Unfortunately, I’m not a philosopher and not a theologian. I know very well that I have no more than another six months to live; it would seem I should now be most occupied with questions about the darkness beyond the grave and the visions that will haunt my sepulchral sleep. But for some reason my soul rejects those questions, though my mind is aware of all their importance. As twenty or thirty years ago, so now in the face of death I am interested only in science. Breathing my last, I will still believe that science is the most important, the most beautiful and necessary thing in man’s life, that it has always been and always will be the highest manifestation of love, and that only by science will man conquer nature and himself. This faith may be naïve and incorrect in its foundations, but it is not my fault that I believe thus and not otherwise; in myself I cannot overcome this faith.
But that is not the point. I only ask indulgence for my weakness and the understanding that to tear away from his lectern and his students a man who has greater interest in the fate of bone marrow than in the final goal of the universe, is tantamount to having him nailed up in his coffin without waiting till he’s dead.
From insomnia and as a result of the intense struggle against mounting weakness, something strange is happening to me. In the midst of a lecture, tears suddenly choke me, my eyes begin to itch, and I feel a passionate, hysterical desire to stretch my arms out and complain loudly. I want to cry in a loud voice that fate has sentenced me, a famous man, to capital punishment, and that in six months or so another man will be master of this auditorium. I want to cry out that I’ve been poisoned; new thoughts such as I have never known before have poisoned the last days of my life and go on stinging my brain like mosquitoes. And at such times my situation seems so terrible that I want all my listeners to be horrified, to jump up from their seats and, in panic fear, rush for the exit with a desperate cry.
It is not easy to live through such moments.
II
After the lecture I sit at home and work. I read journals or dissertations, or prepare the next lecture, or sometimes I write something. I work with many breaks, because I’m obliged to receive visitors.
The bell rings. It’s a colleague stopping by to talk shop. He comes into my room with his hat and stick, hands me the one and the other, and says:
“For a moment, a moment! Sit down, collega ! Just a couple of words!”
At first we try to show each other that we are both extraordinarily polite and very glad to see each other. I offer him an armchair, and he offers me an armchair; as we do so we cautiously stroke each other’s waists, touch each other’s buttons, and it looks as if we’re palpating each other and are afraid of getting burnt. We both laugh, though we haven’t said anything funny. Sitting down, we lean our heads towards each other and begin talking in low voices. Cordially disposed as we are to each other, we can’t help gilding our talk with all sorts of Orientalia, like: “As you were pleased to observe so justly,” or “As I have already had the honor of telling you,” nor can we help laughing if one of us produces some witticism, even an unfortunate one. Having finished his shop talk, my colleague abruptly stands up and, waving his hat in the direction of my work, starts taking his leave. Again we palpate each other and laugh. I see him to the front hall; there I help my colleague into his coat, but he does everything to avoid this high honor. Then as Yegor opens the door, my colleague assures me that I am going to catch cold, as I make a show of even being ready to follow him outside. And when I finally return to my study, my face goes on smiling, probably from inertia.
A short while later the bell rings again. Someone comes into the front hall, spends a long time removing his things, coughs. Yegor announces that a student has appeared. Show him in, I order. A moment later a pleasant-looking young man comes in. It’s already a year since our relations became strained: he gives me execrable answers at examinations, and I give him F’s. Every year I wind up with about seven of these fine fellows, whom, to use student language, I grill or flunk. Those who can’t pass the examination owing to inability or illness usually bear their cross patiently and don’t bargain with me; those who do bargain and come to see me at home are the broad, sanguine natures, whose failure at an examination spoils their appetite and interferes with their regular attendance at the opera. The former I treat benignly; the latter I grill for the whole year.
“Sit down,” I say to the visitor. “What do you have to say?”
“Excuse me for bothering you, Professor …” he begins, stammering and not looking in my face. “I wouldn’t have ventured to bother you if it hadn’t been … I’ve taken your examination five times and … and failed. I beg you, be so kind as to pass me, because …”
The argument that all lazy students give in their own favor is ever the same: they have passed all their courses splendidly and failed only mine, which is the more surprising since they have always studied my subject most diligently and have an excellent knowledge of it; if they have failed, it is owing to some inexplicable misunderstanding.
“Excuse me, my friend,” I say to the visitor, “but I cannot pass you. Go read over the lectures and come back. Then we’ll see.”
A pause. The urge comes over me to torment the student a bit for liking beer and the opera more than science, and I say with a sigh:
“In my opinion, the best thing you can do now is abandon the study of medicine entirely. If, with your abilities, you cannot manage to pass the examination, then you obviously have neither the desire nor the vocation for being a doctor.”
The sanguine fellow pulls a long face.
“Excuse me, Professor,” he grins, “but that would be strange on my part, to say the least. To study for five years and suddenly … quit!”
“Why, yes! It’s better to waste five years than to spend your whole life afterwards doing something you don’t like.”
But I feel sorry for him at once and hasten to say:
“However, you know best. So, do a little more reading and come back.”
“When?” the lazy fellow asks in a hollow voice.
“Whenever you like. Even tomorrow.”
And in his kindly eyes I read: “Yes, I can come, but you’ll throw me out again, you brute!”
“Of course,” I say, “you won’t acquire any more knowledge by taking the examination with me another fifteen times, but it will season your character. And thanks be for that.”
Silence ensues. I get up and wait for the visitor to leave, but he stands there, looks out the window, pulls at his little beard, and thinks. It becomes boring.
The sanguine fellow’s voice is pleasant, juicy, his eyes are intelligent, mocking, his face is good-natured, somewhat flabby from frequent consumption of beer and prolonged lying on the sofa; clearly he could tell me a lot of interesting things about the opera, about his amorous adventures, about friends he likes, but, unfortunately, to speak of such things isn’t done. And I’d have listened eagerly.
“Professor! I give you my word of honor that if you pass me, I’ll…”
As soon as it comes to the “word of honor,” I wave my hands and sit down at my desk. The student thinks a moment longer and says dejectedly:
“In that case, good-bye … Excuse me.”
“Good-bye, my friend. Be well.”
He walks irresolutely to the front hall, slowly puts his coat on, and, as he goes out, again probably thinks for a long time. Having come up with nothing to apply to me except “the old devil,” he goes to a bad restaurant, drinks beer and has dinner, and then goes home to sleep. May you rest in peace, honest laborer!