Soon put you right. How about it, then?’

‘Thank you very much, sir!’ the miller replied most politely. ‘Heard a lot about you. They’re all very satisfied. They say you do them all so much good. I’ll gladly have the injections—anything to be cured.’

‘Ah, this man is a true ray of light in the darkness!’ I thought as I sat down at the desk to write. So doing, my feeling was of such pleasure that it might not have been just any miller but my own brother come for a stay in my hospital.

On one prescription form I wrote:

‘Chinini mur. 0.5
D.T. dos. N10
S: Miller Khudov
1 dose in powder form at midnight.’

And signed it with a flourish. On another form I wrote:

‘Pelagea Ivanovna, please admit the miller and put him in Ward 2. He has malaria. Quinine in powder form as prescribed to be administered approx. 4 hours before the attack, i.e. at midnight. Here is an exception for you—a literate, intelligent miller!’

When I was already in bed I received a note in reply from the hand of the grumpy, yawning Aksinya:

‘Dear doctor, All done. Pel. Ivanovna L.’

I went to sleep … and woke up.

‘What is it? What? What is it, Aksinya?’ I mumbled. Aksinya was standing there, modestly covering herself with her dark-coloured skirt with white polka dots. A flickering wax candle lit up her sleepy, worried features.

‘Marya has just come running over—Pelagea Ivanovna has given orders for you to be called at once.’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘She says the miller in Ward 2 is dying.’

‘Wha-at? Dying? How can he be dying?’ For an instant, until I found my slippers, my bare feet felt the chill of the floor. I broke several matches and spent a long time poking them at the wick until it lit with a blue flame. The clock showed exactly six o’clock.

‘What’s happened? Surely it is malaria and not something else? What on earth can be the matter with him? His pulse was excellent …’

No more than five minutes later, with my socks inside out, unkempt, my jacket unbuttoned and wearing felt boots, I bounded across the courtyard, still pitch-dark, and ran to Ward 2.

There on an unmade bed, beside a crumpled heap of bed-clothes, in the light of a small kerosene lamp sat the miller, wearing a hospital nightshirt. His red beard was dishevelled, and his eyes looked to me black and huge. He was swaying like a drunkard, staring about him in terror, breathing heavily …

Marya, the nurse, gaped at his purpling face.

Pelagea Ivanovna, her hair down and with her overall only half on, flew towards me.

‘Doctor!’ she exclaimed in a hoarse voice. ‘I swear to you it wasn’t my fault! How was anyone to know? You made a point of telling me the man was intelligent.’

‘What’s happened?’

Pelagea Ivanovna wrung her hands as she said:

‘Just imagine, doctor—he swallowed all ten doses of quinine at once! At midnight.’

A murky winter dawn. Demyan Lukich removed the stomach-pump. There was a smell of camphor; on the floor stood a bowl full of reddish-brown liquid. Pale and exhausted, the miller lay wrapped in a white sheet up to his chin, his red beard jutting upwards. I bent over him and felt his pulse to make sure that he would survive the emergency.

‘Well, how do you feel?’ I enquired.

‘Can’t see a thing … oh … ooh …’ groaned the miller in a faint bass.

‘Nor can I,’ I answered in some irritation.

‘Wassat?’ the miller asked (his hearing was still poor).

‘Just tell me one thing, old man: why the hell did you do it?’ I shouted into his ear.

Glumly and reluctantly came the mumbling answer:

‘Well, it seemed a waste of time taking all them powders one at a time. So I thought I’d swallow ’em all at once and be done with it.’

‘Incredible!’ I exclaimed.

‘He must have made it up!’ said the feldsher in a malicious aside.

‘No, I will fight it … I will … I …’ After a hard night, sweet sleep overtook me.