"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 concealed by a mass of ragged sheepskin.
"Here," he said, "this woman is dead. Take her out. When will you learn
to be clean? This boy may live--with care.
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