CHAPTER X
Now things were better. Life returned to Prokop day by day. He felt a dulness in his head and he was always a little as if in a dream. There was nothing to do but to shew his appreciation of the doctor’s services and go on his own way. He announced this decision one day after supper but everybody received it in stubborn silence. Then the old man took Prokop by the arm and led him into the consulting-room. After a certain amount of beating about the bush he said gruffly that Prokop must not leave, that it was better for him to rest, that the battle was not yet won—in short, that he was to remain. Prokop vaguely defended himself; the fact was that he did not yet feel himself in the saddle and that he was a little demoralized by comfort. All talk of going away was postponed indefinitely.
Every afternoon the doctor shut himself up in his consulting-room. “Come in and see me, eh?” he said to Prokop casually. And Prokop found him surrounded by all sorts of bottles, crucibles, and powders. “There’s no apothecary in the town, you know,” explained the doctor, “I have to prepare the medicines myself.” And with his fat, trembling fingers he laid some powder on the pan of the small balance. His hand was uncertain, the scales twisted and jumped about; the old gentleman became agitated, wheezed, and small drops of sweat
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