This story is very vital and relevant. Nothing in life can be worse than burying your children. Here, too, Anton Chekhov describes a desperate situation. The doctor, by the name of Tsvetkov, voices to the mother the terrible diagnosis of her son Misha.
IT was still in the drawing-room, so still that a house-fly that had flown in from outside could be distinctly heard brushing against the ceiling. Olga Ivanovna, the lady of the villa, was standing by the window, looking out at the flower-beds and thinking. Dr. Tsvyetkov, who was her doctor as well as an old friend, and had been sent for to treat her son Misha, was sitting in an easy chair and swinging his hat, which he held in both hands, and he too was thinking. Except them, there was not a soul in the drawing-room or in the adjoining rooms. The sun had set, and the shades of evening began settling in the corners under the furniture and on the cornices.
The silence was broken by Olga Ivanovna.
“No misfortune more terrible can be imagined,” she said, without turning from the window. “You know that life has no value for me whatever apart from the boy.”
“Yes, I know that,” said the doctor.
“No value whatever,” said Olga Ivanovna, and her voice quivered. “He is everything to me. He is my joy, my happiness, my wealth. And if, as you say, I cease to be a mother, if he . . . dies, there will be nothing left of me but a shadow. I cannot survive it.”
Wringing her hands, Olga Ivanovna walked from one window to the other and went on:
“When he was born, I wanted to send him away to the Foundling Hospital, you remember that, but, my God, how can that time be compared with now? Then I was vulgar, stupid, feather-headed, but now I am a mother, do you understand? I am a mother, and that’s all I care to know. Between the present and the past there is an impassable gulf.”
Silence followed again. The doctor shifted his seat from the chair to the sofa and impatiently playing with his hat, kept his eyes fixed upon Olga Ivanovna. From his face it could be seen that he wanted to speak, and was waiting for a fitting moment.
“You are silent, but still I do not give up hope,” said the lady, turning round. “Why are you silent?”
“I should be as glad of any hope as you, Olga, but there is none,”
Tsvyetkov answered, “we must look the hideous truth in the face.
The boy has a tumour on the brain, and we must try to prepare ourselves for his death, for such cases never recover.”
“Nikolay, are you certain you are not mistaken?”
“Such questions lead to nothing. I am ready to answer as many as you like, but it willmake it no better for us.”
Olga Ivanovna pressed her face into the window curtains, and began weeping bitterly.
The doctor got up and walked several times up and down the drawing-room, then went to the weeping woman, and lightly touched her arm. Judging from his uncertain movements, from the expression of his gloomy face, which looked dark in the dusk of the evening, he wanted to say something.
“Listen, Olga,” he began. “Spare me a minute’s attention; there is something I must ask you. You can’t attend to me now, though. I’ll come later, afterwards. . . .”
He sat down again, and sank into thought. The bitter, imploring weeping, like the weeping ofa little girl, continued. Without waiting for it to end, Tsvyetkov heaved a sigh and walked out of the drawing-room. He went into the nursery to Misha. The boy was lying on his back as before, staring at one point as though he were listening. The doctor sat down on his bed and felt his pulse.
“Misha, does your head ache?” he asked.
Misha answered, not at once: “Yes. I keep dreaming.”
“What do you dream?”
“All sorts of things. . . .”
The doctor, who did not know how to talk with weeping women or with children, stroked his burning head, and muttered:
“Never mind, poor boy, never mind. . . . One can’t go through life without illness. . . Misha, who am I—do you know me?”
Misha did not answer.
“Does your head ache very badly?”
“Ve-ery. I keep dreaming.”
After examining him and putting a few questions to the maid who was looking after the sick child, the doctor went slowly back to the drawing-room. There it was by now dark, and Olga Ivanovna, standing by the window, looked like a silhouette.
“Shall I light up?” asked Tsvyetkov.
No answer followed. The house-fly was still brushing against the ceiling. Not a soundfloated in from outside as though the whole world, like the doctor, were thinking, and could not bring itself to speak. Olga Ivanovna was not weeping now, but as before, staring at the flower-bed in profound silence. When Tsvyetkov went up to her, and through the twilight glanced at her pale face, exhausted with grief, her expression was such as he had seen before during her attacks of acute, stupefying, sick headache.
“Nikolay Trofimitch!” she addressed him, “and what do you think about a
“Very good; I’ll arrange it to-morrow.”
From the doctor’s tone it could be easily seen that he put little faith in the benefit of a consultation. Olga Ivanovna would have asked him something else, but her sobs prevented her. Again she pressed her face into the window curtain. At that moment, the strains of a band playing at the club floated in distinctly. They could hear not only the wind instruments, but even the violins and the flutes.
“If he is in pain, why is he silent?” asked Olga Ivanovna. “All day long, not a sound, he never complains, and never cries. I know God will take the poor boy from us because we have not known how to prize him. Such a treasure!”
The band finished the march, and a minute later began playing a lively waltz for the opening of the ball.
“Good God, can nothing really be done?” moaned Olga Ivanovna. “Nikolay, you are a doctor and ought to know what to do! You must understand that I can’t bear the loss of him! I can’t survive it.”
The doctor, who did not know how to talk to weeping women, heaved a sigh, and paced slowly about the drawing-room. There followed a succession of oppressive pauses interspersed with weeping and the questions which lead to nothing. The band had already played a quadrille, a polka, and another quadrille. It got quite dark. In the adjoining room, the maid lighted the lamp; and all the while the doctor kept his hat in his hands, and seemed trying to say something. Several times Olga Ivanovna went off to her son, sat by him for half an hour, and came back again into the drawing-room; she was continually breaking into tears and lamentations. The time dragged agonisingly, and it seemed as though the evening had no end.
At midnight, when the band had played the cotillion and ceased altogether, the doctor got ready to go.
“I will come again to-morrow,” he said, pressing the mother’s cold hand. “You go to bed.”
After putting on his greatcoat in the passage and picking up his walking-stick, he stopped, thought a minute, and went back into the drawing-room.
“I’ll come to-morrow, Olga,” he repeated in a quivering voice. “Do you hear?”
She did not answer, and it seemed as though grief had robbed her of all power of speech. In his greatcoat and with his stick still in his hand, the doctor sat down beside her, and began in a soft, tender half-whisper, which was utterly out of keeping with his heavy, dignified figure:
“Olga! For the sake of your sorrow which I share. . . . Now, when falsehood is criminal, I beseech you to tell me the truth. You have always declared that the boy is my son. Is that the truth?”
Olga Ivanovna was silent.
“You have been the one attachment in my life,” the doctor went on, “and you cannotimagine how deeply my feeling is wounded by falsehood . . . . Come, I entreat you, Olga, for once in your life, tell me the truth. . . . At these moments one cannot lie. Tell me that Misha is not my son. I am waiting.”
Olga Ivanovna’s face could not be seen, but in her voice the doctor could hear hesitation. He sighed.
“Even at such moments you can bring yourself to tell a lie,” he said in his ordinary voice. “There is nothing sacred to you! Do listen, do understand me. . . . You have been the one only attachment in my life. Yes, you were depraved, vulgar, but I have loved no one else but you in my life. That trivial love, now that I am growing old, is the one solitary bright spot in my memories. Why do you darken it with deception? What is it for?”
“I don’t understand you.”
“Oh my God!” cried Tsvyetkov. “You are lying, you understand very well!” he cried more loudly, and he began pacing about the drawing-room, angrily waving his stick.
“Or have you forgotten? Then I will remind you! A father’s rights to the boy are equally shared with me by Petrov and Kurovsky the lawyer, who still make you an allowance for their son’s education, just as I do! Yes, indeed! I know all that quite well! I forgive your lying in the past, what does it matter? But now when you have grown older, at this moment when the boy is dying, your lying stifles me! How sorry I am that I cannot speak, how sorry I am!”
The doctor unbuttoned his overcoat, and still pacing about, said:
“Wretched woman! Even such moments have no effect on her! Even now she lies as freely as nine years ago in the Hermitage Restaurant! She is afraid if she tells me the truth I shall leave off giving her money, she thinks that if she did not lie I should not love the boy! You are lying! It’s contemptible!”
The doctor rapped the floor with his stick, and cried:
“It’s loathsome. Warped, corrupted creature! I must despise you, and I ought to be ashamed of my feeling. Yes! Your lying has stuck in my throat these nine years, I have endured it, but now it’s too much—too much.”
From the dark corner where Olga Ivanovna was sitting there came the sound of weeping. The doctor ceased speaking and cleared his throat. A silence followed. The doctor slowly buttoned up his over-coat, and began looking for his hat which he had dropped as he walked about.
“I lost my temper,” he muttered, bending down to the floor. “I quite lost sight of the fact that you cannot attend to me now. . . God knows what I have said. . . . Don’t take any notice of it, Olga.”
He found his hat and went towards the dark corner.
“I have wounded you,” he said in a soft, tender half-whisper, “but once more I entreat you, tell me the truth; there should not be lying between us. . . . I blurted it out, and now you know that Petrov and Kurovsky are no secret to me. So now it is easy for you to tell me the truth.”
Olga Ivanovna thought a moment, and with perceptible hesitation, said:
“Nikolay, I am not lying—Misha is your child.”
“My God,” moaned the doctor, “then I will tell you something more: I have kept your letter to Petrov in which you call him Misha’s father! Olga, I know the truth, but I want to hear it from you! Do you hear?”
Olga Ivanovna made no reply, but went on weeping. After waiting for an answer the doctor shrugged his shoulders and went out.
“I will come to-morrow,” he called from the passage.
All the way home, as he sat in his carriage, he was shrugging his shoulders and muttering:
“What a pity that I don’t know how to speak! I haven’t the gift of persuading and convincing. It’s evident she does not understand me since she lies! It’s evident! How can I make her see? How?”
Translated by Constance Garnett