ABSTRACT
ALL the winter I had been in correspondence with Kharkov in connection with my lost luggage. Early in April I received a notification that the box had been found. The Customs House then sent me in a bill of charges, so much for every day the box had remained in their possession. The railway and Customs made two pounds profit out of the loss of my box; they actually charged me for the loss! So slowly, moreover, did the business go forward that it seemed to me I should not recover my property before I left Moscow. Even after they received the money they seemed in no hurry to proceed. But one day I did actually go out to a goods station and get my box into a sledge and take it home. The end was sudden, so sudden that I could not help laughing at the contrast. A carter took me down into a dark cellar to identify the box, and the said box, high up among large packing-cases, was identified. In its transit from that high position to terra firma it managed to displace a quarter of a ton case, which came down with a crash like thunder. We were both knocked down, and both very badly bruised, though I think the carter came off second best; a stream of blood was pouring down his face. “Oh, Lord God!” I heard him exclaim. He was looking at the Ikon in the room; it sounded as if he was swearing at it.
“Any limbs broken?” said he.
“No.”
“Then, praise the Lord! There's your box.”
