Chapter Chapter 2 · A DOCTOR'S VISIT

. A DOCTOR'S VISIT

THE Professor received a telegram from the Lyalikovs' factory; he was

asked to come as quickly as possible. The daughter of some Madame

Lyalikov, apparently the owner of the factory, was ill, and that was all

that one could make out of the long, incoherent telegram. And the

Professor did not go himself, but sent instead his assistant, Korolyov.

It was two stations from Moscow, and there was a drive of three miles

from the station. A carriage with three horses had been sent to the

station to meet Korolyov; the coachman wore a hat with a peacock's

feather on it, and answered every question in a loud voice like a

soldier: "No, sir!" "Certainly, sir!"

It was Saturday evening; the sun was setting, the workpeople were coming

in crowds from the factory to the station, and they bowed to the

carriage in which Korolyov was driving. And he was charmed with the

evening, the farmhouses and villas on the road, and the birch-trees, and

the quiet atmosphere all around, when the fields and woods and the sun

seemed preparing, like the workpeople now on the eve of the holiday, to

rest, and perhaps to pray....

He was born and had grown up in Moscow; he did not know the country, and

he had never taken any interest in factories, or been inside one, but he

had happened to read about factories, and had been in the houses of

manufacturers and had talked to them; and whenever he saw a factory far

or near, he always thought how quiet and peaceable it was outside, but

within there was always sure to be impenetrable ignorance and dull

egoism on the side of the owners, wearisome, unhealthy toil on the side

of the workpeople, squabbling, vermin, vodka. And now when the

workpeople timidly and respectfully made way for the carriage, in their

faces, their caps, their walk, he read physical impurity, drunkenness,

nervous exhaustion, bewilderment.

They drove in at the factory gates. On each side he caught glimpses of

the little houses of workpeople, of the faces of women, of quilts and

linen on the railings. "Look out!" shouted the coachman, not pulling up

the horses. It was a wide courtyard without grass, with five immense

blocks of buildings with tall chimneys a little distance one from

another, warehouses and barracks, and over everything a sort of grey

powder as though from dust. Here and there, like oases in the desert,

there were pitiful gardens, and the green and red roofs of the houses in

which the managers and clerks lived. The coachman suddenly pulled up the

horses, and the carriage stopped at the house, which had been newly

painted grey; here was a flower garden, with a lilac bush covered with

dust, and on the yellow steps at the front door there was a strong smell

of paint.

"Please come in, doctor," said women's voices in the passage and the

entry, and at the same time he heard sighs and whisperings. "Pray walk

in.... We've been expecting you so long ... we're in real trouble. Here,

this way."

Madame Lyalikov--a stout elderly lady wearing a black silk dress with

fashionable sleeves, but, judging from her face, a simple uneducated

woman--looked at the doctor in a flutter, and could not bring herself to

hold out her hand to him; she did not dare. Beside her stood a personage

with short hair and a pince-nez; she was wearing a blouse of many

colours, and was very thin and no longer young. The servants called her

Christina Dmitryevna, and Korolyov guessed that this was the governess.

Probably, as the person of most education in the house, she had been

charged to meet and receive the doctor, for she began immediately, in

great haste, stating the causes of the illness, giving trivial and

tiresome details, but without saying who was ill or what was the matter.

The doctor and the governess were sitting talking while the lady of the

house stood motionless at the door, waiting. From the conversation

Korolyov learned that the patient was Madame Lyalikov's only daughter

and heiress, a girl of twenty, called Liza; she had been ill for a long

time, and had consulted various doctors, and the previous night she had

suffered till morning from such violent palpitations of the heart, that

no one in the house had slept, and they had been afraid she might die.

"She has been, one may say, ailing from a child," said Christina

Dmitryevna in a sing-song voice, continually wiping her lips with her

hand. "The doctors say it is nerves; when she was a little girl she was

scrofulous, and the doctors drove it inwards, so I think it may be due

to that."

They went to see the invalid. Fully grown up, big and tall, but ugly

like her mother, with the same little eyes and disproportionate breadth

of the lower part of the face, lying with her hair in disorder, muffled

up to the chin, she made upon Korolyov at the first minute the

impression of a poor, destitute creature, sheltered and cared for here

out of charity, and he could hardly believe that this was the heiress of

the five huge buildings.

"I am the doctor come to see you," said Korolyov. "Good evening."

He mentioned his name and pressed her hand, a large, cold, ugly hand;

she sat up, and, evidently accustomed to doctors, let herself be

sounded, without showing the least concern that her shoulders and chest

were uncovered.

"I have palpitations of the heart," she said, "It was so awful all

night.... I almost died of fright! Do give me something."

"I will, I will; don't worry yourself."

Korolyov examined her and shrugged his shoulders.

"The heart is all right," he said; "it's all going on satisfactorily;

everything is in good order. Your nerves must have been playing pranks a

little, but that's so common. The attack is over by now, one must

suppose; lie down and go to sleep."

At that moment a lamp was brought into the bed-room. The patient screwed

up her eyes at the light, then suddenly put her hands to her head and

broke into sobs. And the impression of a destitute, ugly creature

vanished, and Korolyov no longer noticed the little eyes or the heavy

development of the lower part of the face. He saw a soft, suffering

expression which was intelligent and touching: she seemed to him

altogether graceful, feminine, and simple; and he longed to soothe her,

not with drugs, not with advice, but with simple, kindly words. Her

mother put her arms round her head and hugged her. What despair, what

grief was in the old woman's face! She, her mother, had reared her and

brought her up, spared nothing, and devoted her whole life to having her

daughter taught French, dancing, music: had engaged a dozen teachers for

her; had consulted the best doctors, kept a governess. And now she could

not make out the reason of these tears, why there was all this misery,

she could not understand, and was bewildered; and she had a guilty,

agitated, despairing expression, as though she had omitted something

very important, had left something undone, had neglected to call in

somebody--and whom, she did not know.

"Lizanka, you are crying again ... again," she said, hugging her

daughter to her. "My own, my darling, my child, tell me what it is! Have

pity on me! Tell me."

Both wept bitterly. Korolyov sat down on the side of the bed and took

Liza's hand.

"Come, give over; it's no use crying," he said kindly. "Why, there is

nothing in the world that is worth those tears. Come, we won't cry;

that's no good...."

And inwardly he thought:

"It's high time she was married...."

"Our doctor at the factory gave her kalibromati," said the governess,

"but I notice it only makes her worse. I should have thought that if she

is given anything for the heart it ought to be drops.... I forget the

name.... Convallaria, isn't it?"

And there followed all sorts of details. She interrupted the doctor,

preventing his speaking, and there was a look of effort on her face, as

though she supposed that, as the woman of most education in the house,

she was duty bound to keep up a conversation with the doctor, and on no

other subject but medicine.

Korolyov felt bored.

"I find nothing special the matter," he said, addressing the mother as

he went out of the bedroom. "If your daughter is being attended by the

factory doctor, let him go on attending her. The treatment so far has

been perfectly correct, and I see no reason for changing your doctor.

Why change? It's such an ordinary trouble; there's nothing seriously

wrong."

He spoke deliberately as he put on his gloves, while Madame Lyalikov

stood without moving, and looked at him with her tearful eyes.

"I have half an hour to catch the ten o'clock train," he said. "I hope I

am not too late."

"And can't you stay?" she asked, and tears trickled down her cheeks

again. "I am ashamed to trouble you, but if you would be so good.... For

God's sake," she went on in an undertone, glancing towards the door, "do

stay to-night with us! She is all I have ... my only daughter.... She

frightened me last night; I can't get over it.... Don't go away, for

goodness' sake!..."

He wanted to tell her that he had a great deal of work in Moscow, that

his family were expecting him home; it was disagreeable to him to spend

the evening and the whole night in a strange house quite needlessly; but

he looked at her face, heaved a sigh, and began taking off his gloves

without a word.

All the lamps and candles were lighted in his honour in the drawing-room

and the dining-room. He sat down at the piano and began turning over the

music. Then he looked at the pictures on the walls, at the portraits.

The pictures, oil-paintings in gold frames, were views of the Crimea--a

stormy sea with a ship, a Catholic monk with a wineglass; they were all

dull, smooth daubs, with no trace of talent in them. There was not a

single good-looking face among the portraits, nothing but broad

cheekbones and astonished-looking eyes. Lyalikov, Liza's father, had a

low forehead and a self-satisfied expression; his uniform sat like a

sack on his bulky plebeian figure; on his breast was a medal and a Red

Cross Badge. There was little sign of culture, and the luxury was

senseless and haphazard, and was as ill fitting as that uniform. The

floors irritated him with their brilliant polish, the lustres on the

chandelier irritated him, and he was reminded for some reason of the

story of the merchant who used to go to the baths with a medal on his

neck....

He heard a whispering in the entry; some one was softly snoring. And

suddenly from outside came harsh, abrupt, metallic sounds, such as

Korolyov had never heard before, and which he did not understand now;

they roused strange, unpleasant echoes in his soul.

"I believe nothing would induce me to remain here to live ..." he

thought, and went back to the music-books again.

"Doctor, please come to supper!" the governess called him in a low

voice.

He went into supper. The table was large and laid with a vast number of

dishes and wines, but there were only two to supper: himself and

Christina Dmitryevna. She drank Madeira, ate rapidly, and talked,

looking at him through her pince-nez:

"Our workpeople are very contented. We have performances at the factory

every winter; the workpeople act themselves. They have lectures with a

magic lantern, a splendid tea-room, and everything they want. They are

very much attached to us, and when they heard that Lizanka was worse

they had a service sung for her. Though they have no education, they

have their feelings, too."

"It looks as though you have no man in the house at all," said Korolyov.

"Not one. Pyotr Nikanoritch died a year and a half ago, and left us

alone. And so there are the three of us. In the summer we live here, and

in winter we live in Moscow, in Polianka. I have been living with them

for eleven years--as one of the family."

At supper they served sterlet, chicken rissoles, and stewed fruit; the

wines were expensive French wines.

"Please don't stand on ceremony, doctor," said Christina Dmitryevna,

eating and wiping her mouth with her fist, and it was evident she found

her life here exceedingly pleasant. "Please have some more."

After supper the doctor was shown to his room, where a bed had been made

up for him, but he did not feel sleepy. The room was stuffy and it smelt

of paint; he put on his coat and went out.

It was cool in the open air; there was already a glimmer of dawn, and

all the five blocks of buildings, with their tall chimneys, barracks,

and warehouses, were distinctly outlined against the damp air. As it was

a holiday, they were not working, and the windows were dark, and in only

one of the buildings was there a furnace burning; two windows were

crimson, and fire mixed with smoke came from time to time from the

chimney. Far away beyond the yard the frogs were croaking and the

nightingales singing.

Looking at the factory buildings and the barracks, where the workpeople

were asleep, he thought again what he always thought when he saw a

factory. They may have performances for the workpeople, magic lanterns,

factory doctors, and improvements of all sorts, but, all the same, the

workpeople he had met that day on his way from the station did not look

in any way different from those he had known long ago in his childhood,

before there were factory performances and improvements. As a doctor

accustomed to judging correctly of chronic complaints, the radical cause

of which was incomprehensible and incurable, he looked upon factories as

something baffling, the cause of which also was obscure and not

removable, and all the improvements in the life of the factory hands he

looked upon not as superfluous, but as comparable with the treatment of

incurable illnesses.

"There is something baffling in it, of course ..." he thought, looking

at the crimson windows. "Fifteen hundred or two thousand workpeople are

working without rest in unhealthy surroundings, making bad cotton goods,

living on the verge of starvation, and only waking from this nightmare

at rare intervals in the tavern; a hundred people act as overseers, and

the whole life of that hundred is spent in imposing fines, in abuse, in

injustice, and only two or three so-called owners enjoy the profits,

though they don't work at all, and despise the wretched cotton. But what

are the profits, and how do they enjoy them? Madame Lyalikov and her

daughter are unhappy--it makes one wretched to look at them; the only

one who enjoys her life is Christina Dmitryevna, a stupid, middle-aged

maiden lady in pince-nez. And so it appears that all these five blocks

of buildings are at work, and inferior cotton is sold in the Eastern

markets, simply that Christina Dmitryevna may eat sterlet and drink

Madeira."

Suddenly there came a strange noise, the same sound Korolyov had heard

before supper. Some one was striking on a sheet of metal near one of the

buildings; he struck a note, and then at once checked the vibrations, so

that short, abrupt, discordant sounds were produced, rather like "Dair

... dair ... dair...." Then there was half a minute of stillness, and

from another building there came sounds equally abrupt and unpleasant,

lower bass notes: "Drin ... drin ... drin ..." Eleven times. Evidently

it was the watchman striking the hour. Near the third building he heard:

"Zhuk ... zhuk ... zhuk...." And so near all the buildings, and then

behind the barracks and beyond the gates. And in the stillness of the

night it seemed as though these sounds were uttered by a monster with

crimson eyes--the devil himself, who controlled the owners and the

work-people alike, and was deceiving both.

Korolyov went out of the yard into the open country.

"Who goes there?" some one called to him at the gates in an abrupt

voice.

"It's just like being in prison," he thought, and made no answer.

Here the nightingales and the frogs could be heard more distinctly, and

one could feel it was a night in May. From the station came the noise of

a train; somewhere in the distance drowsy cocks were crowing; but, all

the same, the night was still, the world was sleeping tranquilly. In a

field not far from the factory there could be seen the framework of a

house and heaps of building material.

Korolyov sat down on the planks and went on thinking.

"The only person who feels happy here is the governess, and the factory

hands are working for her gratification. But that's only apparent: she

is only the figurehead. The real person, for whom everything is being

done, is the devil."

And he thought about the devil, in whom he did not believe, and he

looked round at the two windows where the fires were gleaming. It seemed

to him that out of those crimson eyes the devil himself was looking at

him--that unknown force that had created the mutual relation of the

strong and the weak, that coarse blunder which one could never correct.

The strong must hinder the weak from living--such was the law of

Nature; but only in a newspaper article or in a school book was that

intelligible and easily accepted. In the hotchpotch which was everyday

life, in the tangle of trivialities out of which human relations were

woven, it was no longer a law, but a logical absurdity, when the strong

and the weak were both equally victims of their mutual relations,

unwillingly submitting to some directing force, unknown, standing

outside life, apart from man.

So thought Korolyov, sitting on the planks, and little by little he was

possessed by a feeling that this unknown and mysterious force was really

close by and looking at him. Meanwhile the east was growing paler, time

passed rapidly; when there was not a soul anywhere near, as though

everything were dead, the five buildings and their chimneys against the

grey background of the dawn had a peculiar look--not the same as by day;

one forgot altogether that inside there were steam motors, electricity,

telephones, and kept thinking of lake-dwellings, of the Stone Age,

feeling the presence of a crude, unconscious force....

And again there came the sound: "Dair ... dair ... dair ... dair ..."

twelve times. Then there was stillness, stillness for half a minute, and

at the other end of the yard there rang out.

"Drin ... drin ... drin...."

"Horribly disagreeable," thought Korolyov.

"Zhuk ... zhuk ..." there resounded from a third place, abruptly,

sharply, as though with annoyance--"Zhuk ... zhuk...."

And it took four minutes to strike twelve. Then there was a hush; and

again it seemed as though everything were dead.

Korolyov sat a little longer, then went to the house, but sat up for a

good while longer. In the adjoining rooms there was whispering, there

was a sound of shuffling slippers and bare feet.

"Is she having another attack?" thought Korolyov.

He went out to have a look at the patient. By now it was quite light in

the rooms, and a faint glimmer of sunlight, piercing through the morning

mist, quivered on the floor and on the wall of the drawing-room. The

door of Liza's room was open, and she was sitting in a low chair beside

her bed, with her hair down, wearing a dressing-gown and wrapped in a

shawl. The blinds were down on the windows.

"How do you feel?" asked Korolyov.

"Well, thank you."

He touched her pulse, then straightened her hair, that had fallen over

her forehead.

"You are not asleep," he said. "It's beautiful weather outside. It's

spring. The nightingales are singing, and you sit in the dark and think

of something."

She listened and looked into his face; her eyes were sorrowful and

intelligent, and it was evident she wanted to say something to him.

"Does this happen to you often?" he said.

She moved her lips, and answered:

"Often, I feel wretched almost every night."

At that moment the watchman in the yard began striking two o'clock. They

heard: "Dair ... dair ..." and she shuddered.

"Do those knockings worry you?" he asked.

"I don't know. Everything here worries me," she answered, and pondered.

"Everything worries me. I hear sympathy in your voice; it seemed to me

as soon as I saw you that I could tell you all about it."

"Tell me, I beg you."

"I want to tell you of my opinion. It seems to me that I have no

illness, but that I am weary and frightened, because it is bound to be

so and cannot be otherwise. Even the healthiest person can't help being

uneasy if, for instance, a robber is moving about under his window. I am

constantly being doctored," she went on, looking at her knees, and she

gave a shy smile. "I am very grateful, of course, and I do not deny that

the treatment is a benefit; but I should like to talk, not with a

doctor, but with some intimate friend who would understand me and would

convince me that I was right or wrong."

"Have you no friends?" asked Korolyov.

"I am lonely. I have a mother; I love her, but, all the same, I am

lonely. That's how it happens to be.... Lonely people read a great deal,

but say little and hear little. Life for them is mysterious; they are

mystics and often see the devil where he is not. Lermontov's Tamara was

lonely and she saw the devil."

"Do you read a great deal?"

"Yes. You see, my whole time is free from morning till night. I read by

day, and by night my head is empty; instead of thoughts there are

shadows in it."

"Do you see anything at night?" asked Korolyov.

"No, but I feel...."

She smiled again, raised her eyes to the doctor, and looked at him so

sorrowfully, so intelligently; and it seemed to him that she trusted

him, and that she wanted to speak frankly to him, and that she thought

the same as he did. But she was silent, perhaps waiting for him to

speak.

And he knew what to say to her. It was clear to him that she needed as

quickly as possible to give up the five buildings and the million if she

had it--to leave that devil that looked out at night; it was clear to

him, too, that she thought so herself, and was only waiting for some one

she trusted to confirm her.

But he did not know how to say it. How? One is shy of asking men under

sentence what they have been sentenced for; and in the same way it is

awkward to ask very rich people what they want so much money for, why

they make such a poor use of their wealth, why they don't give it up,

even when they see in it their unhappiness; and if they begin a

conversation about it themselves, it is usually embarrassing, awkward,

and long.

"How is one to say it?" Korolyov wondered. "And is it necessary to

speak?"

And he said what he meant in a roundabout way:

"You in the position of a factory owner and a wealthy heiress are

dissatisfied; you don't believe in your right to it; and here now you

can't sleep. That, of course, is better than if you were satisfied,

slept soundly, and thought everything was satisfactory. Your

sleeplessness does you credit; in any case, it is a good sign. In

reality, such a conversation as this between us now would have been

unthinkable for our parents. At night they did not talk, but slept

sound; we, our generation, sleep badly, are restless, but talk a great

deal, and are always trying to settle whether we are right or not. For

our children or grandchildren that question--whether they are right or

not--will have been settled. Things will be clearer for them than for

us. Life will be good in fifty years' time; it's only a pity we shall

not last out till then. It would be interesting to have a peep at it."

"What will our children and grandchildren do?" asked Liza.

"I don't know.... I suppose they will throw it all up and go away."

"Go where?"

"Where?... Why, where they like," said Korolyov; and he laughed. "There

are lots of places a good, intelligent person can go to."

He glanced at his watch.

"The sun has risen, though," he said. "It is time you were asleep.

Undress and sleep soundly. Very glad to have made your acquaintance," he

went on, pressing her hand. "You are a good, interesting woman.

Good-night!"

He went to his room and went to bed.

In the morning when the carriage was brought round they all came out on

to the steps to see him off. Liza, pale and exhausted, was in a white

dress as though for a holiday, with a flower in her hair; she looked at

him, as yesterday, sorrowfully and intelligently, smiled and talked, and

all with an expression as though she wanted to tell him something

special, important--him alone. They could hear the larks trilling and

the church bells pealing. The windows in the factory buildings were

sparkling gaily, and, driving across the yard and afterwards along the

road to the station, Korolyov thought neither of the workpeople nor of

lake dwellings, nor of the devil, but thought of the time, perhaps close

at hand, when life would be as bright and joyous as that still Sunday

morning; and he thought how pleasant it was on such a morning in the

spring to drive with three horses in a good carriage, and to bask in the

sunshine.