III
Kirsánof did not care to practise, but he did not consider it right for him to refuse consultations. But at this time—it was a year after he became professor, and a year before he married Viéra Pavlovna—the Big Wigs of the Petersburg medical world began to invite him very often to consultations. There were two reasons for it. The first was that there happened to be in the courts a certain Claude Bernard who had lived in Paris. One of the Big Wigs, who went to Paris for some reason, scientific or other, saw with his own eyes Claude Bernard—the real living Claude Bernard. He introduced himself with his rank, his name, his decorations, and his famous patient; and Claude Bernard, after listening to him for half an hour, said, “It was idle for you to come to Paris to learn the successes of medicine; you had no need of leaving Petersburg for that purpose.” The Big Wig took this as an attestation of his own fame, and after he came back to Petersburg mentioned Claude Bernard’s name no less than ten times in the course of twenty-four hours, adding to it no less than five times, “my learned friend” or “my famous comrade in science.” How could he help calling Kirsánof to consultations after that? It was impossible not to! And the second reason was still more important: all the Big Wigs saw that Kirsánof was not trying to get away their practice. He not only did not take cases, but even when eagerly requested did not take them. It is known that many of the Big Wigs who practise have this custom: if death, according to the opinion of the Big Wig, is inevitably approaching the patient, and if, by unfortunate change, they cannot get rid of the patient by sending him to any mineral springs or to any place abroad, then it is necessary to place him in the hands of some other medical man; and in these circumstances the Big Wig is willing to offer money from his own pocket for his colleague to take the case. Kirsánof, in these cases where the Big Wig, with the intention of running away, asked him to take a patient, was rarely willing; he generally recommended such of his friends as were in active practice, and he took for himself only a few cases which were interesting from a scientific point of view. But how could they help inviting to their consultations this confrère who was recognized by Claude Bernard, and who did not take away their practice?
Pólozof the millionaire had a doctor who was the very ace of trumps among the Big Wigs, and when Katerina Vasílyevna became dangerously ill, the consultations for a long time were held by the Big Wigs exclusively. Finally the case became so serious that the Big Wigs decided to invite Kirsánof; and really the task was very tough for the Big Wigs. The sick girl had no evident disease, but her strength was rapidly failing. It is necessary to get at the root of the trouble. The attending doctor called it atrophia nervorum—innutrition of the nerves. Whether there is any such disease as that in the world I do not know; but if there is, then even I can understand that it must be incurable. But if, notwithstanding its incurableness, she still must be cured, then let Kirsánof do it, or some of his friends—those impudent little boys!
And so a new consultation with Kirsánof was arranged. They examined the patient; they asked her questions. The patient answered readily, without excitement. But Kirsánof, after the first words, stopped questioning her and merely watched the Big Wigs making the investigation. And after they had exhausted their ingenuity and tormented the girl as much as propriety requires in such cases, they turned to Kirsánof, “What do you think, Aleksandr Matvéitch?”
He replied, “I have not sufficiently examined the patient. I shall stay here. This is an interesting case. If a new consultation should be needed, I shall tell Karl Feodorvitch.” (That was the name of the attendant physician, who shone with glory because he was saved from his atrophia nervorum.)
After they left, Kirsánof sat down by the patient’s bedside. The sick girl smiled satirically.
“I am sorry that we are not better acquainted,” he began. “A doctor must win confidence, and maybe I shall succeed in winning yours. They do not understand your troubles here; some sagacity is needed. To sound your lungs, to give you medicines, is absolutely useless. Only one thing is necessary: to know your general condition, and to think with you whether it is possible to do anything. You will help me in regard to this?”
The sick girl said not a word.
“You do not want to talk with me?”
The sick girl said not a word.
“You probably even want me to leave. I ask of you only ten minutes. If in ten minutes you find, as you think now, that my presence is useless, I shall go. Don’t you know well that you have no other disease than sorrow? Don’t you know that if this state of mind lasts, it will be impossible in three weeks or a fortnight, or even sooner, to save you? and that maybe you will not live two weeks? As yet you are not in consumption at all, but it is very, very near, and at your age under such conditions it develops with unusual rapidity; it may end in a few days.”
The sick girl said not a word.
“You do not reply. But you do not care at all. Therefore my words were not new to you. By the very fact of your silence you say ‘yes.’ Do you know what almost any other man would know in my place? He would go and speak with your bátiushka. Maybe my talk with him would save you; but if you do not want me to, I shall not do it. Why? I make it a rule, nothing should ever be done for a person against his will; liberty is above everything, even life. Therefore if you don’t want me to know the cause of your very dangerous condition, I shall not know it. If you tell me that you want to die, I would only ask you to explain to me the causes of this wish. If they should appear to me groundless, I still have no right to interfere with you; if they appear to me reasonable, I am bound to help you, and I am ready. I am ready to give you poison. Under this condition I ask you to tell me the cause of your illness.”
The sick girl said not a word.
“You do not want to answer me; I have no right to continue these questions. But may I ask you to allow me to tell you something about myself which may serve to increase the confidence between us. Yes? Thank you. Whatever the reason may be, you are suffering. I am too. I passionately love a woman who must never know that I love her. Do you pity me?”
The sick girl said not a word, but she smiled sorrowfully.
“You are silent, but still you could not hide that you noticed these words of mine more than those that I spoke before. That is sufficient of itself. I see that you and I have one cause of suffering. Do you want to die? I understand it very well. But to die of consumption is long, is hard; I am ready to help you to die, if I cannot help you to something better. I say that I am ready to give you poison—a delightful something that kills quick, without causing pain. Will you please let me know on this condition whether your position is so intolerable as it seems to you?”
“Won’t you deceive me?” demanded the sick girl.
“Look me straight in the eye; you see that I will not deceive you.”
The sick girl hesitated for some time. “No; I know you very little.”
“Anyone else in my place might have said that the feeling from which you are suffering is good. I shall not say so. Does your bátiushka know about it? I beg you to remember that I am not going to speak with him without your permission.”
“He does not know.”
“Does he love you?”
“Yes.”
“What do you think that I am going to tell you now? You say that he loves you; I have heard that he was a stupid. What makes you think that it will be useless for you to reveal to him your feeling, that he will not consent? If the obstacle had lain simply in the poverty of the man whom you love, this would not have kept you from trying to persuade your father to give his consent; that is what I think about it. Therefore I must think that you entertain an exceedingly poor opinion of him; there could be no other reason for you to hide the matter from your father. Isn’t it so?”
The sick girl said not a word.
“It is evident that I am not mistaken. What shall I think now? Your bátiushka is a man of experience in life, who knows human nature; you are inexperienced; if any person seems bad to him, and good to you, then according to all probabilities it is you who are mistaken, and not he. You see that I must think so? Do you want to know why I tell you such a disagreeable thing? I will tell you. You may get angry at my words, you may hate me because of them, but still you will say to yourself, ‘He is saying what he thinks; he is not hypocritical, he does not want to deceive me.’ You are gaining confidence in me. Isn’t it true that I am speaking sincerely with you?”
The sick girl was hesitating whether to answer or not. “You are a strange man, doctor,” she said, at last.
“No, not strange; but I am not like one who deceives. I have told you straightforwardly what I think. But this is only my supposition. Maybe I am mistaken. Let me know whether I am. Tell me the name of the man towards whom you feel this inclination. Then—but again, only with your permission—I will speak about him to your bátiushka.”
“What will you tell him?”
“Does he know him intimately?”
“Yes.”
“In that case, I shall tell him that he must consent to your marriage, but only on one condition, that the time of the wedding be appointed not immediately, but in two or three months, so that you may have time to think coolly, whether you may not be right.”
“He will not consent.”
“He will consent in all probability. But if not, I will help you, as I said.”
Kirsánof spoke long in this style. Finally he succeeded in getting the sick girl to tell him the man’s name, and to let him talk with her father. But to bring the old man to terms was a harder matter than to manage her. Pólozof was greatly surprised to hear that his daughter’s strength had been failing on account of hopeless love; and still more surprised to hear the name of the man with whom she was in love, and he firmly declared: “Let her die sooner than marry him. Her death would be a lesser grief for both her and me.” It was a very hard case, all the more because Kirsánof hearing Pólozof’s reasons saw that the truth was really on the side of the old man, and not his daughter.