Mikhail Averyanitch arrived after dinner one evening when Andréi
Yéfimitch was lying on the sofa. At the same time came Khobótoff with
his bromide of potassium. Andréi Yéfimitch rose slowly, sat down again,
and supported himself by resting his hands upon the sofa edge.
"To-day, my dear," began Mikhail Averyanitch, "to-day your complexion
is much healthier than yesterday. You are a hero! I swear to God, a
hero!"
"It's time, indeed it's time for you to recover, colleague," said
Khobótoff, yawning. "You must be tired of the delay yourself."
"Never mind, we'll soon be all right," said Mikhail Averyanitch gaily.
"Why, we'll live for another hundred years! Eh?"
"Perhaps not a hundred, but a safe twenty," said Khobótoff consolingly.
"Don't worry, colleague, don't worry!"
"We'll let them see!" laughed Mikhail Averyanitch, slapping his friend
on the knee. "We'll show how the trick is done! Next summer, with
God's will, we'll fly away to the Caucasus, and gallop all over the
country--trot, trot, trot! And when we come back from the Caucasus
we'll dance at your wedding!"
Mikhail Averyanitch winked slyly. "We'll marry you, my friend, we'll
find the bride!"
Andréi Yéfimitch felt that the crust had risen to his throat. His heart
beat painfully.
"This is absurd," he said, rising suddenly and going over to the
window. "Is it possible you don't understand that you are talking
nonsense?"
He wished to speak to his visitors softly and politely, but could not
restrain himself, and, against his own will, clenched his fists, and
raised them threateningly above his head.
"Leave me!" he cried, in a voice which was not his own. His face was
purple and he trembled all over. "Begone! Both of you! Go!"
Mikhail Averyanitch and Khobótoff rose, and looked at him, at first in
astonishment, then in tenor. "Begone both of you!" continued Andréi
Yéfimitch. "Stupid idiots! Fools! I want neither your friendship nor
your medicines, idiots! This is base, it is abominable!"
Khobótoff and the postmaster exchanged confused glances, staggered to
the door, and went into the hall. Andréi Yéfimitch seized the phial of
bromide of potassium, and flung it after them, breaking it upon the
threshold.
"Take yourselves to the devil!" he cried, running after them into the
hall. "To the devil!"
After his visitors had gone he lay on the sofa, trembling as if in
fever, and repeated--
"Stupid idiots! Dull fools!"
When he calmed down, the first thought that entered his head was that
poor Mikhail Averyanitch must now be terribly ashamed and wretched, and
that the scene that had passed was something very terrible. Nothing of
the kind had ever happened before. What had become of his intellect
and tact? Where were now his understanding of the world and his
philosophical indifference?
All night the doctor was kept awake by feelings of shame and vexation.
At nine o'clock next morning, he went to the post office and apologised
to the postmaster.
"Do not refer to what happened!" said the postmaster, with a sigh.
Touched by Andréi Yéfimitch's conduct, he pressed his hands warmly. "No
man should trouble over such trifles.... Lubiakin!" he roared so loudly
that the clerks and visitors trembled. "Bring a chair!... And you
just wait!" he cried to a peasant woman, who held a registered letter
through the grating. "Don't you see that I am engaged? ... We will
forget all that," he continued tenderly, turning to Andréi Yéfimitch.
"Sit down, my old friend!"
He stroked his eyebrows silently for a minute, and continued:
"It never entered my head to take offence. Illness is a very strange
thing, I understand that. Yesterday your fit frightened both the doctor
and myself, and we talked of you for a long time. My dear friend, why
will you not pay more attention to your complaint? Do you think you
can go on living in this way? Forgive the plain speaking of a friend."
He dropped his voice to a whisper. "But you live among hopeless
surroundings--closeness, uncleanliness, no one to look after you,
nothing to take for your ailment.... My dear friend, both I and the
doctor implore you with all our hearts--listen to our advice--go into
the hospital. There you will get wholesome food, care and treatment.
Yevgéniï Feódoritch--although, between ourselves, de mauvais ton--is a
capable man, and you can fully rely upon him. He gave me his word that
he would take care of you."
Andréi Yéfimitch was touched by the sincere concern of his friend, and
the tears that trickled down the postmaster's cheeks.
"My dear friend, don't believe them!" he whispered, laying his hand
upon his heart. "It is all a delusion. My complaint lies merely in
this, that in twenty years I found in this town only one intelligent
man, and he was a lunatic. I suffer from no disease whatever; my
misfortune is that I have fallen into a magic circle from which there
is no escape. It is all the same to me--I am ready for anything."
"Then you will go into the hospital?"
"It is all the same--even into the pit."
"Give me your word, friend, that you will obey Yevgéniï Feódoritch in
everything."
"I give you my word. But I repeat that I have fallen into a magic
circle. Everything now, even the sincere concern of my friends, tends
only to the same thing--to my destruction. I am perishing, and I have
the courage to acknowledge it."
"Nonsense, you will get all right!"
"What is the use of talking like that?" said Andréi Yéfimitch
irritably. "There are very few men who at the close of their lives do
not experience what I am experiencing now. When people tell you that
you have disease of the kidneys or a dilated heart, and set about to
cure you; when they tell you that you are a madman or a criminal--in
one word, when they begin to turn their attention on to you--you may
recognise that you are in a magic circle from which there is no escape.
You may try to escape, but that makes things worse. Give in, for no
human efforts will save you. So it seems to me."
All this time, people were gathering at the grating. Andréi Yéfimitch
disliked interrupting the postmaster's work, and took his leave.
Mikhail Averyanitch once more made him give his word of honour, and
escorted him to the door.
The same day towards evening Khobótoff, in his short fur coat and high
boots, arrived unexpectedly, and, as if nothing had happened the day
before, said: "I have come to you on a matter of business, colleague, I
want you to come with me to a consultation. Eh?"
Thinking that Khobótoff wanted to amuse him with a walk, or give him
some opportunity of earning money, Andréi Yéfimitch dressed, and went
with him into the street. He was glad of the chance to redeem his
rudeness of the day before, thankful for the apparent reconciliation,
and grateful to Khobótoff for not hinting at the incident. From this
uncultured man who would have expected such delicacy?
"And where is your patient?" asked Andréi Yéfimitch.
"At the hospital. For a long time past I have wanted you to see him....
A most interesting case."
They entered the hospital yard, and passing through the main building,
went to the wing where the lunatics were confined. When they entered
the hall, Nikita as usual jumped up and stretched himself.
"One of them has such strange complications in the lungs," whispered
Khobótoff as he entered the ward with Andréi Yéfimitch. "But wait here.
I shall be back immediately. I must get my stethoscope."
And he left the room.