"You won't catch me!" said Iván Dmítritch, rising from the bed and looking at the doctor ironically and suspiciously. "You may go and spy and cross-examine somewhere else; here there is nothing for you to do. I know very well why you came yesterday."
"That is a strange idea," laughed the doctor. "But why do you assume that I am spying?"
"I assume it.... Whether spy or doctor it is all the same."
"Yes, but ... excuse me...." The doctor sat on a stool beside the bed, and shook his head reproachfully. "Even suppose you are right, suppose I am following your words only in order to betray you to the police, what would happen? They would arrest you and try you. But then, in the dock or in prison would you be worse off than here? In exile or penal servitude you would not suffer any more than now.... What, then, do you fear?"
Apparently these words affected Iván Dmítritch. He sat down quietly.
It was five o'clock, the hour when Andréi Yéfimitch usually walked up and down his room and Dáryushka asked him whether it was time for his beer. The weather was calm and clear.
"After dinner I went out for a walk, and you see where I've come," said the doctor. "It is almost spring."
"What month is it?" asked Iván Dmítritch. "March?"
"Yes, we are at the end of March."
"Is it very muddy?"
"Not very. The paths in the garden are clear."
"How glorious it would be to drive somewhere outside the town!" said Iván Dmítritch, rubbing his red eyes as if he were sleepy, "and then to return to a warm comfortable study ... and to be cured of headache by a decent doctor.... For years past I have not lived like a human being.... Things are abominable here,—intolerable, disgusting!"
After last evening's excitement he was tired and weak, and he spoke unwillingly. His fingers twitched, and from his face it was plain that his head ached badly.
"Between a warm, comfortable study and this ward there is no difference," said Andréi Yéfimitch. "The rest and tranquillity of a man are not outside but within him."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Ordinary men find good and evil outside, that is, in their carriages and comfortable rooms; but the thinking man finds them within himself."
"Go and preach that philosophy in Greece, where it is warm and smells of oranges—it doesn't suit this climate. With whom was it I spoke of Diogenes? With you?"
"Yes, yesterday with me."
"Diogenes had no need of a study and a warm house, he was comfortable without them.... Lie in a tub and eat oranges and olives! Set him down in Russia—not in December, but even in May. He would freeze even in May with the cold."
"No. Cold, like every other feeling, may be disregarded. As Marcus Aurelius said, pain is the living conception of pain; make an effort of the will to change this conception, cease to complain, and the pain disappears. The wise man, the man of thought and penetration, is distinguished by his contempt for suffering; he is always content and he is surprised by nothing."
"That means that I am an idiot because I suffer, because I am discontented, and marvel at the baseness of men."
"Your discontent is in vain. Think more, and you will realise how trifling are all the things which now excite you.... Try to understand life—in this is true beatitude."
"Understand!" frowned Iván Dmítritch. "External, internal.... Excuse me, but I cannot understand you. I know only one thing," he continued, rising and looking angrily at the doctor. "I know only that God created me of warm blood and nerves; yes! and organic tissue, if it be capable of life, must respond to irritation. And I respond to it! Pain I answer with tears and cries, baseness with indignation, meanness with repulsion. In my mind, that is right, and it is that which is called life. The lower the organism the less susceptible is it, and the more feebly it responds to irritation; the higher it is the more sensitively it responds. How is it you do not know that? A doctor—yet you do not know such truisms! If you would despise suffering, be always contented, and marvel at nothing, you must lower yourself to the condition of that...." Iván Dmítritch pointed to the fat, greasy muzhik, "or inure yourself to suffering until you lose all susceptibility—in other words, cease to live. Excuse me, but I am not a wise man and not a philosopher," continued Iván Dmítritch irritably, "and I do not understand these things. I am not in a condition to reason."
"But you reason admirably."
"The Stoics whom you travesty were remarkable men, but their teaching died two thousand years ago, and since then it has not advanced, nor will it advance, an inch, for it is not a practical or a living creed. It was successful only with a minority who spent their lives in study and trifled with gospels of all sorts; the majority never understood it.... A creed which teaches indifference to wealth, indifference to the conveniences of life, and contempt for suffering, is quite incomprehensible to the great majority who never knew either wealth or the conveniences of life, and to whom contempt for suffering would mean contempt for their own lives, which are made up of feelings of hunger, cold, loss, insult, and a Hamlet-like terror of death. All life lies in these feelings, and life may be hated or wearied of, but never despised. Yes, I repeat it, the teaching of the Stoics can never have a future; from the beginning of time, life has consisted in sensibility to pain and response to irritation.[1] Iván Dmítritch suddenly lost the thread of his thoughts, ceased speaking, and nibbed his forehead irritably.
"I had something important to say, but have gone off the track," he continued. "What was I saying? Yes, this is it. One of these Stoics sold himself into slavery to redeem a friend. Now what does that mean but that even a Stoic responded to irritation, for to perform such a magnanimous deed as the min of one's self for the sake of a friend demands a disturbed and sympathetic heart I have forgotten here in prison all that I learnt, otherwise I should have oilier illustrations. But think of Christ! Christ rebelled against actuality by weeping, by smiling, by grieving, by anger, even by weariness. Not with a smile did He go forth to meet suffering, nor did He despise death, but prayed in the garden of Gethsemane that this cup might pass from Him."[2]
Iván Dmítritch laughed and sat down.
"Suppose that contentment and tranquillity are not outside but within a man," he continued. "Suppose that we must despise suffering and marvel at nothing. But you do not say on what foundation you base this theory. You are a wise man? A philosopher?"
"I am not a philosopher, but everyone must preach this because it is rational."
"But I wish to know why in this matter of understanding life, despising suffering, and the rest of it, you consider yourself competent to judge? Have you ever suffered? What is your idea of suffering? Were you ever flogged when you were a child?"
"No, my parents were averse to corporal punishment."
"But my father flogged me cruelly. He was a stern hemorrhoidal official with a long nose and a yellow neck. But what of you? In your whole life no one has ever laid a finger on you, and you are as healthy as a bull. You grew up under your father's wing, studied at his expense, and then dropped at once into a fat sinecure. More than twenty years you have lived in free lodgings, with free fire and free lights, with servants, with the right to work how, and as much as, you like, or to do nothing. By character you were an idle and a feeble man, and you strove to build up your life so as to avoid trouble. You left your work to feldschers and other scoundrels, and sat at home in warmth and quiet, heaped up money, read books, and enjoyed your own reflections about all kinds of exalted nonsense, and"—Iván Dmítritch looked at the doctor's nose—"drank beer. In one word, you have not seen life, you know nothing about it, and of realities you have only a theoretical knowledge. Yes, you despise suffering and marvel at nothing for very good reasons; because your theory of the vanity of things, external and internal happiness, contempt for life, for suffering and for death, and so on—this is the philosophy best suited to a Russian lie-abed. You see, for instance, a muzhik beating his wife. Why interfere? let him beat her! It is all the same, both will be dead sooner, or later, and then, does not the wife-beater injure himself and not his victim? To get drunk is stupid and wrong, but the man who drinks dies, and the woman who drinks dies also! A woman comes to you with a toothache. Well, what of that? Pain is the conception of pain, without sickness you cannot live, all must die, and therefore take yourself off, my good woman, and don't interfere with my thoughts and my vodka! A young man comes to you for advice: what should he do, how ought he to live? Before answering, most men would think, but your answer is always ready: Aspire to understand life and to real goodness! And what is this fantastic real goodness? No answer! We are imprisoned behind iron bars, we rot and we are tortured, but this, in reality, is reasonable and beautiful because between this ward and a comfortable warm study there is no real difference! A convenient philosophy; your conscience is clean, and you feel yourself to be a wise man. No, sir, this is not philosophy, not breadth of view, but idleness, charlatanism, somnolent folly.... Yes," repeated Iván Dmítritch angrily. "You despise suffering, but squeeze your finger in the door and you will howl for your life!"
"But suppose I do not howl," said Andréi Yéfimitch, smiling indulgently.
"What! Well, if you had a stroke of paralysis, or if some impudent fellow, taking advantage of his position in the world, insulted you' publicly, and you had no redress—then you would know what it meant to tell others to understand life and aspire to real good."
"This is original," said Andréi Yéfimitch, beaming with satisfaction and rubbing his hands. "I am delighted with your love of generalisation; and the character which you have just drawn is simply brilliant. I confess that conversation with you gives me great pleasure. Rut now, as I have heard you out, will you listen to me...."
This conversation, which lasted for an hour longer, apparently made a great impression on Andréi Yéfimitch. He took to visiting the ward every day. He went there in the morning, and again after dinner, and often darkness found him in conversation with Iván Dmítritch. At first Iván Dmítritch was shy with him, suspected him of some evil intention, and openly expressed his suspicions. But at last he got used to him; and his rude bearing softened into indulgent irony.
A report soon spread through the hospital that Doctor Andréi Yéfimitch paid daily visits to Ward No. 6. Neither the feldscher, nor Nikita, nor the nurses could understand his object; why he spent whole hours in the ward, what he was talking about, or why he did not write prescriptions. His conduct appeared strange to everyone. Mikhail Averyanitch sometimes failed to find him at home, and Dáryushka was very alarmed, for the doctor no longer drank his beer at the usual hour, and sometimes even came home late for dinner.
One day—it was at the end of June—Doctor Khobótoff went to Andréi Yéfimitch's house to sec him on a business matter. Not finding him at home, he looked for him in the yard, where he was told that the old doctor was in the asylum. Khobótoff entered the hall of the ward, and standing there listened to the following conversation:
"We will never agree, and you will never succeed in converting me to your faith," said Iván Dmítritch irritably. "You are altogether ignorant of realities, you have never suffered, but only, like a leech, fed on the sufferings of others. But I have suffered without cease from the day of my birth until now. Therefore I tell you frankly I consider myself much higher than you, and more competent in all respects. It is not for you to teach me."
"I certainly have no wish to convert you to my faith," said Andréi Yéfimitch softly, and evidently with regret that he was misunderstood. "That is not the question, my friend. Suffering and joy are transitory—leave them, God be with them! The essence of the matter is that you and I recognise in one another men of thought, and this makes us solid however different our views. If you knew, my friend, how I am weary of the general idiocy around me, the lack of talent, the dullness—if you knew the joy with which I speak to you! You are a clever man, and it is a pleasure to be with you."
Khobótoff opened the door and looked into the room. Iván Dmítritch with a nightcap on his head and Doctor Andréi Yéfimitch sat side by side on the bed. The lunatic shuddered, made strange faces, and convulsively clutched his dressing-gown; and the doctor sat motionless, inclining his head, and his face was red and helpless and sad. Khobótoff shrugged his shoulders, laughed, and looked at Nikita. Nikita also shrugged his shoulders.
Next day Khobótoff again came to the wing, this time together with the feldscher. They stood in the hall and listened:
"Our grandfather, it seems, is quite gone," said Khobótoff going out of the wing.
"Lord, have mercy upon us—sinners!" sighed the pompous Sergéi Sergéyitch, going round the pools in order to keep his shiny boots clear of the mud. "I confess, my dear Yevgéniï Feódoritch, I have long expected this."
After this incident, Andréi Yéfimitch began to notice that he was surrounded by a strange atmosphere of mystery.... The servants, the nurses, and the patients whom he met looked questioningly at one another, and whispered among themselves. When he met little Masha, the superintendent's daughter, in the hospital garden, and smilingly went over to her, as usual, to stroke her hair, for some inexplicable reason she ran away. When the postmaster, Mikhail Averyanitch, sat listening to him he no longer said: "Entirely true!" but got red in the face and stammered, "Yes, yes ... yes ..." and sometimes, looking at his friend thoughtfully and sorrowfully, advised him to give up vodka and beer. But when doing this, as became a man of delicacy, he did not speak openly, but dropped gentle hints, telling stories, now of a certain battalion commander, an excellent man, now of the regimental chaplain, a first-rate little fellow, who drank a good deal and was taken ill, yet having given up drink got quite well. Twice or thrice Andréi Yéfimitch was visited by his colleague Khobótoff, who also asked him to give up spirits, and, without giving him any reason, advised him to try bromide of potassium.
In August Andréi Yéfimitch received a letter from the Mayor asking him to come and see him on very important business. On arriving at the Town Hall at the appointed time he found awaiting him the head of the recruiting department, the superintendent of the district school, a member of the Town Council, Khobótoff, and a stout, fair-haired man, who was introduced as a doctor. This doctor, who bore an unpronounceable Polish name, lived on a stud-farm some thirty versts away, and was passing through the town on his way home.
"Here is a communication about your department," said the Town Councillor, turning to Andréi Yéfimitch. "You see, Yevgéniï Feódoritch says that there is no room for the dispensing room in the main building, and that it must be transferred to one of the wings. That, of course, is easy, it can be transferred any day, but the chief thing is that the wing is in want of repair."
"Yes, we can hardly get on without that," answered Andréi Yéfimitch after a moment's thought. "But if the corner wing is to be fitted up as a dispensary you will have to spend at least five hundred roubles on it. It is unproductive expenditure."
For a few minutes all were silent.
"I had the honour to announce to you, ten years ago," continued Andréi Yéfimitch in a soft voice, "that this hospital, under present conditions, is a luxury altogether beyond the means of the town. It was built in the forties, when the means for its support: were greater. The town wastes too much money on unnecessary buildings and sinecure offices. I think that with the money we spend we could keep up two model hospitals; that is, of course, with a different order of things."
"Well, then, let us reform the present order," said the Town Councillor.
"I have already had the honour to advise you to transfer the medical department to the Zemstvo."
"Yes, and hand over to the Zemstvo funds which it will pocket," laughed the fair-haired doctor.
"That is just what happens," said the Town Councillor, laughing also.
Andréi Yéfimitch looked feebly at the fair-haired doctor, and said:
"We must be just in our judgments."
Again all were silent. Tea was brought in. The chief of the recruiting department, apparently in a state of confusion, touched Andréi Yéfimitch's hand across the table, and said:
"You have quite forgotten us, doctor. But then you were always a monk; you don't play cards, and you don't care for women. We bore you, I'm afraid." And all agreed that it was tiresome for any decent man to live in such a town. Neither theatres, nor concerts, and at the last dub-dance about twenty women present and only two men. Young men no longer danced, but crowded round the supper-table or played cards together. And Andréi Yéfimitch, in a slow and soft voice, without looking at those around him, began to lament that the citizens wasted their vital energy, their intellects, and their feelings over cards and scandal, and neither cared nor knew how to pass the time in interesting conversation, in reading, or in taking advantage of the pleasures which intellect alone yields. Intellect is the only interesting and distinguished thing in the world; all the rest is petty and base. Khobótoff listened attentively to his colleague, and suddenly asked:
"Andréi Yéfimitch, what is the day of the month?"
Having received an answer, he and the fair-haired doctor, both in the tone of examiners convinced of their own incapacity, asked Andréi Yéfimitch a number of other questions: what was the day of the week, how many days were there in the year, and was it true that in Ward No. 6 there was a remarkable prophet?
In answer to this last question Andréi Yéfimitch got red in the face, and said:
"Yes, he is insane.... But he is a most interesting young man."
No other questions were asked.
As Andréi Yéfimitch put on his coat, the chief of the recruiting department put his hand on his shoulder and said, with a sigh:
"For us—old men—it is time to take a rest."
As he left the Town Hall, Andréi Yéfimitch understood that he had been before a commission appointed to test his mental sanity. He remembered the questions put to him, reddened, and for the first time in his life felt pity for the medical art.
"My God!" he thought. "These men have only just been studying psychiatry and passing examinations! Where does their monstrous ignorance come from? They have no ideas about psychiatry." For the first time in his life he felt insulted and angry.
Towards evening Mikhail Averyanitch came to see him. Without a word of greeting, the postmaster went up to him, took him by both hands, and said in an agitated voice:
"My dear friend, my dear friend, let me see that you believe in my sincere affection for you. Regard me as your friend!" And preventing Andréi Yéfimitch saying a word, he continued in extreme agitation: "You know that I love you for the culture and nobility of your mind. Listen to me, like a good man! The rules of their profession compel the doctors to hide the truth from you, but I, in soldier style, will tell it to you flatly. You are unwell! Excuse me, old friend, but that is the plain truth, and it has been noticed by everyone around you. Only this moment Doctor Yevgéniï Feódoritch said that for the benefit of your health you needed rest and recreation. It is entirely true! And things fit in admirably. In a few days I will take my leave, and go oft for change of air. Trove to me that you are my friend, and come with me. Come!"
"I feel very well," said Andréi Yéfimitch, after a moment's thought; "and I cannot go. Allow me to prove my friendship in some other way."
To go away without any good reason, without his books, without Dáryushka, without beer—suddenly to destroy the order of life observed for twenty years—when he first thought of it, the project seemed wild and fantastic. But he remembered the talk in the Town Hall, and the torments which he had suffered on the w ay home; and the idea of leaving for a short time a town where stupid men considered him mad, delighted him.
"But where do you intend to go?" he asked.
"To Moscow, to Petersburg, to Warsaw.... In Warsaw I spent some of the happiest days of my life. An astonishing city! Come!"
A week after this conversation, Andréi Yéfimitch received a formal proposal to take a rest, that is, to retire from his post, and he received the proposal with indifference. Still a week later, he and Mikhail Averyanitch were sitting in the post tarantass and driving to the railway station. The weather was cool and clear, the sky blue and transparent. The two hundred versts were traversed in two days and two nights. When they stopped at the post-houses and were given dirty glasses for tea, or were delayed over the horses, Mikhail Averyanitch grew purple, shook all over, and roared "Silence! Don't argue!"... And as they sat in the tarantass he talked incessantly of his travels in the Caucasus and in Poland. What adventures he had, what meetings! He spoke in a loud voice, and all the time made such astonished eyes that it might have been thought he was lying. As he told his stories he breathed in the doctor's face and laughed in his ear. All this incommoded the doctor and hindered his thinking and concentrating his mind.
For reasons of economy they travelled third-class, in a non-smoking carriage. Half of the passengers were clean. Mikhail Averyanitch struck up acquaintance with all, and as he shifted from seat to seat, announced in a loud voice that it was a mistake to travel on these tormenting railways. Nothing but rascals around! What a different thing to ride on horseback; in a single day you cover a hundred versts, and at the end feel wholesome and fresh. Yes, and we had been cursed with famines as the result of the draining of the Pinsky marshes! Everywhere nothing but disorder! Mikhail Averyanitch lost his temper, spoke loudly, and allowed no one else to say a word. His incessant chatter, broken only by loud laughter and expressive gesticulations, bored Andréi Yéfimitch.
"Which of us is the more mad?" he asked himself. "I who do my best not to disturb my fellow-travellers, or this egoist who thinks he is cleverer and more interesting than anyone else, and gives no one a moment's rest?"
In Moscow, Mikhail Averyanitch donned his military tunic without shoulder-straps, and trousers with red piping. Out of doors he wore an army forage-cap and cloak, and was saluted by the soldiers. To Andréi Yéfimitch he began to seem a man who had lost all the good points of the upper classes and retained only the bad. He loved people to dance attendance on him even when it was quite unnecessary. Matches lay before him on the table and he saw them, yet he roared to the waiter to hand them to him; he marched about in his underclothing before the chambermaid; he addressed the waitresses—even the elderly ones—indiscriminately as "thou," and when he was irritated called them blockheads and fools. This, thought Andréi Yéfimitch, is no doubt gentlemanly, but it is detestable.
First of all, Mikhail Averyanitch brought his friend to the Iverskaya.[1]He prayed piously, bowed to the ground, shed teal's, and when he had finished, sighed deeply and said:
"Even an unbeliever feels himself at peace after he has prayed. Kiss the image, dear!"
Andréi Yéfimitch got red in the face and kissed the image; and Mikhail Averyanitch puffed out his lips, shook his head, prayed in a whisper; and again into his eyes came tears. After this they visited the Kremlin and inspected the Tsar-Cannon and the Tsar-Bell, touched them with their fingers, admired the view across the Moscow River, and spent some time in the Temple of the Saviour and afterwards in the Rumiantseff Museum.
They dined at Testoffs.[2]Mikhail Averyanitch stroked his whiskers, gazed long at the menu, and said to the waiter in the tone of a gourmet who feels at home in restaurants:
"Well see what you'll feed us with to-day, angel!"
[1]A celebrated ikon kept in a small chapel near the Moscow Town Hall. It is supposed to possess miraculous healing virtues.
[1]A celebrated ikon kept in a small chapel near the Moscow Town Hall. It is supposed to possess miraculous healing virtues.
[2]A Moscow restaurant noted for genuine Russian cookery.
[2]A Moscow restaurant noted for genuine Russian cookery.
The doctor walked and drank and ate and inspected, but his feelings remained unchanged; he was vexed with Mikhail Averyanitch. He longed to get a rest from his companion, to escape from him, but the postmaster considered it his duty not to let him out of his sight, and to see that he tasted every possible form of recreation. For two days Andréi Yéfimitch endured it, but on the third declared that he was unwell, and would remain all day at home. Mikhail Averyanitch said that in that case he also would remain at home. And indeed, he added, a rest was necessary, otherwise they would have no strength left. Andréi Yéfimitch lay on the sofa with his face to the wall, and with clenched teeth listened to his friend, who assured him that France would sooner or later inevitably destroy Germany, that in Moscow there are a great many swindlers, and that you cannot judge of the merits of a horse by its appearance. The doctor's heart throbbed, his ears hummed, but from motives of delicacy he could not ask his friend to leave him alone or be silent. But happily Mikhail Averyanitch grew tired of sitting in the room, and after dinner went for a walk.
Left alone, Andréi Yéfimitch surrendered himself to the feeling of rest. How delightful it was to lie motionless on the sofa and know that he was alone in the room! Without solitude true happiness was impossible. The fallen angel was faithless to God probably only because he longed for solitude, which angels knew not. Andréi Yéfimitch wished to reflect upon what he had seen and heard in the last few days. But he could not drive Mikhail Averyanitch out of his mind.
"But then he obtained leave and came with me purely out of friendship and generosity," he thought with vexation. "Yet there is nothing more detestable than his maternal care. He is good and generous and a gay companion—but tiresome! Intolerably tiresome! He is one of those men who say only clever things, yet you cannot help feeling that they are stupid at bottom."
Next day Andréi Yéfimitch said he was still ill, and remained in his loom. He lay with his face to the back of the sofa, was bored when he was listening to conversation, and happy only when he was left alone. He was angry with himself for leaving home, he was angry with Mikhail Averyanitch, who every day became more garrulous and free-making; to concentrate his thoughts on a serious, elevated plane he failed utterly.
"I am now being tested by the realities of which Iván Dmítritch spoke," he thought, angered at his own pettiness. "But this is nothing.... I will go home, and things will be as before."
In St. Petersburg the incidents of Moscow were repeated; whole days he never left his room, but lay on the sofa, and rose only when he wanted to drink beer.
All the time, Mikhail Averyanitch was in a great hurry to get to Warsaw.
"My dear friend, why must I go there?" asked Andréi Yéfimitch imploringly. "Go yourself, and let me go home. I beg you!"
"Not for a million!" protested Mikhail Averyanitch. "It is an astonishing city! In Warsaw I spent the happiest days of my life."
Andréi Yéfimitch had not the character to persist, and with a twinge of pain accompanied his friend to Warsaw. When he got there he stayed all day in the hotel, lay on the sofa, and was angry with himself, and with the waiters who stubbornly refused to understand Russian. Mikhail Averyanitch, healthy, gay, and active as ever, drove from morning to night about the city and sought out his old acquaintances. Several nights he stayed out altogether. After one of these nights, spent it is uncertain where, he returned early in the morning, dishevelled and excited. For a long time he walked up and down the room, and at last stopped and exclaimed:
"Honour before everything!"
Again he walked up and down the room, seized his head in his hands, and declaimed tragically:
"Yes! Honour before everything! Cursed be the hour when it entered my head to come near this Babylon!... My dear friend," he turned to Andréi Yéfimitch, "I have lost heavily at cards. Lend me five hundred roubles!"
Andréi Yéfimitch counted the money, and gave it silently to his friend. Mikhail Averyanitch, purple from shame and indignation, cursed incoherently and needlessly, put on his cap, and went out. After two hours' absence he returned, threw himself into an armchair, sighed loudly, and said:
"Honour is saved! Let us go away, my friend! Not another minute will I rest in this accursed city! They are all scoundrels!... Austrian spies!"
When the travellers returned it was the beginning of November, and the streets were covered with snow. Doctor Khobótoff occupied Andréi Yéfimitch's position at the hospital, but lived at his own rooms, waiting until Andréi Yéfimitch returned and gave up the official quarters. The ugly woman whom he called his cook already lived in one of the wings.
Fresh scandals in connection with the hospital were being circulated in the town. It was said that the ugly woman had quarrelled with the superintendent, who had gone down before her on his knees and begged forgiveness. On the day of his return Andréi Yéfimitch had to look for new lodgings.
"My friend," began the postmaster timidly, "forgive the indelicate question, what money have you got?"
Andréi Yéfimitch silently counted his money, and said:
"Eighty-six roubles."
"You don't understand me," said Mikhail Averyanitch in confusion. "I ask what means have you—generally?"
"I have told you already—eighty-six roubles.... Beyond that I have nothing."
Mikhail Averyanitch was well aware that the doctor was an honest and straightforward man. But he believed that he had at least twenty thousand roubles in capital. Now learning that his friend was a beggar and had nothing to live on, he began to cry, and embraced him.
Andréi Yéfimitch migrated to the three-windowed house of Madame Byelof, a woman belonging to the petty trading class. In this house were only three rooms and a kitchen. Of these rooms two, with windows opening on the street, were occupied by the doctor, while in the third and in the kitchen lived Dáryushka, the landlady, and three children. Occasionally the number was added to by a drunken workman, Madame Byeloff's lover, who made scenes at night and terrified Dáryushka and the children. When he came, sat in the kitchen, and demanded vodka, the others were crowded out, and the doctor in compassion took the crying children to his own room, and put them to sleep on the floor. This always gave him great satisfaction.
As before, he rose at eight o'clock, took his breakfast, and sat down and read his old books and reviews. For new books he had no money. But whether it was because the books were old or because the surroundings were changed, reading no longer interested him, and even tired him. So to pass the time he compiled a detailed catalogue of his books, and pasted labels on the backs; and this mechanical work seemed to him much more interesting than reading. The more monotonous and trifling the occupation the more it calmed his mind, he thought of nothing, and time passed quickly. Even to sit in the kitchen and peel potatoes with Dáryushka or to pick the dirt out of buckwheat meal interested him. On Saturdays and Sundays he went to church. Standing at the wall, he blinked his eyes, listened to the singing, and thought of his father, his mother, the university, religion; he felt calm and melancholy, and when leaving the church, regretted that the service had not lasted longer.
Twice he visited the hospital for the purpose of seeing Iván Dmítritch. But on both occasions Gromof was unusually angry and excited; he asked to be left in peace, declared that he had long ago wearied of empty chatter, and that he would regard solitary confinement as a deliverance from these accursed, base people. Was it possible they would refuse him that? When Andréi Yéfimitch took leave of him and wished him good night, he snapped and said:
"Take yourself to the devil!"
And Andréi Yéfimitch felt undecided as to whether he should go a third time or not. But he wished to go.
In the old times Andréi Yéfimitch had been in the habit of spending the time after dinner in walking about his rooms and thinking. But now from dinner to tea-time he lay on the sofa with his face to the wall and surrendered himself to trivial thoughts, which he found himself unable to conquer. He considered himself injured by the fact that after twenty years' service he had been given neither a pension nor a grant. True he had not done his duties honestly, but then were not pensions given to all old servants indiscriminately, without regard to their honesty or otherwise? Modern ideas did not regard rank, orders, and pensions as the reward of moral perfection or capacity, and why must he alone be the exception? He was absolutely penniless. He was ashamed to pass the shop where he dealt or to meet the proprietor. For beer alone he was in debt thirty-two roubles. He was in debt also to his landlady. Dáryushka secretly sold old clothing and books, and lied to the landlady, declaring that her master was about to come in to a lot of money.
Andréi Yéfimitch was angry with himself for having wasted on his journey the thousand roubles which he had saved. What could he not do with a thousand roubles now? He was annoyed, also, because others would not leave him alone. Khobótoff considered it his duty to pay periodical visits to his sick colleague; and everything about him was repulsive to Andréi Yéfimitch—his sated face, his condescending bad manners, the word "colleague," and the high boots. But the greatest annoyance of all was that he considered it his duty to cure Andréi Yéfimitch, and even imagined he was curing him. On every occasion he brought a phial of bromide of potassium and a rhubarb pill.
Mikhail Averyanitch also considered it his duty to visit his sick friend and amuse him. He entered the room with affected freeness, laughed unnaturally, and assured Andréi Yéfimitch that to-day he looked splendid, and that, glory be to God! he was getting all right. From this alone it might be concluded that he regarded the case as hopeless. He had not yet paid off the Warsaw debt, and being ashamed of himself and constrained, he laughed all the louder, and told ridiculous anecdotes. His stories now seemed endless, and were a source of torment both to Andréi Yéfimitch and to himself.
When the postmaster was present, Andréi Yéfimitch usually lay on the sofa, his face turned to the wall, with clenched teeth, listening. It seemed to him that a crust was forming about his heart, and after; every visit he felt the crust becoming thicker, and; threatening to extend to his throat. To exorcise these trivial afflictions he reflected that he, and Khobótoff, and Mikhail Averyanitch would, sooner or later, perish, leaving behind themselves not a trace. When a million years had passed by, a spirit flying through space would see only a frozen globe and naked stones. All—culture and morals—everything would pass away; even the burdock would not grow. Why, then, should he trouble himself with feelings of shame on account of a shopkeeper, of insignificant Khobótoff, of the terrible friendship of Mikhail Averyanitch. It was all folly and vanity.
But such reasoning did not console him. He had hardly succeeded in painting a vivid picture of the frozen globe after a million yearn of decay, when from behind a naked rock appeared Khobótoff in his top boots, and beside him stood Mikhail Averyanitch, with an affected laugh, and a shamefaced whisper on his lips: "And the Warsaw debt, old man, I will repay in a few days ... without fail!"
Mikhail Averyanitch arrived after dinner one evening when Andréi Yéfimitch was lying on the sofa. At the same time came Khobótoff with his bromide of potassium. Andréi Yéfimitch rose slowly, sat down again, and supported himself by resting his hands upon the sofa edge.
"To-day, my dear," began Mikhail Averyanitch, "to-day your complexion is much healthier than yesterday. You are a hero! I swear to God, a hero!"
"It's time, indeed it's time for you to recover, colleague," said Khobótoff, yawning. "You must be tired of the delay yourself."
"Never mind, we'll soon be all right," said Mikhail Averyanitch gaily. "Why, we'll live for another hundred years! Eh?"
"Perhaps not a hundred, but a safe twenty," said Khobótoff consolingly. "Don't worry, colleague, don't worry!"
"We'll let them see!" laughed Mikhail Averyanitch, slapping his friend on the knee. "We'll show how the trick is done! Next summer, with God's will, we'll fly away to the Caucasus, and gallop all over the country—trot, trot, trot! And when we come back from the Caucasus we'll dance at your wedding!"
Mikhail Averyanitch winked slyly. "We'll marry you, my friend, we'll find the bride!"
Andréi Yéfimitch felt that the crust had risen to his throat. His heart beat painfully.
"This is absurd," he said, rising suddenly and going over to the window. "Is it possible you don't understand that you are talking nonsense?"
He wished to speak to his visitors softly and politely, but could not restrain himself, and, against his own will, clenched his fists, and raised them threateningly above his head.
"Leave me!" he cried, in a voice which was not his own. His face was purple and he trembled all over. "Begone! Both of you! Go!"
Mikhail Averyanitch and Khobótoff rose, and looked at him, at first in astonishment, then in tenor. "Begone both of you!" continued Andréi Yéfimitch. "Stupid idiots! Fools! I want neither your friendship nor your medicines, idiots! This is base, it is abominable!"
Khobótoff and the postmaster exchanged confused glances, staggered to the door, and went into the hall. Andréi Yéfimitch seized the phial of bromide of potassium, and flung it after them, breaking it upon the threshold.
"Take yourselves to the devil!" he cried, running after them into the hall. "To the devil!"
After his visitors had gone he lay on the sofa, trembling as if in fever, and repeated—
"Stupid idiots! Dull fools!"
When he calmed down, the first thought that entered his head was that poor Mikhail Averyanitch must now be terribly ashamed and wretched, and that the scene that had passed was something very terrible. Nothing of the kind had ever happened before. What had become of his intellect and tact? Where were now his understanding of the world and his philosophical indifference?
All night the doctor was kept awake by feelings of shame and vexation. At nine o'clock next morning, he went to the post office and apologised to the postmaster.
"Do not refer to what happened!" said the postmaster, with a sigh. Touched by Andréi Yéfimitch's conduct, he pressed his hands warmly. "No man should trouble over such trifles.... Lubiakin!" he roared so loudly that the clerks and visitors trembled. "Bring a chair!... And you just wait!" he cried to a peasant woman, who held a registered letter through the grating. "Don't you see that I am engaged? ... We will forget all that," he continued tenderly, turning to Andréi Yéfimitch. "Sit down, my old friend!"
He stroked his eyebrows silently for a minute, and continued:
"It never entered my head to take offence. Illness is a very strange thing, I understand that. Yesterday your fit frightened both the doctor and myself, and we talked of you for a long time. My dear friend, why will you not pay more attention to your complaint? Do you think you can go on living in this way? Forgive the plain speaking of a friend." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "But you live among hopeless surroundings—closeness, uncleanliness, no one to look after you, nothing to take for your ailment.... My dear friend, both I and the doctor implore you with all our hearts—listen to our advice—go into the hospital. There you will get wholesome food, care and treatment. Yevgéniï Feódoritch—although, between ourselves, de mauvais ton—is a capable man, and you can fully rely upon him. He gave me his word that he would take care of you."
Andréi Yéfimitch was touched by the sincere concern of his friend, and the tears that trickled down the postmaster's cheeks.
"My dear friend, don't believe them!" he whispered, laying his hand upon his heart. "It is all a delusion. My complaint lies merely in this, that in twenty years I found in this town only one intelligent man, and he was a lunatic. I suffer from no disease whatever; my misfortune is that I have fallen into a magic circle from which there is no escape. It is all the same to me—I am ready for anything."
"Then you will go into the hospital?"
"It is all the same—even into the pit."
"Give me your word, friend, that you will obey Yevgéniï Feódoritch in everything."
"I give you my word. But I repeat that I have fallen into a magic circle. Everything now, even the sincere concern of my friends, tends only to the same thing—to my destruction. I am perishing, and I have the courage to acknowledge it."
"Nonsense, you will get all right!"
"What is the use of talking like that?" said Andréi Yéfimitch irritably. "There are very few men who at the close of their lives do not experience what I am experiencing now. When people tell you that you have disease of the kidneys or a dilated heart, and set about to cure you; when they tell you that you are a madman or a criminal—in one word, when they begin to turn their attention on to you—you may recognise that you are in a magic circle from which there is no escape. You may try to escape, but that makes things worse. Give in, for no human efforts will save you. So it seems to me."
All this time, people were gathering at the grating. Andréi Yéfimitch disliked interrupting the postmaster's work, and took his leave. Mikhail Averyanitch once more made him give his word of honour, and escorted him to the door.
The same day towards evening Khobótoff, in his short fur coat and high boots, arrived unexpectedly, and, as if nothing had happened the day before, said: "I have come to you on a matter of business, colleague, I want you to come with me to a consultation. Eh?"
Thinking that Khobótoff wanted to amuse him with a walk, or give him some opportunity of earning money, Andréi Yéfimitch dressed, and went with him into the street. He was glad of the chance to redeem his rudeness of the day before, thankful for the apparent reconciliation, and grateful to Khobótoff for not hinting at the incident. From this uncultured man who would have expected such delicacy?
"And where is your patient?" asked Andréi Yéfimitch.
"At the hospital. For a long time past I have wanted you to see him.... A most interesting case."
They entered the hospital yard, and passing through the main building, went to the wing where the lunatics were confined. When they entered the hall, Nikita as usual jumped up and stretched himself.
"One of them has such strange complications in the lungs," whispered Khobótoff as he entered the ward with Andréi Yéfimitch. "But wait here. I shall be back immediately. I must get my stethoscope."
And he left the room.
It was already twilight. Iván Dmítritch lay on his bed with his face buried in the pillow; the paralytic sat motionless, and wept softly and twitched his lips; the fat muzhik and the ex-sorter slept. It was very quiet.
Andréi Yéfimitch sat on Iván Dmítritch's bed and listened. Half an hour passed by, but Khobótoff did not come. Instead of Khobótoff came Nikita carrying in his arm a dressing-gown, some linen, and a pair of slippers.
"Please to put on these, your Honour," he said calmly. "There is your bed, this way, please," he added, pointing at a vacant bed, evidently only just set up. "And don't take on; with God's will you will soon be well!"
Andréi Yéfimitch understood. Without a Word he walked over to the bed indicated by Nikita and sat upon it. Then, seeing that Nikita was waiting, he stripped himself and felt ashamed. He put on the hospital clothing; the flannels were too small, the shirt was too long, and the dressing-gown smelt of smoked fish.
"You will soon be all right, God grant it!" repeated Nikita.
He took up Andréi Yéfimitch's clothes, went out, and locked the door.
"It is all the same," thought Andréi Yéfimitch, shamefacedly gathering the dressing-gown around him, and feeling like a convict in his new garments. "It is all the same. In dress clothes, in uniform ... or in this dressing-gown."
But his watch? And the memorandum book in his side pocket? And the cigarettes? Where had Nikita taken his clothes? To the day of his death he would never again wear trousers, a waistcoat, or boots. It was strange and incredible at first. Andréi Yéfimitch was firmly convinced that there was no difference whatever between Madame Byelof's house and Ward No. 6, and that all in this world is folly and vanity; but he could not prevent his hands trembling, and his feet were cold. He was hurt, too, by the thought that Iván Dmítritch would rise and see him in the dressing-gown. He rose, walked up and down the room, and again sat down.
He remained sitting for half an hour, weary to the point of grief. Would it be possible to live here a day, a week, even years, as these others had done? He must sit down, and walk about and again sit down; and then he might look out of the window, and again walk from end to end of the room. And afterwards? Just to sit all day still as an idol, and think! No, it was impossible.
Andréi Yéfimitch lay down on his bed, but almost immediately rose, rubbed with his cuff the cold sweat from his forehead, and felt that his whole face smelt of dried fish. He walked up and down the ward.
"This is some misunderstanding...." he said, opening his arms. "It only needs an explanation, it is a misunderstanding...."
At this moment Iván Dmítritch awoke. He sat up in bed, rested his head on his hands, and spat. Then he looked idly at the doctor, apparently at first understanding nothing. But soon his sleepy face grew contemptuous and malicious.
"So they have brought you here, my friend," he began in a voice hoarse from sleep. He blinked one eye. "I am very glad! You drank other men's blood, and now they will drink yours! Admirable!"
"It is some misunderstanding ..." began Andréi Yéfimitch, frightened by the lunatic's words. He shrugged his shoulders and repeated. "It is a misunderstanding of some kind."
Iván Dmítritch again spat, and lay down on his bed.
"Accursed life!" he growled. "But what is most bitter, most abominable of all, is that this life ends not with rewards for suffering, not with apotheoses as in operas, but in death; men come and drag the corpse by its arms and legs into the cellar. Brrrrrr!... Well, never mind!... For all that we have suffered in this, in the other world we will be repaid with a holiday! From the other world I shall return hither as a shadow, and terrify these monsters!... I will turn their heads grey!"
Moséika entered the ward, and seeing the doctor, stretched out his hand, and said:
"Give me a kopeck!"
Andréi Yéfimitch went across to the window, and looked out into the fields. It was getting dark, and on the horizon rose a cold, livid moon. Near the hospital railings, a hundred fathoms away, not more, rose a lofty, white building, surrounded by a stone wall. It was the prison.
"That is actuality," thought Andréi Yéfimitch, and he felt terrified.
Everything was terrible: the moon, the prison, the spikes in the fence, and the blaze in the distant bone-mill. Andréi Yéfimitch turned away from the window, and saw before him a man with glittering stars and orders upon his breast. The man smiled and winked cunningly. And this, too, seemed terrible.
He tried to assure himself that in the moon and in the prison there was nothing peculiar at all, that even sane men wear orders, and that the best of things in their turn rot and turn into dust. But despair suddenly seized him, he took hold of the grating with both hands, and jerked it with all his strength. But the bars stood firm.
That it might be less terrible, he went to Iván Dmítritch's bed, and sat upon it.
"I have lost my spirits, friend," he said, stammering, trembling, and rubbing the cold sweat from his face. "My spirits have fallen."
"But why don't you philosophise?" asked Iván Dmítritch ironically.
"My God, my God!... Yes, yes!... Once you said that in Russia there is no philosophy; but all philosophise, even triflers. But the philosophising of triflers does no harm to anyone," said Andréi Yéfimitch as if he wanted to cry. "By why, my dear friend, why this malicious laughter? Why should not triflers philosophise if they are not satisfied? For a clever, cultivated, proud, freedom-loving man, built in the image of God, there is no course left but to come as doctor to a dirty, stupid town, and lead a life of jars, leeches, and gallipots. Charlatanry, narrowness, baseness! Oh, my God!"
"You chatter nonsense! If you didn't want to be a doctor, why weren't you a minister of state?"
"I could not. We are weak, my friend. I was indifferent to things, I reasoned actively and wholesomely, but it needed but the first touch of actuality to make me lose heart, and surrender.... We are weak; we are worthless!... And you also, my friend. You are able, you are noble, with your mother's milk you drank in draughts of happiness, yet hardly had you entered upon life when you wearied of it.... We are weak, weak!"
In addition to terror and the feeling of insult, Andréi Yéfimitch had been tortured by sonic importunate craving ever since the approach of evening. Finally he came to the conclusion that he wanted to smoke and drink beer.
"I am going out, my friend," he said. "I will tell them to bring lights.... I cannot in this way.... I am not in a state...."
He went to the door and opened it, but immediately Nikita jumped up and barred the way.
"Where are you going to? You can't, you can't!" he cried. "It's time for bed!"
"But only for a minute.... I want to go into the yard.... I want to have a walk in the yard," said Andréi Yéfimitch.
"You can't. I have orders against it.... You know yourself."
Nikita banged the door and set his back against it. "But if I go out what harm will it do?" asked Andréi Yéfimitch. "I don't understand! Nikita, I must go out!" he cried in a trembling voice. "I must go!"
"Don't create disorder; it is not right!" said Nikita in an edifying tone.
"The devil knows what is the meaning of this!" suddenly screamed Iván Dmitri tch, jumping from his bed. "What right has he to refuse to let us go? How dare they keep us here? The law allows no man to be deprived of freedom without a trial! This is violence ... tyranny!"
"Of course it is tyranny," said Andréi Yéfimitch, encouraging Gromof. "I must go! I have to go out! He has no right! Let me out, I tell you!"
"Do you hear, stupid dog!" screamed Ivrin Dmítritch, thumping the door with his fists. "Open, or I will smash the door! Blood-sucker!"
"Open!" cried Andréi Yéfimitch, trembling all over: "I demand it!"
"Talk away!" answered Nikita through the door. "Talk away!"
"Go, then, for Yevgéniï Feódoritch! Say that I ask him to come ... For a minute!"
"To-morrow he will come all right."
"They will never let us go!" cried Iván Dmítritch. "We will all die here! Oh, God, is it possible that in the other world there is no hell, that these villains will be forgiven? Where is there justice? Open, scoundrel, I am choking!" Gromof cried out in a hoarse voice, and flung himself against the door. "I will dash my brains out! Assassins!"
Nikita flung open the door, and with both hands and his knees roughly pushed Andréi Yéfimitch back into the room, and struck him with his clenched fist full in the face. It seemed to Andréi Yéfimitch that a great salt wave had suddenly dashed upon his head and flung him upon his bed; in his mouth was a taste of salt, and the blood seemed to burst from his gums. As if trying to swim away from the wave, he flourished his arms and seized the bedstead. But at this moment Nikita struck him again and again in the back. Iván Dmítritch screamed loudly. He also had evidently been beaten.
Then all was quiet Liquid moonlight poured through between the iron bars, and on the floor lay a network shadow. All were terrified. Andréi Yéfimitch lay on the bed and held his breath in terror, awaiting another blow.
It seemed as if someone had taken a sickle, thrust it into his chest and turned it around. In his agony he bit his pillow and ground his teeth, and suddenly into his head amid the chaos flashed the intolerable thought that such misery had been borne year after year by these helpless men who now lay in the moonlight like black shadows about him. In twenty years he had never known of it, and never wanted to know. He did not know, he had no idea of their wretchedness, therefore he was not guilty; but conscience, as rude and unaccommodating as Nikita's fists, sent an icy thrill through him from head to foot. He jumped from his bed and tried to scream with all his might, to fly from the ward and kill Nikita, and Khobótoff, and the superintendent, and the feldscher, and himself. But not a sound came from his throat, his feet rebelled against him, he panted, he tore his gown and shirt, and fell insensible on the bed.
Next morning his head ached, his cars hummed, and he was weak. The memory of his weakness of the day before made him feel ashamed. Yesterday he had shown a petty spirit, he had feared even the moon, and honestly expressed feelings and thoughts which he had never suspected could exist in himself. For instance, the thought about the discontent of philosophic triflers. But now he was quite indifferent.
He neither ate nor drank, but lay motionless and silent.
"It is all the same to me," he thought when he was questioned. "I shall not answer.... It is all the same...."
After dinner Mikhail Averyanitch brought him a quarter of a pound of tea and a pound of marmalade. Dáryushka also came, and for a whole hour stood beside the bed with a dull expression of uncomprehending affliction. Doctor Khobótoff also paid him a visit. He brought a phial of bromide of potassium, and ordered Nikita to fumigate the ward.
Towards evening Andréi Yéfimitch died from an apoplectic stroke. At first he felt chill, and sickness; something loathsome like rotting sour cabbage or bad eggs seemed to permeate his whole body even to his fingers, to extend from his stomach to his head, and to flow in his eyes and ears. A green film appeared before his eyes. Andréi Yéfimitch realised that his hour had come; and remembered that Iván Dmítritch, Mikhail Averyanitch, and millions of others believed in immortality. But immortality he did not desire, and thought of it only for a moment. A herd of antelopes, extraordinarily beautiful and graceful, of which he had been reading the day before, rushed past him; then a woman stretched out to him a hand holding a registered letter.... Mikhail Averyanitch said something. Then all vanished and Andréi Yéfimitch died.
The servants came in, took him by the shoulders and legs, and carried him to the chapel. There he lay on a table with open eyes, and at night the moon shone down upon him. In the morning came Sergéi Sergéyitch, piously prayed before a crucifix, and closed the eyes of his former chief. Next day Andréi Yéfim itch was buried. Only Mikhail Averyanitch and Dáryushka were present at the funeral.