THIS morning the doctor came to see me. His name is Werner, but he is a Russian. What is there surprising in that? I have known a man named Ivanov, who was a German.

Werner is a remarkable man, and that for many reasons. Like almost all medical men he is a sceptic and a materialist, but, at the same time, he is a genuine poet—a poet always in deeds and often in words, although he has never written two verses in his life. He has mastered all the living chords of the human heart, just as one learns the veins of a corpse, but he has never known how to avail himself of his knowledge. In like manner, it sometimes happens that an excellent anatomist does not know how to cure a fever. Werner usually made fun of his patients in private; but once I saw him weeping over a dying soldier... He was poor, and dreamed of millions, but he would not take a single step out of his way for the sake of money. He once told me that he would rather do a favour to an enemy than to a friend, because, in the latter case, it would mean selling his beneficence, whilst hatred only increases proportionately to the magnanimity of the adversary. He had a malicious tongue; and more than one good, simple soul has acquired the reputation of a vulgar fool through being labelled with one of his epigrams. His rivals, envious medical men of the watering-place, spread the report that he was in the habit of drawing caricatures of his patients. The patients were incensed, and almost all of them discarded him. His friends, that is to say all the genuinely well-bred people who were serving in the Caucasus, vainly endeavoured to restore his fallen credit.

His outward appearance was of the type which, at the first glance, creates an unpleasant impression, but which you get to like in course of time, when the eye learns to read in the irregular features the stamp of a tried and lofty soul. Instances have been known of women falling madly in love with men of that sort, and having no desire to exchange their ugliness for the beauty of the freshest and rosiest of Endymions. We must give women their due: they possess an instinct for spiritual beauty, for which reason, possibly, men such as Werner love women so passionately.

Werner was small and lean and as weak as a baby. One of his legs was shorter than the other, as was the case with Byron. In comparison with his body, his head seemed enormous. His hair was cropped close, and the unevennesses of his cranium, thus laid bare, would have struck a phrenologist by reason of the strange intertexture of contradictory propensities. His little, ever restless, black eyes seemed as if they were endeavouring to fathom your thoughts. Taste and neatness were to be observed in his dress. His small, lean, sinewy hands flaunted themselves in bright-yellow gloves. His frock-coat, cravat and waistcoat were invariably of black. The young men dubbed him Mephistopheles; he pretended to be angry at the nickname, but in reality it flattered his vanity. Werner and I soon understood each other and became friends, because I, for my part, am illadapted for friendship. Of two friends, one is always the slave of the other, although frequently neither acknowledges the fact to himself. Now, the slave I could not be; and to be the master would be a wearisome trouble, because, at the same time, deception would be required. Besides, I have servants and money!

Our friendship originated in the following circumstances. I met Werner at S——, in the midst of a numerous and noisy circle of young people. Towards the end of the evening the conversation took a philosophico-metaphysical turn. We discussed the subject of convictions, and each of us had some different conviction to declare.

“So far as I am concerned,” said the doctor, “I am convinced of one thing only”...

“And that is—?” I asked, desirous of learning the opinion of a man who had been silent till then.

“Of the fact,” he answered, “that sooner or later, one fine morning, I shall die.”

“I am better off than you,” I said. “In addition to that, I have a further conviction, namely, that, one very nasty evening, I had the misfortune to be born.”

All the others considered that we were talking nonsense, but indeed not one of them said anything more sensible. From that moment we singled each other out amongst the crowd. We used frequently to meet and discuss abstract subjects in a very serious manner, until each observed that the other was throwing dust in his eyes. Then, looking significantly at each other—as, according to Cicero, the Roman augurs used to do—we would burst out laughing heartily and, having had our laugh, we would separate, well content with our evening.

I was lying on a couch, my eyes fixed upon the ceiling and my hands clasped behind my head, when Werner entered my room. He sat down in an easy chair, placed his cane in a corner, yawned, and announced that it was getting hot out of doors. I replied that the flies were bothering me—and we both fell silent.

“Observe, my dear doctor,” I said, “that, but for fools, the world would be a very dull place. Look! Here are you and I, both sensible men! We know beforehand that it is possible to dispute ad infinitum about everything—and so we do not dispute. Each of us knows almost all the other’s secret thoughts: to us a single word is a whole history; we see the grain of every one of our feelings through a threefold husk. What is sad, we laugh at; what is laughable, we grieve at; but, to tell the truth, we are fairly indifferent, generally speaking, to everything except ourselves. Consequently, there can be no interchange of feelings and thoughts between us; each of us knows all he cares to know about the other, and that knowledge is all he wants. One expedient remains—to tell the news. So tell me some news.”

Fatigued by this lengthy speech, I closed my eyes and yawned. The doctor answered after thinking awhile:

“There is an idea, all the same, in that nonsense of yours.”

“Two,” I replied.

“Tell me one, and I will tell you the other.”

“Very well, begin!” I said, continuing to examine the ceiling and smiling inwardly.

“You are anxious for information about some of the new-comers here, and I can guess who it is, because they, for their part, have already been inquiring about you.”

“Doctor! Decidedly it is impossible for us to hold a conversation! We read into each other’s soul.”

“Now the other idea?”...

“Here it is: I wanted to make you relate something, for the following reasons: firstly, listening is less fatiguing than talking; secondly, the listener cannot commit himself; thirdly, he can learn another’s secret; fourthly, sensible people, such as you, prefer listeners to speakers. Now to business; what did Princess Ligovski tell you about me?”

“You are quite sure that it was Princess Ligovski... and not Princess Mary?”...

“Quite sure.”

“Why?”

“Because Princess Mary inquired about Grushnitski.”

“You are gifted with a fine imagination! Princess Mary said that she was convinced that the young man in the soldier’s cloak had been reduced to the ranks on account of a duel”...

“I hope you left her cherishing that pleasant delusion”...

“Of course”...

“A plot!” I exclaimed in rapture. “We will make it our business to see to the denouement of this little comedy. It is obvious that fate is taking care that I shall not be bored!”

“I have a presentiment,” said the doctor, “that poor Grushnitski will be your victim.”

“Proceed, doctor.”

“Princess Ligovski said that your face was familiar to her. I observed that she had probably met you in Petersburg—somewhere in society... I told her your name. She knew it well. It appears that your history created a great stir there... She began to tell us of your adventures, most likely supplementing the gossip of society with observations of her own... Her daughter listened with curiosity. In her imagination you have become the hero of a novel in a new style... I did not contradict Princess Ligovski, although I knew that she was talking nonsense.”

“Worthy friend!” I said, extending my hand to him.

The doctor pressed it feelingly and continued:

“If you like I will present you”...

“Good heavens!” I said, clapping my hands. “Are heroes ever presented? In no other way do they make the acquaintance of their beloved than by saving her from certain death!”...

“And you really wish to court Princess Mary?”

“Not at all, far from it!... Doctor, I triumph at last! You do not understand me!... It vexes me, however,” I continued after a moment’s silence. “I never reveal my secrets myself, but I am exceedingly fond of their being guessed, because in that way I can always disavow them upon occasion. However, you must describe both mother and daughter to me. What sort of people are they?”

“In the first place, Princess Ligovski is a woman of forty-five,” answered Werner. “She has a splendid digestion, but her blood is out of order—there are red spots on her cheeks. She has spent the latter half of her life in Moscow, and has grown stout from leading an inactive life there. She loves spicy stories, and sometimes says improper things herself when her daughter is out of the room. She has declared to me that her daughter is as innocent as a dove. What does that matter to me?... I was going to answer that she might be at her ease, because I would never tell anyone. Princess Ligovski is taking the cure for her rheumatism, and the daughter, for goodness knows what. I have ordered each of them to drink two tumblers a day of sulphurous water, and to bathe twice a week in the diluted bath. Princess Ligovski is apparently unaccustomed to giving orders. She cherishes respect for the intelligence and attainments of her daughter, who has read Byron in English and knows algebra: in Moscow, evidently, the ladies have entered upon the paths of erudition—and a good thing, too! The men here are generally so unamiable, that, for a clever woman, it must be intolerable to flirt with them. Princess Ligovski is very fond of young people; Princess Mary looks on them with a certain contempt—a Moscow habit! In Moscow they cherish only wits of not less than forty.”

“You have been in Moscow, doctor?”

“Yes, I had a practice there.”

“Continue.”

“But I think I have told everything... No, there is something else: Princess Mary, it seems, loves to discuss emotions, passions, etcetera. She was in Petersburg for one winter, and disliked it—especially the society: no doubt she was coldly received.”

“You have not seen anyone with them today?”

“On the contrary, there was an aide-de-camp, a stiff guardsman, and a lady—one of the latest arrivals, a relation of Princess Ligovski on the husband’s side—very pretty, but apparently very ill... Have you not met her at the well? She is of medium height, fair, with regular features; she has the complexion of a consumptive, and there is a little black mole on her right cheek. I was struck by the expressiveness of her face.”

“A mole!” I muttered through my teeth. “Is it possible?”

The doctor looked at me, and, laying his hand on my heart, said triumphantly:

“You know her!”

My heart was, in fact, beating more violently than usual.

“It is your turn, now, to triumph,” I said. “But I rely on you: you will not betray me. I have not seen her yet, but I am convinced that I recognise from your portrait a woman whom I loved in the old days... Do not speak a word to her about me; if she asks any questions, give a bad report of me.”

“Be it so!” said Werner, shrugging his shoulders.

When he had departed, my heart was compressed with terrible grief. Has destiny brought us together again in the Caucasus, or has she come hither on purpose, knowing that she would meet me?... And how shall we meet?... And then, is it she?... My presentiments have never deceived me. There is not a man in the world over whom the past has acquired such a power as over me. Every recollection of bygone grief or joy strikes my soul with morbid effect, and draws forth ever the same sounds... I am stupidly constituted: I forget nothing—nothing!

After dinner, about six o’clock, I went on to the boulevard. It was crowded. The two princesses were sitting on a bench, surrounded by young men, who were vying with each other in paying them attention. I took up my position on another bench at a little distance off, stopped two Dragoon officers whom I knew, and proceeded to tell them something. Evidently it was amusing, because they began to laugh loudly like a couple of madmen. Some of those who were surrounding Princess Mary were attracted to my side by curiosity, and gradually all of them left her and joined my circle. I did not stop talking; my anecdotes were clever to the point of absurdity, my jests at the expense of the queer people passing by, malicious to the point of frenzy. I continued to entertain the public till sunset. Princess Mary passed by me a few times, arm-in-arm with her mother, and accompanied by a certain lame old man. A few times her glance as it fell upon me expressed vexation, while endeavouring to express indifference...

“What has he been telling you?” she inquired of one of the young men, who had gone back to her out of politeness. “No doubt a most interesting story—his own exploits in battle?”...

This was said rather loudly, and probably with the intention of stinging me.

“Aha!” I thought to myself. “You are downright angry, my dear Princess. Wait awhile, there is more to follow.”

Grushnitski kept following her like a beast of prey, and would not let her out of his sight. I wager that to-morrow he will ask somebody to present him to Princess Ligovski. She will be glad, because she is bored.