But Father Alexandr, a light-hearted man who loved a joke, did not smile, but became graver than ever, and made the sign of the cross over Klimov.  At night-time by turn two shadows came noiselessly in and out; they were his aunt and sister.  His sister’s shadow knelt down and prayed; she bowed down to the ikon, and her grey shadow on the wall bowed down too, so that two shadows were praying.  The whole time there was a smell of roast meat and the Finn’s pipe, but once Klimov smelt the strong smell of incense.  He felt so sick he could not lie still, and began shouting: 

“The incense!  Take away the incense!”

There was no answer.  He could only hear the subdued singing of the priest somewhere and some one running upstairs.

When Klimov came to himself there was not a soul in his bedroom.  The morning sun was streaming in at the window through the lower blind, and a quivering sunbeam, bright and keen as the sword’s edge, was flashing on the glass bottle.  He heard the rattle of wheels—­ so there was no snow now in the street.  The lieutenant looked at the ray, at the familiar furniture, at the door, and the first thing he did was to laugh.  His chest and stomach heaved with delicious, happy, tickling laughter.  His whole body from head to foot was overcome by a sensation of infinite happiness and joy in life, such as the first man must have felt when he was created and first saw the world.  Klimov felt a passionate desire for movement, people, talk.  His body lay a motionless block; only his hands stirred, but that he hardly noticed, and his whole attention was concentrated on trifles.  He rejoiced in his breathing, in his laughter, rejoiced in the existence of the water-bottle, the ceiling, the sunshine, the tape on the curtains.  God’s world, even in the narrow space of his bedroom, seemed beautiful, varied, grand.  When the doctor made his appearance, the lieutenant was thinking what a delicious thing medicine was, how charming and pleasant the doctor was, and how nice and interesting people were in general.

“So-o, so, so. . .  Excellent, excellent! . . .  Now we are well again. . . .  Goo-od, goo-od!” the doctor pattered.

The lieutenant listened and laughed joyously; he remembered the Finn, the lady with the white teeth, the train, and he longed to smoke, to eat.

“Doctor,” he said, “tell them to give me a crust of rye bread and salt, and . . . and sardines.”

The doctor refused; Pavel did not obey the order, and did not go for the bread.  The lieutenant could not bear this and began crying like a naughty child.

“Baby!” laughed the doctor.  “Mammy, bye-bye!”

Klimov laughed, too, and when the doctor went away he fell into a sound sleep.  He woke up with the same joyfulness and sensation of happiness.  His aunt was sitting near the bed.

“Well, aunt,” he said joyfully.  “What has been the matter?”

“Spotted typhus.”