فارسی شکر است…

[Arzhang]

خب پوریا جان اگر این طوری بخواهیم نگاه کنیم، باید تعریفی را که در علم ارتباطات از خبر می‌شود تغییر دهیم. آن‌چه که شما درباره‌اش حرف می‌زنی همان تحلیل است. نگرانی‌ات هم البته بجا و از نظر عالمان علم رسانه، کاملاً قابل بررسی‌ست؛ این که آیا می‌شود راوی را از خبر کاملاً حذف کرد؟ علم ارتباطات می‌گوید شاید دسترسی به صد در صد آن ناممکن باشد اما رسانه در هر حال باید برای نزدیک شدن به آن در تلاش متعهدانه باشد. این طوری که تو به رسانه نگاه می‌کنی، اگر همه نگاه کنند یک بلبشوی کامل می‌شود چون هر رسانه‌ای هر جور که دلش بخواهد خبر می‌دهد نه هر جوری که به واقعیت نزدیک‌تر است. حالا می‌گویی کدام رسانه‌ی آزاد وجود دارد؟ یا کدام خبر بی‌طرف؟ خب این موضوعی قابل بررسی‌ست اما نمی‌شود که به دلیل مشکلات و محدودیت‌ها، بزنیم قواعد بازی را خراب کنیم.

[AliGhz]

پوریا جان فرض کنیم در تایلند درگیری خیابانی بین پلیس و معترضان رخ داده است. خبر می‌شود این‌که مثلاً:

[نمایش]

امروز سه خیابان اصلی بانکوک، پایتخت تایلند، که هر روز شاهد عبور پرتعداد گردشگران شادمان بود، به صحنۀ نبردی خونین میان نیروهای پلیس و عده‌ای از شهروندان معترض تبدیل شده است. ناآرامی‌ها از زمانی شروع شد که دولت تصمیم گرفت یک‌شبه، مالیات صاحبان مغازه‌ها را ۱۰ درصد افزایش دهد. به محض اعلام این خبر در تلویزیون ملی تایلند، اتحادیۀ مغازه‌داران تایلند جلسۀ اضطراری تشکیل داده و تصمیم گرفت […].

رئیس این اتحادیه به خبرنگار ما گفت: «…»

در مقابل، سخنگوی هیئت دولت معتقد است با توجه به بحران مالی پیش‌آمده و برای جلوگیری از سرایت آن به تایلند، که یکی از قطب‌های گردشگری جهان به‌ویژه در فصل تابستان است، این افزایش ۱۰ درصدی در مالیات به نفع همه از جمله خود مغازه‌داران خواهد بود.

«...» که در خیابان «…» یک مغازۀ بزرگ فروش پوشاک دارد و واردکنندۀ برندهای آمریکایی است، می‌گوید: «…»

اما «…» که دو خیابان پایین‌تر از او میوه‌فروشی دارد و خرج عائله‌ای ۵ نفره را می‌دهد، مخالف است. او معتقد است: «…»

این غائله چگونه ختم خواهد شد؟ آیا دولت باید عقب‌نشینی کرده عرصه را به کسانی که خیابان‌ها را متشنج می‌کنند واگذار کند؟ در حال حاضر به نظر می‌رسد که در میان ذی‌نفعان از این تصمیم نیز اتفاق نظر وجود ندارد. احتمالاً باید منتظر بود تا روزهای آتی برندۀ این مناقشه را مشخص کند. هرچند احتمالاً گردشگران آمریکایی ترجیح خواهند داد به جای لغو سفرهایشان به تایلند، طبق برنامه سوار هوایپما شده از سواحل آفتابی و دلپذیر این کشور آسیایی لذت ببرند.

[نمایش]

امروز سه خیابان اصلی بانکوک، پایتخت تایلند، که هر روز شاهد عبور پرتعداد گردشگران شادمان بود، به صحنۀ نبردی خونین میان نیروهای پلیس و عده‌ای از شهروندان معترض تبدیل شده است. ناآرامی‌ها از زمانی شروع شد که دولت تصمیم گرفت یک‌شبه، مالیات صاحبان مغازه‌ها را ۱۰ درصد افزایش دهد. به محض اعلام این خبر در تلویزیون ملی تایلند، اتحادیۀ مغازه‌داران تایلند جلسۀ اضطراری تشکیل داده و تصمیم گرفت […].

رئیس این اتحادیه به خبرنگار ما گفت: «…»

در مقابل، سخنگوی هیئت دولت معتقد است با توجه به بحران مالی پیش‌آمده و برای جلوگیری از سرایت آن به تایلند، که یکی از قطب‌های گردشگری جهان به‌ویژه در فصل تابستان است، این افزایش ۱۰ درصدی در مالیات به نفع همه از جمله خود مغازه‌داران خواهد بود.

«...» که در خیابان «…» یک مغازۀ بزرگ فروش پوشاک دارد و واردکنندۀ برندهای آمریکایی است، می‌گوید: «…»

اما «…» که دو خیابان پایین‌تر از او میوه‌فروشی دارد و خرج عائله‌ای ۵ نفره را می‌دهد، مخالف است. او معتقد است: «…»

این غائله چگونه ختم خواهد شد؟ آیا دولت باید عقب‌نشینی کرده عرصه را به کسانی که خیابان‌ها را متشنج می‌کنند واگذار کند؟ در حال حاضر به نظر می‌رسد که در میان ذی‌نفعان از این تصمیم نیز اتفاق نظر وجود ندارد. احتمالاً باید منتظر بود تا روزهای آتی برندۀ این مناقشه را مشخص کند. هرچند احتمالاً مغازه‌داران تایلندی ترجیح خواهند داد در نهایت مالیات‌ها به روال فعلی بماند حتی اگر رسیدن به این نتیجه باعث شود فصل رونق گردشگری در تابستان امسال را از دست بدهند.

پوریا جان اینها «خبر» است؛ تحلیل یا تفسیر یا دیدگاه Op-Ed نیست؛ اما همان جملۀ آخر بر حسب سیاست رسانه و نوع مخاطبان و البته گرایش‌های شخصی خبرنگار نوشته شده است. «رو» بازی نکردن به معنای فریب مخاطب نیست (در حالت کلی). مثالش از لحاظ عکس خبری شاید واضح‌تر باشد. عکاس کادر می‌بندد. عکس او هم گویا و خبری و دستکاری‌نشده است. اما او نمی‌آید بگوید دو تا چیز هم آن کنار بود که من آنها را از کادر بیرون گذاشتم. منظور از «رو» بازی نکردن این است. و البته رسانه‌ای «مورد اعتمادتر» است که تا حد ممکن، تصویر کامل‌تری یا منصفانه‌تری از خبر را ارائه بدهد. در هر صورت، برزگان توصیه می‌کنند هرگز برای گرفتن خبرها، به یک رسانه اکتفا نکنید. اگر خبری را در رسانۀ چپ می‌خوانید، همان را در رسانۀ راست هم بخوانید تا «شما» بتوانید تحلیل بهتری از رویدادها داشته باشید. این biased بودن در ذات خبر است و لزوماً به معنای فریب مخاطب نیست.

باز هم امیدوارم علی رستگار بیاید و اینها را برایمان علمی‌تر روشن کند.

[Amir_S]

این خبر دهه شصتی ارژنگ منو یاد یکی از بزرگترین شکنجه‌های این دوران می‌ندازه… در حدی که دلم می‌خواد پخش ماشین رو از جا در بیارم و از پنجره بندازم بیرون!!!
من معمولا تو ماشین که هستم رادیو گوش می‌کنم و رادیو جوان یه [میان]برنامه! دارن به نام «تقویم ترور» که یه قسمت فرضی اون به قرار زیره:
« تقویم ترور…
نام: امیر
نام خانوادگی: امیری
زمان و نحوه شهادت: تیر ماه ۱۳۹۳… ترور
امیر امیری در تیر ماه ۱۳۹۳ بدست فلانی ترور شد و به شهادت رسید.»
پ.ن: کاری ندارم که داشتن این برنامه ها (موضوع و نه محتوا) خوبه یا نه… ولی قطعاً این نحوه معرفی یه احتمالاً قهرمان ملی… نبودنش بهتر از بودنش‌ه!
پ.پ.ن: البته این روز ها خیلی از برنامه‌های غیر سرگرمی هم (حداقل همین رادیو جوان) سراسر اشتباه و شکنجه‌آور ـه، جوری که گاهی طاقت نمی‌آرم و ماشین رو کنار میزنم و براشون اصلاحیه میفرستم!

[Arzhang]

[نمایش]

باز هم امیدوارم علی رستگار بیاید و اینها را برایمان علمی‌تر روشن کند.

تا آمدن علی رستگار، علی‌ جان یک لایک را از من داشته باش. آن‌چه من می‌خواستم به زبان الکن بگویم تو خیلی واضح با مثال گفتی ممنونم.

[AliGhz]

ممنون ارژنگ جان

---

چند پست بالاتر، از مقدمۀ گلستان سعدی به قلم محمدعلی فروغی نوشتم. این چند صفحه را با آیفون ۴ و نرم‌افزار Scanner Pro اسکن و به قالب پی‌دی‌اف تبدیل کردم که پیوستِ همین پست است. به نظرم یک موضوع ادبیِ فنی را واقعاً زیبا و خواندنی شرح داده و از نظر من واقعاً «شیرین» نوشته است؛ تا نظر شما چه باشد.

این صفحات را از این کتاب اسکن کرده‌ام:

گلستان سعدی، بر اساس تصحیح و طبع شادروان محمدعلی فروغی و مقابله با دو نسخۀ معتبر دیگر، تصحیح، مقدمه، تعلقیات، واژه‌نامه و فهارس به کوشش بهاءالدین خرمشاهی، انتشارات دوستان، تهران، چاپ اول: ۱۳۹۳

photo-18.JPG (76.42 KiB) - بازدید 10877 بار

[Ilia]

من فقط یک نکته که بنظرم می‌آید را در مورد این نوشتهٔ فروغی میتویسم. اصلا هم قصد ندارم که بگویم که من از ایشان بهتر میفهمم و غیره. مسلما ایشان هزار بار از امثال من در مورد زبان متبحرتر بوده. و آن علاقهٔ نویسندگان فارسی‌زبان در نوشتن جملات بسیار دراز است. بسیاری این مسئله را در قدیم نه‌تنها عیب نمیدانستند، بلکه بنوعی به این نوع نوشتنشان میبالیدند. امروزه ما میدانیم که فهمیدن متنی که با جملات کوتاه نوشته شده بسیار آسانتر است.

این نوشتهٔ فروغی هم همین مسئله را دارد. یعنی خیلی از پاراگراف‌ها فقط یک جمله است. نفس آدم میبرد را به آخر جمله برسی…

چند سال پیش که به ایران آمدم، یکی از اقوام که اتفاقا پزشک هم هست، نمونهٔ مقاله‌اش در بولتن پزشکی‌ای که سردبیرش بود را برایم آورد و نظرم را در موردش پرسید. نصف صفحهٔ اولش فقط یک جمله بود. یعنی شاید بیست تا جمله را با گذاشتن «و» و «کاما» و انداختن فعل چنان به هم وصل کرده بود که اصلا گم میکردی که چه میخواهد بگوید.

اشک من در خواندن این جور نوشته‌ها در می‌آید!

[nilean]

بی‌اندازه سپاسگزارم از همه‌ی دوستان. شکر شکن شدم از شیوایی و زیبایی این بحث!

[Ali.Rastegar]

من دو ماه پیش این تاپیک رو دیدم و خواستم جواب مفصل بنویسم که کار پیش اومد و فراموش کردم
البته علی ق. و ارژنگ عزیز هر دو حق مطلب رو ادا کرده بودن و واقعا نیازی به نوشتن من نبود.
به هر حال امیدوارم عذرخواهی من رو بپذیرید.

[AliGhz]

مخلصیم علی جان

حالا که این تاپیک رو زنده کردی، بذار این عکس رو هم من بذارم که نشون می‌ده غلط‌نویسی تا این سوی آب‌ها هم اومده! عکس از بیلبوردی در پلازای ایرانیان در تورنتو گرفته شده:

[Behnam]

[نمایش]

این نوشتهٔ فروغی هم همین مسئله را دارد. یعنی خیلی از پاراگراف‌ها فقط یک جمله است. نفس آدم میبرد را به آخر جمله برسی…

گاهی بهتر است که نفس ببرد!
مارسل پروست:

These shifting and confused gusts of memory never lasted for more than a few seconds; it often happened that, in my spell of uncertainty as to where I was, I did not distinguish the successive theories of which that uncertainty was composed any more than, when we watch a horse running, we isolate the successive positions of its body as they appear upon a bioscope. But I had seen first one and then another of the rooms in which I had slept during my life, and in the end I would revisit them all in the long course of my waking dream: rooms in winter, where on going to bed I would at once bury my head in a nest, built up out of the most diverse materials, the corner of my pillow, the top of my blankets, a piece of a shawl, the edge of my bed, and a copy of an evening paper, all of which things I would contrive, with the infinite patience of birds building their nests, to cement into one whole; rooms where, in a keen frost, I would feel the satisfaction of being shut in from the outer world (like the sea-swallow which builds at the end of a dark tunnel and is kept warm by the surrounding earth), and where, the fire keeping in all night, I would sleep wrapped up, as it were, in a great cloak of snug and savoury air, shot with the glow of the logs which would break out again in flame: in a sort of alcove without walls, a cave of warmth dug out of the heart of the room itself, a zone of heat whose boundaries were constantly shifting and altering in temperature as gusts of air ran across them to strike freshly upon my face, from the corners of the room, or from parts near the window or far from the fireplace which had therefore remained cold–or rooms in summer, where I would delight to feel myself a part of the warm evening, where the moonlight striking upon the half-opened shutters would throw down to the foot of my bed its enchanted ladder; where I would fall asleep, as it might be in the open air, like a titmouse which the breeze keeps poised in the focus of a sunbeam–or sometimes the Louis XVI room, so cheerful that I could never feel really unhappy, even on my first night in it: that room where the slender columns which lightly supported its ceiling would part, ever so gracefully, to indicate where the bed was and to keep it separate; sometimes again that little room with the high ceiling, hollowed in the form of a pyramid out of two separate storeys, and partly walled with mahogany, in which from the first moment my mind was drugged by the unfamiliar scent of flowering grasses, convinced of the hostility of the violet curtains and of the insolent indifference of a clock that chattered on at the top of its voice as though I were not there; while a strange and pitiless mirror with square feet, which stood across one corner of the room, cleared for itself a site I had not looked to find tenanted in the quiet surroundings of my normal field of vision: that room in which my mind, forcing itself for hours on end to leave its moorings, to elongate itself upwards so as to take on the exact shape of the room, and to reach to the summit of that monstrous funnel, had passed so many anxious nights while my body lay stretched out in bed, my eyes staring upwards, my ears straining, my nostrils sniffing uneasily, and my heart beating; until custom had changed the colour of the curtains, made the clock keep quiet, brought an expression of pity to the cruel, slanting face of the glass, disguised or even completely dispelled the scent of flowering grasses, and distinctly reduced the apparent loftiness of the ceiling. Custom! that skilful but unhurrying manager who begins by torturing the mind for weeks on end with her provisional arrangements; whom the mind, for all that, is fortunate in discovering, for without the help of custom it would never contrive, by its own efforts, to make any room seem habitable.

[Ilia]

همانطور که قبلا گفتم؛

[نمایش]

… اشک من در خواندن این جور نوشته‌ها در می‌آید!

[Behnam]

[نمایش]

همانطور که قبلا گفتم؛

[نمایش]

… اشک من در خواندن این جور نوشته‌ها در می‌آید!

اشک قبول نیست. باید نفست ببرد.

[Ilia]

تا بیاد نفسم ببره از خیرش میگذرم…

[Pooria Azimi]

[نمایش]

همانطور که قبلا گفتم؛

[نمایش]

… اشک من در خواندن این جور نوشته‌ها در می‌آید!

این چطور؟

[نمایش]

‘A Country Doctor’ by Franz Kafka, translated by Michael Hofmann · 2603 words
Franz Kafka and Michael Hofmann
Courtesy of A P Watt on behalf of Michael Hofmann

Michael Hofmann’s supple translation of Franz Kafka’s ‘A Country Doctor’, and his subtle and penetrating analysis of Kafka’s German prose in his introduction to Metamorphosis and Other Stories, were the initial inspiration- together with a reading of Paul Fussell’s The Great War and Modern Memory – for Will Self’s essay. The entire text of Hofmann’s translation is reproduced here.

I was in a quandary: my presence was urgently required; a gravely ill man was waiting for me in a village ten miles distant; a blizzard filled the space between me and my goal; I had a carriage, light, high-wheeled, eminently suited to our country roads; wrapped in my fur, with my Gladstone bag in my hand, I stood in the courtyard all ready to go; but the horse was missing, there was no horse. My own horse had died the previous night, on account of its over-exertions in the current icy winter; now my maid was running from pillar to post to look for a replacement; but it was hopeless, I knew it, and, with the snow falling on me, I stood there increasingly rooted to the spot, and more and more aware of the pointlessness of it. The girl appeared in the gateway, alone, waving a lantern; of course, who would lend out his horse for such a ride? I strode across the yard once more; I could see no possibility; distracted, tormented, I kicked at the rickety door of a pig-sty unused for many years. The lock gave, and the door swung back and forth on its hinges. Warm air and a horsey smell greeted me. A dim stable lantern dangled on a rope. A man, hunkered down in the low-ceilinged sty, showed his open-featured, blue-eyed face. ‘Would you like me to put them to?’ he asked, crawling out on his hands and knees. I didn’t know what to say, and bent down to get a sight of whatever else there might be in the sty. Beside me stood the maid. ‘You never know what you have in your own house,’ she said, whereupon we both laughed. ‘Ho, brother, ho, sister!’ called the stable lad, and two horses, mighty, powerful-flanked creatures crept out one after another, legs tucked in close to their bodies, bending their shapely heads in the manner of camels, only barely managing to twist their way through the doorway which their rumps completely filled. But then, once outside, they immediately drew themselves up to their full height, with long legs and solid steaming bodies. ‘Help him,’ I said, and right away the willing girl ran up to hand the harness to the groom. But no sooner has she reached him than the groom throws his arms around her, and thrusts his face against hers. She screams and runs to me; there are the red marks of two rows of teeth on the girl’s cheek. ‘You animal!’ I scream in my rage, ‘do you want a taste of my whip?’ but I straightaway calm down, reminding myself I’m talking to a stranger, that I don’t know where he comes from and that he has agreed to help me when everyone else has let me down. As if he could read my mind, he is not offended by my outburst, but, still busy with the horses, turns only once in my direction. ‘Get in,’ he says finally, and indeed, everything is ready. I can see I have never had such a good team of horses before, and I climb happily aboard. ‘I’ll take the reins, though, you don’t know the way,’ I say. ‘Of course,’ he says, ‘I’m not even going with you, I’m staying with Rosa.’ ‘No,’ screams Rosa, and runs into the house with a presentiment of her inevitable fate; I hear the rattle of the chain on the door, as she pulls it across; I hear the click of the lock; I see her turning out the lights in the hall, and then running on through the house, to make it impossible for him to find her. ‘You’re coming with me,’ I say to the groom, ‘or I’m not going, however urgent my mission is. It wouldn’t occur to me to pay with the girl for my ride.’ ‘Ho!’ he calls; claps his hands; the carriage is swept away, like a treetrunk in a flood; I can still hear my front door cracking and splintering under the assault of the groom, and then my eyes and ears are filled with a penetrating hissing that seems to fill all my senses. But all is only for an instant, then, as if the yard of the patient were just the other side of my front gate, I am there already; the horses are standing quietly; the snow has stopped; moonlight on all sides; the patient’s parents come running out of the house, his sister behind them; I am lifted almost bodily out of the carriage; I can make no sense of their confused reports; the air in the sick man’s room is barely breathable; the neglected stove is smoking; I want to throw open the window; but first of all I want to see my patient. Lean, neither feverish nor cold nor warm, with vacant eyes and no shirt, the lad pulls himself up in his bed, drapes his arms round my neck and whispers into my ear: ‘Doctor, let me die.’ I turn round; no one else heard him; his parents are standing there hunched forward, silently awaiting my verdict; his sister has brought in a chair for me on which to set down my bag. I open it, and survey my instruments; the lad is still gesturing in my direction from his bed, to remind me of his plea; I pick up a pair of pincers, check them in the candlelight, and set them down again. ‘Yes,’ I think blasphemously, ‘it’s in these sorts of cases that the gods send their help, they supply a horse, throw in another because time is short, even contribute a groom – ’ and now I remember Rosa; what shall I do, how can I rescue her, how can I pull her out from under that groom, ten miles away, and with ungovernable horses pulling my carriage? Those horses, apropos, that seem now to have loosened their traces; are nudging open the window from outside, don’t ask me how; pushing their heads through the opening, and, unimpressed by the screams of the family, are contemplating the patient. ‘I’ll go back right away,’ I think, as if the horses were summoning me to return, but I allow the sister, who must think I’ve got heatstroke, to help me off with my fur coat. A glass of rum is poured for me, the old man pats me on the back, the offering of his treasure entitling him to such a familiarity. I shake my head; I feel sick in the narrow confines of the old man’s thoughts; that is the only reason I turn down the drink. The mother stands by the bed waving me to her; I follow, and while one of the horses is whinnying loudly somewhere under the ceiling, I lay my head against the chest of the boy, who shivers from the touch of my wet beard. I am confirmed in what I thought already: the boy is perfectly healthy, his circulation a little sluggish, plied with coffee by his anxious mother, but basically healthy and needing nothing more than a good kick to get him out of bed. I am employed by the parish, and do my duty to the point where it is almost too much for one man. Though badly paid, I am generous and helpful to the poor. I should like to see Rosa provided for, and then the boy may have his way as far as I’m concerned, and I shall be ready to die as well. What am I doing in this endless winter! My horse has died, and there is no one in the village prepared to lend me his. I have to extricate my new team from a pig-sty; if there hadn’t happened to be horses in it, I should have had to make do with pigs, I suppose. That’s the way of it. And I nod to the family. They don’t know anything about it, and, if they did, they wouldn’t believe it. Filling prescriptions is easy, but getting on with people is much harder. Well, my visit here is about over, once again I’ve been called out for nothing, I’m used to that, the whole parish uses my night bell to torture me with, but the fact that this time I had to sacrifice Rosa as well, that lovely girl who has been living for years in my own house, most of the time stupidly overlooked by me – that loss is simply too great, and I must work hard to shrink it in my own head so as not to take it out on this family here, which with the best will in the world is not going to be able to restore Rosa to me. But when I close my bag and wave for my fur coat, the family is assembled, the father sniffing at the rum glass in his hand, the mother, presumably disappointed in me – but what do these people expect? – biting her lips and sobbing, and the sister waving around a blood-soaked handkerchief, I am somehow ready to admit under the circumstances that the boy may after all be ill. I go over to him, he smiles at me, as though I were bringing him some beef-tea – oh dear, and then both the horses start whinnying; I suppose the noise has been called for from above somewhere, to make the inspection of the patient easier – and now I find: the boy is sick. In his right flank, at around hip-height, he has a fresh wound as big as my hand. Pink, in many shades, a deep carmine at the centre, lightening towards the periphery, with a soft granular texture, the bleeding at irregular points, and the whole thing as gapingly obvious as a mine-shaft. From a distance, at any rate. Closer to, there’s a further complication. Who could take in such a thing without whistling softly? Worms, the length and thickness of my little finger, roseate and also coated with blood, are writhing against the inside of the wound, with little white heads, and many many little legs. Poor boy, it’s not going to be possible to help you. I have found your great wound; that flower in your side is going to finish you. The family are happy, they watch me going about my job; the sister tells the mother, the mother tells the father, the father tells some of the visitors who are tiptoeing in through the door in the bright moonlight, arms extended for balance. ‘Will you save me?’ the boy whimpers, dazzled by the life in his wound. That’s the way people are in this parish. Always demanding the impossible from their doctor. They have lost their old faith; the priest sits around at home, ripping up his altar garments one after another; but the doctor is expected to perform miracles with his delicate surgeon’s fingers. Well, whatever: I never put myself forward; if you use me for your sacred purposes, I’ll see what I can do; what better thing is there for me, old country doctor that I am, robbed of my maid! And here they come, the family and the village elders, and they start to undress me; a school choir with the teacher at the front stands outside the house and sings to an extremely plain melody the words:

Undress him, and he will heal you,
If he doesn’ t heal you, kill him!
He’ s just a doctor, a doctor!

Then I am undressed, and, with head bent and fingers twining in my beard, I look calmly at all those present. I am perfectly braced and a match for them all and will remain so, even though it won’t help me, because now they take me by the head and the feet and carry me to the bed. Then everyone leaves the room; the door is closed; the singing dies down; clouds cover the face of the moon; I am lying in the warm bedclothes; the horses’ heads sway shadowily in the open windows. ‘You know,’ I hear a voice in my ear, ‘I have very little faith in you. You’ve just snowed in from somewhere yourself, it’s not as though you got here under your own steam. Instead of helping, you make free with my deathbed. I’d like to scratch your eyes out.’ ‘You’re right,’ I say, ‘it is a disgrace. But I happen to be the doctor. What am I supposed to do? Believe me, it’s not easy for me either.’ ‘Am I supposed to be happy with that as an apology? I suppose it’s all I’m going to get. I always have to take what I’m given. I came into the world with a lovely wound; that was my entire outfitting.’ ‘My young friend,’ I say, ‘your mistake is this: you lack perspective. I, who have been in sickrooms far and wide, tell you: your wound isn’t so bad as all that. A couple of glancing blows with an axe. There are many who offer their flanks, and barely hear the axe in the forest, never mind it deigning to come any nearer to them.’ ‘Is that really true, or are you taking advantage of my fever to deceive me?’ ‘It really is true, accept the word of honour of an official doctor.’ And he accepted it, and was quiet. But now it was time to think about my own salvation. The horses were still standing faithfully in their places. I quickly managed to grab my clothes, fur coat and bag; I didn’t want to waste time dressing; if the horses made as much haste as on the way here, then I would be jumping from that bed straight into my own. One horse obediently drew back from the window; I tossed the bundle of my things into the carriage; the fur coat flew too far, but luckily one of its sleeves caught on a hook. Just as well. I jumped on to the horse. The bridle trailing loosely, the horses barely made fast one to another, the carriage careering around behind, and the fur dragging across the snow at the end. ‘Now go like blazes!’ I said, but it was anything but; slowly as old men we trailed through the snowy waste; for a long time we heard the new, but mistaken song of the children’s choir:

Rejoice, you patients,
The doctor has lain down with you in your bed!

I’m never going to make it home at this rate; my flourishing practice is lost; my successor will rob me, but it won’t help him much, he’ll never be able to supplant me; the nasty groom is rampaging through my house; Rosa is his victim; I don’t want to contemplate it. Naked, exposed to the frost of this most miserable epoch, with an earthly carriage and unearthly horses, what am I but an old man adrift. My fur coat is hanging off the back of my carriage, but I am unable to reach it, and not one of my fleet-footed scoundrels of patients will lift a finger to help. I’ve been swindled! Swindled! Once follow the misleading ring of the night bell – and it will never be made good.

[Ilia]

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