Yakov Pasinkov Page #8

"Yakov Pasinkov" is a short story by Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev that explores the life and struggles of a rural Russian peasant. The narrative focuses on the titular character, Yakov, who grapples with the harsh realities of peasant life, including poverty, social injustice, and personal despair. Through a blend of poignant character study and social commentary, Turgenev sheds light on the emotional and psychological impacts of societal constraints on individuals. The story reflects Turgenev's deep empathy for the plight of the lower classes and his critique of the broader socio-economic conditions of 19th-century Russia.

								

district doctor here is attending me--you'll see him; he seems to know
his business. I'm awfully glad it happened so, though, or how should we
have met?' (And he took my hand. His hand, which had just before been
cold as ice, was now burning hot.) 'Tell me something about yourself,'
he began again, throwing the cloak back off his chest. 'You and I
haven't seen each other since God knows when.'

I hastened to carry out his wish, so as not to let him talk, and
started giving an account of myself. He listened to me at first with
great attention, then asked for drink, and then began closing his eyes
again and turning his head restlessly on the pillow. I advised him to
have a little nap, adding that I should not go on further till he was
well again, and that I should establish myself in a room beside him.
'It's very nasty here ...' Pasinkov was beginning, but I stopped his
mouth, and went softly out. Elisei followed me.

'What is it, Elisei? Why, he's dying, isn't he?' I questioned the
faithful servant.

Elisei simply made a gesture with his hand, and turned away.

Having dismissed my driver, and rapidly moved my things into the next
room, I went to see whether Pasinkov was asleep. At the door I ran up
against a tall man, very fat and heavily built. His face, pock-marked
and puffy, expressed laziness--and nothing else; his tiny little eyes
seemed, as it were, glued up, and his lips looked polished, as though
he were just awake.

'Allow me to ask,' I questioned him, 'are you not the doctor?'

The fat man looked at me, seeming with an effort to lift his
overhanging forehead with his eyebrows.

'Yes, sir,' he responded at last.

'Do me the favour, Mr. Doctor, won't you, please, to come this way into
my room? Yakov Ivanitch, is, I believe, now asleep. I am a friend of
his and should like to have a little talk with you about his illness,
which makes me very uneasy.'

'Very good,' answered the doctor, with an expression which seemed to
try and say, 'Why talk so much? I'd have come anyway,' and he followed
me.

'Tell me, please,' I began, as soon as he had dropped into a chair, 'is
my friend's condition serious? What do you think?'

'Yes,' answered the fat man, tranquilly.

'And... is it very serious?'

'Yes, it's serious.'

'So that he may...even die?'

'He may.'

I confess I looked almost with hatred at the fat man.

'Good heavens!' I began; 'we must take some steps, call a consultation,
or something. You know we can't... Mercy on us!'

'A consultation?--quite possible; why not? It's possible. Call in Ivan
Efremitch....'

The doctor spoke with difficulty, and sighed continually. His stomach
heaved perceptibly when he spoke, as it were emphasising each word.

'Who is Ivan Efremitch?'

'The parish doctor.'

'Shouldn't we send to the chief town of the province? What do you
think? There are sure to be good doctors there.'

'Well! you might.'

'And who is considered the best doctor there?'

'The best? There was a doctor Kolrabus there ... only I fancy he's been
transferred somewhere else. Though I must own there's no need really to
send.'

'Why so?'

'Even the best doctor will be of no use to your friend.'

'Why, is he so bad?'

'Yes, he's run down.'  'In what way precisely is he ill?'

'He received a wound.... The lungs were affected in consequence ... and
then he's taken cold too, and fever was set up ... and so on. And
there's no reserve force; a man can't get on, you know yourself, with
no reserve force.'

We were both silent for a while.

'How about trying homoeopathy?...' said the fat man, with a sidelong
glance at me.

'Homoeopathy? Why, you're an allopath, aren't you?'

'What of that? Do you think I don't understand homoeopathy? I
understand it as well as the other! Why, the chemist here among us
treats people homeopathically, and he has no learned degree whatever.'

'Oh,' I thought, 'it's a bad look-out!...'

'No, doctor,' I observed, 'you had better treat him according to your
usual method.'

'As you please.'

The fat man got up and heaved a sigh.

'You are going to him? 'I asked.

'Yes, I must have a look at him.'

And he went out.

I did not follow him; to see him at the bedside of my poor, sick friend
was more than I could stand. I called my man and gave him orders to
drive at once to the chief town of the province, to inquire there for
the best doctor, and to bring him without fail. There was a slight
noise in the passage. I opened the door quickly.

The doctor was already coming out of Pasinkov's room.

'Well?' I questioned him in a whisper.

'It's all right. I have prescribed a mixture.'

'I have decided, doctor, to send to the chief town. I have no doubt of
your skill, but as you're aware, two heads are better than one.'

'Well, that's very praiseworthy!' responded the fat man, and he began
to descend the staircase. He was obviously tired of me.

I went in to Pasinkov.

'Have you seen the local Aesculapius?' he asked.

'Yes,' I answered.

'What I like about him,' remarked Pasinkov, 'is his astounding
composure. A doctor ought to be phlegmatic, oughtn't he? It's so
encouraging for the patient.'

I did not, of course, try to controvert this.

Towards the evening, Pasinkov, contrary to my expectations, seemed
better. He asked Elisei to set the samovar, announced that he was going
to regale me with tea, and drink a small cup himself, and he was
noticeably more cheerful. I tried, though, not to let him talk, and
seeing that he would not be quiet, I asked him if he would like me to
read him something. 'Just as at Winterkeller's--do you remember?' he
answered. 'If you will, I shall be delighted. What shall we read? Look,
there are my books in the window.'...

I went to the window and took up the first book that my hand chanced
upon....

'What is it?' he asked.

'Lermontov.'

'Ah, Lermontov! Excellent! Pushkin is greater, no doubt.... Do you
remember: "Once more the storm-clouds gather close Above me in the
perfect calm" ... or, "For the last time thy image sweet in thought I
dare caress." Ah! marvellous! marvellous! But Lermontov's fine too.
Well, I'll tell you what, dear boy: you take the book, open it by
chance, and read what you find!'

I opened the book, and was disconcerted; I had chanced upon 'The Last
Will.' I tried to turn over the page, but Pasinkov noticed my action
and said hurriedly: 'No, no, no, read what turned up.'

There was no getting out of it; I read 'The Last Will.'

[Footnote: THE LAST WILL

    Alone with thee, brother,
    I would wish to be;
    On earth, so they tell me,
    I have not long to stay,
    Soon you will go home:
    See that ... But nay! for my fate
    To speak the truth, no one
    Is very greatly troubled.

    But if any one asks ...

    Well, whoever may ask,
    Tell them that through the breast
    I was shot by a bullet;
    That I died honourably for the Tsar,
    That our doctors are not much good,
    And that to my native land
    I send a humble greeting.

    My father and mother, hardly
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