Dr. Tillmann's Consultant: A Scientific Romance

by Cherry Wilder

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On July 29th, after the Austrians had attacked Serbia and the Tsar had ordered mobilization, the Ostrov family set off for Berlin. The train was packed with Russians intent on outrunning the German Declaration of War. Rosalind sat dry-eyed, handing the Countess her smelling salts; Leonid Ivanovitch was cheerful and inspired, eager to return to his betrothed and to his regiment. Everyone on the train — the Russians, the English students, the French maid, the German officers clanking past — insisted that "it would be over by Christmas." Rosalind shut her eyes and fell into a dreamlike recollection of her last interview with Medvekhin. She saw the extraordinary, wise face, the yellow eyes, the billowing "Russian blouse" of yellow silk which covered the muscular, furred, upper body. They sat alone; Sister Luise was in the kitchen preparing the vegetable soup on which the patient subsisted; Lucas had not yet come to the evening rendezvous. The wooden shutters were flung wide and the back window open, showing the sunlit mountainside. They spoke of the impending war. Medvekhin turned from gazing at the path winding up to the high meadow and made a curious pronouncement: "Where millions die for insufficient reasons perhaps this is in itself a reason not to live." Rosalind was shocked but she managed to hide it. She had become better and better at hiding her thoughts and feelings from the patient. She wondered if it had to do with poor M.'s failing health. "I accept one sufficient reason to die," she said, "namely that one has grown very old and come to the end of a life span. Is that so with the Akuine?" "No," said Medvekhin. "Once again the parallels are inexact. There is the possibility of mind-conservation and rebirth. Let us talk of something less embarrassing." "I will be returning to Russia with the Ostrov family," she said. "Your last visit, chere Rosaline?" A twitch of the fine drooping hair about the mouth. "No, not quite," she smiled and lied with perfect composure. "I will be here tomorrow morning." Soon afterward Lucas arrived and the Sister came in with the patient's food. Lucas sat down at the harmonium and they entertained Medvekhin with dinner music. Rosalind sang "Auld Lang Syne"; she was aware that none of the listeners felt the powerful associations of the song as she did. Later that evening she walked back to the hospital with Lucas for the last time and they went over their brave plans for letters, for their next meeting, when everything was over. She expressed her hopes for Medvekhin and for Europe, for mankind. Yet she carried in her sewing bag Dr. Lucas Tilmann's black notebook, which she had stolen from the tangle of books at his bedside, and she made sure never to come within range of their cosmic guest next day. Her memory, at least, would survive the encounter with Medvekhin. . . . When she opened her eyes again the Countess was gazing at her with sad concern. The family was well aware that she was being parted from her sweetheart by the approaching conflict, but Rosalind was able to reassure the Countess, later on. No, she was not expecting a child. The idea of being pregnant and unwed among the Ostrovs was not as frightful as that of being in the same situation, for instance, in Cheltenham. She began to see it as an alternative life, something that might have happened. Lucas had given her a beautiful ring with an emerald, the gift of a grateful patient, but she wore it on a chain around her neck, under her blouse. It was evening of the first day; Munich, Nuremberg lay behind them; they were approaching Leipzig. Cities of Old Europe were left behind: Berlin, Stettin, Danzig, Konigsberg . . . and at last Minsk, after the railway gauge broadened and the travelers lost a number of days by returning to the Julian calendar. "We are traveling back into the past," said Leonid wearily. "Believe me, dear child," said his mother, "Horse-drawn carriages were much worse." "Perhaps one day," said Rosalind, "we will fly from place to place." "As angels?" teased Marie-Louise. "No of course not!" said Rosalind, laughing. "In flying-machines!" "Futuristic thinking," said Leonid, "is subversive. Kyril, our revolutionary, hopes that none of the Empires will survive this war." At last they reached their destination: Rosalind helped the Countess up the steps of the palace in Moscow, where they took refuge with Great-Uncle Paul, pleading the fortunes of war. [next]