Andréi Yéfimitch went across to the window, and looked out into the
fields. It was getting dark, and on the horizon rose a cold, livid
moon. Near the hospital railings, a hundred fathoms away, not more,
rose a lofty, white building, surrounded by a stone wall. It was the
prison.
"That is actuality," thought Andréi Yéfimitch, and he felt terrified.
Everything was terrible: the moon, the prison, the spikes in the fence,
and the blaze in the distant bone-mill. Andréi Yéfimitch turned away
from the window, and saw before him a man with glittering stars and
orders upon his breast. The man smiled and winked cunningly. And this,
too, seemed terrible.
He tried to assure himself that in the moon and in the prison there
was nothing peculiar at all, that even sane men wear orders, and that
the best of things in their turn rot and turn into dust. But despair
suddenly seized him, he took hold of the grating with both hands, and
jerked it with all his strength. But the bars stood firm.
That it might be less terrible, he went to Iván Dmítritch's bed, and
sat upon it.
"I have lost my spirits, friend," he said, stammering, trembling, and
rubbing the cold sweat from his face. "My spirits have fallen."
"But why don't you philosophise?" asked Iván Dmítritch ironically.
"My God, my God!... Yes, yes!... Once you said that in Russia there
is no philosophy; but all philosophise, even triflers. But the
philosophising of triflers does no harm to anyone," said Andréi
Yéfimitch as if he wanted to cry. "By why, my dear friend, why this
malicious laughter? Why should not triflers philosophise if they are
not satisfied? For a clever, cultivated, proud, freedom-loving man,
built in the image of God, there is no course left but to come as
doctor to a dirty, stupid town, and lead a life of jars, leeches, and
gallipots. Charlatanry, narrowness, baseness! Oh, my God!"
"You chatter nonsense! If you didn't want to be a doctor, why weren't
you a minister of state?"
"I could not. We are weak, my friend. I was indifferent to things, I
reasoned actively and wholesomely, but it needed but the first touch
of actuality to make me lose heart, and surrender.... We are weak; we
are worthless!... And you also, my friend. You are able, you are noble,
with your mother's milk you drank in draughts of happiness, yet hardly
had you entered upon life when you wearied of it.... We are weak, weak!"
In addition to terror and the feeling of insult, Andréi Yéfimitch had
been tortured by sonic importunate craving ever since the approach of
evening. Finally he came to the conclusion that he wanted to smoke and
drink beer.
"I am going out, my friend," he said. "I will tell them to bring
lights.... I cannot in this way.... I am not in a state...."
He went to the door and opened it, but immediately Nikita jumped up and
barred the way.
"Where are you going to? You can't, you can't!" he cried. "It's time
for bed!"
"But only for a minute.... I want to go into the yard.... I want to
have a walk in the yard," said Andréi Yéfimitch.
"You can't. I have orders against it.... You know yourself."
Nikita banged the door and set his back against it. "But if I go out
what harm will it do?" asked Andréi Yéfimitch. "I don't understand!
Nikita, I must go out!" he cried in a trembling voice. "I must go!"
"Don't create disorder; it is not right!" said Nikita in an edifying
tone.
"The devil knows what is the meaning of this!" suddenly screamed Iván
Dmítritch, jumping from his bed. "What right has he to refuse to let
us go? How dare they keep us here? The law allows no man to be deprived
of freedom without a trial! This is violence ... tyranny!"
"Of course it is tyranny," said Andréi Yéfimitch, encouraging Gromof.
"I must go! I have to go out! He has no right! Let me out, I tell you!"
"Do you hear, stupid dog!" screamed Ivrin Dmítritch, thumping the door
with his fists. "Open, or I will smash the door! Blood-sucker!"
"Open!" cried Andréi Yéfimitch, trembling all over: "I demand it!"
"Talk away!" answered Nikita through the door. "Talk away!"
"Go, then, for Yevgéniï Feódoritch! Say that I ask him to come ... For
a minute!"
"To-morrow he will come all right."
"They will never let us go!" cried Iván Dmítritch. "We will all die
here! Oh, God, is it possible that in the other world there is no hell,
that these villains will be forgiven? Where is there justice? Open,
scoundrel, I am choking!" Gromof cried out in a hoarse voice, and
flung himself against the door. "I will dash my brains out! Assassins!"
Nikita flung open the door, and with both hands and his knees roughly
pushed Andréi Yéfimitch back into the room, and struck him with his
clenched fist full in the face. It seemed to Andréi Yéfimitch that
a great salt wave had suddenly dashed upon his head and flung him
upon his bed; in his mouth was a taste of salt, and the blood seemed
to burst from his gums. As if trying to swim away from the wave, he
flourished his arms and seized the bedstead. But at this moment Nikita
struck him again and again in the back. Iván Dmítritch screamed loudly.
He also had evidently been beaten.
Then all was quiet Liquid moonlight poured through between the iron
bars, and on the floor lay a network shadow. All were terrified. Andréi
Yéfimitch lay on the bed and held his breath in terror, awaiting
another blow.
It seemed as if someone had taken a sickle, thrust it into his chest
and turned it around. In his agony he bit his pillow and ground
his teeth, and suddenly into his head amid the chaos flashed the
intolerable thought that such misery had been borne year after
year by these helpless men who now lay in the moonlight like black
shadows about him. In twenty years he had never known of it, and
never wanted to know. He did not know, he had no idea of their
wretchedness, therefore he was not guilty; but conscience, as rude and
unaccommodating as Nikita's fists, sent an icy thrill through him from
head to foot. He jumped from his bed and tried to scream with all his
might, to fly from the ward and kill Nikita, and Khobótoff, and the
superintendent, and the feldscher, and himself. But not a sound came
from his throat, his feet rebelled against him, he panted, he tore his
gown and shirt, and fell insensible on the bed.