ey　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　take　a　private　practice　and　work　at　translations　at　night　to　pay　for　these　。　。　。　vile　rags！〃
  Korostelev　looked　with　hatred　at　Olga　Ivanovna；　snatched　at　the　sheet　with　both　hands　and　angrily　tore　it；　as　though　it　were　to　blame。
  〃He　did　not　spare　himself；　and　others　did　not　spare　him。　Oh；　what's　the　use　of　talking！〃
  〃Yes；　he　was　a　rare　man；〃　said　a　bass　voice　in　the　drawing…room。
  Olga　Ivanovna　remembered　her　whole　life　with　him　from　the　beginning　to　the　end；　with　all　its　details；　and　suddenly　she　understood　that　he　really　was　an　extraordinary；　rare；　and；　compared　with　every　one　else　she　knew；　a　great　man。　And　remembering　how　her　father；　now　dead；　and　all　the　other　doctors　had　behaved　to　him；　she　realized　that　they　really　had　seen　in　him　a　future　celebrity。　The　walls；　the　ceiling；　the　lamp；　and　the　carpet　on　the　floor；　seemed　to　be　winking　at　her　sarcastically；　as　though　they　would　say；　〃You　were　blind！　you　were　blind！〃　With　a　wail　she　flung　herself　out　of　the　bedroom；　dashed　by　some　unknown　man　in　the　drawing…room；　and　ran　into　her　husband's　study。　He　was　lying　motionless　on　the　sofa；　covered　to　the　waist　with　a　quilt。　His　face　was　fearfully　thin　and　sunken；　and　was　of　a　greyish…yellow　colour　such　as　is　never　seen　in　the　living；　only　from　the　forehead；　from　the　black　eyebrows　and　from　the　familiar　smile；　could　he　be　recognized　as　Dymov。　Olga　Ivanovna　hurriedly　felt　his　chest；　his　forehead；　and　his　hands。　The　chest　was　still　warm；　but　the　forehead　and　hands　were　unpleasantly　cold；　and　the　half…open　eyes　looked；　not　at　Olga　Ivanovna；　but　at　the　quilt。
  〃Dymov！〃　she　called　aloud；　〃Dymov！〃　She　wanted　to　explain　to　him　that　it　had　been　a　mistake；　that　all　was　not　lost；　that　life　might　still　be　beautiful　and　happy；　that　he　was　an　extraordinary；　rare；　great　man；　and　that　she　would　all　her　life　worship　him　and　bow　down　in　homage　and　holy　awe　before　him。　。　。　。
  〃Dymov！〃　she　called　him；　patting　him　on　the　shoulder；　unable　to　believe　that　he　would　never　wake　again。　〃Dymov！　Dymov！〃
  In　the　drawing…room　Korostelev　was　saying　to　the　housemaid：
  〃Why　keep　asking？　Go　to　the　church　beadle　and　enquire　where　they　live。　They'll　wash　the　body　and　lay　it　out；　and　do　everything　that　is　necessary。〃
  A　DREARY　STORY
  FROM　THE　NOTEBOOK　OF　AN　OLD　MAN
  I
  THERE　is　in　Russia　an　emeritus　Professor　Nikolay　Stepanovitch；　a　chevalier　and　privy　councillor；　he　has　so　many　Russian　and　foreign　decorations　that　when　he　has　occasion　to　put　them　on　the　students　nickname　him　〃The　Ikonstand。〃　His　acquaintances　are　of　the　most　aristocratic；　for　the　last　twenty…five　or　thirty　years；　at　any　rate；　there　has　not　been　one　single　distinguished　man　of　learning　in　Russia　with　whom　he　has　not　been　intimately　acquainted。　There　is　no　one　for　him　to　make　friends　with　nowadays；　but　if　we　turn　to　the　past；　the　long　list　of　his　famous　friends　winds　up　with　such　names　as　Pirogov；　Kavelin；　and　the　poet　Nekrasov；　all　of　whom　bestowed　upon　him　a　warm　and　sincere　affection。　He　is　a　member　of　all　the　Russian　and　of　three　foreign　universities。　And　so　on；　and　so　on。　All　that　and　a　great　deal　more　that　might　be　said　makes　up　what　is　called　my　〃name。〃
  That　is　my　name　as　known　to　the　public。　In　Russia　it　is　known　to　every　educated　man；　and　abroad　it　is　mentioned　in　the　lecture…room　with　the　addition　〃honoured　and　distinguished。〃　It　is　one　of　those　fortunate　names　to　abuse　which　or　to　take　which　in　vain；　in　public　or　in　print；　is　considered　a　sign　of　bad　taste。　And　that　is　as　it　should　be。　You　see；　my　name　is　closely　associated　with　the　conception　of　a　highly　distinguished　man　of　great　gifts　and　unquestionable　usefulness。　I　have　the　industry　and　power　of　endurance　of　a　camel；　and　that　is　important；　and　I　have　talent；　which　is　even　more　important。　Moreover；　while　I　am　on　this　subject；　I　am　a　well…educated；　modest；　and　honest　fellow。　I　have　never　poked　my　nose　into　literature　or　politics；　I　have　never　sought　popularity　in　polemics　with　the　ignorant；　I　have　never　made　speeches　either　at　public　dinners　or　at　the　funerals　of　my　friends。　。　。　。　In　fact；　there　is　no　slur　on　my　learned　name；　and　there　is　no　complaint　one　can　make　against　it。　It　is　fortunate。
  The　bearer　of　that　name；　that　is　I；　see　myself　as　a　man　of　sixty…two；　with　a　bald　head；　with　false　teeth；　and　with　an　incurable　tic　douloureux。　I　am　myself　as　dingy　and　unsightly　as　my　name　is　brilliant　and　splendid。　My　head　and　my　hands　tremble　with　weakness；　my　neck；　as　Turgenev　says　of　one　of　his　heroines；　is　like　the　handle　of　a　double　bass；　my　chest　is　hollow；　my　shoulders　narrow；　when　I　talk　or　lecture；　my　mouth　turns　down　at　one　corner；　when　I　smile；　my　whole　face　is　covered　with　aged…looking；　deathly　wrinkles。　There　is　nothing　impressive　about　my　pitiful　figure；　only；　perhaps；　when　I　have　an　attack　of　tic　douloureux　my　face　wears　a　peculiar　expression；　the　sight　of　which　must　have　roused　in　every　one　the　grim　and　impressive　thought；　〃Evidently　that　man　will　soon　die。〃
  I　still；　as　in　the　past；　lecture　fairly　well；　I　can　still；　as　in　the　past；　hold　the　attention　of　my　listeners　for　a　couple　of　hours。　My　fervour；　the　literary　skill　of　my　exposition；　and　my　humour；　almost　efface　the　defects　of　my　voice；　though　it　is　harsh；　dry；　and　monotonous　as　a　praying　beggar's。　I　write　poorly。　That　bit　of　my　brain　which　presides　over　the　faculty　of　authorship　refuses　to　　work。　My　memory　has　grown　weak；　there　is　a　lack　of　sequence　in　my　ideas；　and　when　I　put　them　on　paper　it　always　seems　to　me　that　I　have　lost　the　instinct　for　their　organic　connection；　my　construction　is　monotonous；　my　language　is　poor　and　timid。　Often　I　write　what　I　do　not　mean；　I　have　forgotten　the　beginning　when　I　am　writing　the　end。　Often　I　forget　ordinary　words；　and　I　always　have　to　waste　a　great　deal　of　energy　in　avoiding　superfluous　phrases　and　unnecessary　parentheses　in　my　letters；　both　unmistakable　proofs　of　a　decline　in　mental　activity。　And　it　is　noteworthy　that　the　simpler　the　letter　the　more　painful　the　effort　to　write　it。　At　a　scientific　article　I　feel　far　more　intelligent　and　at　ease　than　at　a　letter　of　congratulation　or　a　minute　of　proceedings。　Another　point：　I　find　it　easier　to　write　German　or　English　than　to　write　Russian。
  As　regards　my　present　manner　of　life；　I　must　give　a　foremost　place　to　the　insomnia　from　which　I　have　suffered　of　late。　If　I　were　asked　what　constituted　the　chief　and　fundamental　feature　of　my　existence　now；　I　should　answer；　Insomnia。　As　in　the　past；　from　habit　I　undress　and　go　to　bed　exactly　at　midnight。　I　fall　asleep　quickly；　but　before　two　o'clock　I　wake　up　and　feel　as　though　I　had　not　slept　at　all。　Sometimes　I　get　out　of　bed　and　light　a　lamp。　For　an　hour　or　two　I　walk　up　and　down　the　room　looking　at　the　familiar　photographs　and　pictures。　When　I　am　weary　of　walking　about；　I　sit　down　to　my　table。　I　sit　motionless；　thinking　of　nothing；　conscious　of　no　inclination；　if　a　book　is　lying　before　me；　I　mechanically　move　it　closer　and　read　it　without　any　interest　　in　that　way　not　long　ago　I　mechanically　read　through　in　one　night　a　whole　novel；　with　the　strange　title　〃The　Song　the　Lark　was　Singing〃；　or　to　occupy　my　attention　I　force　myself　to　count　to　a　thousand；　or　I　imagine　the　face　of　one　of　my　colleagues　and　begin　trying　to　remember　in　what　year　and　under　what　circumstances　he　entered　the　service。　I　like　listening　to　sounds。　Two　rooms　away　from　me　my　daughter　Liza　says　something　rapidly　in　her　sleep；　or　my　wife　crosses　the　drawing…room　with　a　candle　and　invariably　drops　the　matchbox；　or　a　warped　cupboard　creaks；　or　the