It seemed to annoy him particularly that I should have
joined their party. 'If you knew what you were doing, thirty
thousand millions of pigs! you would keep yourself to yourself!
The horses can't drag the cart; the roads are all ruts and swamps.
No longer ago than last night the Colonel and I had to march half
the way--thunder of God!--half the way to the knees in mud--and I
with this infernal cold--and the danger of detection! Happily we
met no one: a desert--a real desert--like the whole abominable
country! Nothing to eat--no, sir, there is nothing to eat but raw
cow and greens boiled in water--nor to drink but Worcestershire
sauce! Now I, with my catarrh, I have no appetite; is it not so?
Well, if I were in France, I should have a good soup with a crust
in it, an omelette, a fowl in rice, a partridge in cabbages--things
to tempt me, thunder of God! But here--day of God!--what a
country! And cold, too! They talk about Russia--this is all the
cold I want! And the people--look at them! What a race! Never
any handsome men; never any fine officers!'--and he looked down
complacently for a moment at his waist--'And the women--what
faggots! No, that is one point clear, I cannot stomach the
English!'
There was something in this man so antipathetic to me, as sent the
mustard into my nose.
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