Typhus Page #2

"Typhus" is a poignant short story by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov that explores themes of illness, suffering, and human connection. Set against the backdrop of a small Russian town grappling with a typhus epidemic, the narrative focuses on the experiences of a doctor and his interactions with the patients he treats. Through vivid characterizations and rich emotional depth, Chekhov captures the despair and resilience of those affected by the disease, while also reflecting on the broader societal implications of suffering and the fragility of life. The story is a testament to Chekhov's keen insight into the human condition and his ability to evoke empathy in the face of hardship.

								

the carriage with him. Mechanically he took his luggage and engaged a
sledge-driver. The man asked him for a rouble and a quarter to drive to
Povarsky Street, but he did not haggle, and without protest got
submissively into the sledge. He still understood the difference of
numbers, but money had ceased to have any value to him.

At home Klimov was met by his aunt and his sister Katya, a girl of
eighteen. When Katya greeted him she had a pencil and exercise book in
her hand, and he remembered that she was preparing for an examination as
a teacher. Gasping with fever, he walked aimlessly through all the rooms
without answering their questions or greetings, and when he reached his
bed he sank down on the pillow. The Finn, the red cap, the lady with the
white teeth, the smell of roast meat, the flickering blurs, filled his
consciousness, and by now he did not know where he was and did not hear
the agitated voices.

When he recovered consciousness he found himself in bed, undressed, saw
a bottle of water and Pavel, but it was no cooler, nor softer, nor more
comfortable for that. His arms and legs, as before, refused to lie
comfortably; his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he heard the
wheezing of the Finn's pipe. . . . A stalwart, black-bearded doctor was
busy doing something beside the bed, brushing against Pavel with his
broad back.

"It's all right, it's all right, young man," he muttered. "Excellent,
excellent . . . goo-od, goo-od . . . !"

The doctor called Klimov "young man," said "goo-od" instead of "good"
and "so-o" instead of "so."

"So-o . . . so-o . . . so-o," he murmured. "Goo-od, goo-od . . . !
Excellent, young man. You mustn't lose heart!"

The doctor's rapid, careless talk, his well-fed countenance, and
condescending "young man," irritated Klimov.

"Why do you call me 'young man'?" he moaned. "What familiarity! Damn it
all!"

And he was frightened by his own voice. The voice was so dried up, so
weak and peevish, that he would not have known it.

"Excellent, excellent!" muttered the doctor, not in the least offended.
. . . "You mustn't get angry, so-o, so-o, so-s. . . ."

And the time flew by at home with the same startling swiftness as in the
railway carriage. The daylight was continually being replaced by the
dusk of evening. The doctor seemed never to leave his bedside, and he
heard at every moment his "so-o, so-o, so-o." A continual succession of
people was incessantly crossing the bedroom. Among them were: Pavel, the
Finn, Captain Yaroshevitch, Lance-Corporal Maximenko, the red cap, the
lady with the white teeth, the doctor. They were all talking and waving
their arms, smoking and eating. Once by daylight Klimov saw the chaplain
of the regiment, Father Alexandr, who was standing before the bed,
wearing a stole and with a prayer-book in his hand. He was muttering
something with a grave face such as Klimov had never seen in him before.
The lieutenant remembered that Father Alexandr used in a friendly way to
call all the Catholic officers "Poles," and wanting to amuse him, he
cried:

"Father, Yaroshevitch the Pole has climbed up a pole!"

But Father Alexandr, a light-hearted man who loved a joke, did not
smile, but became graver than ever, and made the sign of the cross over
Klimov. At night-time by turn two shadows came noiselessly in and out;
they were his aunt and sister. His sister's shadow knelt down and
prayed; she bowed down to the ikon, and her grey shadow on the wall
bowed down too, so that two shadows were praying. The whole time there
was a smell of roast meat and the Finn's pipe, but once Klimov smelt the
strong smell of incense. He felt so sick he could not lie still, and
began shouting:

"The incense! Take away the incense!"

There was no answer. He could only hear the subdued singing of the
priest somewhere and some one running upstairs.

When Klimov came to himself there was not a soul in his bedroom. The
morning sun was streaming in at the window through the lower blind, and
a quivering sunbeam, bright and keen as the sword's edge, was flashing
on the glass bottle. He heard the rattle of wheels-- so there was no snow
now in the street. The lieutenant looked at the ray, at the familiar
furniture, at the door, and the first thing he did was to laugh. His
chest and stomach heaved with delicious, happy, tickling laughter. His
whole body from head to foot was overcome by a sensation of infinite
happiness and joy in life, such as the first man must have felt when he
was created and first saw the world. Klimov felt a passionate desire for
movement, people, talk. His body lay a motionless block; only his hands
stirred, but that he hardly noticed, and his whole attention was
concentrated on trifles. He rejoiced in his breathing, in his laughter,
rejoiced in the existence of the water-bottle, the ceiling, the
sunshine, the tape on the curtains. God's world, even in the narrow
space of his bedroom, seemed beautiful, varied, grand. When the doctor
made his appearance, the lieutenant was thinking what a delicious thing
medicine was, how charming and pleasant the doctor was, and how nice and
interesting people were in general.

"So-o, so, so. . . Excellent, excellent! . . . Now we are well again. .
. . Goo-od, goo-od!" the doctor pattered.

The lieutenant listened and laughed joyously; he remembered the Finn,
the lady with the white teeth, the train, and he longed to smoke, to
eat.

"Doctor," he said, "tell them to give me a crust of rye bread and salt,
and . . . and sardines."

The doctor refused; Pavel did not obey the order, and did not go for the
bread. The lieutenant could not bear this and began crying like a
naughty child.

"Baby!" laughed the doctor. "Mammy, bye-bye!"

Klimov laughed, too, and when the doctor went away he fell into a sound
sleep. He woke up with the same joyfulness and sensation of happiness.
His aunt was sitting near the bed.

"Well, aunt," he said joyfully. "What has been the matter?"

"Spotted typhus."

"Really. But now I am well, quite well! Where is Katya?"

"She is not at home. I suppose she has gone somewhere from her
examination."

The old lady said this and looked at her stocking; her lips began
quivering, she turned away, and suddenly broke into sobs. Forgetting the
doctor's prohibition in her despair, she said:

"Ah, Katya, Katya! Our angel is gone! Is gone!"

She dropped her stocking and bent down to it, and as she did so her cap
fell off her head. Looking at her grey head and understanding nothing,
Klimov was frightened for Katya, and asked:

"Where is she, aunt?"

The old woman, who had forgotten Klimov and was thinking only of her
sorrow, said:

"She caught typhus from you, and is dead. She was buried the day before
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