he diphtheria had passed
into the nose. What's the use of Shrek! Shrek's no use at all, really.
He is Shrek, I am Korostelev, and nothing more."

The time dragged on fearfully slowly. Olga Ivanovna lay down in her
clothes on her bed, that had not been made all day, and sank into
a doze. She dreamed that the whole flat was filled up from floor to
ceiling with a huge piece of iron, and that if they could only get the
iron out they would all be light-hearted and happy. Waking, she realized
that it was not the iron but Dymov's illness that was weighing on her.

"Nature morte, port..." she thought, sinking into forgetfulness again.
"Sport... Kurort... and what of Shrek? Shrek... trek... wreck.... And
where are my friends now? Do they know that we are in trouble? Lord,
save... spare! Shrek... trek..."

And again the iron was there.... The time dragged on slowly, though the
clock on the lower storey struck frequently. And bells were continually
ringing as the doctors arrived.... The house-maid came in with an empty
glass on a tray, and asked, "Shall I make the bed, madam?" and getting
no answer, went away.

The clock below struck the hour. She dreamed of the rain on the Volga;
and again some one came into her bedroom, she thought a stranger. Olga
Ivanovna jumped up, and recognized Korostelev.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"About three."

"Well, what is it?"

"What, indeed!... I've come to tell you he is passing...."

He gave a sob, sat down on the bed beside her, and wiped away the tears
with his sleeve. She could not grasp it at once, but turned cold all
over and began slowly crossing herself.

"He is passing," he repeated in a shrill voice, and again he gave a sob.
"He is dying because he sacrificed himself. What a loss for science!"
he said bitterly. "Compare him with all of us. He was a great man, an
extraordinary man! What gifts! What hopes we all had of him!" Korostelev
went on, wringing his hands: "Merciful God, he was a man of science; we
shall never look on his like again. Osip Dymov, what have you done--aie,
aie, my God!"

Korostelev covered his face with both hands in despair, and shook his
head.

"And his moral force," he went on, seeming to grow more and more
exasperated against some one. "Not a man, but a pure, good, loving soul,
and clean as crystal. He served science and died for science. And he
worked like an ox night and day--no one spared him--and with his
youth and his learning he had to t