‘You’re a much better colour today, old man’, Mikhail Averyanych began. ‘You look really great. Oh yes, fantastic!’
‘It’s high time you were on the mend, colleague’, yawned Khobotov. ‘You must be tired of all this palaver.’
‘Oh yes, we’ll get better!’ Mikhail Averyranych gaily declared. ‘We’ll live another hundred years – you bet we will!’
‘I’m not sure about a hundred, but I think we’re good for another twenty’, Khobotov said comfortingly. ‘It’s all right, colleague. Don’t despair… Now, don’t confuse the issue…’
‘We’ll show them what we’re made of!’ Mikhail Averyanych chortled, slapping his friend on the knee. ‘We’ll show them all right. Next summer, God willing, we’ll dash off to the Caucasus and gallop all over it on horseback – clip-clop, clip-clop! And when we get back – you’ll see – we’ll probably dance at your wedding!’ Here Mikhail Averyanych winked slyly. ‘Yes, we’ll marry you off, old man, we’ll marry you off… !’
Ragin suddenly felt that the sediment was rising to his throat. His heart beat violently.
‘That’s so cheap’, he said, quickly standing up and going over to the window. ‘Don’t you realize what cheap nonsense you’re talking!’
He wanted to speak gently and politely, but in spite of himself he suddenly clenched his fists and raised them above his head.
‘Leave me alone!’ he shouted in a voice that sounded most peculiar, turning purple and shaking all over. ‘Clear out! Both of you! Clear out!’
Mikhail Averyanych and Khobotov rose to their feet and stared at him – first in bewilderment and then in terror.
‘Clear off – both of you!’ he shouted again. ‘You stupid people! Morons! I don’t need your friendship or your medicines. It’s so cheap! It’s disgusting!’
Khobotov and Mikhail Averyanych looked at each other in dismay, backed towards the door and went out into the lobby. Ragin seized the phial of potassium bromide and hurled it after them. It made a ringing noise as it smashed to smithereens on the threshold.
‘Go to hell!’ he shouted in a tearful voice as he ran out into the lobby. ‘Go to hell!’
When his visitors had left Ragin lay down on the sofa, feverishly trembling. For some time he kept repeating: ‘Morons! Stupid people!’
After he had calmed down his first thought was how dreadfully ashamed and wretched that poor Mikhail Averyanych must be feeling now, how terrible the whole thing had been. Nothing like it had ever happened before. What had become of his intelligence and tact? Where were his understanding of life and his philosophic detachment?
Feelings of shame and annoyance with himself kept the doctor awake all night. Towards ten o’clock next morning he went to the post office and apologized to the postmaster.
‘Let’s forget all about it’, sighed Mikhail Averyanych, deeply moved and warmly shaking his hand. ‘Let bygones be bygones! Lyubavkin!’ he suddenly roared, so loudly that all the clerks and customers shook in their shoes. ‘Bring us a chair! And you can wait!’ he yelled at a peasant woman who was handing him a registered letter through the grille. ‘Can’t you see I’m busy? Let’s forget it ever happened’, he said gently, turning to Ragin. ‘Now, please sit down old man, I beg you.’
For a minute he stroked his knees in silence.
‘It never occurred to me to take offence’, he continued. ‘One must make allowances for illness – that I do realize. That attack of yours yesterday scared the wits out of the doctor and myself, and afterwards we had a long talk about you. My dear chap, why don’t you take your illness more seriously? You can’t go on like this. Excuse the frankness of a friend’, (he began to whisper) ‘but you’re living in the worst possible surroundings. You’re cooped up, it’s filthy, there’s no one to look after you, no money for treatment… My dear friend, the doctor and I beg you, from the bottom of our hearts – listen to our advice! Go into hospital! You’ll get good wholesome food there and proper care and treatment. Between ourselves, Khobotov may be a bit of a boor, but he’s an experienced doctor and you can rely on him completely. He gave me his word that he’d take care of you.’
Ragin was touched by this genuine concern and by the tears that suddenly glistened on the postmaster’s cheeks.
‘Don’t you believe them, my friend!’ he whispered, putting his hand to his heart. ‘Don’t you believe them! It’s all a nasty trick. All that’s wrong with me is that in twenty years I’ve managed to find only one intelligent man in the whole town – and he’s a lunatic. I’m not ill at all. I’ve simply been caught in a vicious circle from which there’s no escape. But it doesn’t matter, I’m ready for anything.’
‘Go into hospital, my dear chap.’
‘I couldn’t care less if it’s a hole in the ground.’
‘Give me your word, old man, that you’ll do everything Khobotov says.’
‘All right, I give you my word. But I repeat, my dear sir, that I’ve fallen into a vicious circle. Everything – even the genuine concern of my friend – points the same way – to my eventual destruction. I’m done for and I have the courage to admit it.’
‘You’ll get better, old man!’
‘Why do you say that?’ Ragin said irritably. ‘There are very few men in their twilight years who don’t go through what I’m going through now. When people tell you that you have diseased kidneys or an enlarged heart and you go and have treatment, or if you’re told you’re insane or a criminal – in a word, when people start taking notice of you – then you can be certain you’ve fallen into a vicious circle from which there’s no escape. And the more you try to escape, the more you get caught up in it. One might as well give in, since no human effort can save you. That’s how it strikes me!’
Meanwhile a crowd had gathered at the grille. Ragin did not want to be in the way, so he got up to say goodbye. Mikhail Averyanych once again made him promise and escorted him to the outer door.
That same day, towards evening, Dr Khobotov unexpectedly turned up in his sheepskin jacket and topboots.
‘I’ve come to see you about something, colleague. I have an invitation for you: would you care to come to a consultation with me, eh?’
Thinking that Khobotov wanted to distract him by having him go for a walk or by actually giving him the chance to earn some money, Ragin put on his coat and went out into the street with him. He was glad of the opportunity to make amends for yesterday’s lapse, to make peace, and in his heart of hearts he was grateful to Khobotov for not even so much as hinting at the incident – clearly he wanted to spare his feelings. One would hardly have expected such delicacy from that uncultured boor.
‘And where’s your patient?’ asked Ragin.
‘At the hospital. I’ve been meaning to show you him for ages… A most interesting case.’
They entered the hospital yard and after rounding the main block headed for the outbuilding where the insane were housed. For some reason all this took place in silence. When they entered the outbuilding Nikita leapt up as usual and stood to attention.
‘One of them has lung complications’, Khobotov said in an undertone as he entered the ward with Ragin. ‘Now, you wait here and I’ll be back immediately. I must get my stethoscope.’
And he left.
XVII
Twilight was falling. Gromov was lying on his bed, his face buried in the pillow. The paralytic sat motionless, softly weeping and twitching his lips. The fat peasant and the ex-sorter were asleep. All was quiet.
Ragin sat on Gromov’s bed and waited. Half an hour passed and instead of Khobotov in came Nikita clasping a smock, some kind of underclothes and a pair of slippers.
‘Please put these on, sir’, he said softly. ‘That’s your bed – this way, please’, he added, pointing to a vacant bed that obviously had only just been set up. ‘Now don’t you worry, you’ll soon get better, God willing.’
And now Ragin understood everything. Without a word he went over to the bed indicated by Nikita and sat down. Whe
n he saw that Nikita was standing there waiting he stripped naked – and he felt ashamed. Then he put on the hospital clothing. The pants were terribly short, the shirt too long and the smock reeked of smoked fish.
‘You’ll soon be all right, God willing’, Nikita repeated. He gathered Ragin’s clothes in an armful and went out, closing the door behind him.
‘I couldn’t care less’, thought Ragin, bashfully wrapping himself in the smock and feeling like a convict in his new garments. ‘I just don’t care… Whether it’s a dress coat, uniform, or this smock… it’s all the same…’
But what about his watch? And the notebook in his side pocket? And his cigarettes? And what had Nikita done with his clothes? From now on, perhaps, until his dying day, he would have no need of trousers, waistcoat or shoes. All this seemed rather strange, even incomprehensible at first. Now Ragin was firmly convinced that there was absolutely no difference between Mrs Belov’s house and Ward No. 6, and that everything in this world is vanity and folly. But his hands were trembling, his legs were cold and he was terrified at the thought that Gromov might soon get up and see that he was wearing a smock. He rose, walked up and down and sat down again.
And so he sat for another half hour, then an hour – and he suffered agonies of boredom. Could he live here a day, a week, years even, like these people? Well, he might sit down, walk up and down and sit down again; he might go and look out of the window and then pace from corner to corner again. And then what? Just sit there all day like a dummy and brood? No, that was hardly possible.
Ragin lay on his bed, but he immediately rose to his feet and wiped the cold sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. And he felt that his whole face was reeking of smoked fish. Again he paced up and down.
‘It must be some sort of misunderstanding’, he muttered, spreading out his arms in bewilderment. ‘I must have it out with them… there’s some misunderstanding.’
Just then Gromov awoke. He sat up, rested his cheeks on his fists and spat. Then he idly glanced at the doctor and clearly did not realize at first what was going on. But soon his sleepy face grew evil and mocking.
‘Aha! So they’ve dumped you here too, old chap!’ he said in a voice hoarse from sleep and narrowing one eye. ‘I’m absolutely delighted. Once you used to drink people’s blood, now they’ll be drinking yours. Splendid!’
‘It’s some kind of misunderstanding…’, Ragin murmured, alarmed at what Gromov had said. ‘Some sort of misunderstanding…’
Gromov spat again and lay down.
‘What a wretched life!’ he growled. ‘But the most galling, insulting thing is that this life doesn’t end with you being rewarded for suffering or with an operatic apotheosis, but in death. The male nurses will come and carry the corpse by its hands and feet into a cellar. Ugh! But never mind… we’ll have a ball in the next world… I’ll keep returning from the other world as a ghost to haunt this vermin – I’ll frighten the daylights out of them, turn their hair white!’
Moses came in and held his hand out when he saw the doctor. ‘Give us a copeck!’ he said.
XVIII
Ragin went to the window and looked out on to the open country. It was getting dark now and on the horizon a cold crimson moon was rising. Near the hospital fence, no more than eight yards away, stood a tall white building surrounded by a stone wall. This was the prison.
‘So this is reality!’ Ragin thought – and he felt terrified.
Everything was terrifying – the moon, the prison, the nails on the fence and the distant flames in the glue factory. A sigh came from behind. Ragin turned around and saw a man with glittering stars and medals on his chest, smiling and slyly winking. And this too was terrifying.
Ragin tried to reassure himself that there was nothing strange about the moon and the prison, that even sane men wore medals and that in time all this would turn to clay. But suddenly he was gripped by despair, seized the bars with both hands and shook them with all his might. The strong bars stood firm. And then, to ease his fears, he went over to Gromov’s bed and sat down.
‘I feel really low, dear chap’, he muttered, trembling and wiping away the cold sweat. ‘Really low…’
‘Then go and do some philosophizing’, scoffed Gromov.
‘Good God! Yes… yes… you once said that there’s no philosophy in Russia, but in fact everyone philosophizes, even perfect nobodies. But then, the philosophizing of nobodies does no one any harm’, Ragin said, as if he wanted to cry and gain sympathy. ‘But why, my dear chap, this malicious laughter? And why shouldn’t these nobodies philosophize if they’re dissatisfied? For any intelligent, educated, proud, freedom-loving man, made in God’s image, the only course is to become a doctor in a filthy, stupid little town, where one’s whole life is nothing but cupping-glasses, leeches, mustard poultices! My God, such charlatanry, parochialism, vulgarity! Oh God!’
‘Absolute nonsense. If you hated becoming a doctor so much you should have been a government minister.’
‘But nothing’s any good, nothing. We’re weak, my friend. I used to be indifferent, I argued forcefully and sensibly, but it only needed some hard knocks from life for me to lose heart… and I buckled. We’re a feeble load of trash. And you included, my dear chap. You’re clever, high-minded, you imbibed lofty principles with your mother’s milk, but hardly had you stepped out in life than you grew weary and ill… Feeble! Oh, so feeble!’
Besides fear and indignation, some other craving had been gnawing away at Ragin ever since nightfall. Finally he concluded that he wanted some beer and a smoke.
‘I’m going out, my friend’, he said. ‘I’ll tell them to give me a light… I can’t take this… I’m in no state…’
Ragin went to the door and opened it, but Nikita leapt up like a shot and barred his way.
‘Where d’yer think you’re going, eh? It ain’t allowed’, he said. ‘It’s time for bed!’
‘But I only want to go for a little walk in the yard’, Ragin replied, dumbfounded.
‘You can’t. It ain’t allowed. You know that!’
Nikita slammed the door and set his back against it.
‘What harm will it do if I just go out?’ Ragin asked, shrugging his shoulders. ‘I don’t understand. Nikita! I must go out’, he said in a trembling voice. ‘I’ve got to!’
‘Now don’t you start causing trouble, can’t ’ave that’, Nikita said in an edifying tone.
‘What the hell is this!’ Gromov suddenly shouted and leapt up. ‘What right does he have to refuse to let us go out? How dare they keep us here! The law clearly states that no man can be deprived of his freedom without a trial! It’s an outrage! Tyranny!’
‘Of course it’s tyranny!’ said Ragin, encouraged by Gromov’s shouting. ‘I must go out, I have to! Let me out, I’m telling you!’
‘Do you hear, you stupid bastard?’ shouted Gromov and banged his fist on the door. ‘Open up or I’ll break the door down. You filthy brute!’
‘Open up!’ shouted Ragin, trembling all over. ‘I demand it!’
‘One more squeak out of you!’ Nikita replied from behind the door. ‘Just one more squeak!’
‘At least go and fetch Dr Khobotov. Tell him I want him to come… just for a moment.’
‘The doctor’s coming tomorrow anyway.’
‘They’ll never let us out’, Gromov continued meanwhile. ‘They’ll leave us here to rot. Oh God, can there be no hell in the next world and will these bastards be forgiven? Where’s the justice? Open up, you swine, I’m choking!’ he shouted hoarsely and threw himself against the door. ‘I’ll beat my brains out! Murderers!’
Nikita flung open the door and roughly shoved Ragin back with both hands and a knee. Then he took a mighty swing and smashed his fist into his face. Ragin felt that a huge salt wave had suddenly washed over his head and dragged him back towards his bed. And in fact his mouth did taste salty – probably it was from the blood pouring from his gums. Just as if he were trying to swim away he made a wild flourish with h
is arms and grabbed hold of someone’s bed. At that moment he felt Nikita hitting him twice on the back.
Gromov gave a loud scream: they must be beating him too.
Then all was silent. The thin moonlight filtered through the bars and a network of shadows lay on the floor. It was terrifying. Ragin lay down and held his breath in terror, waiting for the next blow. It was as if someone had thrust a sickle into him and twisted it several times in his chest and guts. The pain made him bite the pillow and grind his teeth. Suddenly, amidst all the chaos, a terrifying, unbearable thought flashed through his mind: it must be precisely this kind of pain that was suffered every day, year in year out, by those people who now appeared like black shadows in the moonlight. How could it be that for more than twenty years he had not known and had not wanted to know this? He had never known pain, he had no conception of it, so he was not to blame. But his conscience, as intractable and crude as Nikita, sent a bitter chill through him from head to foot. He leapt up and felt like shouting at the top of his voice, rushing to kill Nikita, then Khobotov, then the superintendent and the doctor’s assistant and then himself, but no sound came from his throat and his legs would not obey him. Gasping for breath he tugged at his smock and shirt on his chest, ripped them and fell unconscious onto the bed.
XIX
Next morning his head ached, his ears hummed and he felt weak all over. He did not feel ashamed when he recalled his weakness of the day before. Then he had been faint-hearted, had even feared the moon, had given frank expression to thoughts and feelings he never suspected he possessed. For example, those thoughts about the discontents of philosophizing nobodies. But now he could not care less.
He neither ate nor drank, but lay motionless and silent.
‘I really don’t care’, he thought when they questioned him. ‘I’m not going to answer… It’s all the same…’
Towards evening Mikhail Averyanych brought him a quarter pound of tea and a pound of marmalade. Daryushka came too, and for a whole hour she stood by the bed with a vacant expression of uncomprehending sorrow. And Dr Khobotov came to visit him too. He brought a phial of potassium bromide and instructed Nikita to fumigate the ward.
Ward No. 6 and Other Stories, 1892-1895 Page 12
