Sister Pelagia and the Black Monk (28 page)

“Very!”

“I joined the medical faculty out of youthful narcissism. Initially the department of physiology, not psychiatry. At the age of nineteen I imagined I was Fortune's favorite, a happy prince who had everything that any mortal could possibly possess, and there was only one more thing I wanted: to discover the secret of eternal or, if not eternal, then at least very long life. This is a rather common form of mania among the rich— at this very moment I have one patient of this kind, whose narcissism has developed to a pathological extent. And as for myself, twenty years ago, I dreamed of understanding the workings of my body so well that I could prolong its functioning for as long as possible.”

“But what diverted you from that path?” Lisitsyna exclaimed when the doctor paused briefly in his narrative.

“The same thing that usually diverts excessively rational young men from their intended trajectory in life.”

“Love?” Polina Andreevna guessed.

“Yes. Passionate, irrational, all-consuming—in short, just as love ought to be.”

“Was your love not requited?”

“Oh, yes, I myself was loved no less ardently than I loved.”

“But why do you speak of it so sadly?”

“Because it was the saddest and most unusual of all the love stories I know. We were drawn irresistibly to each other, but we could not spend even a minute in each other's embrace. The moment I came within arm's length of the object of my adoration, she became seriously ill: tears poured from her eyes and her nose began streaming; she broke out in a bright red rash and her temples started to throb with the unbearable agony of migraine. I only had to move away, and the morbid symptoms vanished almost immediately. If I had not been studying medicine, I should probably have suspected witchcraft, but in my second year as a student, I already knew about the mysterious, implacable ailment known as idiosyncratic allergy. In very many cases it is impossible to guess what causes it and even more impossible to treat it.” Donat Savvich closed his eyes, laughed, and shook his head, as if he were astonished that such a thing could actually have happened to him. “The way we suffered was indescribable. The mighty power of love drew us to each other, but my touch was fatal to the one I adored. I read everything known to medicine about idiosyncratic allergy and realized that the chemical and biological sciences were still too imperfect and in the course of my lifetime they would not develop far enough to defeat this mechanism of the physical rejection of one body by another. That was when I decided to switch to psychiatry and devote myself to studying the structure of the human soul—and my own soul, which had played such an appalling trick on me by making me love the only woman out of all the women on earth whom I could not possibly possess.”

“And so you parted?” Polina Andreevna exclaimed, moved almost to tears by the story itself and the restrained tone in which it had been told.

“Yes. That was my decision. Eventually she married. I hope she is happy. But I, as you can see, am still single. I live for my work.”

Quick-witted as she was, Mrs. Lisitsyna had not immediately realized that the cunning doctor was also playing a game with her—not a woman's game, but a man's, no less ancient and immutable in its rules. The sure means to gain access to a woman's heart is to arouse the spirit of competition in it. The best thing of all is to tell some romantic story, which must have a sad ending, about yourself, as if you are saying, See what depths of feeling I was once capable of, and possibly would be again, if only I had a worthy object of affection.

When Polina Andreevna realized what was happening, she smiled to herself in appreciation of this maneuver. Regardless of whether it was true or not, the story she had been told was certainly original. And in addition, the entire monologue indicated that the doctor liked his visitor, and that, say what you will, was flattering, and also useful.

“So you value your work?” Lisitsyna asked sympathetically.

“Very much. My patients are unusual people, each of them a unique individual in his own way. And uniqueness is a kind of talent.”

“In what way are they so talented? Please, do tell me!”

The redheaded visitor's round eyes opened even wider in joyful anticipation. At this point law number two came into its own: Lead the man onto the subject that interests him more than any other, and then listen properly. That is all there is to it, but how many men's hearts are won by means of this simple method! How many plain Janes and dowryless brides find themselves such fine bridegrooms that everybody is amazed at how they could possibly have come by such undeserved happiness— but the way they came by it was simply by listening.

Polina Andreevna certainly did know how to listen, raising her eyebrows when it was required, gasping occasionally and even pressing her hands to her breast, but all without the slightest exaggeration and, most important, without pretending, with entirely unfeigned interest.

Donat Savvich seemed to speak reluctantly at first, but such exemplary listening gradually roused his enthusiasm.

“My patients, of course, are abnormal, but that only means that they deviate from a certain average norm that is accepted by society—in other words, they are more unusual, exotic, and whimsical than ‘normal’ people. I am opposed in principle to the very concept of the ‘norm’ as used in any comparisons in the sphere of the human psyche. Each one of us has his or her own norm. And the individual has a duty to himself to rise above this norm.”

Here Mrs. Lisitsyna began nodding her head, as if the doctor had propounded a thesis that had occurred to her earlier and with which she was entirely in agreement.

“What makes human beings valuable and interesting,” Korovin continued, “what makes them great, if you like, is that they can change for the better. Always. At any age, after any mistake, any moral lapse. The mechanism of self-improvement is embedded in our very psyche. If this mechanism it not used, it grows rusty, and then a person declines and sinks below the level of his own norm. The second cornerstone of my theory is this: every blemish, every failing in the personality is simultaneously an advantage, a high point in the landscape—all that is required is to rotate that point of the psychological relief by a hundred and eighty degrees. And here is my third fundamental principle: anyone who is suffering can be helped, and anyone who is beyond understanding
can
be understood. And when you have understood them, then you can start working with them: transforming a weak person into a strong one, a defective person into a complete one, an unhappy person into a happy one. My dear Polina Andreevna, I am not superior to my patients, I am not cleverer or better—the only difference is that I am richer, although there are some extremely wealthy people among them too.”

“You believe that every person can be helped?” his listener asked in surprise, throwing her hands up in the air. “But surely there are aberrations that are very difficult to cure? For instance, chronic alcoholism, or even worse, opium addiction!”

“In fact that's a very simple matter,” the doctor said with a condescending smile. “That was what I began my experiments with. I have an island of my own in the Indian Ocean, a long way from the sea lanes, where I put the most hopeless alcoholics and drug addicts. There are no intoxicating substances at all to be found on the island, not for any money. In fact, money has no value there in any case. Once every three months a schooner comes from the Maldives, bringing everything the people need.”

“And don't they run away?”

“Anyone who wants to go back to the old life is free to sail away on the schooner. No one is held there by force. I don't believe in depriving a human being of the right to choose. If he wants to destroy himself, well then, that is his right. And so the real difficulty is presented not by slaves of the bottle and the hookah, but by people with anomalies to which the key is not so easy to find. I work with patients like that here, on Canaan. Sometimes successfully and sometimes—alas.” Korovin sighed. “The person living in cottage number eighteen here is a railway telegrapher who claims that he was abducted by the inhabitants of another planet who took him away and kept him on that planet for several years, which were much longer than years here on earth, because the sun there is much bigger than ours.”

“Quite a subtle observation for a simple telegrapher,” Polina Andreevna remarked.

“Oh, that's nothing. You should hear him talk about that Woofer of his (that's what the planet is called)—Jonathan Swift and Jules Verne combined are no match for him! Such vivid descriptions! Such technical detail—it's quite fascinating. And the language! He is giving me lessons in the language of Woofer. I even began compiling a special glossary in order to catch him out. And would you believe it: he has never made a single mistake—he remembers all the words! And the grammar is remarkably logical, far more elegant than any earth language that I know!”

Lisitsyna clasped her hands together—she found this story about another planet so interesting. “And how does he explain his return to earth?”

“He says they told him straightaway that they were only taking him for a while, just for a visit, and they would bring him back safe and unharmed. He also claims that a lot of visitors from earth have been to Woofer, but they wipe most of their memories clean in order not to make things difficult for them when they return here. But my patient asked them to leave him all his memories, and now he is paying the price. By the way, remind me to tell you about another case of the caprices of memory …”

It was clear that Korovin had mounted his favorite hobbyhorse and would go on talking for some time, but the last thing Polina Andreevna wanted was for him to stop.

“He says that the Wooferians have been observing life on earth for a very long time, centuries, in fact.”

“But why don't they show themselves?”

“From their point of view, we are still too savage. First we have to solve our own problems and stop tormenting one another. Only after that will we mature sufficiently for interplanetary contact. According to their calculations, it could happen in the year 2080, but that's only in the very best case.”

“Ah, such a long time,” Lisitsyna said, disappointed. “You and I will not live to see it.”

Donat Savvich smiled. “Come now, these are the ravings of a sick imagination, no matter how coherent they might be. In actual fact our telegrapher never went anywhere. He was out hunting with friends and winged a duck. He waded into the rushes for his trophy and was gone for no more than five minutes. He came back without the duck or his gun, behaving very strangely, and immediately started telling his friends about the planet Woofer. He was taken straight from the swamp to the district hospital, and many months later he arrived here. I am struggling with him, struggling really hard. The important thing in his case is to punch a hole in his shell of logic, to discredit his ravings. So far I haven't managed it.”

“Ah, how very interesting,” Polina Andreevna sighed dreamily.

“It most certainly is,” the doctor said, with the air of a collector proudly demonstrating the most important treasures in his collection. “The telegrapher does at least behave in the usual way (if you don't count the fact that he sleeps during the day and spends the whole night looking up at the stars). But you remember I mentioned a maniac who wants to live forever, as I did in my youth? His name is Weller, in cottage number nine. He is totally obsessed with his own health and longevity. He very probably will live until 2080, when the people from the planet Woofer come to introduce themselves to us. He eats nothing but healthful food, calculating its chemical composition precisely. He lives in a room that is hermetically sealed and sterilized and always wears gloves. The only contact the staff and I have with him is through a window covered with gauze. Weller was taken into a psychiatric clinic after he voluntarily submitted to castration—he claims that every ejaculation of sperm takes away two days’ worth of vital energy, which is why men live on average eight years less than women.”

“But without fresh air and exercise he won't live very long!”

“Don't worry, Weller has everything worked out. First, a complex ventilation system made according to his own drawings has been installed in the cottage. Second, from morning till night he does gymnastics or deep breathing exercises, or pours hot and cold water over himself—distilled, of course. For an hour each day he takes a walk in the fresh air, with the most incredible precautions. He never touches the ground with his feet: he learned how to walk on stilts especially ‘to avoid breathing in the vapors of the soil.’ The stilts stand on the porch, outside the house, and so Weller never touches them at all unless he is wearing gloves. Weller out walking is a sight, I can tell you! Come and admire him someday between nine and ten in the morning. Completely covered in a suit of oilcloth, with a respiratory mask on his face, striding over the ground on his wooden poles: boom, boom, boom. Like the Commander's statue in
Don Juan!”

The doctor laughed, and Polina Andreevna gladly joined in.

“And what was it you wanted to tell me about the caprices of memory?” she asked, still smiling. “Something else funny?”

“On the contrary. Something very sad. I have a female patient here who wakes up every morning and always returns to the same day, the most terrible day of her life, when she received the news of her husband's death. On that day she screamed, fainted, and lay unconscious right through the night. Every morning since then she thinks that she hasn't woken up from sleep, but come around after her fainting fit, and the terrible news only arrived the evening before. It is as if time has stopped for her, and the pain of her loss is not blunted at all. She opens her eyes in the morning, and immediately there are screams, tears, hysterics … She has been assigned a special doctor who tries to comfort her by making her understand that the disaster happened a long time ago, seven years ago in fact. At first, of course, she doesn't believe him. The first half of the day is spent in presenting her with proofs and explanations. By lunchtime the patient allows herself to be convinced, calms down a little, and starts asking what has happened during those seven years, taking a very lively interest in everything. By the evening she is already quite calm and pacified. She goes to bed with a smile and sleeps like a little child. But in the morning she wakes up and everything starts all over again; the grief, the sobbing, the attempts at suicide. I struggle and struggle, but so far I haven't been able to do anything. The mechanism of psychological shock has been too little studied as yet—I have to grope my way forward. Working with this patient is very hard, with the same thing being repeated day after day. The doctors can never stand it for more than two or three weeks—I have to replace them …”