"But my father flogged me cruelly. He was a stern hemorrhoidal official with a long nose and a yellow neck. But what of you? In your whole life no one has ever laid a finger on you, and you are as healthy as a bull. You grew up under your father's wing, studied at his expense, and then dropped at once into a fat sinecure. More than twenty years you have lived in free lodgings, with free fire and free lights, with servants, with the right to work how, and as much as, you like, or to do nothing. By character you were an idle and a feeble man, and you strove to build up your life so as to avoid trouble. You left your work to feldschers and other scoundrels, and sat at home in warmth and quiet, heaped up money, read books, and enjoyed your own reflections about all kinds of exalted nonsense, and"—Iván Dmítritch looked at the doctor's nose—"drank beer. In one word, you have not seen life, you know nothing about it, and of realities you have only a theoretical knowledge. Yes, you despise suffering and marvel at nothing for very good reasons; because your theory of the vanity of things, external and internal happiness, contempt for life, for suffering and for death, and so on—this is the philosophy best suited to a Russian lie-abed. You see, for instance, a muzhik beating his wife. Why interfere? let him beat her! It is all the same, both will be dead sooner, or later, and then, does not the wife-beater injure himself and not his victim? To get drunk is stupid and wrong, but the man who drinks dies, and the woman who drinks dies also! A woman comes to you with a toothache. Well, what of that? Pain is the conception of pain, without sickness you cannot live, all must die, and therefore take yourself off, my good woman, and don't interfere with my thoughts and my vodka! A young man comes to you for advice: what should he do, how ought he to live? Before answering, most men would think, but your answer is always ready: Aspire to understand life and to real goodness! And what is this fantastic real goodness? No answer! We are imprisoned behind iron bars, we rot and we are tortured, but this, in reality, is reasonable and beautiful because between this ward and a comfortable warm study there is no real difference! A convenient philosophy; your conscience is clean, and you feel yourself to be a wise man. No, sir, this is not philosophy, not breadth of view, but idleness, charlatanism, somnolent folly.... Yes," repeated Iván Dmítritch angrily. "You despise suffering, but squeeze your finger in the door and you will howl for your life!"
"But suppose I do not howl," said Andréi Yéfimitch, smiling indulgently.
"What! Well, if you had a stroke of paralysis, or if some impudent fellow, taking advantage of his position in the world, insulted you' publicly, and you had no redress—then you would know what it meant to tell others to understand life and aspire to real good."
"This is original," said Andréi Yéfimitch, beaming with satisfaction and rubbing his hands. "I am delighted with your love of generalisation; and the character which you have just drawn is simply brilliant. I confess that conversation with you gives me great pleasure. Rut now, as I have heard you out, will you listen to me...."
XI
This conversation, which lasted for an hour longer, apparently made a great impression on Andréi Yéfimitch. He took to visiting the ward every day. He went there in the morning, and again after dinner, and often darkness found him in conversation with Iván Dmítritch. At first Iván Dmítritch was shy with him, suspected him of some evil intention, and openly expressed his suspicions. But at last he got used to him; and his rude bearing softened into indulgent irony.
A report soon spread through the hospital that Doctor Andréi Yéfimitch paid daily visits to Ward No. 6. Neither the feldscher, nor Nikita, nor the nurses could understand his object; why he spent whole hours in the ward, what he was talking about, or why he did not write prescriptions. His conduct appeared strange to everyone. Mikhail Averyanitch sometimes failed to find him at home, and Dáryushka was very alarmed, for the doctor no longer drank his beer at the usual hour, and sometimes even came home late for dinner.
One day—it was at the end of June—Doctor Khobótoff went to Andréi Yéfimitch's house to sec him on a business matter. Not finding him at home, he looked for him in the yard, where he was told that the old doctor was in the asylum. Khobótoff entered the hall of the ward, and standing there listened to the following conversation:
"We will never agree, and you will never succeed in converting me to your faith," said Iván Dmítritch irritably. "You are altogether ignorant of realities, you have never suffered, but only, like a leech, fed on the sufferings of others. But I have suffered without cease from the day of my birth until now. Therefore I tell you frankly I consider myself much higher than you, and more competent in all respects. It is not for you to teach me."