The Burning Wound (A Story)

A man entered the house of a doctor in the early morning and asked to see him, saying that he was in a state in which he could not wait a single minute. The servant informed his master the doctor of the visitor's insistence; the doctor hurried into his clothes and then gave leave for him to enter. The doctor studied the man as he came toward him, and saw his hand wrapped in a bandage bound up to his neck, pallor and agitation plain upon his face. He invited him to sit and asked what ailed him. The man let out a sigh that told of the pain he was in, and answered: "I have not been able to sleep for a week. The pain in my right hand has robbed me of it — a pain whose cause I do not know to this hour. It may come of some dangerous disease, cancer, say, or another like it; and it grows from one minute to the next. So I hastened to come to you, and I hope you will deliver me from this excruciating pain, even if it should mean cutting off my hand or even burning it." The doctor took his hand and examined it, then said: "I see no need to perform any operation on it..."

The man started and cut him short: "No, no — you must perform the operation, for I want to be rid of this pain, and nothing but the operation will save me. And I beg you not to be astonished that there is no wound of any kind; the case is not a natural one." The doctor assured him that many such cases had passed before him and that he was not in the habit of being dumbfounded by them. Then he looked at the hand a second time and satisfied himself of its soundness; whereupon he asked him where he felt the pain. The man pointed to a round spot between two large veins — but he snatched his hand back when the doctor stretched out his own and touched it with a fingertip. The doctor wondered at this and asked: "Is this the place of the pain?"

"Yes!"

"And did you feel the pain when I put my finger on it?"

The man did not answer; the tears that streamed abundantly from his eyes answered for him. The doctor was silent a moment, then said: "Yours is a strange case, my man. I can see nothing in your hand!"

"Nor can I. But the pain is there, and I would rather die than leave your house without the operation."

The doctor took up the magnifying glass and examined the hand through it with all care, then took his temperature, and found his condition entirely natural. No swelling, no redness, nothing to indicate any wound or disease in it. Then his suspicions that the man was mad began to waken. He advised him to wait until the next day, when perhaps he could help him. The patient refused any delay in performing the operation, saying that he could not endure a single minute. Then he assured him that he was speaking in full possession of his mind, and asked him to cut the part where he had shown the pain to be, down to the bone. The doctor refused.

"But why refuse?"

"Because I see no need of it."

"You mean that I am mad? Or that I am trying to deceive you?" Then he took out a large sum of money, set it before him on the table, and said:

"The matter is important enough to me that I will pay you whatever fee you ask. Please, begin the operation."

"I will not, though you gave me all the money on earth! I will not operate on a sound limb."

"And why not?"

"Because the world would mock you and think you a fool, and laugh at me for operating on a wound that does not exist."

Then the man took a small knife from his pocket and rolled up his shirtsleeve, and before the doctor could stop him he drew it across his hand, making a deep cut.

"Enough!" the doctor cried, seizing his hand for fear he would sever one of its veins. The man said:

"Since you will not perform it, I will."

Then the doctor completed the operation the man had begun with his own hand, until he had opened a wound where the man had said the pain was. The man sighed, and signs of relief appeared on his face, as though a heavy burden had been lifted from him. The doctor said:

"Has the pain gone now?"

"Yes — but please, let the blood flow; it eases me."

After the wounds were dressed, the man shook the doctor's hand in thanks, pleasure showing on his face, and said:

"Thank you; you have given me back my rest." And he departed.

Three weeks passed, and then the patient returned. He came in to the doctor with his hand bound up to his neck, the marks of exhaustion on his face and his brow damp with cold sweat, and threw himself into a chair

there, then held out his hand to the doctor without saying a word. The doctor was astonished and said:

"What has happened to you — is there something new?"

"It seems you did not reach the wound; the pain has come back worse than ever it was. I tried not to come back and trouble you, but I could not; and I beg you now to perform the operation a second time."

The doctor examined his hand and found it natural: the place of the wound had healed, and there was nothing in it to call for anxiety or pain — though the man was trembling in every limb of his body. Yet the operation itself was repeated at his insistence. Before going out he said to the doctor:

"Please do not be surprised if I come back to you after another month has passed."

"I ask you not to think of that."

The man answered: "I am as certain of it as I am of the existence of God!" Then he bade him farewell and left.

The doctor laid this case before a number of his colleagues, and each one found for it an analysis contradicting the other's, but none of them could discover its true cause. A month went by, and the man did not come; but a letter arrived from him. The doctor opened it gladly, supposing the man had been cured; but his hope turned when he read:

Dear doctor, I will not leave you in doubt about my illness, and I will not carry this secret with me to the grave. So I write to you now, after placing a live coal on my hand to lighten the force of the fire that burns in it. Dear doctor, there was no man happier than I among men. For I married a woman who was a model held up among women, and our marriage was

a marriage of love, and of harmony of temper, and we passed a pleasant, happy life which all our acquaintances and friends envied us. My wife would dance with no one, and she considered thinking of a man other than me, or dreaming of one, an unforgivable crime. Hers was a heart as pure as the heart of a child. But God curse Satan! He deluded me and set me thinking that these acts of hers were mere appearances, concealing what I could not bear to think of. And this delusion led me to what shattered my life and pulled my house down upon my head. Here is the story:

My wife had a private table at which she would write and which she used for her own purposes, and this table had a drawer she was always careful to keep locked with a key she kept to herself — which set me doubting about it and wondering what she could wish to hide from me. My thoughts and my doubts turned into a sweeping jealousy I could not rein in, and it drove me to work at the drawer to open it while my wife was away visiting a friend of hers. After I had tried several keys, one of them served and opened the drawer. I turned over all its contents, and there I came upon a bundle of letters which anyone who saw them would know at first glance to be brimming with passion and sentiment. They were laid in order one atop another and tied with a ribbon of red silk. I undid the ribbon, believing them to be old letters going back to the days before our marriage; but how great was my astonishment when I read them! They contained the foulest things that can be said against a man, and they were sent by the dearest of my friends, and there was in them such contempt for husbands as a decent man would blush to read. They contained, besides, advice to help her keep her husband in the ignorance he was in. And this letter had been sent only lately — that is, after our marriage — which increased my certainty and my fury. I cannot describe the feeling that seized me then. I drank my cup to the dregs, not knowing the poison that was in it...

I folded the letters, put them back in their place, and locked the drawer; and in that mad fury I had resolved upon something.

Not long after, my wife came back from her visit and came toward me skipping with joy, as was her way. When she reached me she pressed me to her and printed on my cheek a kiss into which she put the utmost of her softness and warmth.

I froze where I stood, and pretended that nothing whatever had happened, and excused myself for not having been able to join her. After she had taken her supper we sat talking as usual. Then each of us rose and went to his bed when bedtime came. And when midnight came I rose from my bed and entered her room, and found her sunk in a deep, quiet sleep,

the heaven of purity and gentleness upon her beautiful face... My fury only grew at these deceiving appearances stamped upon her, and without knowing what I did I went up to her and closed my hands upon her throat and pressed with all the strength I had. She opened her eyes and gave me a look full of astonishment and wonder, then closed them again and yielded up her breath without attempting resistance. Yes — she died as though she were sinking into a beautiful dream. But a drop of blood seeped from her mouth as I pressed upon her, and fell on my hand, at the spot where I showed you the pain. The next day we buried the body without stir or trouble, for I lived in the countryside, where there was no occasion for an examination of the body, since there was no one to doubt her death: she was my wife, and everyone knew the measure of our harmony and our devotion. For extra caution, I sent word of her death to all our friends and held a crowded funeral for her, so as to scatter the greatest of doubts. After the return from the burial there came that friend of hers whom she had been visiting the day before, and she came up to me to pay the duty of condolence with a face on which the signs of great fear appeared. But I could not understand her words, so violent was her agitation. Then she took my hand between hers and said she wished to let me in on a secret, begging me to give it no importance, since it concerned her alone. She began her speech by praising my wife, saying she was the most trustworthy and truthful woman she had known to this day. For that reason she had entrusted to her a bundle of letters of her own, since she could not keep them in her own house... Then she asked me, in the name of the friendship that had been between them, to return them to her... My nerves gave way, my thoughts reeled, and I asked her what these letters contained. She trembled at the question and answered: Your wife, God rest her, never asked me about their contents; more than that, she promised me never to open them if that was my wish. I asked her where she used to keep these letters. She directed me to where they were, in the drawer of the table we know... and said they were tied with a red ribbon, and that if I opened the drawer I would recognize them at once, and that they numbered thirty letters. I led her to the room where the table stood with the letters in it, opened the drawer, took the bundle from it, and handed it to her, asking: Are these the letters? She went through them with all eagerness, while I bowed my head for fear she would see on my face what would betray me. Then she set them in order and went back the way she had come, with thanks.

A week passed, and then the pain invaded my hand at the spot where the drop of blood had fallen on that ill-omened night. I could not rid myself of it; it was my punishment for the savagery that lost me my pure wife, loving and chaste. So I will attempt no further treatment. I have resolved to follow her, and to ask her forgiveness. And I am certain that she will grant my plea, and will love me as she did before.

So thank you, and farewell.