Bab Bab 4 · The District Doctor

THE DISTRICT DOCTOR

One day in autumn on my way back from a remote part of the country I

caught cold and fell ill. Fortunately the fever attacked me in the

district town at the inn; I sent for the doctor. In half-an-hour the

district doctor appeared, a thin, dark-haired man of middle height. He

prescribed me the usual sudorific, ordered a mustard-plaster to be put

on, very deftly slid a five-rouble note up his sleeve, coughing drily

and looking away as he did so, and then was getting up to go home, but

somehow fell into talk and remained. I was exhausted with feverishness;

I foresaw a sleepless night, and was glad of a little chat with a

pleasant companion. Tea was served. My doctor began to converse freely.

He was a sensible fellow, and expressed himself with vigour and some

humour. Queer things happen in the world: you may live a long while

with some people, and be on friendly terms with them, and never once

speak openly with them from your soul; with others you have scarcely

time to get acquainted, and all at once you are pouring out to him--or

he to you--all your secrets, as though you were at confession. I don't

know how I gained the confidence of my new friend--any way, with

nothing to lead up to it, he told me a rather curious incident; and

here I will report his tale for the information of the indulgent

reader. I will try to tell it in the doctor's own words.

'You don't happen to know,' he began in a weak and quavering voice (the

common result of the use of unmixed Berezov snuff); 'you don't happen

to know the judge here, Mylov, Pavel Lukitch?... You don't know him?...

Well, it's all the same.' (He cleared his throat and rubbed his eyes.)

'Well, you see, the thing happened, to tell you exactly without

mistake, in Lent, at the very time of the thaws. I was sitting at his

house--our judge's, you know--playing preference. Our judge is a good

fellow, and fond of playing preference. Suddenly' (the doctor made

frequent use of this word, suddenly) 'they tell me, "There's a servant

asking for you." I say, "What does he want?" They say, "He has brought

a note--it must be from a patient." "Give me the note," I say. So it is

from a patient--well and good--you understand--it's our bread and

butter. ... But this is how it was: a lady, a widow, writes to me; she

says, "My daughter is dying. Come, for God's sake!" she says; "and the

horses have been sent for you." ... Well, that's all right. But she was

twenty miles from the town, and it was midnight out of doors, and the

roads in such a state, my word! And as she was poor herself, one could

not expect more than two silver roubles, and even that problematic; and

perhaps it might only be a matter of a roll of linen and a sack of

oatmeal in payment. However, duty, you know, before everything: a

fellow-creature may be dying. I hand over my cards at once to

Kalliopin, the member of the provincial commission, and return home. I

look; a wretched little trap was standing at the steps, with peasant's

horses, fat--too fat--and their coat as shaggy as felt; and the

coachman sitting with his cap off out of respect. Well, I think to

myself, "It's clear, my friend, these patients aren't rolling in

riches." ... You smile; but I tell you, a poor man like me has to take

everything into consideration.... If the coachman sits like a prince,

and doesn't touch his cap, and even sneers at you behind his beard, and

flicks his whip--then you may bet on six roubles. But this case, I saw,

had a very different air. However, I think there's no help for it; duty

before everything. I snatch up the most necessary drugs, and set off.

Will you believe it? I only just managed to get there at all. The road

was infernal: streams, snow, watercourses, and the dyke had suddenly

burst there--that was the worst of it! However, I arrived at last. It

was a little thatched house. There was a light in the windows; that

meant they expected me. I was met by an old lady, very venerable, in a

cap. "Save her!" she says; "she is dying." I say, "Pray don't distress

yourself--Where is the invalid?" "Come this way." I see a clean little

room, a lamp in the corner; on the bed a girl of twenty, unconscious.

She was in a burning heat, and breathing heavily--it was fever. There

were two other girls, her sisters, scared and in tears. "Yesterday,"

they tell me, "she was perfectly well and had a good appetite; this

morning she complained of her head, and this evening, suddenly, you

see, like this." I say again: "Pray don't be uneasy." It's a doctor's

duty, you know--and I went up to her and bled her, told them to put on

a mustard-plaster, and prescribed a mixture. Meantime I looked at her;

I looked at her, you know--there, by God! I had never seen such a

face!--she was a beauty, in a word! I felt quite shaken with pity. Such

lovely features; such eyes!... But, thank God! she became easier; she

fell into a perspiration, seemed to come to her senses, looked round,

smiled, and passed her hand over her face.... Her sisters bent over

her. They ask, "How are you?" "All right," she says, and turns away. I

looked at her; she had fallen asleep. "Well," I say, "now the patient

should be left alone." So we all went out on tiptoe; only a maid

remained, in case she was wanted. In the parlour there was a samovar

standing on the table, and a bottle of rum; in our profession one can't

get on without it. They gave me tea; asked me to stop the night. ... I

consented: where could I go, indeed, at that time of night? The old

lady kept groaning. "What is it?" I say; "she will live; don't worry

yourself; you had better take a little rest yourself; it is about two

o'clock." "But will you send to wake me if anything happens?" "Yes,

yes." The old lady went away, and the girls too went to their own room;

they made up a bed for me in the parlour. Well, I went to bed--but I

could not get to sleep, for a wonder! for in reality I was very tired.

I could not get my patient out of my head. At last I could not put up

with it any longer; I got up suddenly; I think to myself, "I will go

and see how the patient is getting on." Her bedroom was next to the

parlour. Well, I got up, and gently opened the door--how my heart beat!

I looked in: the servant was asleep, her mouth wide open, and even

snoring, the wretch! but the patient lay with her face towards me, and

her arms flung wide apart, poor girl! I went up to her ... when

suddenly she opened her eyes and stared at me! "Who is it? who is it?"

I was in confusion. "Don't be alarmed, madam," I say; "I am the doctor;

I have come to see how you feel." "You the doctor?" "Yes, the doctor;

your mother sent for me from the town; we have bled you, madam; now

pray go to sleep, and in a day or two, please God! we will set you on

your feet again." "Ah, yes, yes, doctor, don't let me die.... please,

please." "Why do you talk like that? God bless you!" She is in a fever

again, I think to myself; I felt her pulse; yes, she was feverish. She

looked at me, and then took me by the hand. "I will tell you why I

don't want to die; I will tell you.... Now we are alone; and only,

please don't you ... not to anyone ... Listen...." I bent down; she

moved her lips quite to my ear; she touched my cheek with her hair--I

confess my head went round--and began to whisper.... I could make out

nothing of it.... Ah, she was delirious!... She whispered and

whispered, but so quickly, and as if it were not in Russian; at last

she finished, and shivering dropped her head on the pillow, and

threatened me with her finger: "Remember, doctor, to no one." I calmed

her somehow, gave her something to drink, waked the servant, and went

away.'

At this point the doctor again took snuff with exasperated energy, and

for a moment seemed stupefied by its effects.

'However,' he continued, 'the next day, contrary to my expectations,

the patient was no better. I thought and thought, and suddenly decided

to remain there, even though my other patients were expecting me....

And you know one can't afford to disregard that; one's practice suffers

if one does. But, in the first place, the patient was really in danger;

and secondly, to tell the truth, I felt strongly drawn to her. Besides,

I liked the whole family. Though they were really badly off, they were

singularly, I may say, cultivated people.... Their father had been a

learned man, an author; he died, of course, in poverty, but he had

managed before he died to give his children an excellent education; he

left a lot of books too. Either because I looked after the invalid very

carefully, or for some other reason; any way, I can venture to say all

the household loved me as if I were one of the family.... Meantime the

roads were in a worse state than ever; all communications, so to say,

were cut off completely; even medicine could with difficulty be got

from the town.... The sick girl was not getting better. ... Day after

day, and day after day ... but ... here....' (The doctor made a brief

pause.) 'I declare I don't know how to tell you.' ... (He again took

snuff, coughed, and swallowed a little tea.) 'I will tell you without

beating about the bush. My patient ... how should I say?... Well, she

had fallen in love with me ... or, no, it was not that she was in love

... however ... really, how should one say?' (The doctor looked down

and grew red.) 'No,' he went on quickly, 'in love, indeed! A man should

not over-estimate himself. She was an educated girl, clever and

well-read, and I had even forgotten my Latin, one may say, completely.

As to appearance' (the doctor looked himself over with a smile) 'I am

nothing to boast of there either. But God Almighty did not make me a

fool; I don't take black for white; I know a thing or two; I could see

very clearly, for instance, that Alexandra Andreevna--that was her

name--did not feel love for me, but had a friendly, so to say,

inclination--a respect or something for me. Though she herself perhaps

mistook this sentiment, any way this was her attitude; you may form

your own judgment of it. But,' added the doctor, who had brought out

all these disconnected sentences without taking breath, and with

obvious embarrassment, 'I seem to be wandering rather--you won't

understand anything like this.... There, with your leave, I will relate

it all in order.'

He drank off a glass of tea, and began in a calmer voice.

'Well, then. My patient kept getting worse and worse. You are not a

doctor, my good sir; you cannot understand what passes in a poor

fellow's heart, especially at first, when he begins to suspect that the

disease is getting the upper hand of him. What becomes of his belief in

himself? You suddenly grow so timid; it's indescribable. You fancy then

that you have forgotten everything you knew, and that the patient has

no faith in you, and that other people begin to notice how distracted

you are, and tell you the symptoms with reluctance; that they are

looking at you suspiciously, whispering.... Ah! it's horrid! There must

be a remedy, you think, for this disease, if one could find it. Isn't

this it? You try--no, that's not it! You don't allow the medicine the

necessary time to do good.... You clutch at one thing, then at another.

Sometimes you take up a book of medical prescriptions--here it is, you

think! Sometimes, by Jove, you pick one out by chance, thinking to

leave it to fate.... But meantime a fellow-creature's dying, and

another doctor would have saved him. "We must have a consultation," you

say; "I will not take the responsibility on myself." And what a fool

you look at such times! Well, in time you learn to bear it; it's

nothing to you. A man has died--but it's not your fault; you treated

him by the rules. But what's still more torture to you is to see blind

faith in you, and to feel yourself that you are not able to be of use.

Well, it was just this blind faith that the whole of Alexandra

Andreevna's family had in me; they had forgotten to think that their

daughter was in danger. I, too, on my side assure them that it's

nothing, but meantime my heart sinks into my boots. To add to our

troubles, the roads were in such a state that the coachman was gone for

whole days together to get medicine. And I never left the patient's

room; I could not tear myself away; I tell her amusing stories, you

know, and play cards with her. I watch by her side at night. The old

mother thanks me with tears in her eyes; but I think to myself, "I

don't deserve your gratitude." I frankly confess to you--there is no

object in concealing it now--I was in love with my patient. And

Alexandra Andreevna had grown fond of me; she would not sometimes let

anyone be in her room but me. She began to talk to me, to ask me

questions; where I had studied, how I lived, who are my people, whom I

go to see. I feel that she ought not to talk; but to forbid her to--to

forbid her resolutely, you know--I could not. Sometimes I held my head

in my hands, and asked myself, "What are you doing, villain?" ... And

she would take my hand and hold it, give me a long, long look, and turn

away, sigh, and say, "How good you are!" Her hands were so feverish,

her eyes so large and languid.... "Yes," she says, "you are a good,

kind man; you are not like our neighbours.... No, you are not like

that. ... Why did I not know you till now!" "Alexandra Andreevna, calm

yourself," I say.... "I feel, believe me, I don't know how I have

gained ... but there, calm yourself.... All will be right; you will be

well again." And meanwhile I must tell you,' continued the doctor,

bending forward and raising his eyebrows, 'that they associated very

little with the neighbours, because the smaller people were not on

their level, and pride hindered them from being friendly with the rich.

I tell you, they were an exceptionally cultivated family; so you know

it was gratifying for me. She would only take her medicine from my

hands ... she would lift herself up, poor girl, with my aid, take it,

and gaze at me.... My heart felt as if it were bursting. And meanwhile

she was growing worse and worse, worse and worse, all the time; she

will die, I think to myself; she must die. Believe me, I would sooner

have gone to the grave myself; and here were her mother and sisters

watching me, looking into my eyes ... and their faith in me was wearing

away. "Well? how is she?" "Oh, all right, all right!" All right,

indeed! My mind was failing me. Well, I was sitting one night alone

again by my patient. The maid was sitting there too, and snoring away

in full swing; I can't find fault with the poor girl, though; she was

worn out too. Alexandra Andreevna had felt very unwell all the evening;

she was very feverish. Until midnight she kept tossing about; at last

she seemed to fall asleep; at least, she lay still without stirring.

The lamp was burning in the corner before the holy image. I sat there,

you know, with my head bent; I even dozed a little. Suddenly it seemed

as though someone touched me in the side; I turned round.... Good God!

Alexandra Andreevna was gazing with intent eyes at me ... her lips

parted, her cheeks seemed burning. "What is it?" "Doctor, shall I die?"

"Merciful Heavens!" "No, doctor, no; please don't tell me I shall live

... don't say so.... If you knew.... Listen! for God's sake don't

conceal my real position," and her breath came so fast. "If I can know

for certain that I must die ... then I will tell you all--all!"

"Alexandra Andreevna, I beg!" "Listen; I have not been asleep at all

... I have been looking at you a long while.... For God's sake! ... I

believe in you; you are a good man, an honest man; I entreat you by all

that is sacred in the world--tell me the truth! If you knew how

important it is for me.... Doctor, for God's sake tell me.... Am I in

danger?" "What can I tell you, Alexandra Andreevna, pray?" "For God's

sake, I beseech you!" "I can't disguise from you," I say, "Alexandra

Andreevna; you are certainly in danger; but God is merciful." "I shall

die, I shall die." And it seemed as though she were pleased; her face

grew so bright; I was alarmed. "Don't be afraid, don't be afraid! I am

not frightened of death at all." She suddenly sat up and leaned on her

elbow. "Now ... yes, now I can tell you that I thank you with my whole

heart ... that you are kind and good--that I love you!" I stare at her,

like one possessed; it was terrible for me, you know. "Do you hear, I

love you!" "Alexandra Andreevna, how have I deserved--" "No, no, you

don't--you don't understand me." ... And suddenly she stretched out her

arms, and taking my head in her hands, she kissed it.... Believe me, I

almost screamed aloud.... I threw myself on my knees, and buried my

head in the pillow. She did not speak; her fingers trembled in my hair;

I listen; she is weeping. I began to soothe her, to assure her.... I

really don't know what I did say to her. "You will wake up the girl," I

say to her; "Alexandra Andreevna, I thank you ... believe me ... calm

yourself." "Enough, enough!" she persisted; "never mind all of them;

let them wake, then; let them come in--it does not matter; I am dying,

you see.... And what do you fear? why are you afraid? Lift up your

head.... Or, perhaps, you don't love me; perhaps I am wrong.... In that

case, forgive me." "Alexandra Andreevna, what are you saying!... I love

you, Alexandra Andreevna." She looked straight into my eyes, and opened

her arms wide. "Then take me in your arms." I tell you frankly, I don't

know how it was I did not go mad that night. I feel that my patient is

killing herself; I see that she is not fully herself; I understand,

too, that if she did not consider herself on the point of death, she

would never have thought of me; and, indeed, say what you will, it's

hard to die at twenty without having known love; this was what was

torturing her; this was why, in despair, she caught at me--do you

understand now? But she held me in her arms, and would not let me go.

"Have pity on me, Alexandra Andreevna, and have pity on yourself," I

say. "Why," she says; "what is there to think of? You know I must die."

... This she repeated incessantly.... "If I knew that I should return

to life, and be a proper young lady again, I should be ashamed ... of

course, ashamed ... but why now?" "But who has said you will die?" "Oh,

no, leave off! you will not deceive me; you don't know how to lie--look

at your face." ... "You shall live, Alexandra Andreevna; I will cure

you; we will ask your mother's blessing ... we will be united--we will

be happy." "No, no, I have your word; I must die ... you have promised

me ... you have told me." ... It was cruel for me--cruel for many

reasons. And see what trifling things can do sometimes; it seems

nothing at all, but it's painful. It occurred to her to ask me, what is

my name; not my surname, but my first name. I must needs be so unlucky

as to be called Trifon. Yes, indeed; Trifon Ivanitch. Every one in the

house called me doctor. However, there's no help for it. I say,

"Trifon, madam." She frowned, shook her head, and muttered something in

French--ah, something unpleasant, of course!--and then she

laughed--disagreeably too. Well, I spent the whole night with her in

this way. Before morning I went away, feeling as though I were mad.

When I went again into her room it was daytime, after morning tea. Good

God! I could scarcely recognise her; people are laid in their grave

looking better than that. I swear to you, on my honour, I don't

understand--I absolutely don't understand--now, how I lived through

that experience. Three days and nights my patient still lingered on.

And what nights! What things she said to me! And on the last

night--only imagine to yourself--I was sitting near her, and kept

praying to God for one thing only: "Take her," I said, "quickly, and me

with her." Suddenly the old mother comes unexpectedly into the room. I

had already the evening before told her--the mother--there was little

hope, and it would be well to send for a priest. When the sick girl saw

her mother she said: "It's very well you have come; look at us, we love

one another--we have given each other our word." "What does she say,

doctor? what does she say?" I turned livid. "She is wandering," I say;

"the fever." But she: "Hush, hush; you told me something quite

different just now, and have taken my ring. Why do you pretend? My

mother is good--she will forgive--she will understand--and I am

dying.... I have no need to tell lies; give me your hand." I jumped up

and ran out of the room. The old lady, of course, guessed how it was.

'I will not, however, weary you any longer, and to me too, of course,

it's painful to recall all this. My patient passed away the next day.

God rest her soul!' the doctor added, speaking quickly and with a sigh.

'Before her death she asked her family to go out and leave me alone

with her.'

'"Forgive me," she said; "I am perhaps to blame towards you ... my

illness ... but believe me, I have loved no one more than you ... do

not forget me ... keep my ring."'

The doctor turned away; I took his hand.

'Ah!' he said, 'let us talk of something else, or would you care to

play preference for a small stake? It is not for people like me to give

way to exalted emotions. There's only one thing for me to think of; how

to keep the children from crying and the wife from scolding. Since

then, you know, I have had time to enter into lawful wed-lock, as they

say.... Oh ... I took a merchant's daughter--seven thousand for her

dowry. Her name's Akulina; it goes well with Trifon. She is an

ill-tempered woman, I must tell you, but luckily she's asleep all

day.... Well, shall it be preference?'

We sat down to preference for halfpenny points. Trifon Ivanitch won two

roubles and a half from me, and went home late, well pleased with his

success.