Sketches from a Hunter's Album (8 page)

‘Eh, is it Vlas?' cried out Foggy, peering at him. ‘Good to see you, brother. Where's God brought you from?'

‘Good to see you, too, Mikhaylo Savelyich,' said the peasant, coming up to us. ‘A long way off.'

‘Where's that?' Foggy asked him.

‘I been off to Moscow to see the master.'

‘Why's that?'

‘To ask 'im somethin'.'

‘Ask 'im what?'

‘Ask 'im so as I'd pay less rent or did unpaid labour, you know, or got resettled… My boy died, see. So it's hard for me on my own to get by.'

‘Your son's dead?'

‘Dead. My dead boy,' the peasant added after a pause, ‘was a cabbie in Moscow. He used to pay my rent, see.'

‘Are you really on quit-rent now?'

‘I am.'

‘What did your master say?'

‘What did he say? He drove me away, he did. He said, how'd you
dare come straight to me? I've got a bailiff, you gotta see 'im first, he says. And where'd I resettle you anyhow? You gotta pay off what you owes me first, he says. Blew up, he did.'

‘Well, so you came back here?'

‘Back here. I wanted to know, you know, whether my dead boy'd left any things behind 'im, but I couldn't get no sense out of 'em. I said to ‘is boss: “I'm Philip's father,” and he says to me: “How'm I to know that? Anyhow your son didn't leave nothin'. He was owin' me money.” So I came back here.'

The peasant recounted all this with a slight tone of mockery, as if none of it applied to himself, but tears stood in his small, shrunken eyes and his lips quivered.

‘So you're off home now, are you?'

‘Where else? 'Course I'm goin' home. The wife'll be blowing in 'er fist from hunger, she will.'

‘You oughter…' Stepushka suddenly started to say, got mixed up, fell silent and began poking around in the jug of worms.

‘You'll be seein' the bailiff then?' Foggy went on, glancing at Steve with some surprise.

‘What'd I go to 'im for? I'm owin', it's true. Before he died my boy'd been sick for a year and didn't pay no quit-rent for 'imself… I'm not worryin' about that, 'cos I got nothin' myself anyhow… It won't matter how clever you are, brother, you'll waste your time 'cos I got nothin', not a hair on my head!' The peasant roared with laughter. ‘No matter what he thinks up, that Kintilyan Semyonych…' And Vlas burst out laughing again.

‘What's that? That's real bad, brother Vlas,' Foggy announced, pausing between the words.

‘What's real bad about it? It's not…' But Vlas's voice broke at that point. ‘Oh, it's bloody hot,' he went on, wiping his face with his sleeve.

‘Who's your master?' I asked.

‘Count—, Valerian Petrovich.'

‘Pyotr Ilyich's son?'

‘Pyotr Ilyich's son,' said Foggy. ‘Pyotr Ilyich, the late Count, gave 'im Vlas's village while he was still alive.'

‘Is he well?'

‘He's well, thank God,' Vlas answered. ‘Gone all red, fat-faced, he has.'

‘You see, sir,' Foggy continued, turning to me, ‘it'd be all right like if it were outside Moscow, but it's right here he's on quit-rent.'

‘How much?'

‘Ninety-five roubles,' mumbled Vlas.

‘Well, you can see for yourself, can't you – just a little bit o' land and all the rest's the master's woodland.'

‘And that's been sold, they say,' remarked the peasant.

‘Well, you can see for yourself… Give us a worm, Steve… Hey, Steve, what's up? Gone to sleep, ‘ave you?'

Stepushka shook himself. The peasant sat down beside us. We fell silent again. On the opposite bank a voice struck up a song, but it was protracted and sad… My poor Vlas gave way to his grief…

Half an hour later we all went our separate ways.

‘You don't happen to know, do you,' he began in a weak and quavering voice (the result of unadulterated birch snuff), ‘you don't happen to know the local judge, Mylov, Pavel Lukich?… You don't?… Well, it doesn't matter.' (He coughed and wiped his eyes.) ‘So you see it was like this, as you might say, so as not to tell a lie – during Lent, just when everything was thawing. I was sitting with
him, at our judge's house, and I was playing whist. Our judge was a good chap and very fond of playing whist. Suddenly' (my doctor friend frequently used the word ‘suddenly') ‘they tell me someone's asking for me. I ask what he wants. He's brought a note – it must be from a patient. Let me see it, I say. Yes, it's from a patient… Well, that's all right, it's our bread and butter, you know… It's like this: the note's from a lady, a landowner and widow, who says her daughter's dying, come for God's sake, horses've been sent to fetch you. Well, that's not so bad so far, except that she's twenty miles away and it's dark outside and the roads are bloody awful! What's more, she herself's poorly off, there's no more'n couple of silver coins in it for me, and that's doubtful, probably I'll have to make do with a bit of cloth and a few crumbs of this and that. But duty comes first, you know, when someone's dying. Suddenly I transfer my cards to an inveterate member of our group, Kalliopin, and set off home. I see a little cart standing by my porch harnessed with peasant horses – big-bellied, huge-bellied, and woolly coats on ‘em thick as felt – and a coachman's sitting there without his hat, as a mark of respect. Well, I think, it's clear as daylight, my good fellow, that your lords and masters don't eat off gold plate… You may laugh at that, but I'll tell you one thing, those of us who're poor, we notice these things… If a coachman sits there like a prince, for instance, and doesn't take his cap off and even grins to himself under his beard and twirls his whip, you can bet you'll get a couple of real big banknotes! But I see there's not a whiff of that in this case. However, I tell myself, you can't do a thing about it – duty comes first. I grab hold of the most obvious medicines and set off. Believe it or not, I scarcely manage to get there. The road's absolutely hellish – streams, snow, mud, gullies, and then suddenly it turns out a dam's burst – one disaster after another! Still, I get there. The house is small, with a straw roof. There's light in the windows, meaning that they're waiting. I go in. I'm met by an old woman, very dignified, in a bonnet. “Please help,” she says, “she's dying.” I tell her: “Don't worry. Where's the patient?” “This way please.” I find myself in a small, clean room, with a lamp burning in the corner and a girl of about twenty lying on the bed unconscious. She's literally blazing hot and breathing heavily in a fever. There are two other girls there, her sisters, frightened and tearful. “Yesterday evening,” they tell me,
“she was in perfect health and had a hearty appetite. This morning she complained of having a headache, but towards evening she suddenly became like this…” I tell them again: “Don't worry” – a doctor's obligation, you know – and I set to work. I bled her, ordered mustard plasters to be applied and wrote out a prescription. Meantime I'm looking at her, can't take my eyes off her, you know – well, my God, I've never seen such a face before – in a word, she's beautiful! Pity for her literally tears me apart. Such delightful features, such eyes… Then, thank God, she got a bit better, started sweating and realized where she was, looked around her, smiled, ran her hand across her face… Her sisters bent over her and asked her how she was. “All right,” she says and turns over. I see she's gone to sleep. Well, I say, we must let her rest now. So we all go out of the room on tiptoe. Only a maid remains behind to watch over her. In the sitting-room the samovar's ready, along with a bottle of Jamaican – in my business, you know, you can't get by without a tot of rum. They offer me some tea and beg me to stay overnight. I say yes – after all, where could I go at that time of night? The old woman goes on groaning and sighing. “What for?” I ask. “She'll live, don't you worry. It'd be better if you got some rest yourself. It's two o'clock in the morning.” “You'll be sure and rouse me if anything happens?” “I'll do that, I'll do that.” The old lady went off to her room and the sisters went off to theirs. A bed was set up for me in the sitting-room. So I lay down, but I couldn't sleep. Hardly surprising, though you'd have thought I'd be worn out. I simply couldn't get the sick girl off my mind. Finally I couldn't stand it any more and suddenly got up, thinking I'd go and see what was happening to my patient. Her bedroom was just off the sitting-room. Well, I rose and opened her door softly, my heart beating like mad. I see the maid's asleep, her mouth wide open and snoring, the wretch! But the sick girl's lying with her face towards me and moving her arms about, poor thing. I'd no sooner approached than she suddenly opens her eyes and stares at me. “Who is it? Who's there?” I got confused. “All right, don't be frightened, my dear,” I say. “I'm the doctor and I've come to see how you are.” “You're the doctor?” “Yes. Your mother sent into the town for me. I've bled you, my dear, and now you must rest and in a couple of days, God grant, we'll have you on your feet again.” “Oh, yes, doctor, you mustn't let me die… please, please.” “Don't
say such things, God be with you!” But her fever'd returned, I thought. I felt her pulse and found her feverish. She looked at me and then suddenly seized me by the hand. “I'll tell you why I don't want to die, I'll tell you, I'll tell you… now we're alone. Only, please, don't tell anyone else. Just listen.” I bent down to her and she strained her lips toward my ear and her hair touched my cheek – I can tell you, my head was spinning from being so close to her – and she started whispering… I couldn't understand a word… Of course, she was delirious… She went on whispering and whispering, so fast it didn't sound like Russian, and then she stopped, shuddered, dropped her head on the pillow and shook her finger at me. “See you don't tell anyone, doctor.” I calmed her somehow or other, gave her a drink, roused the maid and left.'

At this point, sighing bitterly once again, the district doctor took some snuff and paused for a moment.

‘However,' he went on, ‘the next day the sick girl, contrary to my expectations, was no better. I thought and thought about her and suddenly decided to stay, although other patients were waiting for me… And, you know, you mustn't neglect your patients: a practice can suffer from that sort of thing. But, in the first place, the sick girl was in a desperate state; and, secondly, to tell the truth, I had a strong personal attachment to her. What's more, I liked the whole family. Although they didn't have much in the way of possessions, they were extraordinarily well educated, one might say. Their father'd been a man of learning, a writer. He'd died, of course, in poverty, but he'd succeeded in giving his children an excellent education and he'd also left many books behind. Because I looked after the sick girl so zealously, or for some other reason, I have to say that they grew very fond of me in that household and treated me as one of the family… Meantime, the state of the roads became frightful. All communications, so to speak, were completely severed. Even medicine was only obtainable from the town with difficulty… The sick girl didn't get any better… Day after day, day after day… Well, you see, sir, you see…' (The doctor fell silent.) ‘… I don't rightly know how to put it, sir…' (He again took some snuff, wheezed and drank some tea.) ‘I'll tell you straight out, my sick patient… how can I put it?… well, fell in love with me… or no, she didn't so much fall in love as… well, besides… I can't rightly say, sir…' (The doctor hung his head and went red.)

‘No,' he went on vivaciously, ‘it wasn't love! When all's said and done, you've got to know your own worth. She was an educated girl, intelligent, well-read, while I'd completely forgotten, one might say, all the Latin I'd ever learned. As for my figure' (the doctor glanced at himself with a smile) ‘I didn't have all that much to boast about. But the Lord God hadn't made a complete fool out of me – I can tell black from white, you know, and I can make sense of things as well. For instance, I understood very well that Alexandra Andreyevna – she was called Alexandra Andreyevna – felt for me not love so much as what might be called a friendly disposition and a kind of respect. Although she may perhaps have been mistaken in her attitude, her state was, well, you can judge for yourself… Besides,' added the doctor, who'd spoken so brokenly and scarcely without drawing breath, in evident confusion, ‘I've probably let my tongue run away with me, so you won't understand a thing… So, look, if you don't mind, I'll tell it all just as it happened.'

He finished his glass of tea and started speaking in a quieter voice.

‘So it was like this. My patient grew worse – worse and worse. You're not a medical man, my good sir, so you can't understand what happens in the soul of someone like me, particularly at the beginning, when he starts to realize that the illness is getting the better of him. Your self-confidence flies out the window! You suddenly feel so small it's hard to describe. It seems to you you've forgotten everything you've ever learned, and your patient no longer trusts you, and others round you start noticing you're at a loss and start telling you the symptoms and looking at you from under their brows and whispering… oh, it's bloody awful! Surely, you think, there's got to be a medicine for this illness, it's just a case of finding it. Is this it? You try it – no, it's not that! You don't give the medicine time to work but try another, then another. You pick up your book of prescriptions and study it – ah, that's the one! Sometimes you just open the book at random and think, what the hell… But all the time the patient's dying, while another doctor might've saved him. You say you need a second opinion, because you can't take all the responsibility on yourself. And what a fool you look in such circumstances! Well, as time goes by you get used to it, it's nothing. Your patient's died, but it's not your fault, you followed the rules. But what's much worse is when you can see the blind trust they place in
you, yet you feel you're not in any position to help. It was precisely such trust that Alexandra Andreyevna's family placed in me, while forgetting that their daughter was in danger. I was also, for my own part, assuring them it was all right, while my heart was right down in my boots. To cap all my misfortunes, the weather got so bad that the coachman couldn't go for the medicines for whole days at a time. And I never left the sick girl's room, couldn't tear myself away, told her silly jokes and played cards with her. At nights I sat beside her bed. The old lady thanked me with tears in her eyes and I thought to myself: “I don't deserve your thanks.” I confess to you quite openly – there's nothing left to hide now – I fell in love with my patient. And Alexandra Andreyevna grew very fond of me and wouldn't allow anyone else into her room. She began talking to me, asking me where I'd done my training, what my life was like, who my parents were, who'd I go visiting? I felt I shouldn't let her talk, but I couldn't really stop her, definitely stop her, you know. I'd seize myself by the head and tell myself, “What're you doing, you blackguard?” But she'd take my hand and hold it, look at me, gaze at me, gaze and gaze at me and turn away and sigh and say, “How good you are!” Her hands were so hot, her eyes so round and longing. She'd say: “Yes, you're good, you're a good man, you're not like our neighbours… No, you're not like them at all, not at all… How is it we haven't met before?” And I'd say: “Alexandra Andreyevna, don't fret… Believe me, I don't feel, I've no idea why I should deserve this, only just don't fret, for God's sake, don't fret… everything'll be all right, you'll get well.” But I ought to tell you, by the way,' the doctor added, bending forward and raising his eyebrows, 'that they didn't have much to do with the neighbours, because the small fry weren't really up to them and they were too proud to curry favour with the rich. I'm telling you they were an extremely well-educated family, so for me, you know, it was a privilege to be there. She'd only accept medicine from me… she'd raise herself, the poor girl, with my help, and have the medicine and look at me and my heart'd literally beat faster and faster. But all the while she was getting worse, worse and worse, and I thought she's bound to die, bound to. Believe me, I was ready to he down in the coffin myself, what with the mother and the sisters seeing it all and looking me straight in the eyes, their confidence gradually slipping away: “What's wrong?
How is she?” “Oh, it's nothing, nothing at all!” And how could it be nothing at all when her mind was already being affected? So there I am one night, sitting once again beside the sick girl. The maid's also there, snoring her head off… you couldn't blame her really, she'd been chivvied from pillar to post. Alexandra Andreyevna'd felt bad all evening; the fever'd tormented her. Right up until midnight she'd been tossing and turning and then she'd finally gone to sleep; or at least she lay there quietly. The lamp in the corner was burning before the icon and I sat there, you know, bent up, also snoozing. Suddenly, as if someone'd given me a shove in the side, I turned round and there – good God! – was Alexandra Andreyevna looking me straight in the eyes, with her lips apart and her cheeks literally on fire. “What's wrong?” “Doctor, I'm going to die, aren't I?” “God forbid!” “No, doctor, no, please, don't tell me I'll live… don't say that… Oh, if only you knew!… Listen, for God's sake don't hide from me what my condition is really!” She spoke, taking such quick breaths. “If I know for sure I'm going to die, then I'll tell you everything, everything!” “Please, Alexandra Andreyevna, please!” “Listen, I've not slept at all and I've been watching you… for God's sake… I trust you, you're a good man, you're an honest man, I beg you in the name of all that's holy, tell me the truth! If only 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 Andreyevna? Please don't…” “For God's sake I implore you!” “I can't hide from you, Alexandra Andreyevna, that you
are
in danger, but God is merciful…” “I'll die, I'll the…” And she was literally overjoyed. Her face became so happy I was frightened. “Don't be frightened, don't be frightened, death doesn't worry me at all.” She suddenly raised herself and leant on one elbow. “Now… well, now I can tell you that I'm grateful to you from the bottom of my heart, that you're a good, kind man and I love you…” I stared at her like an idiot and I felt real fright, you know… “Do you hear what I'm saying, I love you…” “Alexandra Andreyevna, I'm not worth it!” “No, no, you don't understand me, you don't understand…” And suddenly she stretched out her arms and seized me by the head and kissed me. Believe you me, I almost cried out. I flung myself on to my knees and buried my head in the pillows. She fell silent, her fingers quivering in my hair. I could hear her crying. I began comforting
her, trying to assure her – oh, I don't know what it was I said to her! I said: “You'll wake up the maid, Alexandra Andreyevna… Thank you, thank you, believe me… now be quiet.” “That's enough of that, enough,” she went on saying. “God be with them, let them all wake up, let them all come in here, I don't care, after all I'm going to die… What's wrong with you, why d'you look so scared? Lift your head up… Or maybe you don't love me, maybe I've made a mistake?… In that case forgive me.” “Alexandra Andreyevna, what're you saying?… I love you, Alexandra Andreyevna.” She looked me straight in the eyes and opened her arms. “Hold me, then.” I'll tell you in all honesty I don't know how I didn't go mad that night. I felt that my sick girl was driving herself crazy. I could see she wasn't in her right mind and I realized that if she hadn't thought herself about to die she wouldn't have given me a single thought. You know, like it or not, it's horrible to be dying at twenty-five years of age without ever having loved someone – and that's what was driving her crazy, that's why, out of desperation, she'd chosen me… Do you see now what I mean? Well, she wouldn't let me out of her arms. “Have pity on me, Alexandra Andreyevna, and have pity on yourself,” I said. “Why?” she said. “What's pity got to do with it? After all I'm going to die.” She repeated this again and again. “If I knew I'd be alive and again be a proper young lady, I'd be ashamed, really ashamed… but it's not like that, is it?” “But who said you're going to die?” “Oh, no, enough's enough, you can't fool me, you're a poor liar, you've only got to look at yourself to see that.” “You will live, Alexandra Andreyevna, I'll cure you. We'll ask your mother's permission… and we'll get married and live happily ever after.” “No, no, I've got your word for it, I've got to die… you promised me… you told me…” It was a bitter thing for me, bitter for many reasons. You know how it is, sometimes little things happen which seem nothing at all, but they hurt. It occurred to her to ask me my name, not my surname but my forename. As bad luck would have it, I'd been given the name Tripthong. Yes, yes, Tripthong, Tripthong Ivanych. In that household they all called me “doctor”. There was nothing to be done about it, so I said: “Tripthong, milady.” She screwed up her eyes, shook her head and whispered something in French – oh, something impolite – and then laughed, which was also bad. So
that's how I spent practically the whole night with her. In the morning I left her room half out of my mind. I went back to her room in the afternoon, after tea. Oh, my God, oh, my God! I couldn't recognize her. I've seen better looking corpses. In all honesty I swear to you I don't understand now, I really don't understand how I survived that torture. Three days and three nights my sick girl scraped by… and what nights! The things she said to me! And on the last night, just imagine, there I sat beside her and prayed to God that she'd be taken quickly, and me as well. Suddenly the old lady, her mother, came rushing in. I'd already told her, the mother, the day before that there was little hope, things were bad and it might be an idea to fetch the priest. The sick girl, on seeing her mother, said: “Oh, what a good thing you've come… Look at us, we love each other, we've given each other our word…” “Doctor, what's wrong, what's she saying?” I was stunned. “She's delirious,” I said. “It's the fever.” But she said: “Enough's enough, you were saying something quite different just now, and you accepted the ring from me… Why pretend now? My mother's kind, she'll forgive, she'll understand, and I'm dying, why should I tell a he? Give me your hand…” I jumped up and ran out. The old lady, of course, guessed what'd happened.