§3
But on the other hand, there were people at Perm who hated him. One of these was Chebotarev, a doctor employed at one of the factories and a remarkable product of Russian life. He warned me specially against Tufáyev. He was a clever and very excitable man, who had made an unfortunate marriage soon after taking his degree; then he had drifted to Ekaterinburg[[90]] and sank with no experience into the slough of provincial life. Though his position here was fairly independent, his career was wrecked, and his chief employment was to mock at the Government officials. He jeered at them in their presence and said the most insulting things to their faces. But, as he spared nobody, nobody felt particular resentment at his flouts and jeers. His bitter tongue assured him a certain ascendancy over a society where fixed principles were rare, and he forced them to submit to the lash which he was never weary of applying.
[90]. A town in the Ural district, now polluted by a horrible crime.
I was told beforehand that, though he was a good doctor, he was crack-brained and excessively rude.
But his way of talking and jesting seemed to me neither offensive nor trivial; on the contrary, it was full of humour and concentrated bile. This was the poetry of his life, his revenge, his cry of resentment and, perhaps, in part, of despair also. Both as a student of human nature and as a physician, he had placed these officials under his microscope; he knew all their petty hidden vices; and, encouraged by their dulness and cowardice, he observed no limits in his way of addressing them.
He constantly repeated the same phrase—“It does not matter twopence,” or “It won’t cost you twopence.” I once laughed at him for this, and he said: “What are you surprised at? The object of all speech is to persuade, and I only add to my statements the strongest proof that exists in the world. Once convince a man that it won’t cost him twopence to kill his own father and he’ll kill him sure enough.”
He was always willing to lend moderate sums, as much as a hundred or two hundred roubles. Whenever he was appealed to for a loan, he pulled out his pocket-book and asked for a date by which the money would be repaid.
“Now,” he said, “I will bet a rouble that you will not pay the money on that day.”
“My dear Sir, who do you take me for?” the borrower would say.
“My opinion of you does not matter twopence,” was the reply; “but the fact is that I have kept an account for six years, and not a single debtor has ever paid me on the day, and very few after it.”
When the time had expired, the doctor asked with a grave face for the payment of his bet.
A rich merchant at Perm had a travelling carriage for sale. The doctor called on him and delivered the following speech all in a breath. “You are selling a carriage, I need one. Because you are rich and a millionaire, everyone respects you, and I have come to testify my respect for the same reason. Owing to your wealth, it does not matter twopence to you whether you sell the carriage or not; but I need it, and I am poor. You will want to squeeze me and take advantage of my necessity; therefore you will ask 1,500 roubles for it. I shall offer 700 roubles; I shall come every day to haggle over the price, and after a week you will let me have it for 750 or 800. Might we not as well begin at once at that point? I am prepared to pay that sum.” The merchant was so astonished that he let the doctor have the carriage at his own figure.
But there was no end to the stories of Chebotarev’s eccentricity. I shall add two more.