had all but stayed in Paris; he knew much better than to mispronounce this last word, as the peasants do)—’nor dances, for example; nor evening receptions among the nobility and gentry—there is nothing of the kind whatever.’ (He paused a moment, probably to allow me to observe the choiceness of his diction.) ‘They positively visit each other but seldom. Every one sits like a pigeon on its perch. And so it comes to pass that visitors have simply nowhere to go.’

Ardalion stole a sidelong glance at me.

‘But there is one thing,’ he went on, speaking with a drawl, ‘in case you should feel that way inclined….’

He glanced at me a second time and positively leered, but I suppose did not observe signs of the requisite inclination in me.

The polished waiter moved towards the door, pondered a moment, came back, and after fidgeting about uneasily a little, bent down to my ear, and with a playful smile said:

‘Would you not like to behold the dead?’

I stared at him in perplexity.

‘Yes,’ he went on, speaking in a whisper; ‘there is a man like that here. He’s a simple artisan, and can’t even read and write, but he does marvellous things. If you, for example, go to him and desire to see any one of your departed friends, he will be sure to show him you.’

‘How does he do it?’

‘That’s his secret. For though he’s an uneducated man—to speak bluntly, illiterate—he’s very great in godliness! Greatly respected he is among the merchant gentry!’

‘And does every one in the town know about this?’

‘Those who need to know; but, there, of course—there’s danger from the police to be guarded against. Because, say what you will, such doings are forbidden anyway, and for the common people are a temptation; the common people—the mob, we all know, quickly come to blows.’

‘Has he shown you the dead?’ I asked Ardalion.

Ardalion nodded. ‘He has; my father he brought before me as if living.’

I stared at Ardalion. He laughed and played with his dinner-napkin, and condescendingly, but unflinchingly, looked at me.

‘But this is very curious!’ I cried at last. ‘Couldn’t I make the acquaintance of this artisan?’

‘You can’t go straight to him; but one can act through his mother. She’s a respectable old woman; she sells pickled apples on the bridge. If you wish it, I will ask her.’

‘Please do.’

Ardalion coughed behind his hand. ‘And a gratuity, whatever you think fit, nothing much, of course, should also be handed to her—the old lady. And I on my side will make her understand that she has nothing to fear from you, as you are a visitor here, a gentleman—and of course you can understand that this is a secret, and will not in any case get her into any unpleasantness.’

Ardalion took the tray in one hand, and with a graceful swing of the tray and his own person, turned towards the door.

‘So I may reckon upon you!’ I shouted after him.

‘You may trust me!’ I heard his self-satisfied voice say: ‘We’ll talk to the old woman and transmit you her answer exactly.’

* * * * *

I will not enlarge on the train of thought aroused in me by the extraordinary fact Ardalion had related; but I am prepared to admit that I awaited the promised reply with impatience. Late in the evening Ardalion came to me and announced that to his annoyance he could not find the old woman. I handed him, however, by way of encouragement, a three-rouble note. The next morning he appeared again in my room with a beaming countenance; the old woman had consented to see me.

‘Hi! boy!’ shouted Ardalion in the corridor; ‘Hi! apprentice! Come here!’ A boy of six came up, grimed all over with soot like a kitten, with a shaved head, perfectly bald in places, in a torn, striped smock, and huge goloshes on his bare feet. ‘You take the gentleman, you know where,’ said Ardalion, addressing the ‘apprentice,’ and pointing to me. ‘And you, sir, when you arrive, ask for Mastridia Karpovna.’

The boy uttered a hoarse grunt, and we set off.

* * * * *

We walked rather a long while about the unpaved streets of the town of T——; at last in one of them, almost the most deserted and desolate of all, my guide stopped before an old two-story wooden house, and wiping his nose all over his smock-sleeve, said: ‘Here; go to the right.’ I passed through the porch into the outer passage, stumbled towards my right, a low door creaked on rusty hinges, and I saw before me a stout old woman in a brown jacket lined with hare-skin, with a parti-coloured kerchief on her head.

‘Mastridia Karpovna?’ I inquired.

‘The same, at your service,’ the old woman replied in a piping voice.

‘Please walk in. Won’t you take a chair?’

The room into which the old woman conducted me was so littered up with every sort of rubbish, rags, pillows, feather-beds, sacks, that one could hardly turn round in it. The sunlight barely struggled in through two dusty little windows; in one corner, from behind a heap of boxes piled on one another, there came a feeble whimpering and wailing…. I could not tell from what; perhaps a sick baby, or perhaps a puppy. I sat down on a chair, and the old woman stood up directly facing me. Her face was yellow, half-transparent like wax; her lips were so fallen in that they formed a single straight line in the midst of a multitude of wrinkles; a tuft of white hair stuck out from below the kerchief on her head, but the sunken grey eyes peered out alertly and cleverly from under the bony overhanging brow; and the sharp nose fairly stuck out like a spindle, fairly sniffed the air as if it would say: I’m a smart one! ‘Well, you’re no fool!’ was my thought. At the same time she smelt of spirits.

I explained to her the object of my visit, of which, however, as I observed, she must be aware. She listened to me, blinked her eyes rapidly, and only lifted her nose till it stuck out still more sharply, as though she were making ready to peck.

‘To be sure, to be sure,’ she said at last; ‘Ardalion Matveitch did say something, certainly; my son Vassinka’s art you were wanting…. But we can’t be sure, my dear sir….’

‘Oh, why so?’ I interposed. ‘As far as I’m concerned, you may feel perfectly easy…. I’m not an informer.’

‘Oh, mercy on us,’ the old woman caught me up hurriedly, ‘what do you mean? Could we dare to suppose such a thing of your honour! And on what ground could one inform against us? Do you suppose it’s some sinful contrivance of ours? No, sir, my son’s not the one to lend himself to anything wicked … or give way to any sort of witchcraft…. God forbid indeed, holy Mother of Heaven! (The old woman crossed herself three times.) He’s the foremost in prayer and fasting in the whole province; the foremost, your honour, he is! And that’s just it: great grace has been vouchsafed to him. Yes, indeed. It’s not the work of his hands. It’s from on high, my dear; so it is.’

‘So you agree?’ I asked: ‘when can I see your son?’

The old woman blinked again and shifted her rolled up handkerchief from one sleeve to the other.

‘Oh, well, sir—well, sir, I can’t say.’

‘Allow me, Mastridia Karpovna, to hand you this,’ I interrupted, and I gave her a ten-rouble note.

The old woman clutched it at once in her fat, crooked fingers, which recalled the fleshy claws of an owl, quickly slipped it into her sleeve, pondered a little, and as though she had suddenly reached a decision, slapped her thighs with her open hand.

‘Come here this evening a little after seven,’ she said, not in her previous voice, but in quite a different one, more solemn and subdued; ‘only not to this room, but kindly go straight up to the floor above, and you’ll find a door to your left, and you open that door; and you’ll go, your honour, into an empty room, and in that room you’ll see a chair. Sit you down on that chair and wait; and whatever you see, don’t utter a word and don’t do anything; and please don’t speak to my son either; for he’s but young yet, and he suffers from fits. He’s very easily scared; he’ll tremble and shake like any chicken … a sad thing it is!’

I looked at Mastridia. ‘You say he’s young, but since he’s your son …’

‘In the spirit, sir, in the spirit. Many’s the orphan I have under my care!’ she added, wagging her head in the direction of the corner, from which came the plaintive whimper. ‘O—O God Almighty, holy Mother of God! And do you, your honour, before you come here, think well which of your deceased relations or friends—the kingdom of Heaven to them!—you’re desirous of seeing. Go over your deceased friends, and whichever you select, keep him in your mind, keep him all the while till my son comes!’

‘Why, mustn’t I tell your son whom …’

‘Nay, nay, sir, not one word. He will find out what he needs in your thoughts himself. You’ve only to keep your friend thoroughly in mind; and at your dinner drink a drop of wine—just two or three glasses; wine never comes amiss.’ The old woman laughed, licked her lips, passed her hand over her mouth, and sighed.

‘So at half-past seven?’ I queried, getting up from my chair.

‘At half-past seven, your honour, at half-past seven,’ Mastridia

Karpovna replied