XIV
The doctor walked and drank and ate and inspected, but his feelings remained unchanged; he was vexed with Mikhail Averyanitch. He longed to get a rest from his companion, to escape from him, but the postmaster considered it his duty not to let him out of his sight, and to see that he tasted every possible form of recreation. For two days Andréi Yéfimitch endured it, but on the third declared that he was unwell, and would remain all day at home. Mikhail Averyanitch said that in that case he also would remain at home. And indeed, he added, a rest was necessary, otherwise they would have no strength left. Andréi Yéfimitch lay on the sofa with his face to the wall, and with clenched teeth listened to his friend, who assured him that France would sooner or later inevitably destroy Germany, that in Moscow there are a great many swindlers, and that you cannot judge of the merits of a horse by its appearance. The doctor's heart throbbed, his ears hummed, but from motives of delicacy he could not ask his friend to leave him alone or be silent. But happily Mikhail Averyanitch grew tired of sitting in the room, and after dinner went for a walk.
Left alone, Andréi Yéfimitch surrendered himself to the feeling of rest. How delightful it was to lie motionless on the sofa and know that he was alone in the room! Without solitude true happiness was impossible. The fallen angel was faithless to God probably only because he longed for solitude, which angels knew not. Andréi Yéfimitch wished to reflect upon what he had seen and heard in the last few days. But he could not drive Mikhail Averyanitch out of his mind.
"But then he obtained leave and came with me purely out of friendship and generosity," he thought with vexation. "Yet there is nothing more detestable than his maternal care. He is good and generous and a gay companion—but tiresome! Intolerably tiresome! He is one of those men who say only clever things, yet you cannot help feeling that they are stupid at bottom."
Next day Andréi Yéfimitch said he was still ill, and remained in his loom. He lay with his face to the back of the sofa, was bored when he was listening to conversation, and happy only when he was left alone. He was angry with himself for leaving home, he was angry with Mikhail Averyanitch, who every day became more garrulous and free-making; to concentrate his thoughts on a serious, elevated plane he failed utterly.
"I am now being tested by the realities of which Iván Dmítritch spoke," he thought, angered at his own pettiness. "But this is nothing.... I will go home, and things will be as before."
In St. Petersburg the incidents of Moscow were repeated; whole days he never left his room, but lay on the sofa, and rose only when he wanted to drink beer.
All the time, Mikhail Averyanitch was in a great hurry to get to Warsaw.
"My dear friend, why must I go there?" asked Andréi Yéfimitch imploringly. "Go yourself, and let me go home. I beg you!"
"Not for a million!" protested Mikhail Averyanitch. "It is an astonishing city! In Warsaw I spent the happiest days of my life."
Andréi Yéfimitch had not the character to persist, and with a twinge of pain accompanied his friend to Warsaw. When he got there he stayed all day in the hotel, lay on the sofa, and was angry with himself, and with the waiters who stubbornly refused to understand Russian. Mikhail Averyanitch, healthy, gay, and active as ever, drove from morning to night about the city and sought out his old acquaintances. Several nights he stayed out altogether. After one of these nights, spent it is uncertain where, he returned early in the morning, dishevelled and excited. For a long time he walked up and down the room, and at last stopped and exclaimed:
"Honour before everything!"
Again he walked up and down the room, seized his head in his hands, and declaimed tragically:
"Yes! Honour before everything! Cursed be the hour when it entered my head to come near this Babylon!... My dear friend," he turned to Andréi Yéfimitch, "I have lost heavily at cards. Lend me five hundred roubles!"
Andréi Yéfimitch counted the money, and gave it silently to his friend. Mikhail Averyanitch, purple from shame and indignation, cursed incoherently and needlessly, put on his cap, and went out. After two hours' absence he returned, threw himself into an armchair, sighed loudly, and said:
"Honour is saved! Let us go away, my friend! Not another minute will I rest in this accursed city! They are all scoundrels!... Austrian spies!"
When the travellers returned it was the beginning of November, and the streets were covered with snow. Doctor Khobótoff occupied Andréi Yéfimitch's position at the hospital, but lived at his own rooms, waiting until Andréi Yéfimitch returned and gave up the official quarters. The ugly woman whom he called his cook already lived in one of the wings.
Fresh scandals in connection with the hospital were being circulated in the town. It was said that the ugly woman had quarrelled with the superintendent, who had gone down before her on his knees and begged forgiveness. On the day of his return Andréi Yéfimitch had to look for new lodgings.
"My friend," began the postmaster timidly, "forgive the indelicate question, what money have you got?"
Andréi Yéfimitch silently counted his money, and said:
"Eighty-six roubles."
"You don't understand me," said Mikhail Averyanitch in confusion. "I ask what means have you—generally?"
"I have told you already—eighty-six roubles.... Beyond that I have nothing."
Mikhail Averyanitch was well aware that the doctor was an honest and straightforward man. But he believed that he had at least twenty thousand roubles in capital. Now learning that his friend was a beggar and had nothing to live on, he began to cry, and embraced him.