Bring the light closer,
little mother. So, it is well. He will live. Come, don't sit crying.
Take all these rags out and burn them. All of you go out. It is a fine
night. You are better in the cart-shed than here. Here, you, Tula, go
round with the starosta to his store. He will give you clean blankets."
They obeyed him blindly. Tula and one of the young women (his daughters)
dragged the dead body, which was that of a very old woman, out into the
night. The starosta had retired to the door-way when the lamp was
lighted, his courage having failed him. The air was foul with the reek
of smoke and filth and infection.
"Come, Vasilli Tula," the village elder said, with suspicious eagerness.
"Come with me, I will give you what the good doctor says. Though you owe
me money, and you never try to pay me."
But Tula was kissing and mumbling over the hem of Paul's coat. Paul took
no notice of him.
"We are starving, Excellency," the man was saying. "I can get no work. I
had to sell my horse in the winter, and I cannot plough my little piece
of land. The Government will not help us. The Prince--curse him!--does
nothing for us. He lives in Petersburg, where he spends all his money,
and has food and wine more than he wants. The Count Stepan Lanovitch
used to assist us--God be with him! But he has been sent to Siberia
because he helped the peasants.
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