Mikhail Bulgakov (1891–1940)

'Well now,' I said, 'you see... er... it seems... in fact it's quite certain... you see, you have a rather unpleasant disease - you have syphilis...'

As soon as I had said this I felt awkward. I thought he might be frightened out of his wits. But not at all. He gave me a sidelong glance, rather as a hen looks up with her round eye when she hears a voice calling her. I was astonished to see mistrust in his round eye.

'You've got syphilis,' I repeated softly.

'What's that, then?' asked the man with the speckled rash...

'You can get dressed again,' I said. 'You've got syphilis! It is an extremely serious illness which affects the whole body. It will take a long time to cure.'

Here I faltered because - I swear it - I detected in that hen-like gaze astonishment clearly mixed with derision.

'But I'm only a bit hoarse in the throat,' said the patient.

'Yes, I know. That's why it's gone hoarse, and that's why you've got a rash on your chest. Have a look at your chest.'

He squinted at his chest. The ironic glint in his eyes did not fade.

'Couldn't you just give me something for my throat?' he asked...

'Look here,' I continued aloud, 'your throat is a minor matter. We'll make your throat better too, but the most important thing is to get rid of the general disease. And the treatment's going to take a long time - two years.'

At this the patient stared at me. I saw the verdict in his eyes: You've gone off your head, doctor!

'Why so long?' he asked. 'How can it take two years? All I need is something to gargle for my throat.'

I saw red...

A few minutes later the yellow back of his sheepskin jerkin was disappearing through the door and a woman in a headscarf was elbowing past him. A few minutes later, as I ran along the half-dark passage from my out-patient surgery to get some cigarettes from the pharmacist, I happened to overhear a hoarse whisper:

'He's no good. Young fellow. I've just got a sore throat, see, but he looks me all over... chest, belly... Lord, here am I with nothing but a sore throat and he gives me ointment for my legs.'

'Careless, careless,' a quavering peasant woman's voice agreed...

I pulled my head into my shoulders and furtively tried to hunch myself up as if I were guilty, and disappeared with a burning sense of resentment. I was in a terrible state. Had I been completely wasting my time?