"Yes, indeed; Heaven preserve us from it! It was awful what we had to put up with in the house! Kousmitch cured him, though."
"And your young lady—how about her?"
"Nothing much. She's a poor frightened thing, very thin, and has pimples on her face. She's a quiet enough young lady; there's no harm in her. We had a young man after her at one time—yes, a real one, a military man, too, in a uniform.... Only he got hold of part of the dowry in advance and went after someone else. And she fretted and fretted—she's all right now—Kousmitch did her good."
"And your lady herself?"
"The mistress was dreadfully bad. You can see for yourself how yellow she is. Well, this I winter she suffered from her liver, and the winter before last she was even worse. What a lot of doctors and nurses she had!—and she was ill the whole time, and couldn't walk because she had something the matter with her inside. Yes; what a lot of money we did spend! First one doctor comes and attends her, then we hear of another, a more expensive one, and then we try him. Well, he comes and prescribes for her, and then somebody tells us of another still more expensive one, and so we call him in. And we had prayers put up and icons brought in from the church. And it was all no good at all. And in the spring, when we were coming to the Caucasus, I said, says I, 'Mistress, little mother,[15] which way are we going? Aren't we going past Samara?' says I. 'We are going by steamer up the Volga, and shall pass. Samara,' says she. (And I come from Samara, from the district of Bousoulouk.) 'Well,' says I, 'little mother, you do as you like, but if you want to do the master good as well as yourself and get God to give you both your health again, you go and see Kousmitch (for in our part lives Kousmitch, who is worth all the doctors in the world; he comes of peasant stock, but princes and generals and lots of gentlefolk go to him to be cured, because he cures all those that the doctors can't cure). So you go to him, little mother,' says I. 'It's God Himself that's sending you to Samara.' 'Be quiet, nurse,' they say. 'You don't understand anything about it. What's all this about your Kousmitch? You do as you're told and go to the chemist's.' 'Very well,' says I; 'what do I care? I'll go.' And then, when we're sailing down the Volga and come to Samara, my lady comes up to me and says, 'Look here,' says she, 'nurse, don't tell anybody, but we're going to Kousmitch.' (You must know my people are merchants, and very rich ones, too; they have five houses in the Kalashnikoffskaia Pristan,[16] but they're shy of gentle-folks.) Says I, 'Well, what of it? Why should I tell anyone? I won't say anything about it. You go if you like to. Who should I tell? I won't say anything about it.' So they went to him, to the little father, Kousmitch. And he, the little father—he can see right into everybody, and he cured them both. First he looked at the master, took him by the hand, and felt his arm down from the shoulder. Doctors only take hold of your wrist and count by their watch, but he, the little father, feels over the whole arm down from the shoulder and finds out the illness without any watch at all. And he said to the master, 'You,' says he, 'have rheumatic swellings. Don't be afraid; you'll get well—drink!' And he gave him a bottle of stuff directly. Yes! And to the mistress he said, 'It's just your liver that's wrong. And there's something the matter inside as well,' says he; 'it's a bad business. You,' says he, 'take care, because, if you don't take care, you'll die. Yes! you must keep lying down,' says he—'yes, lie down often; then you'll get better; and here's this for you—drink!' And he gave her another bottle. Our young lady didn't want to show herself to him; she laughed and said, 'What does a peasant like him understand?' But he, the little father, said, 'What are you laughing at? You had a young man,' says he, 'but he ran off.' The little father knew all about it, you see. 'Don't be afraid; you'll find another. You've got money, haven't you?' says he. 'She has, little father,' said we; 'how shouldn't she have, with five houses on the Kalashnikoffskaia Pristan?' 'Well,' says he, 'it's all right. You'll be married and get quite well; and, meanwhile, here's this for you—drink!' And he gave her another bottle, and he told the children to drink too; and I says to him, says I, 'My back aches, little father.' And he gave me a bottle of stuff too. 'Drink,' says he, 'old woman.' Well, and so we all drink."
[15] The terms "little mother" and "little father" are used by the lower classes in Russia as a mark of respect.
[16] A quarter of St. Petersburg, up the Neva, where all the granaries are situated.
"And does it do you good?"
"It does us good. In the morning, when we get up, we drink some of his stuff before eating anything. We don't say anything about it to the doctor. And at first the mistress drank the muddy water, and now she drinks Bariatinski water. And all the stuff they bring us from the chemist's we throw away, because Kousmitch said it was all no good; and if the mistress feels worse, she gives up drinking the waters, and only takes what Kousmitch gave her. It's a decoction of peppermint." ...
"Peppermint is a good thing. But for my part I drink nothing but Michailovsky water here. That's what I like. It's such a fresh-tasted water."