what are you saying!... I love you, Aleksandra
Andreyevna.’ She looked straight into my
eyes, and opened her arms wide. ‘Then take
me in your arms.’ I tell you frankly, I
don’t know how it was I did not go mad that night.
I feel that my patient is killing herself; I see that
she is not fully herself; I understand, too, that
if she did not consider herself on the point of death,
she would never have thought of me; and, indeed, say
what you will, it’s hard to die at twenty without
having known love; this was what was torturing her;
this was why, in, despair, she caught at me—do
you understand now? But she held me in her arms,
and would not let me go. ’Have pity on
me, Aleksandra Andreyevna, and have pity on yourself,’
I say. ‘Why,’ she says; ’what
is there to think of? You know I must die.’
... This she repeated incessantly ... ’If
I knew that I should return to life, and be a proper
young lady again, I should be ashamed ... of course,
ashamed ... but why now?’ ’But who has
said you will die?’ ’Oh, no, leave off!
you will not deceive me; you don’t know how
to lie—look at your face.’ ...
’You shall live, Aleksandra Andreyevna; I will
cure you; we will ask your mother’s blessing
... we will be united—we will be happy.’
’No, no, I have your word; I must die ... you
have promised me ... you have told me.’ ...
It was cruel for me—cruel for many reasons.
And see what trifling things can do sometimes; it
seems nothing at all, but it’s painful.
It occurred to her to ask me, what is my name; not
my surname, but my first name. I must needs be
so unlucky as to be called Trifon. Yes, indeed;
Trifon Ivanich. Every one in the house called
me doctor. However, there’s no help for
it. I say, ‘Trifon, madam.’ She
frowned, shook her head, and muttered something in
French—ah, something unpleasant, of course!—and
then she laughed—disagreeably too.
Well, I spent the whole night with her in this way.
Before morning I went away, feeling as though I were
mad. When I went again into her room it was daytime,
after morning tea. Good God! I could scarcely
recognise her; people are laid in their grave looking
better than that. I swear to you, on my honour,
I don’t understand—I absolutely don’t
understand—now, how I lived through that
experience. Three days and nights my patient
still lingered on. And what nights! What
things she said to me! And on the last night—only
imagine to yourself—I was sitting near
her, and kept praying to God for one thing only:
’Take her,’ I said, ‘quickly, and
me with her.’ Suddenly the old mother comes
unexpectedly into the room. I had already the
evening before told her—–the mother—there
was little hope, and it would be well to send for
a priest. When the sick girl saw her mother she
said: ’It’s very well you have come;
look at us, we love one another—we have
given each other our word.’ ’What
does she say, doctor? what does she say?’ I
turned livid. ‘She is wandering,’
I say; ‘the fever.’ But she:
’Hush, hush; you told me something quite different
just now, and have taken my ring. Why do you
pretend? My mother is good—she will
forgive—she will understand—and
I am dying. ... I have no need to tell lies;
give me your hand.’ I jumped up and ran
out of the room. The old lady, of course, guessed
how it was.