In reply to the last question Ragin flushed and said:
‘Yes, he’s a mental patient, but he’s an interesting young man.’
He was asked no further questions.
As he was putting on his coat in the lobby, the military commander put his hand on his shoulder and sighed.
‘It’s time for us oldies to call it a day!’ he said.
When he left the town hall Ragin realized that he had been before a committee appointed to test his mental faculties. Remembering the questions they had asked he went red in the face and for the first time in his life he felt bitterly sorry for medicine.
‘My God!’ he thought, remembering how those doctors had just examined him. ‘Surely it wasn’t so long ago that they were going to their psychiatry lectures and sitting their exams? So how come such abysmal ignorance? They don’t have a clue about psychiatry!’ And for the first time in his life he felt outraged and infuriated.
That evening Mikhail Averyanych called. Without a word of greeting the postmaster went up to him and took him by both hands.
‘My dear, dear friend’, he said in a highly emotional voice. ‘Please show me that you trust in my sincere affection for you and consider me your friend.’ Without allowing Ragin to say one word he continued excitedly:
‘My dear friend! I admire you for your education and nobility of soul. Now, listen to me, my dear chap. I know medical etiquette obliged those doctors to hide the truth from you, but I’m going to give it you straight from the shoulder, like an old trooper! You’re not well. I’m very sorry, old chap, but it’s the truth. It’s been noticed by everyone around here for some time now. Dr Khobotov has just told me that you need rest and recreation for the sake of your health. Perfectly true! A splendid idea! In a few days’ time I’m taking some leave and going off somewhere for a whiff of fresh air. Now then, prove that you’re my friend and come with me! Let’s go – it will be like old times again!’
‘I feel perfectly well’, Ragin said after a moment’s thought. ‘But I cannot go. Allow me to prove my friendship in some other way.’
The idea of travelling to some unknown destination, for no good reason, without his books, without Daryushka, rudely breaking a twenty-year-old routine, at first struck him as wild and preposterous. But when he recalled that conversation in the town hall and how terribly depressed he had felt on the way home, the idea of a short break away from that town where stupid people thought him insane appeared most attractive.
‘And where precisely are you thinking of going?’ he asked.
‘To Moscow, St Petersburg, Warsaw. I spent the five happiest years of my life in Warsaw. An amazing city! Let’s go, my dear chap!’
XIII
A week later Dr Ragin received a formal request to take a rest – in other words, to resign. He was quite unconcerned at this and a week later he and Mikhail Averyanych were sitting in a mail coach on their way to the nearest station. The weather was cool and bright, the sky blue and the distant prospect crystal clear. They travelled the hundred and twenty-five miles to the station in forty-eight hours, with two overnight stops. Whenever they were given tea in dirty glasses at coaching inns or had to wait ages while they harnessed the horses, Mikhail Averyanych would shake all over and roar: ‘Shut up! Don’t you argue with me!’ As they sat in the coach he told of his travels in the Caucasus and Poland without relenting for one minute. So many adventures, so many encounters! He spoke so loudly and there was such astonishment in his eyes that one could only assume he was lying. Worse still, he breathed right into Ragin’s face as he told his tales and laughed into his ear. This irritated the doctor so much that he was unable to think or concentrate.
To economize they travelled third class on the train, in a non-smoker. Half the passengers were respectable people. Mikhail Averyanych soon got to know everyone, going from seat to seat and loudly asserting that it was a big mistake to travel on these disgraceful railways. It was all a huge swindle! What a difference if you travelled on horseback! In one day you could clock up seventy miles and at the end of it feel thoroughly in the pink and fresh as a daisy. And yes, we had crop failures because they went and drained the Pripet marshes.16 There was the most dreadful shambles everywhere. He grew excited, spoke very loudly and did not let anyone else get a word in edgeways. His endless chatter was broken by loud guffaws and his dramatic gesticulations wearied Ragin to the point of exhaustion.
‘Which one of us is insane?’ he thought in vexation. ‘Is it I, who am trying my best not to disturb my fellow-passengers in any way, or that egoist who thinks that he’s more clever and interesting than everyone else and consequently doesn’t give anyone a moment’s peace?’
In Moscow Mikhail Averyanych donned his military tunic without epaulettes and his trousers with red piping. He walked down the street in an officer’s peaked cap and greatcoat – and soldiers saluted him. Ragin felt that here was a man who had dissipated all the fine, gentlemanly qualities he had ever possessed and retained only the bad ones. He loved people dancing attendance on him, even when it was quite unnecessary. If a box of matches was lying on the table before him and he saw them, he would still roar to a waiter to bring him a light. He had no qualms about appearing in his underclothes in front of the chambermaid. He did not stand on ceremony with any servants, whoever they were, even elderly ones, and when he was angry called the lot of them blockheads and idiots. All this struck Ragin as behaving like a lord – but it was so cheap and nasty.
Mikhail Averyanych first took his friend to see the Iverian Madonna.17 He prayed fervently, bowing to the ground and weeping, and when he had finished he sighed deeply. ‘Even if you’re not a believer you somehow feel more at peace with yourself after praying. Kiss the icon, old chap.’
Ragin was embarrassed as he kissed the icon, but Mikhail Averyanych puffed his lips out, shook his head and whispered some prayers – and once again the tears came to his eyes. Then they visited the Kremlin and saw the Tsar-Cannon and the Tsar-Bell18 – and they even touched them with their fingers. They admired the view across the Moscow River and spent some time in St Saviour’s Temple and the Rumyantsev Museum.19
They dined at Testov’s.20 Mikhail Averyanych gazed long at the menu, stroking his side-whiskers and then pronouncing in the voice of a gourmet, of one completely at home in restaurants:
‘Well now, what are you going to feed us on today, old chum?’
XIV
The doctor walked, looked, ate and drank, but his feelings were still the same: of annoyance with Mikhail Averyanych. He longed for some respite from his friend, to escape from him, to go somewhere and hide, but his friend felt duty bound not to let him out of his sight and to ensure he enjoyed every possible form of diversion. When they had run out of sights he entertained him with conversation. For two days Ragin endured it, but on the third he declared that he wasn’t feeling well and wanted to stay all day in the hotel. ‘In that case,’ his friend replied, ‘I won’t go out either.’ And in fact they needed to rest as their feet couldn’t have taken any more punishment. Ragin lay on the sofa facing the back and with clenched teeth listened to his friend eagerly assuring him that sooner or later France was bound to destroy Germany, that Moscow was swarming with crooks, that one shouldn’t judge a horse from its appearance. The doctor had ringing in the ears and palpitations, but he was too polite to ask his friend to leave him alone or be quiet. Fortunately though, Mikhail Averyanych grew bored with staying in the room and after dinner went out for a stroll.
Left to himself Ragin was able to relax. How pleasant to lie quite still on a sofa in the knowledge there’s only yourself in the room! True happiness is impossible without solitude. The fallen angel most probably betrayed God because he longed for solitude, of which angels have no inkling. Ragin wanted to ponder all he had seen and heard in the past few days, but he could not get Mikhail Averyanych out of his mind.
‘But then he did go on leave and come on this trip out of friendship and goodness of heart’, the doctor th
ought with vexation. ‘But there’s nothing worse than being under a friend’s wing. He’s kind enough, it seems, a good-hearted, jolly companion, yet he’s a bore. A crashing bore. He’s one of those people who say only fine and clever things but all the same you feel that they’re stupid.’
During the days that followed Ragin pretended that he was not feeling well and stayed in the room. He lay facing the back of the sofa and fretted when his friend tried to distract him with conversation, but when he went out he was able to relax. He was annoyed with himself for having made the trip, he was annoyed with his friend who was becoming more talkative and perky every day. He failed dismally to pitch his thoughts on a serious, elevated plane.
‘That reality of which Gromov spoke is really putting me to the test’, he thought, furious at his own pettiness. ‘Anyway, it’s all so stupid… Once I’m home everything will be as it was before.’
But things were no different in St Petersburg. For days on end he didn’t leave his room, but lay on the sofa and got up only for a glass of beer.
Mikhail Averyanych was constantly pressing him to go to Warsaw.
‘Why should I go there, my friend?’ pleaded Ragin. ‘Go on your own, but please let me go home! I beg you!’
‘Not under any circumstances!’ Mikhail Averyanych protested. ‘It’s an amazing city! I spent the five happiest years of my life there!’
Ragin lacked the strength of character to persist. Reluctantly he went to Warsaw. After arriving there he never left the room, but lay on the sofa, incensed with his friend and with the waiters, who stubbornly refused to understand Russian. Healthy, sprightly, jolly as ever, Mikhail Averyanych roamed around the city from dawn to dusk, seeking out old friends. Several times he stayed out all night. After one of these nights, spent God knows where, he returned in the early hours in an extremely agitated state, red-faced and dishevelled. He paced up and down for a long time, muttering to himself and then stopped.
‘Honour above all else!’ he exclaimed.
After a little more pacing he clutched his head and declaimed in tragic accents:
‘Yes, honour above all else! Cursed be the moment when first I thought of coming to this Babylon! My dear friend’, he added, turning to the doctor, ‘despise me! I’ve lost everything at cards. Lend me five hundred roubles!’
Ragin counted out five hundred roubles and silently handed them to his friend who, still purple with shame and anger, uttered some incoherent and quite uncalled-for imprecation, donned his cap and left. Two hours later he returned, slumped into an armchair and gave a loud sigh.
‘My honour’s saved! Let’s go, my friend! I don’t want to stay in this city a moment longer. They’re all crooks… Austrian spies!’
When the friends returned home it was already November and snow lay deep in the streets. Ragin’s job had now been taken by Dr Khobotov – he was still living in his old rooms, waiting for Ragin to return and move out of his hospital lodgings. The ugly woman he called his cook was already living in one of the hospital outbuildings.
Fresh rumours about the hospital were circulating in town. It was said that the ugly woman had quarrelled with the superintendent, who had apparently gone crawling on his knees and begged forgiveness.
The first day after his return Ragin had to find new lodgings.
‘My dear chap’, the postmaster asked timorously, ‘please forgive this indelicate question, but how much money have you got?’
Ragin silently counted his money.
‘Eighty-six roubles’, he replied.
‘I didn’t mean that’, Mikhail Averyanych said, misunderstanding the doctor and feeling embarrassed. ‘I’m asking how much money you have altogether.’
‘I’ve already told you: eighty-six roubles… that’s all I have.’
Mikhail Averyanych knew that the doctor was honest and decent, but had suspected that he was worth at least twenty thousand. But now that he discovered that Ragin was destitute, with nothing at all to live on, for some reason he suddenly started to cry and he embraced his friend.
XV
Ragin was now living in a small, three-windowed house belonging to a Mrs Belov, a townswoman from the lower classes. In this house there were only three rooms, plus a kitchen. Two of them, whose windows overlooked the street, were occupied by the doctor, whilst Daryushka, the landlady and her three children lived in the third. Now and then the landlady’s lover – a drunken workman who went berserk at night and terrified the children and Daryushka – came to spend the night. As soon as he arrived he settled himself in the kitchen and demanded vodka – and everyone felt crowded out. Feeling sorry for the weeping children, the doctor would take them to his room and put them to sleep on the floor, which gave him great satisfaction.
He still rose at eight and after breakfast would sit down and read his old books and magazines. He had no money for new books. Whether it was because the books were old or perhaps because his surroundings were different, reading had lost its hold on him and made him feel tired. In order not to spend the time unprofitably, he compiled a detailed catalogue of his books, gluing little labels on the spines, and this mechanical, laborious work struck him as more interesting than reading. For some mysterious reason that monotonous painstaking labour relaxed him, his mind would go blank and time passed swiftly. Even sitting in the kitchen and peeling potatoes with Daryushka, or picking dirt out of buckwheat meal was interesting. On Saturdays and Sundays he went to church. He would stand by the wall, screw up his eyes and listen to the choir, thinking of his father, his mother, the university, religion. He would feel calm and sad, and when he left the church he regretted that the service had not lasted longer.
Twice he went to the hospital to talk to Gromov, but on both occasions Gromov was unusually agitated and angry: he asked to be left in peace, since he had long become sick and tired of idle chatter and maintained that the only compensation he wanted from those damned bastards for all his sufferings was to be kept in solitary confinement. Surely they wouldn’t deny him that? On the two occasions Ragin took leave of him and wished him good night he snapped: ‘Go to hell!’
And now Ragin was unable to decide whether to go a third time or not. But he wanted to go.
Ragin had previously been in the habit of wandering around his room between lunch and tea and thinking. But now he would lie on the sofa, face the back and abandon himself to trivial thoughts that he was unable to suppress. He felt insulted that he had been awarded neither pension nor golden handshake after twenty years of service. True, he hadn’t worked honestly, but then, weren’t all old employees given pensions irrespective of whether they were honest or otherwise? That just about summed up modern justice – it wasn’t moral integrity and ability that were rewarded by promotions, medals, pensions, but simply getting on with the job, whatever it was. So why should he be an exception? He had no money whatsoever. He was ashamed of passing the shop he used in town and seeing the lady proprietor: he already owed her thirty-two roubles for beer. He also owed Mrs Belov money. Daryushka secretly sold his old clothes and books, lying to the landlady that soon he would be coming into a lot of money.
He was angry with himself for wasting on that trip the one thousand roubles he had saved. How handy that thousand would come in now! He was annoyed that people would not leave him in peace. Khobotov felt obliged to visit his sick colleague from time to time. Everything about that man repelled Ragin: his sated face, his nasty, condescending manner, the way he called him ‘colleague’, and his topboots. But most repellent of all was that he considered it his duty to cure Ragin – and he was convinced that he was doing just that. With every visit he brought a phial of potassium bromide and rhubarb pills.
Mikhail Averyanych also considered it his duty to visit his friend and amuse him. On each occasion he entered his lodgings with an air of feigned abandon, laughed unnaturally, assured him that today he looked marvellous and that things were on the mend, thank God. From which it was easy to conclude that he considered his friend’s
position hopeless. He still had not repaid the Warsaw debt and was weighed down by a strong feeling of guilt; he felt tense and this made him try to laugh louder and tell funnier stories. Now his anecdotes and tales seemed endless and were sheer agony, both for Ragin and himself.
When his friend was there Ragin would usually lie on the sofa, facing the wall and listening with clenched teeth. Layers of sediment seemed to be forming around his heart and after every visit he felt that the sediment was reaching ever higher, towards his throat.
To suppress these petty feelings he quickly turned his thoughts to the fact that sooner or later he, Khobotov and Mikhail Averyanych would perish, without leaving even a trace of their existence in this world behind. He imagined that in a million years’ time a spirit, flying through space past the earth, would see only clay and bare rocks. Everything – including culture and the moral law – would have vanished and would not even have become overgrown with burdock. As for his guilty feelings towards the shopkeeper, that insignificant Khobotov, Mikhail Averyanych’s oppressive friendship – what did they matter? It was all trivial nonsense.
But such reflections were no longer of any help. No sooner had he visualized the earth’s globe a million years hence than Khobotov appeared from behind a rock in his topboots, or Mikhail Averyanych with his forced laughter – and he could even hear his guilty whisper: ‘Now, about that Warsaw debt, old man. I’ll pay you back any day now… Without fail!’
XVI
One day Mikhail Averyanych arrived after dinner, when Ragin was lying on the sofa. At the same time Dr Khobotov happened to turn up with his potassium bromide. Ragin rose wearily and sat down again, supporting himself with his hands on the sofa.
Ward No. 6 and Other Stories, 1892-1895 Page 11
