Best Russian Short Stories written by Various

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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 stretched out her arms, and taking
my head in her hands, she kissed it... Believe me, I almost screamed
aloud... I threw myself on my knees, and buried my head in the pillow.
She did not speak; her fingers trembled in my hair; I listen; she is
weeping. I began to soothe her, to assure her... I really don't know
what I did say to her. 'You will wake up the girl,' I say to her;
'Aleksandra Andreyevna, I thank you ... believe me ... calm yourself.'
'Enough, enough!' she persisted; 'never mind all of them; let them
wake, then; let them come in--it does not matter; I am dying, you
see... And what do you fear? why are you afraid? Lift up your head...
Or, perhaps, you don't love me; perhaps I am wrong... In that case,
forgive me.' 'Aleksandra Andreyevna, 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.

"I will not, however, weary you any longer, and to me too, of course,
it's painful to recall all this. My patient passed away the next day.
God rest her soul!" the doctor added, speaking quickly and with a
sigh. "Before her death she asked her family to go out and leave me
alone with her."

"'Forgive me,' she said; 'I am perhaps to blame towards you ... my
illness ... but believe me, I have loved no one more than you ... do
not forget me ... keep my ring.'"

The doctor turned away; I took his hand.

"Ah!" he said, "let us talk of something else, or would you care to
play preference for a small stake? It is not for people like me to
give way to exalted emotions. There's only one thing for me to think
of; how to keep the children from crying and the wife from scolding.
Since then, you know, I have had time to enter into lawful wedlock, as
they say... Oh ... I took a merchant's daughter--seven thousand for
her dowry. Her name's Akulina; it goes well with Trifon. She is an
ill-tempered woman, I must tell you, but luckily she's asleep all
day... Well, shall it be preference?"

We sat down to preference for halfpenny points. Trifon Ivanich won two
rubles and a half from me, and went home late, well pleased with his
success.

THE CHRISTMAS TREE AND THE WEDDING

BY FIODOR M. DOSTOYEVSKY

The other day I saw a wedding... But no! I would rather tell you about
a Christmas tree. The wedding was superb. I liked it immensely. But
the other incident was still finer. I don't know why it is that the
sight of the wedding reminded me of the Christmas tree. This is the
way it happened:

Exactly five years ago, on New Year's Eve, I was invited to a
children's ball by a man high up in the business world, who had his
connections, his circle of acquaintances, and his intrigues. So it
seemed as though the children's ball was merely a pretext for the
parents to come together and discuss matters of interest to
themselves, quite innocently and casually.

I was an outsider, and, as I had no special matters to air, I was able
to spend the evening independently of the others. There was another
gentleman present who like myself had just stumbled upon this affair
of domestic bliss. He was the first to attract my attention. His
appearance was not that of a man of birth or high family. He was tall,
rather thin, very serious, and well dressed. Apparently he had no
heart for the family festivities. The instant he went off into a
corner by himself the smile disappeared from his face, and his thick
dark brows knitted into a frown. He knew no one except the host and
showed every sign of being bored to death, though bravely sustaining
the role of thorough enjoyment to the end. Later I learned that he was
a provincial, had come to the capital on some important, brain-racking
business, had brought a letter of recommendation to our host, and our
host had taken him under his protection, not at all _con amore_. It
was merely out of politeness that he had invited him to the children's
ball.

They did not play cards with him, they did not offer him cigars. No
one entered into conversation with him. Possibly they recognised the
bird by its feathers from a distance. Thus, my gentleman, not knowing
what to do with his hands, was compelled to spend the evening stroking
his whiskers. His whiskers were really fine, but he stroked them so
assiduously that one got the feeling that the whiskers had come into
the world first and afterwards the man in order to stroke them.

There was another guest who interested me. But he was of quite a
different order. He was a personage. They called him Julian
Mastakovich. At first glance one could tell he was an honoured guest
and stood in the same relation to the host as the host to the
gentleman of the whiskers. The host and hostess said no end of amiable
things to him, were most attentive, wining him, hovering over him,
bringing guests up to be introduced, but never leading him to any one
else. I noticed tears glisten in our host's eyes when Julian
Mastakovich remarked that he had rarely spent such a pleasant evening.
Somehow I began to feel uncomfortable in this personage's presence.
So, after amusing myself with the children, five of whom, remarkably
well-fed young persons, were our host's, I went into a little
sitting-room, entirely unoccupied, and seated myself at the end that
was a conservatory and took up almost half the room.

The children were charming. They absolutely refused to resemble their
elders, notwithstanding the efforts of mothers and governesses. In a
jiffy they had denuded the Christmas tree down to the very last sweet
and had already succeeded in breaking half of their playthings before
they even found out which belonged to whom.

One of them was a particularly handsome little lad, dark-eyed,
curly-haired, who stubbornly persisted in aiming at me with his wooden
gun. But the child that attracted the greatest attention was his
sister, a girl of about eleven, lovely as a Cupid. She was quiet and
thoughtful, with large, full, dreamy eyes. The children had somehow
offended her, and she left them and walked into the same room that I
had withdrawn into. There she seated herself with her doll in a
corner.

"Her father is an immensely wealthy business man," the guests informed
each other in tones of awe. "Three hundred thousand rubles set aside
for her dowry already."

As I turned to look at the group from which I heard this news item
issuing, my glance met Julian Mastakovich's. He stood listening to the
insipid chatter in an attitude of concentrated attention, with his
hands behind his back and his head inclined to one side.

All the while I was quite lost in admiration of the shrewdness our
host displayed in the dispensing of the gifts. The little maid of the
many-rubied dowry received the handsomest doll, and the rest of the
gifts were graded in value according to the diminishing scale of the
parents' stations in life. The last child, a tiny chap of ten, thin,
red-haired, freckled, came into possession of a small book of nature
stories without illustrations or even head and tail pieces. He was the
governess's child. She was a poor widow, and her little boy, clad in a
sorry-looking little nankeen jacket, looked thoroughly crushed and
intimidated. He took the book of nature stories and circled slowly
about the children's toys. He would have given anything to play with
them. But he did not dare to. You could tell he already knew his
place.

I like to observe children. It is fascinating to watch the
individuality in them struggling for self-assertion. I could see that
the other children's things had tremendous charm for the red-haired
boy, especially a toy theatre, in which he was so anxious to take a
part that he resolved to fawn upon the other children. He smiled and
began to play with them. His one and only apple he handed over to a
puffy urchin whose pockets were already crammed with sweets, and he
even carried another youngster pickaback--all simply that he might be
allowed to stay with the theatre.

But in a few moments an impudent young person fell on him and gave him
a pummelling. He did not dare even to cry. The governess came and told
him to leave off interfering with the other children's games, and he
crept away to the same room the little girl and I were in. She let him
sit down beside her, and the two set themselves busily dressing the
expensive doll.

Almost half an hour passed, and I was nearly dozing off, as I sat
there in the conservatory half listening to the chatter of the
red-haired boy and the dowered beauty, when Julian Mastakovich entered
suddenly. He had slipped out of the drawing-room under cover of a
noisy scene among the children. From my secluded corner it had not
escaped my notice that a few moments before he had been eagerly
conversing with the rich girl's father, to whom he had only just been
introduced.

He stood still for a while reflecting and mumbling to himself, as if
counting something on his fingers.

"Three hundred--three hundred--eleven--twelve--thirteen--sixteen--in
five years! Let's say four per cent--five times twelve--sixty, and on
these sixty----. Let us assume that in five years it will amount
to--well, four hundred. Hm--hm! But the shrewd old fox isn't likely to
be satisfied with four per cent. He gets eight or even ten, perhaps.
Let's suppose five hundred, five hundred thousand, at least, that's
sure. Anything above that for pocket money--hm--"

He blew his nose and was about to leave the room when he spied the
girl and stood still. I, behind the plants, escaped his notice. He
seemed to me to be quivering with excitement. It must have been his
calculations that upset him so. He rubbed his hands and danced from
place to place, and kept getting more and more excited. Finally,
however, he conquered his emotions and came to a standstill. He cast a
determined look at the future bride and wanted to move toward her, but
glanced about first. Then, as if with a guilty conscience, he stepped
over to the child on tip-toe, smiling, and bent down and kissed her
head.

His coming was so unexpected that she uttered a shriek of alarm.

"What are you doing here, dear child?" he whispered, looking around
and pinching her cheek.

"We're playing."

"What, with him?" said Julian Mastakovich with a look askance at the
governess's child. "You should go into the drawing-room, my lad," he
said to him.

The boy remained silent and looked up at the man with wide-open eyes.
Julian Mastakovich glanced round again cautiously and bent down over
the girl.

"What have you got, a doll, my dear?"

"Yes, sir." The child quailed a little, and her brow wrinkled.

"A doll? And do you know, my dear, what dolls are made of?"

"No, sir," she said weakly, and lowered her head.

"Out of rags, my dear. You, boy, you go back to the drawing-room, to
the children," said Julian Mastakovich looking at the boy sternly.

The two children frowned. They caught hold of each other and would not
part.

"And do you know why they gave you the doll?" asked Julian
Mastakovich, dropping his voice lower and lower.

"No."

"Because you were a good, very good little girl the whole week."

Saying which, Julian Mastakovich was seized with a paroxysm of
agitation. He looked round and said in a tone faint, almost inaudible
with excitement and impatience:

"If I come to visit your parents will you love me, my dear?"

He tried to kiss the sweet little creature, but the red-haired boy saw
that she was on the verge of tears, and he caught her hand and sobbed
out loud in sympathy. That enraged the man.

"Go away! Go away! Go back to the other room, to your playmates."

"I don't want him to. I don't want him to! You go away!" cried the
girl. "Let him alone! Let him alone!" She was almost weeping.

There was a sound of footsteps in the doorway. Julian Mastakovich
started and straightened up his respectable body. The red-haired boy
was even more alarmed. He let go the girl's hand, sidled along the
wall, and escaped through the drawing-room into the dining-room.

Not to attract attention, Julian Mastakovich also made for the
dining-room. He was red as a lobster. The sight of himself in a mirror
seemed to embarrass him. Presumably he was annoyed at his own ardour
and impatience. Without due respect to his importance and dignity, his
calculations had lured and pricked him to the greedy eagerness of a
boy, who makes straight for his object--though this was not as yet an
object; it only would be so in five years' time. I followed the worthy
man into the dining-room, where I witnessed a remarkable play.

Julian Mastakovich, all flushed with vexation, venom in his look,
began to threaten the red-haired boy. The red-haired boy retreated
farther and farther until there was no place left for him to retreat
to, and he did not know where to turn in his fright.

"Get out of here! What are you doing here? Get out, I say, you
good-for-nothing! Stealing fruit, are you? Oh, so, stealing fruit! Get
out, you freckle face, go to your likes!"

The frightened child, as a last desperate resort, crawled quickly
under the table. His persecutor, completely infuriated, pulled out his
large linen handkerchief and used it as a lash to drive the boy out of
his position.

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