“Part! Such a part was played as I wouldn’t wish to a Tartar!”
“Because of your stomach?”
“That’s just the very reason that I can’t explain the whole thing properly to you. I’ll tell you just how it happened, from the beginning.”
“Very interesting to hear!”
“Well, you see, it was this way: This same stomach of mine was the root of all the mischief. It began to swell up when I was a little child. There weren’t any good doctors in those days: and people of our sort went to wise women, and soldiers, to be cured. We lived in the country, and kept the mill—it was a big mill. Well, there was a sort of barber fellow that set to work to cure me. He rubbed and smeared me, and he gave me stuff to drink, and he pulled me by the legs, and in fact he spoiled my inside altogether, so that I’ve never got well of it to this day—I’ve got some doctor’s stuff with me this very minute.... Very well, ... I must tell you that I live, with my wife and children, near Sousàlov—a district town it is—at the mill. I often go into town. Well, about three years ago a new apothecary came to the town, and I got to know him. So I thought: ‘I’ll make friends with him, and perhaps he’ll give me some help about this stomach of mine.’ Well, so I made acquaintance with him. He was a good, kind-hearted young fellow. So I told him all about it, and he thought it over, and gave me a box of pills. ‘You take these,’ says he, ‘and do as I tell you.’ And I wasn’t to eat this, and I wasn’t to drink that, and so on; he was very particular. So I began to take the pills, and I got better; and whenever I’d finished one box, I had another. Only the next thing that happened was that my inside got to want more and more of these pills; if ever I was without them it just half killed me. At first a box would last me a week; but, after a bit, I’d finish it up in one day. I went and talked about it to the apothecary. He thought it over, and, says he, ‘I’m afraid this is a bad business’; but, all the same, he risked it and went on. And at last he began making such pills for me that he’d put three doses into one pill, and when he rolled it up it would be as big as a walnut. However, I took them, and they did me no harm. All of a sudden, gentlemen, my apothecary leaves the town. ‘Where are you going?’ said I. ‘Can’t get on here,’ said he; ‘no profit.’ I was sorry to lose him; he was a good fellow, and then he’d helped me, too; but there was nothing for it—he went away. So I had to get on as best I could, now with one doctor, now with another. So it went on for about a year and a half; and my wife and I thought we’d build a house for ourselves in the main-town.[[52]]... Because, you see, our children were growing up, and we had to put them to school. We wanted to do the best for them, and we’re not badly off; thanks be to God, we’ve money to pay with. We thought and thought it over, and at last we went to the town, and bought a bit of land, and started building. I used to go into town to see after the building, sometimes for three days at a time, sometimes for five. I often used to go into Moscow to buy materials. The main-town is on the railway, and only eighty versts from Moscow; it isn’t more than three hours in the train, so I found it cheaper to buy what I wanted in Moscow—nails and cramp-irons and all such things—for the house. Well, one day I was going into Moscow for things, and who should I meet in the train but my apothecary.... ‘Ah! it’s you, old fellow! How do you come here? Where have you been? Where are you going?’... We were right glad to meet again. Well, we got talking, of course; he told me about his affairs, and I told him about mine. He’d been in some other town, and hadn’t got on there either; and now he was going to Moscow. Then of course I told him how we were building a house. And after a bit we got talking of my illness. So I said to him: ‘For the Lord’s sake,’ says I, ‘help me like a good fellow; little father, give me some more pills! I’m half killed.’ ‘All right,’ says he, ‘if you like. When we get to Moscow,’ says he, ‘I’ll go into a chemist’s and get all the things, and make the pills at home, and give them to you.’ So we arranged where we were to meet. ‘Come to the Patrìkyevsky Tavern,’ says he, ‘the day after to-morrow. We’ll have some cabbage salad together, and talk over old times; and I’ll give you the pills.’ So that was all right....”
The narrative was interrupted for a moment by the entrance of the young fellow who had just told about the manslaughter. He came running nimbly down the steps and stopped at the door.
“What do you want?” asked the steward.
“Nothing; I just came.”
“I suppose you were beaten at cards?”
“I’ll beat them some day,” answered the lad, leaning against the lintel of the door, and rubbing one bare foot against the other.