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Enemies
Anton Chekhov
BETWEEN nine and ten on a dark September evening the only son of the district doctor,
Kirilov, a child of six, called Andrey, died of diphtheria. Just as the doctor's wife sank on
her knees by the dead child's bedside and was overwhelmed by the first rush of despair
there came a sharp ring at the bell in the entry.
All the servants had been sent out of the house that morning on account of the diphtheria.
Kirilov went to open the door just as he was, without his coat on, with his waistcoat
unbuttoned, without wiping his wet face or his hands which were scalded with carbolic. It
was dark in the entry and nothing could be distinguished in the man who came in but
medium height, a white scarf, and a large, extremely pale face, so pale that its entrance
seemed to make the passage lighter.
"Is the doctor at home?" the newcomer asked quickly.
"I am at home," answered Kirilov. "What do you want?"
"Oh, it's you? I am very glad," said the stranger in a tone of relief, and he began feeling in
the dark for the doctor's hand, found it and squeezed it tightly in his own. "I am very . . .
very glad! We are acquainted. My name is Abogin, and I had the honour of meeting you in
the summer at Gnutchev's. I am very glad I have found you at home. For God's sake don't
refuse to come back with me at once. . . . My wife has been taken dangerously ill. . . . And
the carriage is waiting. . . ."
From the voice and gestures of the speaker it could be seen that he was in a state of great
excitement. Like a man terrified by a house on fire or a mad dog, he could hardly restrain
his rapid breathing and spoke quickly in a shaking voice, and there was a note of unaffected
sincerity and childish alarm in his voice. As people always do who are frightened and
overwhelmed, he spoke in brief, jerky sentences and uttered a great many unnecessary,
irrelevant words.
"I was afraid I might not find you in," he went on. "I was in a perfect agony as I drove here.
Put on your things and let us go, for God's sake. . . . This is how it happened. Alexandr
Semyonovitch Paptchinsky, whom you know, came to see me. . . . We talked a little and
then we sat down to tea; suddenly my wife cried out, clutched at her heart, and fell back on
her chair. We carried her to bed and . . . and I rubbed her forehead with ammonia and
sprinkled her with water . . . she lay as though she were dead. . . . I am afraid it is aneurism .
. . . Come along . . . her father died of aneurism."
Kirilov listened and said nothing, as though he did not understand Russian.
When Abogin mentioned again Paptchinsky and his wife's father and once more began
feeling in the dark for his hand the doctor shook his head and said apathetically, dragging
out each word:
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"Excuse me, I cannot come . . . my son died . . . five minutes ago!"
"Is it possible!" whispered Abogin, stepping back a pace. "My God, at what an unlucky
moment I have come! A wonderfully unhappy day . . . wonderfully. What a coincidence. . . .
It's as though it were on purpose!"
Abogin took hold of the door-handle and bowed his head. He was evidently hesitating and
did not know what to do -- whether to go away or to continue entreating the doctor.
"Listen," he said fervently, catching hold of Kirilov's sleeve. "I well understand your
position! God is my witness that I am ashamed of attempting at such a moment to intrude
on your attention, but what am I to do? Only think, to whom can I go? There is no other
doctor here, you know. For God's sake come! I am not asking you for myself. . . . I am not
the patient!"
A silence followed. Kirilov turned his back on Abogin, stood still a moment, and slowly
walked into the drawing-room. Judging from his unsteady, mechanical step, from the
attention with which he set straight the fluffy shade on the unlighted lamp in the drawing-
room and glanced into a thick book lying on the table, at that instant he had no intention, no
desire, was thinking of nothing and most likely did not remember that there was a stranger
in the entry. The twilight and stillness of the drawing-room seemed to increase his
numbness. Going out of the drawing-room into his study he raised his right foot higher than
was necessary, and felt for the doorposts with his hands, and as he did so there was an air of
perplexity about his whole figure as though he were in somebody else's house, or were
drunk for the first time in his life and were now abandoning himself with surprise to the
new sensation. A broad streak of light stretched across the bookcase on one wall of the
study; this light came together with the close, heavy smell of carbolic and ether from the
door into the bedroom, which stood a little way open. . . . The doctor sank into a low chair
in front of the table; for a minute he stared drowsily at his books, which lay with the light
on them, then got up and went into the bedroom.
Here in the bedroom reigned a dead silence. Everything to the smallest detail was eloquent
of the storm that had been passed through, of exhaustion, and everything was at rest. A
candle standing among a crowd of bottles, boxes, and pots on a stool and a big lamp on the
chest of drawers threw a brilliant light over all the room. On the bed under the window lay a
boy with open eyes and a look of wonder on his face. He did not move, but his open eyes
seemed every moment growing darker and sinking further into his head. The mother was
kneeling by the bed with her arms on his body and her head hidden in the bedclothes. Like
the child, she did not stir; but what throbbing life was suggested in the curves of her body
and in her arms! She leaned against the bed with all her being, pressing against it greedily
with all her might, as though she were afraid of disturbing the peaceful and comfortable
attitude she had found at last for her exhausted body. The bedclothes, the rags and bowls,
the splashes of water on the floor, the little paint-brushes and spoons thrown down here and
there, the white bottle of lime water, the very air, heavy and stifling -- were all hushed and
seemed plunged in repose.
The doctor stopped close to his wife, thrust his hands in his trouser pockets, and slanting his
head on one side fixed his eyes on his son. His face bore an expression of indifference, and
only from the drops that glittered on his beard it could be seen that he had just been crying.
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That repellent horror which is thought of when we speak of death was absent from the
room. In the numbness of everything, in the mother's attitude, in the indifference on the
doctor's face there was something that attracted and touched the heart, that subtle, almost
elusive beauty of human sorrow which men will not for a long time learn to understand and
describe, and which it seems only music can convey. There was a feeling of beauty, too, in
the austere stillness. Kirilov and his wife were silent and not weeping, as though besides the
bitterness of their loss they were conscious, too, of all the tragedy of their position; just as
once their youth had passed away, so now together with this boy their right to have children
had gone for ever to all eternity! The doctor was forty-four, his hair was grey and he looked
like an old man; his faded and invalid wife was thirty-five. Andrey was not merely the only
child, but also the last child.
In contrast to his wife the doctor belonged to the class of people who at times of spiritual
suffering feel a craving for movement. After standing for five minutes by his wife, he
walked, raising his right foot high, from the bedroom into a little room which was half
filled up by a big sofa; from there he went into the kitchen. After wandering by the stove
and the cook's bed he bent down and went by a little door into the passage.
There he saw again the white scarf and the white face.
"At last," sighed Abogin, reaching towards the door-handle. "Let us go, please."
The doctor started, glanced at him, and remembered. . . .
"Why, I have told you already that I can't go!" he said, growing more animated. "How
strange!"
"Doctor, I am not a stone, I fully understand your position . . . I feel for you," Abogin said in
an imploring voice, laying his hand on his scarf. "But I am not asking you for myself. My
wife is dying. If you had heard that cry, if you had seen her face, you would understand my
pertinacity. My God, I thought you had gone to get ready! Doctor, time is precious. Let us
go, I entreat you."
"I cannot go," said Kirilov emphatically and he took a step into the drawing-room.
Abogin followed him and caught hold of his sleeve.
"You are in sorrow, I understand. But I'm not asking you to a case of toothache, or to a
consultation, but to save a human life!" he went on entreating like a beggar. "Life comes
before any personal sorrow! Come, I ask for courage, for heroism! For the love of
humanity!"
"Humanity -- that cuts both ways," Kirilov said irritably. "In the name of humanity I beg
you not to take me. And how queer it is, really! I can hardly stand and you talk to me about
humanity! I am fit for nothing just now. . . . Nothing will induce me to go, and I can't leave
my wife alone. No, no. . ."
Kirilov waved his hands and staggered back.
"And . . . and don't ask me," he went on in a tone of alarm. "Excuse me. By No. XIII of the
regulations I am obliged to go and you have the right to drag me by my collar . . . drag me if
you like, but . . . I am not fit . . . I can't even speak . . . excuse me."
"There is no need to take that tone to me, doctor!" said Abogin, again taking the doctor by
his sleeve. "What do I care about No. XIII! To force you against your will I have no right
whatever. If you will, come; if you will not -- God forgive you; but I am not appealing to
your will, but to your feelings. A young woman is dying. You were just speaking of the
death of your son. Who should understand my horror if not you?"
Abogin's voice quivered with emotion; that quiver and his tone were far more persuasive
than his words. Abogin was sincere, but it was remarkable that whatever he said his words
sounded stilted, soulless, and inappropriately flowery, and even seemed an outrage on the
atmosphere of the doctor s home and on the woman who was somewhere dying. He felt this
himself, and so, afraid of not being understood, did his utmost to put softness and
tenderness into his voice so that the sincerity of his tone might prevail if his words did not.
As a rule, however fine and deep a phrase may be, it only affects the indifferent, and cannot
fully satisfy those who are happy or unhappy; that is why dumbness is most often the
highest expression of happiness or unhappiness; lovers understand each other better when
they are silent, and a fervent, passionate speech delivered by the grave only touches
outsiders, while to the widow and children of the dead man it seems cold and trivial.
Kirilov stood in silence. When Abogin uttered a few more phrases concerning the noble
calling of a doctor, self-sacrifice, and so on, the doctor asked sullenly: "Is it far?"
"Something like eight or nine miles. I have capital horses, doctor! I give you my word of
honour that I will get you there and back in an hour. Only one hour."
These words had more effect on Kirilov than the appeals to humanity or the noble calling of
the doctor. He thought a moment and said with a sigh: "Very well, let us go!"
He went rapidly with a more certain step to his study, and afterwards came back in a long
frock-coat. Abogin, greatly relieved, fidgeted round him and scraped with his feet as he
helped him on with his overcoat, and went out of the house with him.
It was dark out of doors, though lighter than in the entry. The tall, stooping figure of the
doctor, with his long, narrow beard and aquiline nose, stood out distinctly in the darkness.
Abogin's big head and the little student's cap that barely covered it could be seen now as
well as his pale face. The scarf showed white only in front, behind it was hidden by his long
hair.
"Believe me, I know how to appreciate your generosity," Abogin muttered as he helped the
doctor into the carriage. "We shall get there quickly. Drive as fast as you can, Luka, there's
a good fellow! Please!"
The coachman drove rapidly. At first there was a row of indistinct buildings that stretched
alongside the hospital yard; it was dark everywhere except for a bright light from a window
that gleamed through the fence into the furthest part of the yard while three windows of the
upper storey of the hospital looked paler than the surrounding air. Then the carriage drove
into dense shadow; here there was the smell of dampness and mushrooms, and the sound of
rustling trees; the crows, awakened by the noise of the wheels, stirred among the foliage
and uttered prolonged plaintive cries as though they knew the doctor's son was dead and
that Abogin's wife was ill. Then came glimpses of separate trees, of bushes; a pond, on
which great black shadows were slumbering, gleamed with a sullen light -- and the carriage
rolled over a smooth level ground. The clamour of the crows sounded dimly far away and
soon ceased altogether.
Kirilov and Abogin were silent almost all the way. Only once Abogin heaved a deep sigh
and muttered:
"It's an agonizing state! One never loves those who are near one so much as when one is in
danger of losing them."
And when the carriage slowly drove over the river, Kirilov started all at once as though the
splash of the water had frightened him, and made a movement.
"Listen -- let me go," he said miserably. "I'll come to you later. I must just send my assistant
to my wife. She is alone, you know!"
Abogin did not speak. The carriage swaying from side to side and crunching over the stones
drove up the sandy bank and rolled on its way. Kirilov moved restlessly and looked about
him in misery. Behind them in the dim light of the stars the road could be seen and the
riverside willows vanishing into the darkness. On the right lay a plain as uniform and as
boundless as the sky; here and there in the distance, probably on the peat marshes, dim
lights were glimmering. On the left, parallel with the road, ran a hill tufted with small
bushes, and above the hill stood motionless a big, red half-moon, slightly veiled with mist
and encircled by tiny clouds, which seemed to be looking round at it from all sides and
watching that it did not go away.
In all nature there seemed to be a feeling of hopelessness and pain. The earth, like a ruined
woman sitting alone in a dark room and trying not to think of the past, was brooding over
memories of spring and summer and apathetically waiting for the inevitable winter.
Wherever one looked, on all sides, nature seemed like a dark, infinitely deep, cold pit from
which neither Kirilov nor Abogin nor the red half-moon could escape. . . .
The nearer the carriage got to its goal the more impatient Abogin became. He kept moving,
leaping up, looking over the coachman's shoulder. And when at last the carriage stopped
before the entrance, which was elegantly curtained with striped linen, and when he looked
at the lighted windows of the second storey there was an audible catch in his breath.
"If anything happens . . . I shall not survive it," he said, going into the hall with the doctor,
and rubbing his hands in agitation. "But there is no commotion, so everything must be
going well so far," he added, listening in the stillness.
There was no sound in the hall of steps or voices and all the house seemed asleep in spite of
the lighted windows. Now the doctor and Abogin, who till then had been in darkness, could
see each other clearly. The doctor was tall and stooped, was untidily dressed and not good-
looking. There was an unpleasantly harsh, morose, and unfriendly look about his lips, thick
as a negro's, his aquiline nose, and listless, apathetic eyes. His unkempt head and sunken
temples, the premature greyness of his long, narrow beard through which his chin was
visible, the pale grey hue of his skin and his careless, uncouth manners -- the harshness of
all this was suggestive of years of poverty, of ill fortune, of weariness with life and with
men. Looking at his frigid figure one could hardly believe that this man had a wife, that he
was capable of weeping over his child. Abogin presented a very different appearance. He
was a thick-set, sturdy-looking, fair man with a big head and large, soft features; he was
elegantly dressed in the very latest fashion. In his carriage, his closely buttoned coat, his
long hair, and his face there was a suggestion of something generous, leonine; he walked
with his head erect and his chest squared, he spoke in an agreeable baritone, and there was a
shade of refined almost feminine elegance in the manner in which he took off his scarf and
smoothed his hair. Even his paleness and the childlike terror with which he looked up at the
stairs as he took off his coat did not detract from his dignity nor diminish the air of
sleekness, health, and aplomb which characterized his whole figure.
"There is nobody and no sound," he said going up the stairs. "There is no commotion. God
grant all is well."
He led the doctor through the hall into a big drawing-room where there was a black piano
and a chandelier in a white cover; from there they both went into a very snug, pretty little
drawing-room full of an agreeable, rosy twilight.
"Well, sit down here, doctor, and I . . . will be back directly. I will go and have a look and
prepare them."
Kirilov was left alone. The luxury of the drawing-room, the agreeably subdued light and his
own presence in the stranger's unfamiliar house, which had something of the character of an
adventure, did not apparently affect him. He sat in a low chair and scrutinized his hands,
which were burnt with carbolic. He only caught a passing glimpse of the bright red lamp-
shade and the violoncello case, and glancing in the direction where the clock was ticking he
noticed a stuffed wolf as substantial and sleek-looking as Abogin himself.
It was quiet. . . . Somewhere far away in the adjoining rooms someone uttered a loud
exclamation:
"Ah!" There was a clang of a glass door, probably of a cupboard, and again all was still.
After waiting five minutes Kirilov left off scrutinizing his hands and raised his eyes to the
door by which Abogin had vanished.
In the doorway stood Abogin, but he was not the same as when he had gone out. The look
of sleekness and refined elegance had disappeared -- his face, his hands, his attitude were
contorted by a revolting expression of something between horror and agonizing physical
pain. His nose, his lips, his moustache, all his features were moving and seemed trying to
tear themselves from his face, his eyes looked as though they were laughing with agony. . . .
Abogin took a heavy stride into the drawing-room, bent forward, moaned, and shook his
fists.
"She has deceived me," he cried, with a strong emphasis on the second syllable of the verb.
"Deceived me, gone away. She fell ill and sent me for the doctor only to run away with that
clown Paptchinsky! My God!"
Abogin took a heavy step towards the doctor, held out his soft white fists in his face, and
shaking them went on yelling:
"Gone away! Deceived me! But why this deception? My God! My God! What need of this
dirty, scoundrelly trick, this diabolical, snakish farce? What have I done to her? Gone
away!"
Tears gushed from his eyes. He turned on one foot and began pacing up and down the
drawing-room. Now in his short coat, his fashionable narrow trousers which made his legs
look disproportionately slim, with his big head and long mane he was extremely like a lion.
A gleam of curiosity came into the apathetic face of the doctor. He got up and looked at
Abogin.
"Excuse me, where is the patient?" he said.
"The patient! The patient!" cried Abogin, laughing, crying, and still brandishing his fists.
"She is not ill, but accursed! The baseness! The vileness! The devil himself could not have
imagined anything more loathsome! She sent me off that she might run away with a
buffoon, a dull-witted clown, an Alphonse! Oh God, better she had died! I cannot bear it! I
cannot bear it!"
The doctor drew himself up. His eyes blinked and filled with tears, his narrow beard began
moving to right and to left together with his jaw.
"Allow me to ask what's the meaning of this?" he asked, looking round him with curiosity.
"My child is dead, my wife is in grief alone in the whole house. . . . I myself can scarcely
stand up, I have not slept for three nights. . . . And here I am forced to play a part in some
vulgar farce, to play the part of a stage property! I don't . . . don't understand it!"
Abogin unclenched one fist, flung a crumpled note on the floor, and stamped on it as
though it were an insect he wanted to crush.
"And I didn't see, didn't understand," he said through his clenched teeth, brandishing one
fist before his face with an expression as though some one had trodden on his corns. "I did
not notice that he came every day! I did not notice that he came today in a closed carriage!
What did he come in a closed carriage for? And I did not see it! Noodle!"
"I don't understand . . ." muttered the doctor. "Why, what's the meaning of it? Why, it's an
outrage on personal dignity, a mockery of human suffering! It's incredible. . . . It's the first
time in my life I have had such an experience!"
With the dull surprise of a man who has only just realized that he has been bitterly insulted
the doctor shrugged his shoulders, flung wide his arms, and not knowing what to do or to
say sank helplessly into a chair.
"If you have ceased to love me and love another -- so be it; but why this deceit, why this
vulgar, treacherous trick?" Abogin said in a tearful voice. "What is the object of it? And
what is there to justify it? And what have I done to you? Listen, doctor," he said hotly,
going up to Kirilov. "You have been the involuntary witness of my misfortune and I am not
going to conceal the truth from you. I swear that I loved the woman, loved her devotedly,
like a slave! I have sacrificed everything for her; I have quarrelled with my own people, I
have given up the service and music, I have forgiven her what I could not have forgiven my
own mother or sister. . . I have never looked askance at her. . . . I have never gainsaid her in
anything. Why this deception? I do not demand love, but why this loathsome duplicity? If
she did not love me, why did she not say so openly, honestly, especially as she knows my
views on the subject? . . ."
With tears in his eyes, trembling all over, Abogin opened his heart to the doctor with
perfect sincerity. He spoke warmly, pressing both hands on his heart, exposing the secrets
of his private life without the faintest hesitation, and even seemed to be glad that at last
these secrets were no longer pent up in his breast. If he had talked in this way for an hour or
two, and opened his heart, he would undoubtedly have felt better. Who knows, if the doctor
had listened to him and had sympathized with him like a friend, he might perhaps, as often
happens, have reconciled himself to his trouble without protest, without doing anything
needless and absurd. . . . But what happened was quite different. While Abogin was
speaking the outraged doctor perceptibly changed. The indifference and wonder on his face
gradually gave way to an expression of bitter resentment, indignation, and anger. The
features of his face became even harsher, coarser, and more unpleasant. When Abogin held
out before his eyes the photograph of a young woman with a handsome face as cold and
expressionless as a nun's and asked him whether, looking at that face, one could conceive
that it was capable of duplicity, the doctor suddenly flew out, and with flashing eyes said,
rudely rapping out each word:
"What are you telling me all this for? I have no desire to hear it! I have no desire to!" he
shouted and brought his fist down on the table. "I don't want your vulgar secrets!
Damnation take them! Don't dare to tell me of such vulgar doings! Do you consider that I
have not been insulted enough already? That I am a flunkey whom you can insult without
restraint? Is that it?"
Abogin staggered back from Kirilov and stared at him in amazement.
"Why did you bring me here?" the doctor went on, his beard quivering. "If you are so
puffed up with good living that you go and get married and then act a farce like this, how do
I come in? What have I to do with your love affairs? Leave me in peace! Go on squeezing
money out of the poor in your gentlemanly way. Make a display of humane ideas, play (the
doctor looked sideways at the violoncello case) play the bassoon and the trombone, grow as
fat as capons, but don't dare to insult personal dignity! If you cannot respect it, you might at
least spare it your attention!"
"Excuse me, what does all this mean?" Abogin asked, flushing red.
"It means that it's base and low to play with people like this! I am a doctor; you look upon
doctors and people generally who work and don't stink of perfume and prostitution as your
menials and mauvais ton; well, you may look upon them so, but no one has given you the
right to treat a man who is suffering as a stage property!"
"How dare you say that to me!" Abogin said quietly, and his face began working again, and
this time unmistakably from anger.
"No, how dared you, knowing of my sorrow, bring me here to listen to these vulgarities!"
shouted the doctor, and he again banged on the table with his fist. "Who has given you the
right to make a mockery of another man's sorrow?"
"You have taken leave of your senses," shouted Abogin. "It is ungenerous. I am intensely
unhappy myself and . . . and . . ."
"Unhappy!" said the doctor, with a smile of contempt. "Don't utter that word, it does not
concern you. The spendthrift who cannot raise a loan calls himself unhappy, too. The
capon, sluggish from over-feeding, is unhappy, too. Worthless people!"
"Sir, you forget yourself," shrieked Abogin. "For saying things like that . . . people are
thrashed! Do you understand?"
Abogin hurriedly felt in his side pocket, pulled out a pocket-book, and extracting two notes
flung them on the table.
"Here is the fee for your visit," he said, his nostrils dilating. "You are paid."
"How dare you offer me money?" shouted the doctor and he brushed the notes off the table
on to the floor. "An insult cannot be paid for in money!"
Abogin and the doctor stood face to face, and in their wrath continued flinging undeserved
insults at each other. I believe that never in their lives, even in delirium, had they uttered so
much that was unjust, cruel, and absurd. The egoism of the unhappy was conspicuous in
both. The unhappy are egoistic, spiteful, unjust, cruel, and less capable of understanding
each other than fools. Unhappiness does not bring people together but draws them apart,
and even where one would fancy people should be united by the similarity of their sorrow,
far more injustice and cruelty is generated than in comparatively placid surroundings.
"Kindly let me go home!" shouted the doctor, breathing hard.
Abogin rang the bell sharply. When no one came to answer the bell he rang again and
angrily flung the bell on the floor; it fell on the carpet with a muffled sound, and uttered a
plaintive note as though at the point of death. A footman came in.
"Where have you been hiding yourself, the devil take you?" His master flew at him,
clenching his fists. "Where were you just now? Go and tell them to bring the victoria round
for this gentleman, and order the closed carriage to be got ready for me. Stay," he cried as
the footman turned to go out. "I won't have a single traitor in the house by to-morrow!
Away with you all! I will engage fresh servants! Reptiles!"
Abogin and the doctor remained in silence waiting for the carriage. The first regained his
expression of sleekness and his refined elegance. He paced up and down the room, tossed
his head elegantly, and was evidently meditating on something. His anger had not cooled,
but he tried to appear not to notice his enemy. . . . The doctor stood, leaning with one hand
on the edge of the table, and looked at Abogin with that profound and somewhat cynical,
ugly contempt only to be found in the eyes of sorrow and indigence when they are
confronted with well-nourished comfort and elegance.
When a little later the doctor got into the victoria and drove off there was still a look of
contempt in his eyes. It was dark, much darker than it had been an hour before. The red
half-moon had sunk behind the hill and the clouds that had been guarding it lay in dark
patches near the stars. The carriage with red lamps rattled along the road and soon overtook
the doctor. It was Abogin driving off to protest, to do absurd things. . . .
All the way home the doctor thought not of his wife, nor of his Andrey, but of Abogin and
the people in the house he had just left. His thoughts were unjust and inhumanly cruel. He
condemned Abogin and his wife and Paptchinsky and all who lived in rosy, subdued light
among sweet perfumes, and all the way home he hated and despised them till his head
ached. And a firm conviction concerning those people took shape in his mind.
Time will pass and Kirilov's sorrow will pass, but that conviction, unjust and unworthy of
the human heart, will not pass, but will remain in the doctor's mind to the grave.
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