They all began saying how boring it was for a decent person to live in such a town.  No theatre, no music, and at the last dance at the club there had been about twenty ladies and only two gentlemen.  The young men did not dance, but spent all the time crowding round the refreshment bar or playing cards.

Not looking at anyone and speaking slowly in a low voice, Andrey Yefimitch began saying what a pity, what a terrible pity it was that the townspeople should waste their vital energy, their hearts, and their minds on cards and gossip, and should have neither the power nor the inclination to spend their time in interesting conversation and reading, and should refuse to take advantage of the enjoyments of the mind.  The mind alone was interesting and worthy of attention, all the rest was low and petty.  Hobotov listened to his colleague attentively and suddenly asked: 

“Andrey Yefimitch, what day of the month is it?”

Having received an answer, the fair-haired doctor and he, in the tone of examiners conscious of their lack of skill, began asking Andrey Yefimitch what was the day of the week, how many days there were in the year, and whether it was true that there was a remarkable prophet living in Ward No. 6.

In response to the last question Andrey Yefimitch turned rather red and said:  “Yes, he is mentally deranged, but he is an interesting young man.”

They asked him no other questions.

When he was putting on his overcoat in the entry, the military commander laid a hand on his shoulder and said with a sigh: 

“It’s time for us old fellows to rest!”

As he came out of the hall, Andrey Yefimitch understood that it had been a committee appointed to enquire into his mental condition.  He recalled the questions that had been asked him, flushed crimson, and for some reason, for the first time in his life, felt bitterly grieved for medical science.

“My God. . .” he thought, remembering how these doctors had just examined him; “why, they have only lately been hearing lectures on mental pathology; they had passed an examination—­what’s the explanation of this crass ignorance?  They have not a conception of mental pathology!”

And for the first time in his life he felt insulted and moved to anger.

In the evening of the same day Mihail Averyanitch came to see him.  The postmaster went up to him without waiting to greet him, took him by both hands, and said in an agitated voice: 

“My dear fellow, my dear friend, show me that you believe in my genuine affection and look on me as your friend!” And preventing Andrey Yefimitch from speaking, he went on, growing excited:  “I love you for your culture and nobility of soul.  Listen to me, my dear fellow.  The rules of their profession compel the doctors to conceal the truth from you, but I blurt out the plain truth like a soldier.  You are not well!  Excuse me, my dear fellow, but