“So I see,” said John, who could not repress a little bitterness. And he added, ironically, in honour of her decrepit appearance, “¡viva Usted mil años[6]!”
“So I shall,” answered the hag; “I have lived many thousands already, for I have to tell you I am no less a person than Death!”
John gave a start, and was like one struck dumb at this announcement.
“Don’t be afraid, John,” she continued, “I don’t want to hurt you; and what is more, as you have treated me so well, I’ll give you a good counsel in return. Make yourself a doctor—there’s nothing like it for making money!”
“I am much obliged to you, Mistress Death,” answered John, very respectfully, “but it will be quite return enough, if you’ll promise to leave me alone for a good number of years. As to being a doctor, I’ve no notion how to set about it. I know neither Latin nor Greek; I can’t write because my hand is palsied; and I can’t read because I hate poring over those little black figures!”
“Go along with you, you silly fellow!” answered Mrs. Death; “you don’t suppose any of this is necessary? It’s I who lead the doctors, not they me. You are not such a goose as to think I go and come because they hiss me or call me, are you? when I get tired of any one, I take him by the ear and drag him off, doctor or no doctor. When the world began there were no doctors, and men lived to a good old age. But since they invented doctors there have been no more Methuselahs! You make yourself a doctor, as I advise you; and if you are perverse and obstinate, I’ll carry you off with me, mas fijo que el reloj[7]! Don’t prate!” she added, as she saw he was going to urge some objection; “this is all you have to do—when they call you into a bed-room look out for me. If you see me standing at the head of the bed, you’ll know it’s all up—you have only to say so, and they’ll find you’re a wise prophet. If, on the other hand, you don’t see me, you have only to prescribe a dose of clean water, with any thing harmless you like in it, and the sick person will recover.”
With that the ugly old lady took herself off, courtesying like a French dancing-mistress.
“I hope your worship won’t forget, Mistress Death, what I asked you!” John cried after her—“your worship won’t visit me again for a long time to come, eh?”
“Don’t be afraid, John,” she answered, as she disappeared, “until your house crumbles to pieces you won’t have a visit from me.”
John returned home to his wife, and told her all that had happened; and his wife, being sharper than he, determined to make use of Mrs. Death’s advice, and in spite of his remonstrances spread about every where the news that her husband was a famous doctor—that he had only to look at a patient to tell whether he would live or die.