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.
V
MY NEIGHBOUR RADILOV
For the autumn, woodcocks often take refuge in old gardens of lime - trees. There are a good many such gardens among us, in the province of Orel. Our forefathers, when they selected a place for habitation, invariably marked out two acres of good ground for a fruit - garden, with avenues of lime - trees. Within the last fifty, or seventy years at most, these mansions — ’noblemen’s nests,’ as they call them — have gradually disappeared off the face of the earth; the houses are falling to pieces, or have been sold for the building materials; the stone outhouses have become piles of rubbish; the apple - trees are dead and turned into firewood, the hedges and fences are pulled up. Only the lime - trees grow in all their glory as before, and with ploughed fields all round them, tell a tale to this light - hearted generation of ‘our fathers and brothers who have lived before us.’
A magnificent tree is such an old lime - tree…. Even the merciless axe of the Russian peasant spares it. Its leaves are small, its powerful limbs spread wide in all directions; there is perpetual shade under them.
Once, as I was wandering about the fields after partridges with Yermolaï, I saw some way off a deserted garden, and turned into it. I had hardly crossed its borders when a snipe rose up out of a bush with a clatter. I fired my gun, and at the same instant, a few paces from me, I heard a shriek; the frightened face of a young girl peeped out for a second from behind the trees, and instantly disappeared. Yermolaï ran up to me: ‘Why are you shooting here? there is a landowner living here.’
Before I had time to answer him, before my dog had had time to bring me, with dignified importance, the bird I had shot, swift footsteps were heard, and a tall man with moustaches came out of the thicket and stopped, with an air of displeasure, before me. I made my apologies as best I could, gave him my name, and offered him the bird that had been killed on his domains.
‘Very well,’ he said to me with a smile; ‘I will take your game, but only on one condition: that you will stay and dine with us.’
I must confess I was not greatly delighted at his proposition, but it was impossible to refuse.
‘I am a landowner here, and your neighbour, Radilov; perhaps you have heard of me?’ continued my new acquaintance; ‘to - day is Sunday, and we shall be sure to have a decent dinner, otherwise I would not have invited you.’
I made such a reply as one does make in such circumstances, and turned to follow him. A little path that had lately been cleared soon led us out of the grove of lime - trees; we came into the kitchen - garden. Between the old apple - trees and gooseberry bushes were rows of curly whitish - green cabbages; the hop twined its tendrils round high poles; there were thick ranks of brown twigs tangled over with dried peas; large flat pumpkins seemed rolling on the ground; cucumbers showed yellow under their dusty angular leaves; tall nettles were waving along the hedge; in two or three places grew clumps of tartar honeysuckle, elder, and wild rose — the remnants of former flower - beds. Near a small fish - pond, full of reddish and slimy water, we saw the well, surrounded by puddles. Ducks were busily splashing and waddling about these puddles; a dog blinking and twitching in every limb was gnawing a bone in the meadow, where a piebald cow was lazily chewing the grass, from time to time flicking its tail over its lean back. The little path turned to one side; from behind thick willows and birches we caught sight of a little grey old house, with a boarded roof and a winding flight of steps. Radilov stopped short.
‘But,’ he said, with a good - humoured and direct look in my face,’ on second thoughts … perhaps you don’t care to come and see me, after all…. In that case — ’
I did not allow him to finish, but assured him that, on the contrary, it would be a great pleasure to me to dine with him.
‘Well, you know best.’
We went into the house. A young man in a long coat of stout blue cloth met us on the steps. Radilov at once told him to bring Yermolaï some vodka; my huntsman made a respectful bow to the back of the munificent host. From the hall, which was decorated with various parti - coloured pictures and check curtains, we went into a small room — Radilov’s study. I took off my hunting accoutrements, and put my gun in a corner; the young man in the long - skirted coat busily brushed me down.
‘Well, now, let us go into the drawing - room.’ said Radilov cordially.
‘I will make you acquainted with my mother.’
I walked after him. In the drawing - room, in the sofa in the centre of the room, was sitting an old lady of medium height, in a cinnamon - coloured dress and a white cap, with a thinnish, kind old face, and a timid, mournful expression.
‘Here, mother, let me introduce to you our neighbour….’
The old lady got up and made me a bow, not letting go out of her withered hands a fat worsted reticule that looked like a sack.
‘Have you been long in our neighbourhood?’ she asked, in a weak and gentle voice, blinking her eyes.
‘No, not long.’
‘Do you intend to remain here long?’
‘Till the winter, I think.’
The old lady said no more.
‘And here,’ interposed Radilov, indicating to me a tall and thin man, whom I had not noticed on entering the drawing - room, ‘is Fyodor Miheitch. … Come, Fedya, give the visitor a specimen of you
r art. Why have you hidden yourself away in that corner?’
Fyodor Miheitch got up at once from his chair, fetched a wretched little fiddle from the window, took the bow — not by the end, as is usual, but by the middle — put the fiddle to his chest, shut his eyes, and fell to dancing, singing a song, and scraping on the strings. He looked about seventy; a thin nankin overcoat flapped pathetically about his dry and bony limbs. He danced, at times skipping boldly, and then dropping his little bald head with his scraggy neck stretched out as if he were dying, stamping his feet on the ground, and sometimes bending his knees with obvious difficulty. A voice cracked with age came from his toothless mouth.
Radilov must have guessed from the expression of my face that Fedya’s ‘art’ did not give me much pleasure.
‘Very good, old man, that’s enough,’ he said. ‘You can go and refresh yourself.’
Fyodor Miheitch at once laid down the fiddle on the window - sill, bowed first to me as the guest, then to the old lady, then to Radilov, and went away.
Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) Page 198