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Updated: May 22, 2025
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.
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.
"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.
Don't you think I see what you're trying to get at? But only I'll never agree to unfaithfulness, seeing as how Vasilli Vasillievich is my benefactor, and I adore him with all my soul... And you're even pretty disgusting to me with your nonsense." Once he caused Liubka a great and scandalous hurt, and all because of his theoretical first principles.
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.
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