"El Senor Don Quixote de la Mancha," he said sleepily.
It is said that to a doctor nothing is shocking 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.
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