Laurus

‌Prolegomenon

‌

He had four names at various times. A person’s life is heterogeneous, so this could be seen as an advantage. Life’s parts sometimes have little in common, so little that it might appear various people lived them. When this happens, it is difficult not to feel surprised that all these people carry the same name.

He also had two nicknames. One of them—Rukinets—referred to Rukina Quarter, where he came into the world. But this person was known to most people by the nickname Doctor, because he was, more than anything, a doctor to his contemporaries. He was, one should think, something more than a doctor, because what he achieved went beyond the limits of a doctor’s possibilities.

It is thought that the word vrach, for medical doctor, comes from the word vrati, which means to say an incantation. This similarity supposes that words—words as such, no matter what they meant—played an essential role in the medical treatment process. The role of words was more significant during the Middle Ages than it is now because of the limited selection of medications. So speaking a lot was a necessity.

Doctors spoke. They knew certain methods for treating ailments, but they did not pass up opportunities to address disease directly. Uttering rhythmic phrases that outwardly lacked meaning, they said an incantation over the illness, smoothly convincing it to abandon the patient’s body. The line between doctor and medicine man was relative during this period.

Patients spoke. In the absence of diagnostic technology, patients needed to describe, in detail, everything occurring within their ailing bodies. Sometimes they thought the illness left them, bit by bit, along with their unhurried, pain-steeped words. They could speak only with their doctors about all the details of their illnesses, and this made them feel better.

The patients’ relatives spoke. They clarified their loved ones’ statements or even amended them, because not all illnesses permitted the sufferers to give reliable reports of what they had gone through. Relatives could openly express concerns that the illness was untreatable and complain (the Middle Ages was not a sentimental time) that it is difficult to deal with an ill person. This made them feel better, too.

The defining trait of the person under discussion is that he spoke very little. He remembered the words of Arsenius the Great: I have often regretted the things I have said, but I have never regretted my silence. Most often he looked wordlessly at the patient. He might say only, your body will still serve you. Or, your body has become unsuitable, prepare to leave it; know that this shell is imperfect.

His renown was great. It spread throughout the entire inhabited world; he could not avoid notice anywhere. His appearances drew together many people. He would cast an attentive gaze upon those present, his wordlessness transferring itself to those who had gathered. The crowd froze in place. Only small clouds of steam—instead of words—left hundreds of open mouths, and he would watch how they melted in the frosty air. And the crunch of January snow under his feet was audible. Or the rustle of September foliage. Everyone awaited a miracle and the sweat of expectation rolled down the faces of those in attendance. Salty drops fell, resonating on the earth. The crowd parted, letting him through to the person he had come to see.

He would place his hand on the patient’s forehead. Or touch wounds. Many believed that the touch of his hand could heal. And thus the nickname Rukinets, given to him because of his place of birth but rooted in the word ruka, for hand, acquired additional meaning. His doctoring skills were honed over the years, reaching, at the zenith of his life, heights that seemed unattainable for a human being.

It was said that he possessed the elixir of immortality. It is even said from time to time that this giving healer could not die as all other people do. The basis for this opinion is that his body had no traces of decay after death, maintaining its former appearance after lying under an open sky for many days. And then it disappeared, as if its possessor had grown tired of lying there: he stood up and left. Those who think this, however, forget that only two people have left the earth in flesh and blood since the Creation of the world. Enoch was taken by the Lord at the revealment of the Antichrist and Elijah was raised to the heavens in a chariot of fire. Holy tradition does not mention a Russian doctor.

Judging from his infrequent statements, he did not intend to reside in a body forever, if only because he had worked with bodies his entire life. Most likely he didn’t have the elixir of immortality, either. Somehow, things of this sort don’t fit with what we know about him. In other words, one can say with certainty that he is not with us at present. It is worth adding, however, that he himself did not always understand what time ought to be considered the present.