Andréi Yéfimitch migrated to the three-windowed house of Madame Byelof,
a woman belonging to the petty trading class. In this house were only
three rooms and a kitchen. Of these rooms two, with windows opening on
the street, were occupied by the doctor, while in the third and in the
kitchen lived Dáryushka, the landlady, and three children. Occasionally
the number was added to by a drunken workman, Madame Byeloff's lover, who
made scenes at night and terrified Dáryushka and the children. When he
came, sat in the kitchen, and demanded vodka, the others were crowded
out, and the doctor in compassion took the crying children to his own
room, and put them to sleep on the floor. This always gave him great
satisfaction.
As before, he rose at eight o'clock, took his breakfast, and sat down
and read his old books and reviews. For new books he had no money. But
whether it was because the books were old or because the surroundings
were changed, reading no longer interested him, and even tired him. So
to pass the time he compiled a detailed catalogue of his books, and
pasted labels on the backs; and this mechanical work seemed to him
much more interesting than reading. The more monotonous and trifling
the occupation the more it calmed his mind, he thought of nothing, and
time passed quickly. Even to sit in the kitchen and peel potatoes with
Dáryushka or to pick the dirt out of buckwheat meal interested him.
On Saturdays and Sundays he went to church. Standing at the wall, he
blinked his eyes, listened to the singing, and thought of his father,
his mother, the university, religion; he felt calm and melancholy, and
when leaving the church, regretted that the service had not lasted
longer.
Twice he visited the hospital for the purpose of seeing Iván Dmítritch.
But on both occasions Gromof was unusually angry and excited; he asked
to be left in peace, declared that he had long ago wearied of empty
chatter, and that he would regard solitary confinement as a deliverance
from these accursed, base people. Was it possible they would refuse
him that? When Andréi Yéfimitch took leave of him and wished him good
night, he snapped and said:
"Take yourself to the devil!"
And Andréi Yéfimitch felt undecided as to whether he should go a third
time or not. But he wished to go.
In the old times Andréi Yéfimitch had been in the habit of spending the
time after dinner in walking about his rooms and thinking. But now from
dinner to tea-time he lay on the sofa with his face to the wall and
surrendered himself to trivial thoughts, which he found himself unable
to conquer. He considered himself injured by the fact that after twenty
years' service he had been given neither a pension nor a grant. True he
had not done his duties honestly, but then were not pensions given to
all old servants indiscriminately, without regard to their honesty or
otherwise? Modern ideas did not regard rank, orders, and pensions as
the reward of moral perfection or capacity, and why must he alone be
the exception? He was absolutely penniless. He was ashamed to pass the
shop where he dealt or to meet the proprietor. For beer alone he was in
debt thirty-two roubles. He was in debt also to his landlady. Dáryushka
secretly sold old clothing and books, and lied to the landlady,
declaring that her master was about to come in to a lot of money.
Andréi Yéfimitch was angry with himself for having wasted on his
journey the thousand roubles which he had saved. What could he not do
with a thousand roubles now? He was annoyed, also, because others would
not leave him alone. Khobótoff considered it his duty to pay periodical
visits to his sick colleague; and everything about him was repulsive to
Andréi Yéfimitch--his sated face, his condescending bad manners, the
word "colleague," and the high boots. But the greatest annoyance of all
was that he considered it his duty to cure Andréi Yéfimitch, and even
imagined he was curing him. On every occasion he brought a phial of
bromide of potassium and a rhubarb pill.
Mikhail Averyanitch also considered it his duty to visit his sick
friend and amuse him. He entered the room with affected freeness,
laughed unnaturally, and assured Andréi Yéfimitch that to-day he
looked splendid, and that, glory be to God! he was getting all right.
From this alone it might be concluded that he regarded the case as
hopeless. He had not yet paid off the Warsaw debt, and being ashamed of
himself and constrained, he laughed all the louder, and told ridiculous
anecdotes. His stories now seemed endless, and were a source of torment
both to Andréi Yéfimitch and to himself.
When the postmaster was present, Andréi Yéfimitch usually lay on the
sofa, his face turned to the wall, with clenched teeth, listening. It
seemed to him that a crust was forming about his heart, and after;
every visit he felt the crust becoming thicker, and; threatening
to extend to his throat. To exorcise these trivial afflictions he
reflected that he, and Khobótoff, and Mikhail Averyanitch would, sooner
or later, perish, leaving behind themselves not a trace. When a million
years had passed by, a spirit flying through space would see only a
frozen globe and naked stones. All--culture and morals--everything
would pass away; even the burdock would not grow. Why, then, should
he trouble himself with feelings of shame on account of a shopkeeper,
of insignificant Khobótoff, of the terrible friendship of Mikhail
Averyanitch. It was all folly and vanity.
But such reasoning did not console him. He had hardly succeeded in
painting a vivid picture of the frozen globe after a million yearn of
decay, when from behind a naked rock appeared Khobótoff in his top
boots, and beside him stood Mikhail Averyanitch, with an affected
laugh, and a shamefaced whisper on his lips: "And the Warsaw debt, old
man, I will repay in a few days ... without fail!"