§10
This Dr. Haas, who was often called a fool and a lunatic, was a very remarkable man. His memory ought not to be buried in the jungle of official obituaries—that record of virtues that never showed themselves until their possessors were mouldering in the grave.
He was a little old man with a face like wax; in his black tail-coat, knee-breeches, black silk stockings, and shoes with buckles, he looked as if he had just stepped out of some play of the eighteenth century. In this costume, suitable for a wedding or a funeral, and in the agreeable climate of the 59th degree of north latitude, he used to drive once a week to the Sparrow Hills when the convicts were starting for the first stage of their long march. He had access to them in his capacity of a prison-doctor, and went there to pass them in review; and he always took with him a basketful of odds and ends—eatables and dainties of different kinds for the women, such as walnuts, gingerbread, apples, and oranges. This generosity excited the wrath and displeasure of the ‘charitable’ ladies, who were afraid of giving pleasure by their charity, and afraid of being more charitable than was absolutely necessary to save the convicts from being starved or frozen.
But Haas was obstinate. When reproached for the foolish indulgence he showed to the women, he would listen meekly, rub his hands, and reply: “Please observe, my dear lady; they can get a crust of bread from anyone, but they won’t see sweets or oranges again for a long time, because no one gives them such things—your own words prove that. And therefore I give them this little pleasure, because they won’t get it soon again.”
Haas lived in a hospital. One morning a patient came to consult him. Haas examined him and went to his study to write a prescription. When he returned, the invalid had disappeared, and so had the silver off the dinner-table. Haas called a porter and asked whether anyone else had entered the building. The porter realised the situation: he rushed out and returned immediately with the spoons and the patient, whom he had detained with the help of a sentry. The thief fell on his knees and begged for mercy. Haas was perplexed.
“Fetch a policeman,” he said to one of the porters. “And you summon a clerk here at once.”
The two porters, pleased with their part in detecting the criminal, rushed from the room; and Haas took advantage of their absence to address the thief. “You are a dishonest man; you deceived me and tried to rob me; God will judge you for it. But now run out at the back gate as fast as you can, before the sentries come back. And wait a moment—very likely you haven’t a penny; here is half a rouble for you. But you must try to mend your ways: you can’t escape God as easily as the policeman.”
His family told Haas he had gone too far this time. But the incorrigible doctor stated his view thus: “Theft is a serious vice; but I know the police, and how they flog people; it is a much worse vice to deliver up your neighbour to their tender mercies. And besides, who knows? My treatment may soften his heart.”
His family shook their heads and protested: and the charitable ladies said, “An excellent man but not quite all right there,” pointing to their foreheads; but Haas only rubbed his hands and went his own way.