“What has put it into your head to be ill, my angel?” he cackled, wrinkling up his nose.  “Aie, aie!  A man with your physique has no business to be ill!  For shame, for shame!  Do you know, I was quite frightened.  ‘Can our conversation have had such an effect on him?’ I wondered.  My dear soul, I hope it’s not through me you’ve fallen ill!  You know you gave me as good . . . er . . .  And, besides, comrades can never get on without words.  You called me all sorts of names . . . and have gone at me with your fists too, and yet I am fond of you!  Upon my soul, I am.  I respect you and am fond of you!  Explain, my angel, why I am so fond of you.  You are neither kith nor kin nor wife, but as soon as I heard you had fallen ill it cut me to the heart.”

Zhukov spent a long time declaring his affection, then fell to kissing the invalid, and finally was so overcome by his feelings that he began laughing hysterically, and was even meaning to fall into a swoon, but, probably remembering that he was not at home nor at the theatre, put off the swoon to a more convenient opportunity and went away.

Soon after him Adabashev, the tragic actor, a dingy, short-sighted individual who talked through his nose, made his appearance. . . .  For a long while he looked at Shtchiptsov, for a long while he pondered, and at last he made a discovery.

“Do you know what, Mifa?” he said, pronouncing through his nose “f” instead of “sh,” and assuming a mysterious expression.  “Do you know what?  You ought to have a dose of castor-oil!”

Shtchiptsov was silent.  He remained silent, too, a little later as the tragic actor poured the loathsome oil into his mouth.  Two hours later Yevlampy, or, as the actors for some reason called him, Rigoletto, the hairdresser of the company, came into the room.  He too, like the tragic man, stared at Shtchiptsov for a long time, then sighed like a steam-engine, and slowly and deliberately began untying a parcel he had brought with him.  In it there were twenty cups and several little flasks.

“You should have sent for me and I would have cupped you long ago,” he said, tenderly baring Shtchiptsov’s chest.  “It is easy to neglect illness.”

Thereupon Rigoletto stroked the broad chest of the “heavy father” and covered it all over with suction cups.

“Yes . . .” he said, as after this operation he packed up his paraphernalia, crimson with Shtchiptsov’s blood.  “You should have sent for me, and I would have come. . . .  You needn’t trouble about payment. . . .  I do it from sympathy.  Where are you to get the money if that idol won’t pay you?  Now, please take these drops.  They are nice drops!  And now you must have a dose of this castor-oil.  It’s the real thing.  That’s right!  I hope it will do you good.  Well, now, good-bye. . . .”

Rigoletto took his parcel and withdrew, pleased that he had been of assistance to a fellow-creature.

The next morning Sigaev, the comic man, going in to see Shtchiptsov, found him in a terrible condition.  He was lying under his coat, breathing in gasps, while his eyes strayed over the ceiling.  In his hands he was crushing convulsively the crumpled quilt.