The Schoolmaster

six, called Andrey, died of diphtheria. Just as the doctor's wife sank on her knees by the dead child's

with his waistcoat unbuttoned, without wiping his wet face or his hands which were scalded with carbolic. It was dark in the entry and nothing could be distin

home?" the newco

nswered Kirilov.

his own. "I am very . . . very glad! We are acquainted. My name is Abogin, and I had the honour of meeting you in the summer at Gnutchev's. I am very glad I have f

g, he could hardly restrain his rapid breathing and spoke quickly in a shaking voice, and there was a note of unaffected sincerity and childish alarm in hi

ptchinsky, whom you know, came to see me. . . . We talked a little and then we sat down to tea; suddenly my wife cried out, clutched at her heart, and fell back on her chair. We carried her to bed and

nothing, as though he di

and once more began feeling in the dark for his hand the docto

ome . . . my son died

what an unlucky moment I have come! A wonderfully unhappy day . . . wo

He was evidently hesitating and did not know what to do

am ashamed of attempting at such a moment to intrude on your attention, but what am I to do? Only think, to whom can I go

a stranger in the entry. The twilight and stillness of the drawing-room seemed to increase his numbness. Going out of the drawing-room into his study he raised his right foot higher than was necessary, and felt for the doorposts with his hands, and as he did so there was an air of perplexity about his whole figure as though he were in somebody else's house, or were drunk for the first time in his life and were now abandoning himsel

er on his face. He did not move, but his open eyes seemed every moment growing darker and sinking further into his head. The mother was kneeling by the bed with her arms on his body and her head hidden in the bedclothes. Like the child, she did not stir; but what throbbing life was suggested in the curves of her body and in her arms! She leaned against the bed with all her being, pressing against i

s head on one side fixed his eyes on his son. His face bore an expression of indifference, and

for a long time learn to understand and describe, and which it seems only music can convey. There was a feeling of beauty, too, in the austere stillness. Kirilov and his wife were silent and not weeping, as though besides the bitterness of their loss they were conscious, too, of all the tragedy of their position;

ng for five minutes by his wife, he walked, raising his right foot high, from the bedroom into a little room which was half filled up by a big s

the white scarf a

reaching towards the door-

glanced at him, an

hat I can't go!" he said, growi

and on his scarf. "But I am not asking you for myself. My wife is dying. If you had heard that cry, if you had seen her face, you

emphatically and he took a

him and caught h

onsultation, but to save a human life!" he went on entreating like a beggar. "Life comes b

ke me. And how queer it is, really! I can hardly stand and you talk to me about humanity! I am fit for

his hands and

the regulations I am obliged to go and you have the right to drag me by my collar . .

rce you against your will I have no right whatever. If you will, come; if you will not - God forgive you; but I am not appealing to your will

somewhere dying. He felt this himself, and so, afraid of not being understood, did his utmost to put softness and tenderness into his voice so that the sincerity of his tone might prevail if his words did not. As a rule, however fine and deep a phrase may be, it only affects the indifferent, and cannot fully satisfy those

phrases concerning the noble calling of a doctor, self-sa

orses, doctor! I give you my word of honour that I wi

to humanity or the noble calling of the doctor. He thoug

a long frock-coat. Abogin, greatly relieved, fidgeted round him and scraped with

ard and aquiline nose, stood out distinctly in the darkness. Abogin's big head and the little student's cap that barely cover

ed as he helped the doctor into the carriage. "We shall get there qui

ooked paler than the surrounding air. Then the carriage drove into dense shadow; here there was the smell of dampness and mushrooms, and the sound of rustling trees; the crows, awakened by the noise of the wheels, stirred among the foliage and uttered prolonged plaintive cries as though they knew the docto

most all the way. Only once Abogi

ves those who are near one so much as

Kirilov started all at once as though the splash of

ll come to you later. I must just send my as

ld be seen and the riverside willows vanishing into the darkness. On the right lay a plain as uniform and as boundless as the sky; here and there in the distance, probably on the peat marshes, dim lights were glimmering. On the left, parallel with t

to think of the past, was brooding over memories of spring and summer and apathetically waiting for the inevitable winter. Wherever one looked,

e coachman's shoulder. And when at last the carriage stopped before the entrance, which was elegantly curtained with

with the doctor, and rubbing his hands in agitation. "But there is no commotion

was visible, the pale grey hue of his skin and his careless, uncouth manners - the harshness of all this was suggestive of years of poverty, of ill fortune, of weariness with life and with men. Looking at his frigid figure one could hardly believe that this man had a wife, that he was capable of weeping over his child. Abogin presented a very different appearance. He was a thick-set, sturdy-looking, fair man with a big head and large, soft features; he was elegantly dressed in the very latest fashion. In his carriage, his closely b

aid going up the stairs. "There is n

black piano and a chandelier in a white cover; from there they both went into

. . . will be back directly. I will

r of an adventure, did not apparently affect him. He sat in a low chair and scrutinized his hands, which were burnt with carbolic. He only caught a passing glimpse of the brigh

r away in the adjoining rooms so

in all was still. After waiting five minutes Kirilov left off scrutinizi

his hands, his attitude were contorted by a revolting expression of something between horror and agonizing physical pain. His nose, his lips, his mou

o the drawing-room, bent forwa

syllable of the verb. "Deceived me, gone away. She fell ill and sent m

tor, held out his soft white fists in hi

God! What need of this dirty, scoundrelly trick, this diab

his fashionable narrow trousers which made his legs look disproportionately slim, with his big head and long mane he was

ere is the pat

The baseness! The vileness! The devil himself could not have imagined anything more loathsome! She sent me off that she migh

d filled with tears, his narrow beard began mov

n grief alone in the whole house. . . . I myself can scarcely stand up, I have not slept for three nights. . . . And here

d note on the floor, and stamped on it as t

an expression as though some one had trodden on his corns. "I did not notice that he came every day! I did not noti

? Why, it's an outrage on personal dignity, a mockery of human suffering! It's

een bitterly insulted the doctor shrugged his shoulders, flung wide his

voluntary witness of my misfortune and I am not going to conceal the truth from you. I swear that I loved the woman, loved her devotedly, like a slave! I have sacrificed everything for her; I have quarrelled with my own people, I have given up the service and music, I have forgiven her what I could not have forg

tter. Who knows, if the doctor had listened to him and had sympathized with him like a friend, he might perhaps, as often happens, have reconciled himself to his trouble without protest, without doing anything needless and absurd. . . . But what happened was quite different. While Abogin was speaking the outraged doctor perceptibly changed. The indifference and wonder on his face gradually gave way to an expression of bitte

n on the table. "I don't want your vulgar secrets! Damnation take them! Don't dare to tell me of such vulgar doings! Do you c

from Kirilov and stare

hat have I to do with your love affairs? Leave me in peace! Go on squeezing money out of the poor in your gentlemanly way. Make a display of humane ideas, play (the doctor looked sideways at

all this mean?" Abog

le generally who work and don't stink of perfume and prostitution as your menials and mauvais ton; well, you

d quietly, and his face began working aga

ulgarities!" shouted the doctor, and he again banged on the table with his f

outed Abogin. "It is ungenerous. I am int

does not concern you. The spendthrift who cannot raise a loan calls himself unhap

gin. "For saying things like that . . .

t, pulled out a pocket-book, and extrac

isit," he said, his nostril

r and he brushed the notes off the table on to t

cruel, and absurd. The egoism of the unhappy was conspicuous in both. The unhappy are egoistic, spiteful, unjust, cruel, and less capable of understanding each other than fools. Unhappiness does not bring peop

me!" shouted the doc

nd angrily flung the bell on the floor; it fell on the carpet with a muffled soun

ell them to bring the victoria round for this gentleman, and order the closed carriage to be got ready for me. Stay," he cried as the foot

tly, and was evidently meditating on something. His anger had not cooled, but he tried to appear not to notice his enemy. . . . The doctor stood, leaning with one hand on the edge of the table,

t had been an hour before. The red half-moon had sunk behind the hill and the clouds that had been guarding it lay in dark patches near the stars.

ts were unjust and inhumanly cruel. He condemned Abogin and his wife and Paptchinsky and all who lived in rosy, subdued light among sweet perf

ion, unjust and unworthy of the human heart, will not pass, but