should leave this
place, get out our wagons and retire. But how can we? At this moment,
how can we? We are just now at the most critical meeting of the
ways--the extra twelve versts back to Mittoevo may make the whole
difference to many of the cases, and the doctors of the Division,
Krylov himself admits, have got their arms full. We simply can't
leave them.... There has been some confusion here. There doesn't seem
any responsible person to give us orders. Colonel Maximoff has
forgotten us, I believe. In any case I think that we must stay on here
for another day and night. Perhaps we shall get away to-morrow....

I had a queer experience this afternoon. I don't want to make too much
of it but here it is. I went up to my room this afternoon at five to
get some sleep, as I'm on duty to-night. I lay down and shut my eyes
and then, of course, as I always do, immediately saw Marie Ivanovna. I
know quite clearly that this present relationship to her cannot
continue for long or I shall be off my head. I can see myself quite
clearly as though I were outside myself, and I know that I'm madder
now than I was a week ago. For instance in this business of Marie
Ivanovna, I knew then that my seeing her was an illusion--now I am not
quite sure. I knew a week ago that I saw her because she is so much in
my thoughts, because of the intolerable heat, because of the Flies and
the Forest, because of Semyonov. I am not sure now whether it is not
_her_ wish that I should see her. She comes as she came on those last
days before she left me--with all the kindness in her eyes that no
other human being has ever given me before, nor will ever give me
again. To-day I looked and was not sure whether she were gone or no. I
was not sure of several things in the room and as I lay there I said
to myself, "Is that really a looking-glass or no?" "If I tried could I
touch it or would it fade from under my hand?" The room was
intolerably close and there was a fly who persecuted me. As I lay
there he came and settled on my hand. He waited, watching me with his
wicked sneering eyes, then he crept forward, and waited again, rubbing
his legs one against the other. Then very slyly, laughing to himself,
he began to tickle me. I slashed with my hand at him, he flew into the
air, sneering, then with a little "ping" settled on the back of my
neck. I vowed that I would not mind him; I lay still. He began then to
crawl very slowly forward towards my chin, and it was