บทที่ บทที่ 14 · THE HOSPITAL

Shortly after the Christmas holidays I felt ill, and had to go to our

military hospital, which stood apart at about half a verst (one-third of

a mile) from the fortress. It was a one-storey building, very long, and

painted yellow. Every summer a great quantity of ochre was expended in

brightening it up. In the immense court-yard stood buildings, including

those where the chief physicians lived, while the principal building

contained only wards intended for the patients. There were a good many

of them, but as only two were reserved for the convicts, these latter

were nearly always full, above all in summer, so that it was often

necessary to bring the beds closer together. These wards were occupied

by “unfortunates” of all kinds: first by our own, then by military

prisoners, previously incarcerated in the guard-houses. There were

others, again, who had not yet been tried, or who were passing through.

In this hospital, too, were invalids from the Disciplinary Company, a

melancholy institution for bringing together soldiers of bad conduct,

with a view to their correction. At the end of a year or two, they come

back the most thorough-going rascals that the earth can endure.

When a convict felt that he was ill, he told the non-commissioned

officer, who wrote the man’s name down on a card, which he then gave to

him and sent him to the hospital under the escort of a soldier. On his

arrival he was examined by a doctor, who authorised the convict to

remain at the hospital if he was really ill. My name was duly written

down, and towards one o’clock, when all my companions had started for

their afternoon work, I went to the hospital. Every prisoner took with

him such money and bread as he could (for food was not to be expected

the first day), a little pipe, and pouch containing tobacco, with flint,

steel, and match-paper. The convicts concealed these objects in their

boots. On entering the hospital I experienced a feeling of curiosity,

for a new aspect of life was now presented.

The day was hot, cloudy, sad--one of those days when places like a

hospital assume a particularly disagreeable and repulsive look. Myself

and the soldier escorting me went into the entrance room, where there

were two copper baths. There were two convicts waiting there with their

warders. An assistant surgeon came in, looked at us with a careless and

patronising air, and went away still more carelessly to announce our

arrival to the physician on duty. Soon the physician arrived. He

examined me, treating me in a very affable manner, and gave me a paper

on which my name was inscribed. The ordinary physician of the wards

reserved for the convicts was to make the diagnosis of my illness, to

prescribe the fitting remedies, together with the necessary diet. I had

already heard the convicts say that their doctors could not be too much

praised. “They are fathers to us,” they would say.

I took my clothes off to put on another costume. Our clothes and linen

were taken away, and we were given hospital linen instead, to which were

added long stockings, slippers, cotton nightcaps, and a dressing-gown of

a very thick brown cloth, which was lined, not with linen, but with

filth. The dressing-gown was indeed very filthy, but I soon understood

its utility. We were afterwards taken to the convict wards, which were

at the head of a long corridor, very high, and very clean. The external

cleanliness was quite satisfactory. Everything that could be seen shone;

so, at least, it seemed to me, after the dirtiness of the convict

prison.

The two prisoners, whom I had found in the entrance hall, went to the

left of the corridor, while I entered a room. Before the padlocked door

walked a sentinel, musket on shoulder; and not far off was the soldier

who was to replace him. The sergeant of the hospital guard ordered him

to let me pass, and suddenly I found myself in the middle of a long

narrow room, with beds to the number of twenty-two arranged against the

walls. Three or four of them were still unoccupied. These wooden beds

were painted green, and, as is notoriously the case with all hospital

beds in Russia, were doubtless inhabited by bugs. I went into a corner

by the side of the windows. There were very few prisoners dangerously

ill and confined to their beds.

The inmates of the hospital were, for the most part, convalescents, or

men who were slightly indisposed. My new companions were stretched out

on their couches, or walking about up and down between the rows of beds.

There was just space enough for them to come and go. The atmosphere of

the ward was stifling with the odour peculiar to hospitals. It was

composed of various emanations, each more disagreeable than the other,

and of the smell of drugs; though the stove was kept well heated all day

long, my bed was covered with a counterpane, which I took off. The bed

itself consisted of a cloth blanket lined with linen, and coarse sheets

of more than doubtful cleanliness. By the side of the bed was a little

table with a pitcher and a pewter mug, together with a diminutive

napkin, which had been given to me. The table could, moreover, hold a

tea-urn for those patients who were rich enough to drink tea. These men

of means, however, were not very numerous. The pipes and the tobacco

pouches--for all the patients smoked, even the consumptive ones--could

be concealed beneath the mattress. The doctors and the other officials

scarcely ever made searches, and when they surprised a patient with a

pipe in his mouth, they pretended not to see. The patients, however,

were very prudent, and smoked always at the back of the stove. They

never smoked in their beds except at night, when no rounds were made by

the officers commanding the hospital.

Until then I had not been in any hospital in the character of patient,

so that everything was quite new to me. I noticed that my entry had

mystified some of the prisoners. They had heard of me, and all the

inmates now looked upon me with that slight shade of superiority which

recognised members of no matter what society show to one newly admitted

among them. On my right was lying down a man committed for trial--an

ex-secretary and the illegitimate son of a retired captain--accused of

having made false money. He had been in the hospital nearly a year. He

was not in the least ill, but he assured the doctors that he had an

aneurism, and he so thoroughly convinced them that he escaped both the

hard labour and the corporal punishment to which he had been sentenced.

He was sent a year later to T----k, where he was attached to an asylum.

He was a vigorous young fellow of eight-and-twenty, cunning, a

self-confessed rogue, and something of a lawyer. He was intelligent, had

easy manners, but was very presumptuous, and suffered from morbid

self-esteem. Convinced that there was no one in the world a bit more

honest or more just than himself, he did not consider himself at all

guilty, and never kept this assurance to himself.

This personage was the first to address me, and he questioned me with

much curiosity. He initiated me into the ways of the hospital; and, of

course, began by telling me that he was the son of a captain. He was

very anxious that I should take him for a noble, or at least, for some

one connected with the nobility.

Soon afterwards an invalid from the Disciplinary Company came and told

me that he knew a great many nobles who had been exiled; and, to

convince me, he repeated to me their christian names and their

patronymics. It was only necessary to see the face of this soldier to

understand that he was lying abominably. He was named Tchekounoff, and

came to pay court to me, because he suspected me of having money. When

he saw a packet of tea and sugar, he at once offered me his services to

make the water boil and to get me a tea-urn. M. D. S. K---- had promised

to send me my own by one of the prisoners who worked in the hospital,

but Tchekounoff arranged to get me one forthwith. He got me a tin

vessel, in which he made the water boil; and, in a word, he showed such

extraordinary zeal, that it drew down upon him bitter laughter from one

of the patients, a consumptive man, whose bed was just opposite mine,

Usteantseff by name. This was the soldier condemned to the rods, who,

from fear, had swallowed a bottle of vodka, in which he had infused

tobacco, this bringing on lung disease.

I have spoken of him above. He had remained silent until now, stretched

out on his bed, and breathing with difficulty. He looked at me all the

time with a very serious air. He did not take his eyes from Tchekounoff,

whose civility irritated him. His extraordinary gravity rendered his

indignation comic. At last he could stand it no longer.

“Look at this fellow! He has found his master,” he said, stammering out

the words with a voice strangled by weakness, for he had now not long to

live.

Tchekounoff, much annoyed, turned round.

“Who is the fellow?” he asked, looking at Usteantseff, with contempt.

“Why, you are a flunkey,” replied Usteantseff, as confidently as if he

had possessed the right of calling Tchekounoff to order.

“I a fellow?”

“Yes, you are a flunkey; a true flunkey. Listen, my good friends. He

won’t believe me. He is quite astonished, the brave fellow.”

“What can that matter to you? You see when they don’t know how to make

use of their hands that they are not accustomed to be without servants.

Why should I not serve him, buffoon with a hairy snout?”

“Who has a hairy snout?”

“You!”

“I have a hairy snout?”

“Yes; certainly you have.”

“You are a nice fellow, you are. If I have a hairy snout, you have a

face like a crow’s egg.”

“Hairy snout! The merciful Lord has settled your account. You would do

much better to keep quiet and die.”

“Why? I would rather prostrate myself before a boot than before a

slipper. My father never prostrated himself, and never made me do so.”

He would have continued, but an attack of coughing convulsed him for

some minutes. He spat blood, and a cold sweat broke out on his low

forehead. If his cough had not prevented him from speaking, he would

have continued to declaim. One could see that from his look; but in his

powerlessness he could only move his hand, the result of which was that

Tchekounoff spoke no more about the matter.

I quite understood that the consumptive patient hated me much more than

Tchekounoff. No one would have thought of being angry with him or of

looking down upon him by reason of the services he was rendering me, and

the few kopecks that he tried to get from me. Every one understood that

he did it all in order to get himself a little money.

The Russian people are not at all susceptible on such points, and know

perfectly well how to take them.

I had displeased Usteantseff, as my tea had also displeased him. What

irritated him was that, in spite of all, I was a gentleman, even with my

chains; that I could not do without a servant, though I neither asked

for nor desired one. In reality I tried to do everything for myself, in

order not to appear a white-handed, effeminate person, and not to play

the part which excited so much envy.

I even felt a little pride on this point; but, in spite of every

thing--I do not know why--I was always surrounded by officious,

complaisant people, who attached themselves to me of their own free

will, and who ended by governing me. It was I rather who was their

servant; so that, whether I liked it or not, I was made to appear to

every one a noble, who could not do without the services of others, and

who gave himself airs. This exasperated me.

Usteantseff was consumptive, and, therefore, irascible. The other

patients only showed me indifference, tinged with a shade of contempt.

They were occupied with a circumstance which now presents itself to my

memory.

I learned, as I listened to their conversation, that there was to be

brought into the hospital that evening a convict who, at that moment,

was receiving the rods. The prisoners were looking forward to this new

arrival with some curiosity. They said, however, that his punishment was

but slight--only five hundred strokes.

I looked round. The greater number of genuine patients were, as far as I

could observe, affected by scurvy and diseases of the eyes--both

peculiar to this country. The others suffered from fever, lung disease,

and other illnesses. The different illnesses were not separated; all the

patients were together in the same room.

I have spoken of genuine patients, for certain convicts had come in

merely to get a little rest. The doctors admitted them from pure

compassion, above all, if there were any vacant beds. Life in the

guard-house and in the prison was so hard compared with that of the

hospital, that many persons preferred to remain lying down in spite of

the stifling atmosphere and the rules against leaving the room.

There were even men who took pleasure in this kind of life. They

belonged nearly all to the Disciplinary Company. I examined my new

companions with curiosity. One of them puzzled me very much. He was

consumptive, and was dying. His bed was a little further on than that of

Usteantseff, and was nearly beside mine. He was named Mikhailoff. I had

seen him in the Convict Prison two weeks before, when he was already

seriously ill. He ought to have been under treatment long before, but

he bore up against his malady with surprising courage. He did not go to

the hospital until about the Christmas holidays, to die three weeks

afterwards of galloping consumption. He seemed to have burned out like a

candle. What astonished me most was the terrible change in his

countenance. I had noticed him the very first day of my imprisonment. By

his side was lying a soldier of the Disciplinary Company--an old man

with a bad expression on his face, whose general appearance was

disgusting.

But I am not going to enumerate all the patients. I just remember this

old man simply because he made an impression on me, and initiated me at

once into certain peculiarities of the ward. He had a severe cold in the

head, which made him sneeze at every moment, even during his sleep, as

if firing salutes, five or six times running, while each time he called

out, “My God, what torture!”

Seated on his bed he stuffed his nose eagerly with snuff, which he took

from a paper bag, in order to sneeze more strongly, and with greater

regularity. He sneezed into a checked cotton pocket-handkerchief which

belonged to him, and which had lost its colour through perpetual

washing. His little nose then became wrinkled in a most peculiar manner

with a multitude of wrinkles, and his open mouth exhibited broken teeth,

decayed and black, and red gums moist with saliva. When he sneezed into

his handkerchief he unfolded it and wiped it on the lining of his

dressing-gown. His proceedings disgusted me so much that involuntarily I

examined the dressing-gown I had just put on myself. It exhaled a most

offensive odour, which contact with my body helped to bring out. It

smelt of plasters and medicaments of all kinds. It seemed as though it

had been worn by patients from time immemorial. The lining had, perhaps,

been washed once, but I would not swear to it. Certainly, at the time I

put it on, it was saturated with lotions, and stained by contact with

poultices and plasters of all imaginable kinds.

The men condemned to the rods, having undergone their punishment, were

brought straight to the hospital, their backs still bleeding. As

compresses and as poultices were placed on their wounds, the

dressing-gown they wore over their wet shirt received and retained the

droppings.

During all the time of my hard labour I had to go to the hospital, which

often happened, I always put on, with mistrust and abhorrence, the

dressing-gown that was delivered to me. As soon as Tchekounoff had given

me my tea (I will say, in parenthesis, that the water brought in in the

morning, and not renewed throughout the day, was soon corrupted, soon

poisoned by the fetid air), the door opened, and the soldier, who had

just received the rods, was brought in under a double escort. I saw, for

the first time, a man who had just been whipped. Later on many were

brought in, and whenever this happened it caused great distress to the

patients. These unfortunate men were received with grave composure, but

the nature of the reception depended nearly always on the enormity of

the crime committed, and, consequently, the number of strokes

administered.

The criminals most cruelly whipped, and who were celebrated as brigands

of the first order, enjoyed more respect and attention than a simple

deserter, a recruit, like the one who had just been brought in. But in

neither case was any particular sympathy manifested, nor were any

annoying remarks made. The unhappy man was attended to in silence, above

all if he was incapable of attending to himself. The assistant-surgeons

knew that they were entrusting their patients to skilful and experienced

hands. The usual treatment consisted in applying very often to the back

of the man who had been whipped a shirt or a piece of linen steeped in

cold water. It was also necessary to withdraw skilfully from the wounds

the twigs left by the rods which had been broken on the criminal’s back.

This last operation was particularly painful to the patients. The

extraordinary stoicism with which they supported their sufferings

astonished me greatly.

I have seen many convicts who had been whipped, and cruelly, I can tell

you. Well, I do not remember one of them uttering a groan. Only after

such an experience, the countenance becomes pale, decomposed, the eyes

glitter, the look wanders, and the lips tremble so that the patient

sometimes bites them till they bleed.

The soldier who had just come in was twenty-three years of age; he had a

good muscular development, and was rather a fine man, tall, well-made,

with a bronzed skin. His back, uncovered down to the waist, had been

seriously beaten, and his body now trembled with fever beneath the damp

sheet with which his back was covered. For about an hour and a half he

did nothing but walk backwards and forwards in the room. I looked at his

face: he seemed to be thinking of nothing; his eyes had a strange

expression, at once wild and timid; they seemed to fix themselves with

difficulty on the various objects. I fancied I saw him looking

attentively at my hot tea; the steam was rising from the full cup, and

the poor devil was shivering and clattering his teeth. I invited him to

have some; he turned towards me without saying a word, and taking up the

cup, swallowed the tea at one gulp, without putting sugar in it. He

tried not to look at me, and when he had finished he put the cup back in

silence without making a sign, and then began to walk up and down as

before. He was in too much pain to think of speaking to me or thanking

me. As for the other prisoners, they abstained from questioning him;

when once they had applied compresses they paid no more attention to

him, thinking probably it would be better to leave him alone, and not to

worry him by their questions and compassion. The soldier seemed quite

satisfied with this view.

Meanwhile, night came on and the lamp was lighted; some of the patients

possessed candlesticks of their own, but these were not numerous. In the

evening the doctor came round, after which a non-commissioned officer on

guard counted the patients and closed the room.

The prisoners could not speak in too high terms of their doctors. They

looked upon them truly as fathers and respected them. These doctors had

always something pleasant to say, a kind word even for reprobates, who

appreciated it all the more because they knew it was said in all

sincerity.

Yes, these kind words were really sincere, for no one would have thought

of blaming the doctors had they shown themselves cross and inhuman; they

were kind purely from humanity. They understood perfectly that a convict

who is sick has as much right to breathe pure air as any other person,

even though the latter might be a great personage. The convalescents

there had a right to walk freely through the corridors to take exercise,

and to breathe air less pestilential than that of our infirmary, which

was close and saturated with deleterious emanations. In our ward, when

once the doors had been closed in the evening, they had to remain closed

throughout the night, and under no pretext was one of the inmates

allowed to go out.

For many years an inexplicable fact troubled me like an insoluble

problem. I must speak of it before going on with my description. I am

thinking of the chains which every convict is obliged to wear, however

ill he may be; even consumptives have died beneath my eyes with their

legs loaded with irons.

Everybody was accustomed to it, and regarded it as an inevitable fact. I

do not think any one, even the doctors, would have thought of demanding

the removal of the irons from convicts who were seriously ill, not even

from the consumptive ones. The chains, it is true, were not exceedingly

heavy; they did not in general weigh more than eight or ten pounds,

which is a supportable burden for a man in good health. I have been

told, however, that after some years the legs of the convicts dry up and

waste away. I do not know whether it is true. I am inclined to think it

is; the weight, however light it may be (say not more than ten pounds),

if it is fixed to the leg for ever, increases the general weight in an

abnormal manner, and at the end of a certain time must have a disastrous

effect on its development.

For a convict in good health this is nothing, but the same cannot be

said of one who is sick. For the convicts who were seriously ill, for

the consumptive ones whose arms and legs dry up of themselves, this last

straw is insupportable. Even if the medical authorities claimed

alleviation for the consumptive patients alone, it would be an immense

benefit, I assure you. I shall be told convicts are malefactors,

unworthy of compassion; but ought increased severity to be shown towards

him on whom the finger of God already weighs? No one will believe that

the object of this aggravation is to reform the criminal. The

consumptive prisoners are exempted from corporal punishment by the

tribunal.

There must be some mysterious, important reason for all this, but what

it is, it is impossible to understand. No one believes--it is impossible

to believe--that a consumptive man will run away. Who can think of such

a thing, especially if the illness has reached a certain degree of

intensity? It is impossible to deceive the doctors and make them mistake

a convict in good health for one who is in a consumption, for this

malady is one that can be recognised at the first glance. Moreover, can

the irons prevent the convict not in good health from escaping? Not in

the least. The irons are a degradation and shame, a physical and moral

burden; but they would not hinder any one attempting to escape. The most

awkward and least intelligent convict can saw through them, or break the

rivets by hammering at them with a stone. Chains, then, are a useless

precaution; and if the convicts wear them as a punishment, should not

this punishment be spared to dying men?

As I write these lines, a face stands out from my memory: that of a

dying man, a man who died in consumption, this same Mikhailoff, whose

bed was nearly opposite me, and who expired, I think, four days after my

arrival at the hospital. When I spoke above of the consumptive patients,

I was only reproducing involuntarily the sensations and ideas which

occurred to me on the occasion of this death. I knew Mikhailoff very

little; he was a young man of twenty-five at most, not very tall, thin,

and with a fine face; he belonged to the “special section,” and was

remarkable for his strange, but soft and sad taciturnity; he seemed to

have “dried up” in the convict prison, to use an expression employed by

the convicts who had a good recollection of him. I remember he had very

fine eyes. I really cannot tell why I think of that.

He died at three o’clock in the afternoon on a clear, dry day. The sun

was darting its brilliant rays obliquely through the greenish, frozen

panes of our room. A torrent of light inundated the unhappy patient, who

had lost all consciousness, and was several hours dying. From the early

morning his sight became confused; he was unable to recognise those who

approached him. The convicts would gladly have done anything to relieve

him, for they saw he was in great suffering. His respiration was

painful, deep, and irregular; his breast rose and fell violently, as

though he were in want of air; he cast his blanket and his clothes far

from him. Then he began to tear up his shirt, which seemed to him a

terrible burden. It was taken off. Then it was frightful to see this

immensely long body, with fleshless arms and legs, with beating breast,

and ribs which were as clearly marked as those of a skeleton. There was

nothing now on this skeleton but a cross and the irons, from which his

dried-up legs might easily have freed themselves. A quarter of an hour

before his death everything was silent in our ward, and the inmates

spoke only in whispers. The convicts walked on the tips of their toes.

From time to time they exchanged remarks on other subjects, and cast a

furtive glance at the dying man. The rattling in his throat grew more

and more painful. At last, with a trembling hand, he felt the cross on

his breast and endeavoured to tear it off; it was also weighing upon

him, suffocating him. It was taken off. Ten minutes afterwards, he died.

Some one then knocked at the door in order to give notice to the

sentinel; the warder entered, looked at the dead man with a vacant air,

and went away to get the assistant-surgeon. The assistant-surgeon was a

good fellow enough, but a little too much occupied with his personal

appearance, otherwise very agreeable; he soon arrived, went up to the

corpse with long strides which made a noise in the silent ward, and

felt the dead man’s pulse with an unconcerned air which seemed to have

been put on for the occasion. He then made a vague gesture with his hand

and went out.

Information was given at the guard-house; for the criminal was an

important one (he belonged to the special section), and in order to

register his death it was necessary to go through some formalities.

While we were waiting for the hospital guard to come, one of the

prisoners said in a whisper, “The eyes of the defunct might as well be

closed.” Another one profited by this remark, and approaching Mikhailoff

in silence, closed his eyes; then perceiving on the pillow the cross

which had been taken from his neck, he took it and looked at it, put it

down, and crossed himself. The face of the dead man was becoming

ossified; a ray of white light was playing on the surface and

illuminated two rows of white, good teeth which sparkled between his

thin lips, glued to the gums by the mouth.

The non-commissioned officer on guard arrived at last, musket on

shoulder, helmet on head, accompanied by two soldiers; he approached the

corpse, slackening his pace with an air of uncertainty. Then he examined

with a side glance the silent prisoners, who looked at him with a sombre

expression. At one step from the dead man he stopped short, as if

suddenly nailed to the spot; the naked, dried-up body, loaded with

irons, had impressed him; he undid his chin-strap, removed his helmet

(which was not at all necessary for him to do), and made the sign of the

cross; he had a gray head, the head of a soldier who had seen much

service. I remember that by his side stood Tchekounoff, an old man who

was also gray. He looked all the time at the non-commissioned officer,

and followed all his movements with strange attention. They glanced

across, and I saw that Tchekounoff also trembled. He bit and closed his

teeth, and said to the non-commissioned officer, as if involuntarily, at

the same time nodding his head in the direction of the dead man, “He had

a mother, too!”

These words went to my heart. Why had he said them? and how did this

idea occur to him? The corpse was raised with the mattress; the straw

creaked, the chains dragged along the ground with a sharp ring; they

were taken up and the body was carried out. Suddenly all spoke once more

in a loud voice. The non-commissioned officer in the corridor could well

be heard crying out to some one to go for the blacksmith. It was

necessary to take the dead man’s irons off. But I have digressed from my

subject.