andrey Yefimitch, encouraged by Ivan Dmitritch’s outburst. —-
“I must go out, I want to. He has no right! Open, I tell you.”
“Do you hear, you dull-witted brute?” cried Ivan Dmitritch, and he banged on the door with his fist. —-
“Open the door, or I will break it open! Torturer!”
“Open the door,” cried Andrey Yefimitch, trembling all over; “I insist!”
“Talk away!” Nikita answered through the door, “talk away. . . .”
“Anyhow, go and call Yevgeny Fyodoritch! Say that I beg him to come for a minute!”
“His honour will come of himself to-morrow.”
“They will never let us out,” Ivan Dmitritch was going on meanwhile. —-
“They will leave us to rot here! Oh, Lord, can there really be no hell in the next world, and will these wretches be forgiven? —-
Where is justice? Open the door, you wretch! I am choking! —-
” he cried in a hoarse voice, and flung himself upon the door. —-
“I’ll dash out my brains, murderers!”
Nikita opened the door quickly, and roughly with both his hands and his knee shoved Andrey Yefimitch back, then swung his arm and punched him in the face with his fist. —-
It seemed to Andrey Yefimitch as though a huge salt wave enveloped him from his head downwards and dragged him to the bed; —-
there really was a salt taste in his mouth: most likely the blood was running from his teeth. —-
He waved his arms as though he were trying to swim out and clutched at a bedstead, and at the same moment felt Nikita hit him twice on the back.
Ivan Dmitritch gave a loud scream. He must have been beaten too.
Then all was still, the faint moonlight came through the grating, and a shadow like a net lay on the floor. —-
It was terrible. Andrey Yefimitch lay and held his breath: —-
he was expecting with horror to be struck again. —-
He felt as though someone had taken a sickle, thrust it into him, and turned it round several times in his breast and bowels. —-
He bit the pillow from pain and clenched his teeth, and all at once through the chaos in his brain there flashed the terrible unbearable thought that these people, who seemed now like black shadows in the moonlight, had to endure such pain day by day for years. —-
How could it have happened that for more than twenty years he had not known it and had refused to know it? —-
He knew nothing of pain, had no conception of it, so he was not to blame, but his conscience, as inexorable and as rough as Nikita, made him turn cold from the crown of his head to his heels. —-
He leaped up, tried to cry out with all his might, and to run in haste to kill Nikita, and then Hobotov, the superintendent and the assistant, and then himself; —-
but no sound came from his chest, and his legs would not obey him. —-
Gasping for breath, he tore at the dressing-gown and the shirt on his breast, rent them, and fell senseless on the bed.
XIX
Next morning his head ached, there was a droning in his ears and a feeling of utter weakness all over. —-
He was not ashamed at recalling his weakness the day before. —-
He had been cowardly, had even been afraid of the moon, had openly expressed thoughts and feelings such as he had not expected in himself before; —-
for instance, the thought that the paltry people who philosophized were really dissatisfied. —-
But now nothing mattered to him.
He ate nothing; he drank nothing. He lay motionless and silent.
“It is all the same to me,” he thought when they asked him questions. —-
“I am not going to answer. . . . It’s all the same to me.”
After dinner Mihail Averyanitch brought him a quarter pound of tea and a pound of fruit pastilles. —-
Daryushka came too and stood for a whole hour by the bed with an expression of dull grief on her face. —-
Dr. Hobotov visited him. He brought a bottle of bromide and told Nikita to fumigate the ward with something.
Towards evening Andrey Yefimitch died of an apoplectic stroke. —-
At first he had a violent shivering fit and a feeling of sickness; —-
something revolting as it seemed, penetrating through his whole body, even to his finger-tips, strained from his stomach to his head and flooded his eyes and ears. —-
There was a greenness before his eyes. Andrey Yefimitch understood that his end had come, and remembered that Ivan Dmitritch, Mihail Averyanitch, and millions of people believed in immortality. —-
And what if it really existed? But he did not want immortality—and he thought of it only for one instant. —-
A herd of deer, extraordinarily beautiful and graceful, of which he had been reading the day before, ran by him; —-
then a peasant woman stretched out her hand to him with a registered letter . . . . —-
Mihail Averyanitch said something, then it all vanished, and Andrey Yefimitch sank into oblivion for ever.
The hospital porters came, took him by his arms and legs, and carried him away to the chapel.
There he lay on the table, with open eyes, and the moon shed its light upon him at night. —-
In the morning Sergey Sergeyitch came, prayed piously before the crucifix, and closed his former chief’s eyes.
Next day Andrey Yefimitch was buried. Mihail Averyanitch and Daryushka were the only people at the funeral.