Meanwhile people were crowding to the grille. Andrei Yefimych, not wishing to hinder anyone, got up and began to take his leave. Mikhail Averyanych once again asked him for his word of honor and saw him to the front door.
That same day, before evening, Andrei Yefimych received an unexpected visit from Khobotov, in his short jacket and high boots, who said, as if nothing had happened the day before:
“I’m here on business, colleague. I’ve come to ask you if you’d like to join me in a consultation. Eh?”
Thinking that Khobotov wanted to divert him with a stroll, or indeed give him a chance to earn some money, Andrei Yefimych put on his coat and went out with him. He was glad of the chance to smooth over his fault of the day before and make peace, and in his heart was grateful to Khobotov, who did not utter a peep about the day before and was obviously sparing him. He would hardly have expected such delicacy from this uncultivated man.
“Where’s your patient?” asked Andrei Yefimych.
“In the hospital. I’ve been wanting to show you for a long time … A most interesting case.”
They went into the hospital yard and, going around the main building, made their way to the annex where the insane were housed. And all this, for some reason, in silence. When they went into the annex, Nikita jumped up as usual and stood at attention.
“One of them has developed a lung complication,” Khobotov said in a low voice, as he and Andrei Yefimych went into the ward. “Wait here, I’ll be back at once. I must get my stethoscope.”
And he went out.
XVII
It was twilight. Ivan Dmitrich lay on his bed, his face in the pillow; the paralytic sat motionless, weeping softly and moving his lips. The fat peasant and the former sorter were asleep. It was quiet.
Andrei Yefimych sat down on Ivan Dmitrich’s bed and waited. But about half an hour went by, and instead of Khobotov, Nikita came into the ward carrying a hospital robe, someone’s underwear and slippers.
“Please put these on, Your Honor,” he said softly. “Here’s your little bed, if you please,” he added, pointing to an empty bed, obviously brought in recently. “Never mind, God willing, you’ll get well.”
Andrei Yefimych understood everything. Without saying a word, he went over to the bed Nikita had pointed to and sat down; seeing that Nikita was standing and waiting, he undressed completely and felt embarrassed. Then he put on the hospital clothes. The drawers were very short, the shirt long, and the robe smelled of smoked fish.
“You’ll get well, God willing,” Nikita repeated.
He gathered up Andrei Yefimych’s clothes, went out, and closed the door behind him.
“It makes no difference …” thought Andrei Yefimych, shyly wrapping himself in the robe, and feeling that his new costume made him look like a prisoner. “It makes no difference … no difference whether it’s a tailcoat, a uniform, or this robe …”
But what about his watch? And the notebook in the side pocket? And the cigarettes? Where had Nikita taken his clothes? Now, perhaps, he would not put on his trousers, waistcoat, and shoes till his dying day. All this was somehow strange and even incomprehensible at first. Andrei Yefimych was still convinced that there was no difference between the house of the tradeswoman Belov and Ward No. 6, and that everything in this world was nonsense and vanity of vanities, and yet his hands shook, his feet were cold, and he felt eerie at the thought that Ivan Dmitrich would soon get up and see him in the robe. He stood up, paced a little, and sat down.
Now he had been sitting for half an hour, an hour, and he was sick of it to the point of anguish. Could one really live here for a day, a week, and even years, like these people? Well, so he sat, paced, and sat down again; he could go and look out the window, and again pace up and down. And then what? Go on sitting this way all the time, like an idol, and thinking? No, that was hardly possible.
Andrei Yefimych lay down, but got up at once, wiped the cold sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, and felt that his whole face smelled of smoked fish. He paced again.
“This is some sort of misunderstanding …” he said, spreading his arms in perplexity. “It must be explained, there’s a misunderstanding here …”
Just then Ivan Dmitrich woke up. He sat up and propped his cheeks on his fists. He spat. Then he glanced lazily at the doctor and for the first moment apparently understood nothing; but soon his sleepy face turned malicious and jeering.
“Aha, so they’ve stuck you in here, too, my dear!” he said in a voice hoarse from sleep, squinting one eye. “Delighted. You used to suck people’s blood, now they’ll suck yours. Excellent!”
“This is some sort of misunderstanding…” said Andrei Yefimych, frightened by Ivan Dmitrich’s words; he shrugged and repeated: “A misunderstanding of some sort…”
Ivan Dmitrich spat again and lay down.
“Cursed life!” he growled. “And what’s so bitter and offensive is that this life will end not with a reward for suffering, not with an apotheosis, as in the opera, but with death; peasants will come and drag your dead body by the arms and legs to the basement. Brr! Well, never mind … But in the other world it will be our turn to celebrate … I’ll come from the other world as a ghost and scare these vipers. I’ll give them all gray hair.”
Moiseika came back and, seeing the doctor, held out his hand.
“Give me a little kopeck!” he said.
XVIII
Andrei Yefimych walked over to the window and looked out at the field. It was getting dark, and on the horizon to the right a cold, crimson moon was rising. Not far from the hospital fence, no more than two hundred yards away, stood a tall white building surrounded by a stone wall. This was the prison.
“Here is reality!” thought Andrei Yefimych, and he felt frightened.
The moon was frightening, and the prison, and the nails on the fence, and the distant flame of the bone-burning factory. He heard a sigh behind him. Andrei Yefimych turned around and saw a man with stars and decorations gleaming on his chest, who smiled and slyly winked his eye. This, too, was frightening.
Andrei Yefimych assured himself that there was nothing special about the moon or the prison, and that mentally sound people also wore decorations, and that in time everything would rot and turn to clay, but despair suddenly overwhelmed him, he seized the grille with both hands and shook it with all his might. The strong grille did not yield.
Then, not to feel so frightened, he went to Ivan Dmitrich’s bed and sat down.
“I’ve lost heart, my dear,” he murmured, trembling and wiping off the cold sweat. “Lost heart.”
“Try philosophizing,” Ivan Dmitrich said jeeringly
“My God, my God … Yes, yes … You once said there’s no philosophy in Russia, yet everybody philosophizes, even little folk. But little folk’s philosophizing doesn’t harm anyone,” Andrei Yefimych said, sounding as if he wanted to weep and awaken pity “Why, then, this gleeful laughter, my dear? And how can little folk help philosophizing, if they’re not content? An intelligent, educated, proud, freedom-loving man, the likeness of God,19 has no other recourse than to work as a doctor in a dirty, stupid little town, and deal all his life with cupping glasses, leeches, and mustard plasters! Charlatanism, narrow-mindedness, banality! Oh, my God!”
“You’re pouring out nonsense. If you loathe being a doctor, you should have become a government minister.”
“Impossible, it’s all impossible. We’re weak, my dear … I used to be indifferent, I reasoned cheerfully and sensibly, but life had only to touch me rudely and I lost heart … prostration … We’re weak, we’re trash … And you, too, my dear. You’re intelligent, noble, you drank in good impulses with your mother’s milk, but as soon as you entered into life, you got tired and fell ill … Weak, weak!”