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Updated: June 1, 2025
The noise, the whistles, the Finn, the tobacco smoke all this mingling with the menace and flickering of the misty images in his brain, the shape and character of which a man in health can never recall, weighed upon Klimov like an unbearable nightmare. In horrible misery he lifted his heavy head, looked at the lamp in the rays of which shadows and misty blurs seemed to be dancing.
The cabman charged him one rouble and twenty-five copecks for driving him to Povarska Street, but he did not haggle and submissively took his seat in the sledge. He could still grasp the difference in numbers, but money had no value to him whatever. At home Klimov was met by his aunt and his sister Katy, a girl of eighteen.
In her house were not only laundresses, sempstresses, carpenters, tailors and tailoresses, there was even a harness-maker he was reckoned as a veterinary surgeon, too, and a doctor for the servants; there was a household doctor for the mistress; there was, lastly, a shoemaker, by name Kapiton Klimov, a sad drunkard.
In despair Klimov pressed his face into the corner of the cushion, held his head in his hands, and again began to think of his sister Katy and his orderly Pavel; but his sister and his orderly got mixed up with the looming figures and whirled about and disappeared.
"Yes, yes . . . without stucco. . . . Close by, as I remember now, lived a local beauty, Varenka. . . ." "Not Varvara Nikolayevna?" asked Klimov, and he beamed with satisfaction. "She really is a beauty . . . the most beautiful girl in the town."
And even more rarely, when I am sad and lonely, I begin already to recollect and it seems to me that I, too, am being remembered and waited for, and that we shall meet.... Missyuss, where are you? In a smoking-compartment of the mail-train from Petrograd to Moscow sat a young lieutenant, Klimov by name.
After he had drunk some water, he went back to his place. The Finn sat and smoked. His pipe gurgled and sucked like a galoche full of holes in dirty weather. "Ha!" he said with some surprise. "What station is this?" "I don't know," said Klimov, lying down and shutting his mouth to keep out the acrid tobacco smoke. "When do we get to Tver." "I don't know. I am sorry, I ... I can't talk.
A YOUNG lieutenant called Klimov was travelling from Petersburg to Moscow in a smoking carriage of the mail train. Opposite him was sitting an elderly man with a shaven face like a sea captain's, by all appearances a well-to-do Finn or Swede. He pulled at his pipe the whole journey and kept talking about the same subject: "Ha, you are an officer!
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