It was already twilight. Iván Dmítritch lay on his bed with his face
buried in the pillow; the paralytic sat motionless, and wept softly and
twitched his lips; the fat muzhik and the ex-sorter slept. It was very
quiet.
Andréi Yéfimitch sat on Iván Dmítritch's bed and listened. Half an hour
passed by, but Khobótoff did not come. Instead of Khobótoff came Nikita
carrying in his arm a dressing-gown, some linen, and a pair of slippers.
"Please to put on these, your Honour," he said calmly. "There is your
bed, this way, please," he added, pointing at a vacant bed, evidently
only just set up. "And don't take on; with God's will you will soon be
well!"
Andréi Yéfimitch understood. Without a Word he walked over to the bed
indicated by Nikita and sat upon it. Then, seeing that Nikita was
waiting, he stripped himself and felt ashamed. He put on the hospital
clothing; the flannels were too small, the shirt was too long, and the
dressing-gown smelt of smoked fish.
"You will soon be all right, God grant it!" repeated Nikita.
He took up Andréi Yéfimitch's clothes, went out, and locked the door.
"It is all the same," thought Andréi Yéfimitch, shamefacedly gathering
the dressing-gown around him, and feeling like a convict in his new
garments. "It is all the same. In dress clothes, in uniform ... or in
this dressing-gown."
But his watch? And the memorandum book in his side pocket? And the
cigarettes? Where had Nikita taken his clothes? To the day of his death
he would never again wear trousers, a waistcoat, or boots. It was
strange and incredible at first. Andréi Yéfimitch was firmly convinced
that there was no difference whatever between Madame Byelof's house
and Ward No. 6, and that all in this world is folly and vanity; but he
could not prevent his hands trembling, and his feet were cold. He was
hurt, too, by the thought that Iván Dmítritch would rise and see him in
the dressing-gown. He rose, walked up and down the room, and again sat
down.
He remained sitting for half an hour, weary to the point of grief.
Would it be possible to live here a day, a week, even years, as these
others had done? He must sit down, and walk about and again sit down;
and then he might look out of the window, and again walk from end to
end of the room. And afterwards? Just to sit all day still as an idol,
and think! No, it was impossible.
Andréi Yéfimitch lay down on his bed, but almost immediately rose,
rubbed with his cuff the cold sweat from his forehead, and felt that
his whole face smelt of dried fish. He walked up and down the ward.
"This is some misunderstanding...." he said, opening his arms. "It only
needs an explanation, it is a misunderstanding...."
At this moment Iván Dmítritch awoke. He sat up in bed, rested his head
on his hands, and spat. Then he looked idly at the doctor, apparently
at first understanding nothing. But soon his sleepy face grew
contemptuous and malicious.
"So they have brought you here, my friend," he began in a voice hoarse
from sleep. He blinked one eye. "I am very glad! You drank other men's
blood, and now they will drink yours! Admirable!"
"It is some misunderstanding ..." began Andréi Yéfimitch, frightened by
the lunatic's words. He shrugged his shoulders and repeated. "It is a
misunderstanding of some kind."
Iván Dmítritch again spat, and lay down on his bed.
"Accursed life!" he growled. "But what is most bitter, most abominable
of all, is that this life ends not with rewards for suffering, not with
apotheoses as in operas, but in death; men come and drag the corpse by
its arms and legs into the cellar. Brrrrrr!... Well, never mind!... For
all that we have suffered in this, in the other world we will be repaid
with a holiday! From the other world I shall return hither as a shadow,
and terrify these monsters!... I will turn their heads grey!"
Moséika entered the ward, and seeing the doctor, stretched out his
hand, and said:
"Give me a kopeck!"