“Farther!”
“It can’t go any farther, Gleb Glebitch.”
“There is no such a thing as ‘can’t’ in this world!”
Gleb Glebitch looks at the patient intendy, thinks very hard, shrugs his shoulders, and walks out of the consultation room.
“It must be a catarrh!” he shouts from the drug pantry.
“We’ll give him some castor oil and some spirits of ammonia!” Kuzma Egorov shouts back. “Rub it over your stomach every morning and evening! Next!”
The patient leaves the room and goes to the pantry win-dow in the corridor. Gleb Glebitch pours a third of a teacup of castor oil and gives it to Stukotey. He drinks it slowly, purses his lips, closes his eyes, and rubs his fingers together as if asking for something to eat that will cover the taste.
“Here’s some alcohol for you!” Gleb Glebitch shouts, giving him a little bottle with ammonium chloride. “Rub this over your stomach with a rag every morning and evening. And bring back that bottle when you finish with it. Hey, don’t lean on that! Go away now!”
Father Grigori’s cook comes up to the window, grinning, holding her shawl over her mouth.
“How may I be of service?” Gleb Glebitch asks her.
“Lizaveta Grigoryevna sends her regards, Gleb Glebitch, and asks if she can have some mint pastilles.”
“That goes without saying! For magnificent individuals of the female sex I will do anything!”
Gleb Glebitch reaches up to the shelf with a stick, and half its contents come tumbling down into Pelageya’s apron.
“Tell her that Gleb Glebitch was bubbling over with enchantment as he handed you these pastilles. Did she receive my letter?”
“Yes, she got it and tore it up. Lizaveta Grigoryevna has no time for love.”
“The harlot! Tell her from me she’s a harlot!”
“Mikhailo Izmuchenkov!” Kuzma Egorov calls out. Baritone Mikhailo walks into the consulting room.
“Greetings, Mikhailo Fedotitch! What is wrong with you?”
“My throat, Kuzma Egorov! I came to you, as a matter of fact, so that you, to be perfectly honest with you, concerning my health, which... you see it’s not a question of pain as much as it is of loss... when I’m ill, I can’t sing, and the church conductor deducts forty kopecks for every mass. For yesterday’s evening service he knocked off a twenty-fiver, and today for the squire’s funeral the singers are getting three rubles—and me, as long as I’m sick, I get nothing. And, to be perfectly honest with you, as far as my throat is concerned it’s scratching and wheezing for all it’s worth—as if some kind of a cat were in there, its paws going... scratch... scratch!”
“Could it be from your drinking hot liquids?”
“Who knows where I got this illness from! But, to be per- fectly honest with you, I can certify that hot liquid affects tenors, never baritones. When a baritone drinks, Kuzma Egorov, his voice grows richer, more imposing... it’s a cold that usually affects baritones more.”
Gleb Glebitch sticks his head through the pantry window.
“What should I give the old woman?” he asks. “The Liquor ferri that was by the window is gone. I’ll give her the pills that are on the shelf.”
“No, no! Ivan Yakovlitch forbade us to hand those out! He’ll be furious!”
“So what am I supposed to give her?”
“Whatever!”
For Gleb Glebitch, “whatever” meant bicarbonate of soda.
“You shouldn’t be drinking hot liquids.”
“As it is, it’s been three days since I’ve had anything... my cold is so bad... the thing is, vodka increases a baritone’s hoarseness, but hoarseness deepens a baritone’s voice, Kuzma Egorov, which as you know is better... without vodka there is no music... what kind of a singer would I be if I didn’t drink vodka? I would not be a singer, but, to be perfectly honest with you, a joke!... If it were not for my profession I wouldn’t touch a drop of vodka. Vodka is Satan’s blood!”
“Fine! I’ll give you some powder that you can mix in a bottle and gargle with, once in the morning and once in the evening.”
“Can I swallow it, too?”
“Yes, you can.”
“Excellent. It would be bothersome if I couldn’t swallow it. You gargle and gargle... and then you have to spit it out— such a waste! Then there was another thing that, to be perfectly honest with you, I wanted to ask you... you see, I have a weak stomach, and so every month I let some blood and take some herbs. Can I, in my condition, enter into a lawful marriage?”
Kuzma Egorov thinks for a while, and then says:
“No, I would advise against it.”
“Oh, I’m so grateful to you! You are truly a great healer, Kuzma Egorov! Better than any doctor! By God, how many people owe their lives to you! Ooooh! More than you can count!”
Kuzma Egorov modestly lowers his eyes and boldly writes “Natri bicarbonici”—that is, bicarbonate of soda.
AN
UNSUCCESSFUL
VISIT
A DANDY ENTERS A HOUSE in which he has never been before. He is paying a social call. In the hall he is met by a girl of about sixteen, wearing a cotton dress and little white apron.
“Are they home?” he asks her brazenly.
“Yes, they are.”
“Hm... my little peach! So, and is the missus at home too?”
“Yes, she is,” the girl answers, blushing for some reason. “Hm... you pretty thing, you! You little vixen! Where can I leave my hat?”
“Anywhere would be fine. Please don’t! Really!...”
“Come on! What are you blushing for! Hey! I won’t bite you!” And the young man slaps the girl’s waist with his glove.
“Hey, not bad! So go ahead, announce me!”
The girl turns poppy red and runs off.
“She’s young!” he decides, and walks through to the drawing room. There he meets the lady of the house. They sit down, chat...
About five minutes later the girl with the little apron enters the room.
“May I introduce my eldest daughter,” the lady of the house says, pointing at the girl’s cotton dress.
Tableau vivant.
A HYPNOTIC
SEANCE
THE LARGE HALL WAS LIT with torches and bursting with people. In the center was the hypnotist. Despite his scrawny, unprepossessing physique, he shone, glowed, and sparkled. People smiled, applauded, obeyed his every order; everyone turned pale in his presence.
He literally performed miracles. Some people he hypno-tized, some he paralyzed, others he had balancing on chairs by their necks and heels; he tied a thin, tall journalist into a knot. In a word, he did whatever he pleased. He had an especially strong effect on the ladies. One glance from him and they dropped like flies. Oh, women’s nerves! If it weren’t for these nerves, how boring life would be!
Having exercised his demonic art on everyone else, the hypnotist came over to me.
“You seem to be of a suggestive nature,” he said. “You are so nervous, so overwrought... wouldn’t you like to take a nap?”
Why not? With pleasure, my good man, let’s try. I sat down on a chair in the middle of the hall. The hypnotist sat on another chair facing me, took hold of my hands, and gazed into my eyes with his terrifying snakelike glare.
The audience surrounded us.
“Shh! Please, ladies and gentlemen! Shh... quiet!”
Silence falls. He and I sit staring at each other. A minute passes, two... Shivers run down my spine, my heart pounds, but I’m not in the least tired!
We keep sitting there. Five minutes pass, seven minutes...
“He’s not giving in!” somebody shouted. “Bravo! Good man!
We sit, we stare. I’m not tired, not even drowsy.... A local council session would have put me to sleep long ago. The audience starts whispering and sniggering. The hypnotist is distracted, and his eyes flicker. Poor man! Nobody likes losing! Save him, O spirits! Come to my eyelids, O Morpheus!