For a minute he stroked his knees in silence, and then said: 

“I have never had a thought of taking offence.  Illness is no joke, I understand.  Your attack frightened the doctor and me yesterday, and we had a long talk about you afterwards.  My dear friend, why won’t you treat your illness seriously?  You can’t go on like this . . . .  Excuse me speaking openly as a friend,” whispered Mihail Averyanitch.  “You live in the most unfavourable surroundings, in a crowd, in uncleanliness, no one to look after you, no money for proper treatment. . . .  My dear friend, the doctor and I implore you with all our hearts, listen to our advice:  go into the hospital!  There you will have wholesome food and attendance and treatment.  Though, between ourselves, Yevgeny Fyodoritch is mauvais ton, yet he does understand his work, you can fully rely upon him.  He has promised me he will look after you.”

Andrey Yefimitch was touched by the postmaster’s genuine sympathy and the tears which suddenly glittered on his cheeks.

“My honoured friend, don’t believe it!” he whispered, laying his hand on his heart; “don’t believe them.  It’s all a sham.  My illness is only that in twenty years I have only found one intelligent man in the whole town, and he is mad.  I am not ill at all, it’s simply that I have got into an enchanted circle which there is no getting out of.  I don’t care; I am ready for anything.”

“Go into the hospital, my dear fellow.”

“I don’t care if it were into the pit.”

“Give me your word, my dear man, that you will obey Yevgeny Fyodoritch in everything.”

“Certainly I will give you my word.  But I repeat, my honoured friend, I have got into an enchanted circle.  Now everything, even the genuine sympathy of my friends, leads to the same thing—­to my ruin.  I am going to my ruin, and I have the manliness to recognize it.”

“My dear fellow, you will recover.”

“What’s the use of saying that?” said Andrey Yefimitch, with irritation.  “There are few men who at the end of their lives do not experience what I am experiencing now.  When you are told that you have something such as diseased kidneys or enlarged heart, and you begin being treated for it, or are told you are mad or a criminal —­that is, in fact, when people suddenly turn their attention to you—­you may be sure you have got into an enchanted circle from which you will not escape.  You will try to escape and make things worse.  You had better give in, for no human efforts can save you.  So it seems to me.”

Meanwhile the public was crowding at the grating.  That he might not be in their way, Andrey Yefimitch got up and began to take leave.  Mihail Averyanitch made him promise on his honour once more, and escorted him to the outer door.

Towards evening on the same day Hobotov, in his sheepskin and his high top-boots, suddenly made his appearance, and said to Andrey Yefimitch in a tone as though nothing had happened the day before: