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A.P. Chekhov
- The Head Gardener's Story
A SALE of flowers was taking place in Count
N.'s greenhouses. The purchasers were few in number -- a
landowner who was a neighbor of mine, a young timber-merchant,
and myself. While the workmen were carrying out our magnificent
purchases and packing them into the carts, we sat at the entry
of the greenhouse and chatted about one thing and another. It is
extremely pleasant to sit in a garden on a still April morning,
listening to the birds, and watching the flowers brought out
into the open air and basking in the sunshine.
The head-gardener, Mihail Karlovitch, a venerable old man with a
full shaven face, wearing a fur waistcoat and no coat,
superintended the packing of the plants himself, but at the same
time he listened to our conversation in the hope of hearing
something new. He was an intelligent, very good-hearted man,
respected by everyone. He was for some reason looked upon by
everyone as a German, though he was in reality on his father's
side Swedish, on his mother's side Russian, and attended the
Orthodox church. He knew Russian, Swedish, and German. He had
read a good deal in those languages, and nothing one could do
gave him greater pleasure than lending him some new book or
talking to him, for instance, about Ibsen.
He had his weaknesses, but they were innocent ones: he called
himself the head gardener, though there were no under-gardeners;
the expression of his face was unusually dignified and haughty;
he could not endure to be contradicted, and liked to be listened
to with respect and attention.
"That young fellow there I can recommend to you as an awful
rascal," said my neighbor, pointing to a laborer with a swarthy,
gipsy face, who drove by with the water-barrel. "Last week he
was tried in the town for burglary and was acquitted; they
pronounced him mentally deranged, and yet look at him, he is the
picture of health. Scoundrels are very often acquitted nowadays
in Russia on grounds of abnormality and aberration, yet these
acquittals, these unmistakable proofs of an indulgent attitude
to crime, lead to no good. They demoralize the masses, the sense
of justice is blunted in all as they become accustomed to seeing
vice unpunished, and you know in our age one may boldly say in
the words of Shakespeare that in our evil and corrupt age virtue
must ask forgiveness of vice."
"That's very true," the merchant assented. "Owing to these
frequent acquittals, murder and arson have become much more
common. Ask the peasants."
Mihail Karlovitch turned towards us and said:
"As far as I am concerned, gentlemen, I am always delighted to
meet with these verdicts of not guilty. I am not afraid for
morality and justice when they say 'Not guilty,' but on the
contrary I feel pleased. Even when my conscience tells me the
jury have made a mistake in acquitting the criminal, even then I
am triumphant. Judge for yourselves, gentlemen; if the judges
and the jury have more faith in man than in evidence, material
proofs, and speeches for the prosecution, is not that faith in
man in itself higher than any ordinary considerations? Such
faith is only attainable by those few who understand and feel
Christ."
"A fine thought," I said.
"But it's not a new one. I remember a very long time ago I heard
a legend on that subject. A very charming legend," said the
gardener, and he smiled. "I was told it by my grandmother, my
father's mother, an excellent old lady. She told me it in
Swedish, and it does not sound so fine, so classical, in
Russian."
But we begged him to tell it and not to be put off by the
coarseness of the Russian language. Much gratified, he
deliberately lighted his pipe, looked angrily at the laborers,
and began:
"There settled in a certain little town a solitary, plain,
elderly gentleman called Thomson or Wilson -- but that does not
matter; the surname is not the point. He followed an honorable
profession: he was a doctor. He was always morose and
unsociable, and only spoke when required by his profession. He
never visited anyone, never extended his acquaintance beyond a
silent bow, and lived as humbly as a hermit. The fact was, he
was a learned man, and in those days learned men were not like
other people. They spent their days and nights in contemplation,
in reading and in healing disease, looked upon everything else
as trivial, and had no time to waste a word. The inhabitants of
the town understood this, and tried not to worry him with their
visits and empty chatter. They were very glad that God had sent
them at last a man who could heal diseases, and were proud that
such a remarkable man was living in their town. 'He knows
everything,' they said about him.
"But that was not enough. They ought to have also said, 'He
loves everyone.' In the breast of that learned man there beat a
wonderful angelic heart. Though the people of that town were
strangers and not his own people, yet he loved them like
children, and did not spare himself for them. He was himself ill
with consumption, he had a cough, but when he was summoned to
the sick he forgot his own illness he did not spare himself and,
gasping for breath, climbed up the hills however high they might
be. He disregarded the sultry heat and the cold, despised thirst
and hunger. He would accept no money and strange to say, when
one of his patients died, he would follow the coffin with the
relations, weeping.
"And soon he became so necessary to the town that the
inhabitants wondered how they could have got on before without
the man. Their gratitude knew no bounds. Grown-up people and
children, good and bad alike, honest men and cheats -- all in
fact, respected him and knew his value. In the little town and
all the surrounding neighborhood there was no man who would
allow himself to do anything disagreeable to him; indeed, they
would never have dreamed of it. When he came out of his lodging,
he never fastened the doors or windows, in complete confidence
that there was no thief who could bring himself to do him wrong.
He often had in the course of his medical duties to walk along
the highroads, through the forests and mountains haunted by
numbers of hungry vagrants; but he felt that he was in perfect
security.
"One night he was returning from a patient when robbers fell
upon him in the forest, but when they recognized him, they took
off their hats respectfully and offered him something to eat.
When he answered that he was not hungry, they gave him a warm
wrap and accompanied him as far as the town, happy that fate had
given them the chance in some small way to show their gratitude
to the benevolent man. Well, to be sure, my grandmother told me
that even the horses and the cows and the dogs knew him and
expressed their joy when they met him.
"And this man who seemed by his sanctity to have guarded himself
from every evil, to whom even brigands and frenzied men wished
nothing but good, was one fine morning found murdered. Covered
with blood, with his skull broken, he was lying in a ravine, and
his pale face wore an expression of amazement. Yes, not horror
but amazement was the emotion that had been fixed upon his face
when he saw the murderer before him. You can imagine the grief
that overwhelmed the inhabitants of the town and the surrounding
districts. All were in despair, unable to believe their eyes,
wondering who could have killed the man. The judges who
conducted the inquiry and examined the doctor's body said: 'Here
we have all the signs of a murder, but as there is not a man in
the world capable of murdering our doctor, obviously it was not
a case of murder, and the combination of evidence is due to
simple chance. We must suppose that in the darkness he fell into
the ravine of himself and was mortally injured.'
"The whole town agreed with this opinion. The doctor was buried,
and nothing more was said about a violent death. The existence
of a man who could have the baseness and wickedness to kill the
doctor seemed incredible. There is a limit even to wickedness,
isn't there?
"All at once, would you believe it, chance led them to
discovering the murderer. A vagrant who had been many times
convicted, notorious for his vicious life, was seen selling for
drink a snuff-box and watch that had belonged to the doctor.
When he was questioned he was confused, and answered with an
obvious lie. A search was made, and in his bed was found a shirt
with stains of blood on the sleeves, and a doctor's lancet set
in gold. What more evidence was wanted? They put the criminal in
prison. The inhabitants were indignant, and at the same time
said:
" 'It's incredible! It can't be so! Take care that a mistake is
not made; it does happen, you know, that evidence tells a false
tale.'
"At his trial the murderer obstinately denied his guilt.
Everything was against him, and to be convinced of his guilt was
as easy as to believe that this earth is black; but the judges
seem to have gone mad: they weighed every proof ten times,
looked distrustfully at the witnesses, flushed crimson and
sipped water. . . . The trial began early in the morning and was
only finished in the evening.
"'Accused!' the chief judge said, addressing the murderer, 'the
court has found you guilty of murdering Dr. So-and-so, and has
sentenced you to. . . .'
"The chief judge meant to say 'to the death penalty,' but he
dropped from his hands the paper on which the sentence was
written, wiped the cold sweat from his face, and cried out:
" 'No! May God punish me if I judge wrongly, but I swear he is
not guilty. I cannot admit the thought that there exists a man
who would dare to murder our friend the doctor! A man could not
sink so low!'
" 'There cannot be such a man!' the other judges assented.
" 'No,' the crowd cried. 'Let him go!'
"The murderer was set free to go where he chose, and not one
soul blamed the court for an unjust verdict. And my grandmother
used to say that for such faith in humanity God forgave the sins
of all the inhabitants of that town. He rejoices when people
believe that man is His image and semblance, and grieves if,
forgetful of human dignity, they judge worse of men than of
dogs. The sentence of acquittal may bring harm to the
inhabitants of the town, but on the other hand, think of the
beneficial influence upon them of that faith in man -- a faith
which does not remain dead, you know; it raises up generous
feelings in us, and always impels us to love and respect every
man. Every man! And that is important."
Mihail Karlovitch had finished. My neighbor would have urged
some objection, but the head-gardener made a gesture that
signified that he did not like objections; then he walked away
to the carts, and, with an expression of dignity, went on
looking after the packing.
NOTES
Ibsen: Henrik Ibsen (1828-1906) was a Norwegian playwright
virtue must ask forgiveness of vice: in Shakespeare's Hamlet,
III, 4, Hamlet says: "For in the fatness of these pursy times/
Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg...."
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