know whether they had actually had him in their grip at all.
Thereafter the watchmen conceived such a terror of dead men that
they were afraid even to seize the living, and only screamed from a
distance. "Hey, there! go your way!" So the dead official began to appear even beyond the Kalinkin Bridge, causing no little terror to
all timid people.
But we have totally neglected that certain prominent personage
who may really be considered as the cause of the fantastic turn
taken by this true history. First of all, justice compels us to say,
that after the departure of poor, annihilated Akaky Akakiyevich, he
felt something like remorse. Suffering was unpleasant to him, for
his heart was accessible to many good impulses, in spite of the fact
that his rank often prevented his showing his true self. As soon as
his friend had left his cabinet, he began to think about poor Akaky
Akakiyevich. And from that day forth, poor Akaky Akakiyevich,
who could not bear up under an official reprimand, recurred to his
mind almost every day. The thought troubled him to such an
extent, that a week later he even resolved to send an official to
him, to learn whether he really could assist him. And when it was
reported to him that Akaky Akakiyevich had died suddenly of
fever, he was startled, hearkened to the reproaches of his
conscience, and was out of sorts for the whole day.
Wishing to divert his mind in some way and drive away the
disagreeable impression, he set out that evening for one of his
friends' houses, where he found quite a large party assembled.
What was better, nearly every one was of the same rank as himself,
so that he need not feel in the least constrained. This had a
marvellous effect upon his mental state. He grew expansive, made
himself agreeable in conversation, in short, he passed a delightful
evening After supper he drank a couple of glasses of champagne—
not a bad recipe for cheerfulness, as every one knows. The
champagne inclined him to various adventures, and he determined
not to return home, but to go and see a certain well-known lady, of
German extraction, Karolina Ivanovna, a lady, it appears, with
whom he was on a very friendly footing.
It must be mentioned that the prominent personage was no longer a
young man, but a good husband and respected father of a family.
Two sons, one of whom was already in the service, and a good-
looking, sixteen-year-old daughter, with a slightly arched but
pretty little nose, came every morning to kiss his hand and say,
" Bon jour, papa." His wife, a still fresh and good-looking woman, first gave him her hand to kiss, and then, reversing the procedure,
kissed his. But the prominent personage, though perfectly satisfied
in his domestic relations, considered it stylish to have a friend in
another quarter of the city. This friend was scarcely prettier or
younger than his wife; but there are such puzzles in the world, and
it is not our place to judge them. So the important personage
descended the stairs, stepped into his sledge, said to the coachman,
"To Karolina Ivanovna's," and, wrapping himself luxuriously in his warm cloak, found himself in that delightful frame of mind than
which a Russian can conceive nothing better, namely, when you
think of nothing yourself, yet when the thoughts creep into your
mind of their own accord, each more agreeable than the other,
giving you no trouble either to drive them away, or seek them.
Fully satisfied, he recalled all the gay features of the evening just
passed and all the mots which had made the little circle laugh.
Many of them he repeated in a low voice, and found them quite as
funny as before; so it is not surprising that he should laugh heartily
at them. Occasionally, however, he was interrupted by gusts of
wind, which, coming suddenly, God knows whence or why, cut his
face, drove masses of snow into it, filled out his cloak-collar like a
sail, or suddenly blew it over his head with supernatural force, and
thus caused him constant trouble to disentangle himself.
Suddenly the important personage felt some one clutch him firmly
by the collar. Turning round, he perceived a man of short stature,
in an old, worn uniform, and recognised, not without terror, Akaky
Akakiyevich. The official's face was white as snow, and looked
just like a corpse's. But the horror of the important personage
transcended all bounds when he saw the dead man's mouth open,
and heard it utter the following remarks, while it breathed upon
him the terrible odour of the grave: "Ah, here you are at last! I
have you, that—by the collar! I need your cloak. You took no
trouble about mine, but reprimanded me. So now give up your
own."
The pallid prominent personage almost died of fright. Brave as he
was in the office and in the presence of inferiors generally, and
although, at the sight of his manly form and appearance, every one
said, "Ugh! how much character he has!" at this crisis, he, like many possessed of an heroic exterior, experienced such terror, that,
not without cause, he began to fear an attack of illness. He flung
his cloak hastily from his shoulders and shouted to his coachman
in an unnatural voice, "Home at full speed!" The coachman,
hearing the tone which is generally employed at critical moments,
and even accompanied by something much more tangible, drew his
head down between his shoulders in case of an emergency,
flourished his whip, and flew on like an arrow. In a little more than
six minutes the prominent personage was at the entrance of his
own house. Pale, thoroughly scared, and cloakless, he went home
instead of to Karolina Ivanovna's, reached his room somehow or
other, and passed the night in the direst distress; so that the next
morning over their tea, his daughter said, "You are very pale to-
day, papa." But papa remained silent, and said not a word to any
one of what had happened to him, where he had been, or where he
had intended to go.
This occurrence made a deep impression upon him. He even began
to say, "How dare you? Do you realise who is standing before
you?" less frequently to the under-officials, and, if he did utter the words, it was only after first having learned the bearings of the
matter. But the most noteworthy point was, that from that day
forward the apparition of the dead official ceased to be seen.
Evidently the prominent personage's cloak just fitted his shoulders.
At all events, no more instances of his dragging cloaks from
people's shoulders were heard of. But many active and solicitous
persons could by no means reassure themselves, and asserted that
the dead official still showed himself in distant parts of the city.
In fact, one watchman in Kolomen saw with his own eyes the
apparition come from behind a house. But the watchman was not a
strong man, so he was afraid to arrest him, and followed him in the
dark, until, at length, the apparition looked round, paused, and
inquired, "What do you want?" at the same time showing such a
fist as is never seen on living men. The watchman said, "Nothing,"
and turned back instantly. But the apparition was much too tall,
wore huge moustaches, and, directing its steps apparently towards
the Obukhov Bridge, disappeared in the darkness of the night.
THE DISTRICT DOCTOR
BY IVAN S. TURGENEV
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-ruble 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—anyway,
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
Lukich?… 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 rubles, 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 rubles. 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 any one … 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; anyway, 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 Aleksandra Andreyevna—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, anyway 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 Aleksandra Andreyevna'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
Aleksandra Andreyevna had grown fond of me; she would not
sometimes let any one 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!' 'Aleksandra Andreyevna, 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. Aleksandra
Andreyevna 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 some one touched me in the side; I turned round… Good
God! Aleksandra Andreyevna 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!' 'Aleksandra Andreyevna, 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, Aleksandra
Andreyevna, pray?' 'For God's sake, I beseech you!' 'I can't
disguise from you,' I say, 'Aleksandra Andreyevna; 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!' 'Aleksandra Andreyevna, how have I deserved—' 'No, no,
you don't—you don't understand me.'… And suddenly she