a peasant beating his wife, for instance.  Why interfere?  Let him beat her, they will both die sooner or later, anyway; and, besides, he who beats injures by his blows, not the person he is beating, but himself.  To get drunk is stupid and unseemly, but if you drink you die, and if you don’t drink you die.  A peasant woman comes with toothache . . . well, what of it?  Pain is the idea of pain, and besides ’there is no living in this world without illness; we shall all die, and so, go away, woman, don’t hinder me from thinking and drinking vodka.’  A young man asks advice, what he is to do, how he is to live; anyone else would think before answering, but you have got the answer ready:  strive for ‘comprehension’ or for true happiness.  And what is that fantastic ‘true happiness’?  There’s no answer, of course.  We are kept here behind barred windows, tortured, left to rot; but that is very good and reasonable, because there is no difference at all between this ward and a warm, snug study.  A convenient philosophy.  You can do nothing, and your conscience is clear, and you feel you are wise . . . .  No, sir, it is not philosophy, it’s not thinking, it’s not breadth of vision, but laziness, fakirism, drowsy stupefaction.  Yes,” cried Ivan Dmitritch, getting angry again, “you despise suffering, but I’ll be bound if you pinch your finger in the door you will howl at the top of your voice.”

“And perhaps I shouldn’t howl,” said Andrey Yefimitch, with a gentle smile.

“Oh, I dare say!  Well, if you had a stroke of paralysis, or supposing some fool or bully took advantage of his position and rank to insult you in public, and if you knew he could do it with impunity, then you would understand what it means to put people off with comprehension and true happiness.”

“That’s original,” said Andrey Yefimitch, laughing with pleasure and rubbing his hands.  “I am agreeably struck by your inclination for drawing generalizations, and the sketch of my character you have just drawn is simply brilliant.  I must confess that talking to you gives me great pleasure.  Well, I’ve listened to you, and now you must graciously listen to me.”

XI

The conversation went on for about an hour longer, and apparently made a deep impression on Andrey Yefimitch.  He began going to the ward every day.  He went there in the mornings and after dinner, and often the dusk of evening found him in conversation with Ivan Dmitritch.  At first Ivan Dmitritch held aloof from him, suspected him of evil designs, and openly expressed his hostility.  But afterwards he got used to him, and his abrupt manner changed to one of condescending irony.

Soon it was all over the hospital that the doctor, Andrey Yefimitch, had taken to visiting Ward No. 6.  No one—­neither Sergey Sergevitch, nor Nikita, nor the nurses—­could conceive why he went there, why he stayed there for hours together, what he was talking about, and why he did not write prescriptions.  His actions seemed strange.  Often Mihail Averyanitch did not find him at home, which had never happened in the past, and Daryushka was greatly perturbed, for the doctor drank his beer now at no definite time, and sometimes was even late for dinner.