Etta turned away suddenly and went to the narrow window, where she sat on a low window-seat, looking down into the snow-clad depths.
“I did not know you were a doctor,” she said.
“I doctor the peasants,” replied Paul, “in a rough-and-ready way. I took my degree on purpose. But, of course, they do not know that it is I; they think I am a doctor from Moscow. I put on an old coat, and wear a scarf, so that they cannot see my face. I only go to them at night. It would never do for the Government to know that we attempt to do good to the peasants. We have to keep it a secret even from the people themselves. And they hate us. They groan and hoot when we drive through the village. But they never attempt to do us any harm; they are too much afraid of us.”
When Etta rose and came toward him her face was colorless.
“Let me see this room,” she said.
He opened the door and followed her into the apartment, which has already been described. Here he told further somewhat bald details of the work he had attempted to do. It is to be feared that he made neither an interesting nor a romantic story of it. There were too many details—too much statistic, and no thrilling realism whatever. The experiences of a youthful curate in Bethnal Green would have made high tragedy beside the tale that this man told his wife of the land upon which God has assuredly laid His curse—Aceldama, the field of blood.
Etta listened, and despite herself she became interested. She was sitting in a chair usually occupied by Steinmetz. There was a faint aroma of tobacco-smoke. The atmosphere of the room was manly and energetic.
Paul showed her his simple stores of medicine—the old coat saturated with disinfectants which had become the recognized outward sign of the Moscow doctor.
“And do other people, other noblemen, try to do this sort of thing too?” asked Etta at length.
“Catrina Lanovitch does,” replied Paul.