Vendel-gazda was at first only shamming ill. He wished to be in peace and quiet, and he wished to be made much of; but Mistress Vicza had fairly outwitted him, and he ended by believing what he had himself invented; he felt that it was either the heat or the cold, but some sort of fever it certainly was. The hot tea which he had drunk, the sack of linseed porridge which had been placed on his stomach, the vesicatorium applied to his soles, the anxious faces about him, the tiptoe tread, the odour of vinegar poured on heated iron to carry off infection, the hands laid on his forehead, the whispered opinions, all gave rise to those peculiar sensations experienced at the beginning of an illness—a sort of congealment in the head, and a swarming sensation throughout the whole system.
"Vicza!" whispered the patient from beneath the feather beds, from which only his nose was seen rising like a main-mast; "Vicza, I am thirsty!"
"The czerjo fu[72] will be here directly, my dear old man, and then you can drink it; meanwhile, you may suck your lips a little."
[72] Thousand-sweets, an herb.
Alas! it was not czerjo-fu tea that Vendel wanted to drink, but he did not dare to say so.
"See, here it is, hot and bitter, for my dear old man! wait, I will pour some into the saucer—now, drink it, and you will be quite well; but take care not to burn your mouth."
"Brrrrrphü!" exclaimed the self-made patient, shuddering, as he took the first mouthful; "this must be poison!"
"Poison indeed! it is excellent physic. I will drink some myself; there now—delightful! it will cure you perfectly—drink now, my old man, drink it, quick! come now, drink it when I tell you."
In short, nolens volens, Vendel was obliged to open his mouth, and swallow what is erroneously called a thousand sweets, but is, in truth, a hundred thousand bitters.
It is a well-known fact that strong bitters produce a strong appetite, and this was the case thirty years ago, just as at present.