“He has been already.  It was he noticed that the diphtheria had passed into the nose.  What’s the use of Shrek!  Shrek’s no use at all, really.  He is Shrek, I am Korostelev, and nothing more.”

The time dragged on fearfully slowly.  Olga Ivanovna lay down in her clothes on her bed, that had not been made all day, and sank into a doze.  She dreamed that the whole flat was filled up from floor to ceiling with a huge piece of iron, and that if they could only get the iron out they would all be light-hearted and happy.  Waking, she realized that it was not the iron but Dymov’s illness that was weighing on her.

“Nature morte, port...” she thought, sinking into forgetfulness again.  “Sport...  Kurort... and what of Shrek?  Shrek... trek... wreck....  And where are my friends now?  Do they 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!”