At the side of the hospital yard stands a large wing, nearly surrounded
by a forest of burdocks, nettles, and wild hemp. The roof is red,
the chimney is on the point of tumbling, the steps are rotten and
overgrown with grass, and of the plaster only traces remain. The
front gazes at the hospital, the back looks into the fields, from
which it is separated only by a grey, spiked fence. The spikes with
their sharp points sticking upwards, the fence, the wing itself, have
that melancholy, God-forsaken air which is seen only in hospitals and
prisons.
If you are not afraid of being stung by nettles, come along the narrow
path, and see what is going on inside. Open the hall-door and enter
the hall. Here, against the walls and around the stove, are heaped
whole mountains of rubbish. Mattresses, old tattered dressing-gowns,
trousers, blue-striped shills, worn-out footgear, all good-for-nothing,
lie in tangled and crushed heaps, rot, and exhale a suffocating smell.
On the top of this rubbish heap, pipe eternally in mouth, lies the
watchman Nikita, an old soldier. His face is coarse and drink-sodden,
his hanging eye-brows give him the appearance of a sheep-dog, he is
small and sinewy, but his carriage is impressive and his fists are
strong. He belongs to that class of simple, expeditious, positive, and
dull persons, who above all things in the world worship order, and find
in this a justification of their existence. He beats his charges in the
face, in the chest, in the back, in short, wherever his fists chance to
strike; and he is convinced that without this beating there would be no
order in the universe.
After you pass through Nikita's hall, you enter the large, roomy
dormitory which takes up the rest of the wing. In this room the walls
are painted a dirty blue, the ceiling is black with soot like the
ceiling of a chimneyless hut; it is plain that in winter the stove
smokes, and the air is suffocating. The windows are disfigured with
iron bars, the floor is damp and splintered, there is a smell of sour
cabbage, a smell of unsnuffed wicks, a smell of bugs and ammonia. And
at the moment of entry all these smells produce upon you the impression
that you have entered a cage of wild beasts.
Around the room stand beds, screwed to the floor. Sitting or lying on
them, dressed in blue dressing-gowns, and wearing nightcaps after the
manner of our forefathers, are men. It is the lunatic asylum, and
these arc the lunatics.
There are only five patients. One is of noble birth, the others arc
men of lower origin. The nearest to the door, a tall, thin man of the
petty trading class, looks fixedly at one point. He has a red moustache
and tear-stained eyes, and supports his head on one hand. In the books
of the asylum his complaint is described as hypochondria; in reality,
he is suffering from progressive paralysis. Day and night he mourns,
shakes his head, sighs, and smiles bitterly. In conversation he seldom
joins, and usually refuses to answer questions. He eats and drinks
mechanically. Judged by his emaciation, his flushed cheeks, and his
painful, hacking cough, he is wasting away from consumption.
Beside him is a little, active old man with a pointed beard, and the
black, fuzzy hair of a negro. He spends all day in walking from window
to window, or sitting on his bed, with legs doubled underneath him
as if he were a Turk. He is as tireless as a bullfinch, and all day
chirrups, titters, and sings in a low voice His childish gaiety and
lively character are shown also at night, when he rises to "pray to
God," that is, to beat his breast with his clenched fists, and pick at
the doors. This is Moséika, a Jew and an idiot. He went out of his mind
twenty years ago when his cap factory was destroyed by fire.
Of all the captives in Word No. 6, he alone has permission to leave
the asylum, and he is even allowed to wander about the yard and the
streets. This privilege, which he has enjoyed for many years, was
probably accorded to him as the oldest inmate of the asylum, and as
a quiet, harmless fool, the jester of the town, who may be seen in
the streets surrounded by dogs and little boys. Wrapped in his old
dressing-gown, with a ridiculous nightcap and slippers, sometimes
barefooted, and generally without his trousers, he walks the streets,
stopping at doorways and entering small shops to beg for kopecks.
Sometimes he is given _kvas_, sometimes bread, sometimes a kopeck, so
that he returns to the ward wealthy and sated. But all that he brings
home is taken by Nikita for his own particular benefit. The old soldier
does this roughly and angrily, turning out the Jew's pockets, calling
God to witness that he will never allow him outside the asylum again,
and swearing that to him disorder is the most detestable thing in the
world.
Moséika loves to make himself useful to others. He fetches water
for his companions, tucks them in when they go to bed, promises to
bring each a kopeck when he next returns from the town, and to make
them new caps. He feeds with a spoon his paralytic neighbour on the
left; and all this he does, not out of sympathy for others or for
considerations of humanity, but from a love of imitation, and in a sort
of involuntary subjection to his neighbour on the right, Iván Gromof.
Ivan Dmítritch Gromof is a man of thirty-three years of age. He is
a noble by birth, and has been an usher in the law courts, and a
government secretary; but now he suffers from the mania of persecution.
He lies upon his bed twisted into a lump resembling a roll of bread, or
marches from corner to corner for the sake of motion. He is always in
a state of excitement and agitation; and seems strained by some dull,
indefinable expectation. It needs but the slightest rustle in the hall,
the slightest noise in the yard, to make him raise his head and listen
intently. Is it for him they arc coming? Are they searching for him?
And his face immediately takes on an expression of restlessness and
repulsion.
There is something attractive about his broad, high cheek-boned face,
which reflects, as a mirror, the tortured wrestlings and eternal terror
of his mind. His grimaces arc strange and sickly; but the delicate
lines engraven on his face by sincere suffering express reason and
intelligence, and his eyes bum with a healthy and passionate glow.
There is something attractive also in his character, in his politeness,
his attentiveness, and in the singular delicacy of his bearing towards
everyone except Nikita. If his neighbour drops a spoon or a button
he jumps immediately out of bed and picks it up. When he wakes he
invariably says, "Good morning!" to his companions; and every evening
on going to bed wishes them "good night!"
But madness shows itself in other things besides his grimaces and
continual mental tension. In the evening he wraps himself in his
dressing-gown, and, trembling all over, and chattering his teeth, he
walks from corner to corner, and in between the beds. He seems to be
in a state of fever. From his sudden stoppages and strange looks at
his fellow-prisoners it is plain that he has something very serious
to say; but, no doubt, remembering that they will neither listen
nor understand, he says nothing, shakes his head impatiently, and
continues his walk. But at last the desire to speak conquers all other
considerations, and he gives way, and speaks passionately. His words
are incoherent, gusty, and delirious; he cannot always be understood;
but the sound of his voice expresses some exceptional goodness.
In every word you hear the madman and the man. He speaks of human
baseness, of violence trampling over truth, of the beautiful life on
earth that is to come, and of the barred windows which remind him every
moment of the folly and cruelty of the strong. And he hums medleys of
old but for gotten songs.