tting his mouth
that he might not breathe the acrid tobacco smoke.

"And when shall we reach Tver?"

"I don't know. Excuse me, I . . . I can't answer. I am ill. I caught
cold today."

The Finn knocked his pipe against the window-frame and began talking
of his brother, the naval officer. Klimov no longer heard him; he
was thinking miserably of his soft, comfortable bed, of a bottle
of cold water, of his sister Katya, who was so good at making one
comfortable, soothing, giving one water. He even smiled when the
vision of his orderly Pavel, taking off his heavy stifling boots
and putting water on the little table, flitted through his imagination.
He fancied that if he could only get into his bed, have a drink of
water, his nightmare would give place to sound healthy sleep.

"Is the mail ready?" a hollow voice reached him from the distance.

"Yes," answered a bass voice almost at the window.

It was already the second or third station from Spirovo.

The time was flying rapidly in leaps and bounds, and it seemed as
though the bells, whistles, and stoppings would never end. In despair
Klimov buried his face in the corner of the seat, clutched his head
in his hands, and began again thinking of his sister Katya and his
orderly Pavel, but his sister and his orderly were mixed up with
the misty images in his brain, whirled round, and disappeared. His
burning breath, reflected from the back of the seat, seemed to scald
his face; his legs were uncomfortable; there was a draught from the
window on his back; but, however wretched he was, he did not want
to change his position. . . . A heavy nightmarish lethargy gradually
gained possession of him and fettered his limbs.

When he brought himself to raise his head, it was already light in
the carriage. The passengers were putting on their fur coats and
moving about. The train was stopping. Porters in white aprons and
with discs on their breasts were bustling among the passengers and
snatching up their boxes. Klimov put on his great-coat, mechanically
followed the other passengers out of the carriage, and it seemed
to him that not he, but some one else was moving, and he felt that
his fever, his thirst, and the menacing images which had not let
him sleep all night, came out of the carriage with him. Mechanically
he took his luggage and engaged a sledge-driver. The man asked him
for a rouble and a quarter to drive to Povarsky Street, but he did
not haggle, and without protest go