“For God’s sake!” he began to sob, seeing his comrades, “Take me anywhere you like, do what you like, but save me, for God’s sake now, now! I’ll kill myself.” The painter went pale and was bewildered. The medico, too, nearly began to cry; but, believing that medical men must be cool and serious on every occasion of life, he said coldly: “It’s a fit you’ve got. But never mind. Come to the doctor, at once.” “Anywhere you like, but quickly, for God’s sake!” “Don’t be agitated. You must struggle with yourself.” The painter and the medico dressed Vassiliev with trembling hands and led him into the street. “Mikhail Sergueyich has been wanting to make your acquaintance for a long while,” the medico said on the way. “He’s a very nice man, and knows his job splendidly. He took his degree in ’82, and has got a huge practice already. He keeps friends with the students.” “Quicker, quicker....” urged Vassiliev. Mikhail Sergueyich, a stout doctor with fair hair, received the friends politely, firmly, coldly, and smiled with one cheek only. “The painter and Mayer have told me of your disease already,” he said. “Very glad to be of service to you. Well? Sit down, please.” He made Vassiliev sit down in a big chair by the table, and put a box of cigarettes in front of him. “Well?” he began, stroking his knees. “Let’s make a start. How old are you?” He put questions and the medico answered. He asked whether Vassiliev’s father suffered from any peculiar diseases, if he had fits of drinking, was he distinguished by his severity or any other eccentricities. He asked the same questions about his grandfather, mother, sisters, and brothers. Having ascertained that his mother had a fine voice and occasionally appeared on the stage, he suddenly brightened up and asked: “Excuse me, but could you recall whether the theatre was not a passion with your mother?” About twenty minutes passed. Vassiliev was bored by the doctor stroking his knees and talking of the same thing all the while. “As far as I can understand your questions, Doctor,” he said. “You want to know whether my disease is hereditary or not. It is not hereditary.” The doctor went on to ask if Vassiliev had not any secret vices in his early youth, any blows on the head, any love passions, eccentricities, or exceptional infatuations. To half the questions habitually asked by careful doctors you may return no answer without any injury to your health; but Mikhail Sergueyich, the medico and the painter looked as though, if Vassiliev failed to answer even one single question, everything would be ruined. For some reason the doctor wrote down the answers he received on a scrap of paper. Discovering that Vassiliev had already passed through the faculty of natural science and was now in the Law faculty, the doctor began to be pensive.... “He wrote a brilliant thesis last year....” said the medico.