He sees Gusev watching him, and turns to face him.
'I'm beginning to grasp the point,' says he. 'Y«, now I see it all.'
'See what, Paul Ivanovich ?'
Tll tell you. Why aren't you serious cases kept somewhere quiet, that's what's been puzzling me? Why should you fi.nd yourselves tossing about in a sweltering hot steamship—a place where everything endangers your lives, in other words? Dut now it's all clear, indeed it is. Your doctors put you on the ship to get rid of you. They're sick of messing around with such cattle. You pay them nothing, you only cause them trouble, and you spoil their statistics by dying. Which makes you cattle. And getting rid of you isn't hard. There are two requisites. First, one must lack all conscience and humanity. Second, one must deceive the steamship line. Of the first requisite the le» said the better— we're pastmasters at that. And the second we can always pull off, given a little practice. Five sick men don't stand out in a crowd of four hundred fit soldiers and sailors. So they get you on board, mix you up with the able-bodied, hurriedly count you and find nothing amiss in the confusion. Then, when the ship's already under way, they see paralytics and consumptives in the last stages lying around on deck.'
Not understanding Paul Ivanovich, and thinking he was being told off, Gusev spoke in self-defence.
'I lay around on deck because I was so weak. I was mighty chilly when they unloaded us from the barge.'
'It's a scandal,' Paul Ivanovich goes on. 'The worst thing is, they know perfectly well you can't survive this long journey, don't they? And yet they put you here. Now, let's assume you last out till the Indian Ocean. What happens next doesn't bear thinking o( And such is their gratitude for loyal service and a clean record!'
Paul Ivanovich gives an angry look, fro^ing disdainfully.
'I'd like a go at these people in the newspapers,' he pants. 'I'd make the fur fly all right!'
The two soldier-patients and the sailor are already awake and at their cards. The sailor half lies in his bunk, while the soldiers sit on the floor near him in the most awkward postures. One soldier has his right arm in a sling, with the hand bandaged up in a regular bundle, so he holds his cards in his right armpit or in the crook of his elbow, playing them with his left hand. The sea is pitching and rolling heavily—impossible to stand up, drink tea or take medicine.
'Were you an officer's servant?' Paul Ivanovich asks Gusev.
'Yes sir, a batman.'
'God, God!' says Paul Ivanovich, with a sad shake of his head. 'Uproot a man from home, drag him ten thousand miles, give him tuberculosis and—and where does it all lead, I wonder? To making a batman of him for some Captain Kopeykin or Midshipman Dyrka. Very sensible, I must say!'
'It's not hard work, Paul Ivanovich. You get up ofa morning, clean the boots, put the samovar on, tidy the room—then there's no more to do all day. The lieutcnant spends all day drawing plans, like, and you can say your prayers, read books, go out in the street—whatever you want. God grant everyone such a life.'
'Oh, what could be better! The lieutenant draws his "plans, like", and you spend your day in the kitchcn longing for your home. "Plans, like!" It's not plans that matter, it's human life. You only have one life, and that should be respected.'
'Well, of course, Paul lvanovich, a bad man never gets off lightly, either at homc or in the service. But you live proper and obey orders— and who needs harm you ? Our mastcrs are educated gentlemen, they understand. I was never in the regimental lock-up, not in five years I wasn't, and I wasn't struck—now let me see—not more than once.'
'What was that for?'
'Fighting. I'm a bit too ready with my fists, Paul Ivanovich. Four Chinamen come in our yard, carrying firewood or something—I don't recall. Well, I'm feeling bored, so I, er, knock 'em about a bit, and make one bastard's nose bleed. The lieutenant sees it through the window. Right furious he is, and he gives me one on the ear.'
'You wretched, stupid man,' whispers Paul Ivanovich. 'You don't understand anything.'
Utterly worn out by the pitching and tossing, he closes his eyes. His head keeps falling back, or forward on his chest, and he several times tries to lie flat, but it comes to nothing because the choking stops him.
'Why did you hit those four Chinamen?' he asks a little later.
'Oh, I dunno. They comes in the yard, so I just hits 'em.'
They fall silent.
The card players go on playing for a couple of hours with much enthusiasm and cursing, but the pitching and tossing wear even them out, they abandon thcir cards and lie down. Once more Gusev pictures the large pond, the pottery, the village.
Once more the sledge runs by, and again Vanka laughs, while that silly Akulka has thro^ open her fur and stuck out her legs.
'Look, everyone,' she seems to say. 'I have better mow-boots t^m Vanka. Mine are new.'
'Rve years old, and still she has no sense,' rambles Gusev. 'Instead of kicking your legs, why don't you fetch your soldier uncle a drink? I'll give you something nice.'
Then Andron, a flint-lock gun slung over his shoulder, brings a hare he has killed, followed by that decrepit old Jew Isaiah, who offers a piece of soap in exchange for the hare. There's a black calf just inside the front door of the hut, Domna is sewing a shirt and crying. Then comes the eyeless buB's head again, the black smoke.
Overhead someone gives a loud shout, and several sailors past— dragging something bulky over the deck, it seems, or else something has fallen with a crash. Then they run past again.
Has there been an accident? Gusev lifts his head, listening, and sees the two soldiers and the sailor playing cards again. Paul Ivanovich is sitting up, moving his lips. He chokes, he feels too weak to breathe, and he is thirsty, but the water is warm and nasty.
The boat is still pitching.
Suddenly something strange happens to one of the card-playing soldiers.
He calls hearts diamonds, he muddles the score and drops his cards, then he gives a silly, scared smile and looks round at everyone.
'One moment, lads,' says he and lies on the floor.
Everyone is aghast. They call him, but he doesn't respond.
'Maybe you feel bad, eh, Stephen?' asks the soldier with his arm in a sling. 'Should we call a priest perhaps?'
'Have some water, Stephen,' says the sailor. 'Come on, mate, you drink this.'
'Now, why bang his teeth with the mug?' asks Gusev angrily. 'Can't you see, you fool?'
'What is it?'
'What is it?' Gusev mimics him. 'He has no breath in him, he's dead. That's what it is. What senseless people, Lord help us!'
III
The ship is no longer heaving, and Paul Ivanovich has cheered up. He is no longer angry, and his expression is boastful, challenging and mocking.
'Yes,' he seems about to say, 'I'm going to tell you something to make you all split your sides laughing.'
The port-hole is open and a soft breeze blows on Paul Ivanovich. Voices are heard, and the plashing of oars.
Just beneath the port-hole someone sets up an unpleasant, shrill droning—a Chinese singing, that must be.
'Yes, we're in the roadstead now,' Paul Ivanovich says with a sardonic smile. 'Another month or so and we'll be in Russia. Yes indeed, sirs, gentlemen and barrack-room scum. I'll go to Odessa, and then straight on to Kharkov. I have a friend in Kharkov, a literary man. I'll go and see him.
'"Now, old boy," I'll say, "you can drop your loathsome plots about female amours and the beauties of nature for the time being, and expose these verminous bipeds. Here are some subjects for
m i
you.
He ponders for a minute.
'Know how I fooled them, Gusev ?' he asks.