had to turn away as far as possible from my neighbour, because his presence at a short distance was unbearable. The corpse of Lazarus, that had lain four days in the grave of Bethany, could not have stunk more than this live man did. It was worse than the stench of a corpse; it was a mixture of the fetid smell of the reindeer skins, the strong odour of human sweat, smoke, damp rottenness, dried fish, fish fat and dirt. . . . "O, God," I cried, "what a miserable man am I! How loathsome this brother, created after Thine image, is to me." Oh, how gladly would I have escaped from this stinking grave, in which he had placed me next to himself; if I had only had strength and power to stand in this hellish drifting chaos! But nothing resembling such a possibility could be expected—and I had to submit.
My savage noticed that I had turned away, and said:
"Stop, Bachka, you have turned your snout the wrong way—put your snout here—we will blow together—it will soon get warmer."
Even to hear this seemed terrible.
I pretended not to hear him, but suddenly he hopped on to me, like a bug, rolled over me, lay down with his nose touching mine, and began to breathe into my face with terrible sniffs and stench. He blew extraordinarily loud, like a blacksmith's
