A week later it was suggested to Andrey Yefimitch that he should
have a rest--that is, send in his resignation--a suggestion he
received with indifference, and a week later still, Mihail Averyanitch
and he were sitting in a posting carriage driving to the nearest
railway station. The days were cool and bright, with a blue sky and
a transparent distance. They were two days driving the hundred and
fifty miles to the railway station, and stayed two nights on the
way. When at the posting station the glasses given them for their
tea had not been properly washed, or the drivers were slow in
harnessing the horses, Mihail Averyanitch would turn crimson, and
quivering all over would shout:
"Hold your tongue! Don't argue!"
And in the carriage he talked without ceasing for a moment, describing
his campaigns in the Caucasus and in Poland. What adventures he had
had, what meetings! He talked loudly and opened his eyes so wide
with wonder that he might well be thought to be lying. Moreover,
as he talked he breathed in Andrey Yefimitch's face and laughed
into his ear. This bothered the doctor and prevented him from
thinking or concentrating his mind.
In the train they travelled, from motives of economy, third-class
in a non-smoking compartment. Half the passengers were decent people.
Mihail Averyanitch soon made friends with everyone, and moving from
one seat to another, kept saying loudly that they ought not to
travel by these appalling lines. It was a regular swindle! A very
different thing riding on a good horse: one could do over seventy
miles a day and feel fresh and well after it. And our bad harvests
were due to the draining of the Pinsk marshes; altogether, the way
things were done was dreadful. He got excited, talked loudly, and
would not let others speak. This endless chatter to the accompaniment
of loud laughter and expressive gestures wearied Andrey Yefimitch.
"Which of us is the madman?" he thought with vexation. "I, who try
not to disturb my fellow-passengers in any way, or this egoist who
thinks that he is cleverer and more interesting than anyone here,
and so will leave no one in peace?"
In Moscow Mihail Averyanitch put on a military coat without epaulettes
and trousers with red braid on them. He wore a military cap and
overcoat in the street, and soldiers saluted him. It seemed to
Andrey Yefimitch, now, that his companion was a man who had flung
away all that was good and kept only what was bad of all the
characteristics of a country gentleman that he had once possessed.
He liked to be waited on even when it was quite unnecessary. The
matches would be lying before him on the table, and he would see
them and shout to the waiter to give him the matches; he did not
hesitate to appear before a maidservant in nothing but his underclothes;
he used the familiar mode of address to all footmen indiscriminately,
even old men, and when he was angry called them fools and blockheads.
This, Andrey Yefimitch thought, was like a gentleman, but disgusting.
First of all Mihail Averyanitch led his friend to the Iversky
Madonna. He prayed fervently, shedding tears and bowing down to the
earth, and when he had finished, heaved a deep sigh and said:
"Even though one does not believe it makes one somehow easier when
one prays a little. Kiss the ikon, my dear fellow."
Andrey Yefimitch was embarrassed and he kissed the image, while
Mihail Averyanitch pursed up his lips and prayed in a whisper, and
again tears came into his eyes. Then they went to the Kremlin and
looked there at the Tsar-cannon and the Tsar-bell, and even touched
them with their fingers, admired the view over the river, visited
St. Saviour's and the Rumyantsev museum.
They dined at Tyestov's. Mihail Averyanitch looked a long time at
the menu, stroking his whiskers, and said in the tone of a gourmand
accustomed to dine in restaurants:
"We shall see what you give us to eat to-day, angel!"