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The engine is whistling and hissing while the window curtains flush red with the glow of the setting sun. THE passenger train is just starting from Bologoe, the junction on the Petersburg-Moscow line. In a second-class smoking compartment five passengers sit dozing, shrouded in the twilight of the carriage.
The bridegroom gets up and looks blankly round the company. "Yes, yes," Pyotr Petrovitch explains. "You must have jumped into the wrong train at Bologoe. . . . After your glass of brandy you succeeded in getting into the down-train." Ivan Alexyevitch turns pale, clutches his head, and begins pacing rapidly about the carriage. "Ach, idiot that I am!" he says in indignation. "Scoundrel!
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