When after drinking some water he went back to his carriage, the Finn was sitting smoking; his pipe was wheezing and squelching like a golosh with holes in it in wet weather.

“Ha!” he said, surprised; “what station is this?”

“I don’t know,” answered Klimov, lying down and shutting 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 got submissively into the sledge.  He still understood the difference of numbers, but money had ceased to have any value to him.