The sudden bark waked her up: her heart palpitated,
and she felt faint. "Girls, girls!" she moaned. "Girls!" The terrified
maids ran into her bedroom. "Oh, oh, I am dying!" she said, flinging her
arms about in her agitation. "Again, that dog, again! . . . Oh, send for
the doctor. They mean to be the death of me. . . . The dog, the dog
again! Oh!" And she let her head fall back, which always signified a
swoon. They rushed for the doctor, that is, for the household physician,
Hariton. This doctor, whose whole qualification consisted in wearing
soft-soled boots, knew how to feel the pulse delicately. He used to
sleep fourteen hours out of the twenty-four, but the rest of the time he
was always sighing, and continually dosing the old lady with cherrybay
drops. This doctor ran up at once, fumigated the room with burnt
feathers, and when the old lady opened her eyes, promptly offered her a
wineglass of the hallowed drops on a silver tray. The old lady took
them, but began again at once in a tearful voice complaining of the dog,
of Gavrila, and of her fate, declaring that she was a poor old woman,
and that every one had forsaken her, no one pitied her, every one wished
her dead.
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