g and nothing is
disgusting. But doctors are, after all, only men of stomach like the
rest of us, and it is to be presumed that what nauseates one will
nauseate the other. When the starosta unceremoniously threw open the
door of the miserable cabin belonging to Vasilli Tula, Paul gave a
little gasp. The foul air pouring out of the noisome den was such that
it seemed impossible that human lungs could assimilate it. This Vasilli
Tula was a notorious drunkard, a discontent, a braggart. The Nihilist
propaganda had in the early days of that mistaken mission reached him
and unsettled his discontented mind. Misfortune seemed to pursue him. In
higher grades of life than his there are men who, like Tula, make a
profession of misfortune.

Paul stumbled down two steps. The cottage was dark. The starosta had
apparently trodden on a chicken, which screamed shrilly and fluttered
about in the dark with that complete abandon which belongs to chickens,
sheep, and some women.

"Have you no light?" cried the starosta.

Paul retreated to the top step, where he had a short-lived struggle with
a well-grown calf which had been living in the room with the family, and
evinced a very creditable desire for fresh air.

"Yes, yes, we have a little petroleum," said a voice. "But we have no
matches."

The starosta struck a light.

"I have brought the Moscow doctor to see you."

"The Moscow doctor!" cried several voices. "Sbogom--sbogom! God be with
you!"

In the dim light the whole of the floor seemed to get up and shake
itself. There were at least seven persons sleeping in the hut. Two of
them did not get up. One was dead. The other was dying of cholera.

A heavily built man reached down from the top of the brick stove a cheap
tin paraffin lamp, which he handed to the starosta. By the light of this
Paul came again into the hut. The floor was filthy, as may be imagined,
for beasts and human beings lived here together.

The man--Vasilli Tula--threw himself down on his knees, clawing at
Paul's coat with great unwashed hands, whining out a tale of sorrow and
misfortune. In a moment they were all on their knees, clinging to him,
crying to him for help: Tula himself, a wild-looking Slav of fifty or
thereabouts; his wife, haggard, emaciated, horrible to look upon, for
she was toothless and almost blind; two women and a loutish boy of
sixteen.

Paul pushed his way, not unkindly, toward the corner where the two
motionless forms lay half concea