CHAPTER 6 - Schizophrenia, as was Said
At half past one in the morning a bearded man in a white coat enters the examination room of a modern psychiatric clinic by the Moscow river. Three orderlies keep watch over Ivan Nikolaevich Ponyrev, who sits motionless on a couch, his arms and legs free but tied with napkins. The agitated poet Riukhin, also present, greets the doctor with a timid “Hello, Doctor.” The doctor, ignoring Riukhin, faces Ivan and questions him about drinking, scratches, and recent falls. Ivan answers sarcastically, calls everyone “saboteur,” and declares he is twenty‑three years old and wants to file a complaint for being seized and dragged to a madhouse.
Riukhin observes that Ivan’s eyes show no insanity, only a scratched mug. The doctor sits on a white stool, tells Ivan he is in a clinic, not a madhouse, and asks his age. Ivan continues his tirade, labeling Riukhin a “giftless Sashka” and a “little kulak.” He then recounts how he was taken in underwear after swimming in the Moscow River, how Berlioz was run over by a tram, and how he is trying to catch the mysterious foreign consultant. The doctor points to a woman in a white coat who is filling a sheet of paper and holding a broken candle and an icon. Ivan claims the consultant is mixed with unclean powers and even spoke with Pontius Pilate.
When the clock strikes two, Ivan demands a telephone, calls for police with motorbikes and machine guns, then hurls the receiver against the wall. He tries to leave, is restrained by orderlies, and a syringe is flashed. The woman in the white coat injects ether, and Ivan collapses. The doctor sedates him, orders a private room (number 117) and a nurse to watch him. Riukhin watches helplessly as Ivan is placed on a stretcher and wheeled away, then the doctor explains Ivan suffers from schizophrenia and alcoholism.
Later the truck that had taken Riukhin off to Moscow speeds through the countryside, his mind a storm of regret, insult, and exhaustion. Dawn breaks as the truck reaches the boulevard and stops near Griboedov’s. Riukhin, now weary, is met by Archibald Archibaldovich, the master of ceremonies, who offers him a glass of Abrau wine. Riukhin receives his napkins, sits alone at a table, and drinks glass after glass, reflecting that the night is lost and that nothing can be set right.