Mikhail Bulgakov. The Master and Margarita -
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'Vanna, put him in No. 117 by himself and with someone to watch him.'
The doctor gave his instructions and replaced his spectacles. Then Ryukhin
shuddered again : a pair of white doors opened without a sound and beyond
them stretched a corridor lit by a row of blue night-bulbs. Out of the
corridor rolled a couch on rubber wheels. The sleeping Ivan was lifted on to
it, he was pushed off down the corridor and the doors closed after him.
'Doctor,' asked the shaken Ryukhin in a whisper, ' is he really ill?'
'Oh yes,' replied the doctor.
'Then what's the matter with him?' enquired Rvukhin timidly.
The exhausted doctor looked at Ryukhin and answered wearily:
'Overstimulation of the motor nerves and speech centres . . .
delirious illusions. . . . Obviously a complicated case. Schizophrenia, I
should think . . . touch of alcoholism, too. . . .'
Ryukhin understood nothing of this, except that Ivan Nikolayich was
obviously in poor shape. He sighed and asked :
'What was that he said about some professor? '
'I expect he saw someone who gave a shock to his disturbed
imagination. Or maybe it was a hallucination. . . .'
A few minutes later a lorry was taking Ryukhin back into Moscow. Dawn
was breaking and the still-lit street lamps seemed superfluous and
unpleasant. The driver, annoyed at missing a night's sleep, pushed his lorry
as hard as it would go, making it skid round the corners.
The woods fell away in the distance and the river wandered off in
another direction. As the lorry drove on the scenery slowly changed: fences,
a watchman's hut, piles of logs, dried and split telegraph poles with
bobbins strung on the wires between them, heaps of stones, ditches--in
short, a feeling that Moscow was about to appear round the next corner and
would rise up and engulf them at any moment.