Fifty-Two Stories

“You’re in grief, I understand that, but I’m not inviting you to treat a toothache or give a diagnosis, but to save a human life!” he went on pleading like a beggar. “That life is higher than any personal grief! So, I’m asking for courage, a brave deed! For the love of humanity!”

“The love of humanity is a stick with two ends,” Kirilov said irritably. “I beg you in the name of that same love of humanity not to take me away. And it’s so strange, by God! I can barely keep my feet, and you frighten me with the love of humanity! I’m good for nothing now…I won’t go with you for anything, and who will I leave my wife with? No, no…”

Kirilov waved his hands and took several steps back.

“And…and don’t ask!” he went on in fright. “Excuse me…According to volume thirteen of the law, it’s my duty to go, and you have the right to drag me by the scruff of the neck…All right, drag me, but…I’m no good…I can’t even speak…Excuse me…”

“There’s no point talking to me in that tone, doctor!” Abogin said, again taking the doctor by the sleeve. “Never mind about volume thirteen! I have no right to force your will. If you want to come, come; if you don’t—God help you, but I’m not appealing to your will, but to your feelings. A young woman is dying! You told me your son just died—who can understand my horror if not you?”

Abogin’s voice trembled with agitation; in that tremor and in that tone there was far more persuasiveness than in his words. Abogin was sincere, but, remarkably, no matter what phrases he spoke, they all came out stiff, soulless, inappropriately florid, and even seemed to insult both the air in the doctor’s quarters and the woman who was dying somewhere. He felt it himself, and therefore, afraid he would not be understood, he tried as hard as he could to give his voice softness and tenderness, so as to prevail, if not by words, then at least by sincerity of tone. Generally a phrase, however beautiful and profound, affects only the indifferent, but cannot always satisfy the happy or the unhappy; therefore the highest expression of happiness or unhappiness turns out most often to be silence; lovers understand each other better when they are silent, and an ardent, passionate speech made over a grave moves only the outsiders, while the widow and children of the deceased find it cold and insignificant.

Kirilov stood and was silent. When Abogin said a few more phrases about the high calling of a doctor, about self-sacrifice and so on, the doctor asked sullenly:

“Is it far?”

“Something like nine or ten miles. I’ve got excellent horses, doctor! On my word of honor, I’ll get you there and back in one hour. Just one hour!”

These last words affected the doctor more strongly than the references to the love of humanity or a doctor’s vocation. He thought a little and said with a sigh:

“All right, let’s go!”

He went quickly, and now with a sure step, to his office and came back a little later in a long frock coat. Mincing and shuffling around him, the cheered-up Abogin helped him into his overcoat and they left together.

Outside it was dark, but brighter than in the front hall. In the darkness, the doctor’s tall, stooping figure, his long, narrow beard and aquiline nose, were clearly outlined. Abogin, it could now be seen, besides his pale face, also had a big head and a small visored cap that barely covered the top of it. The white scarf showed only in front, being hidden in back by his long hair.

“Believe me, I’ll know how to appreciate your generosity,” Abogin muttered, helping the doctor into the carriage. “We’ll be there in no time. Luka, my dear fellow, drive as fast as you can! Please!”

The coachman drove quickly. First they went past a row of nondescript buildings that stood along the hospital yard; it was dark everywhere, only from someone’s window in the depth of the yard a bright light shone through the front garden, and three windows on the upper floor of the hospital building looked paler than the air. Then the carriage drove into dense darkness; here there was a smell of mushroomy dampness and the whispering of the trees could be heard; crows, awakened by the rumbling of the wheels, stirred in the foliage and raised an anxious, plaintive cawing, as if they knew that the doctor’s son had died and Abogin’s wife was sick. But now separate trees and bushes flitted by, a pond on which big black shadows slept flashed sullenly—and the carriage rolled over a level plain. The cawing of the crows sounded faintly, far behind, and soon died away completely.

Kirilov and Abogin made almost the whole journey in silence. Only once Abogin sighed deeply and murmured:

“What a painful state! You never love your own so much as at the moment when you risk losing them!”

And when the carriage was slowly crossing the river, Kirilov suddenly roused himself, as if frightened by the splashing, and began to stir.

“Listen, let me go back,” he said with anguish. “I’ll come to you later. I just want to send my assistant to my wife. She’s there alone!”