sacrificed my conscience for my children, and for this I’m laughed to scorn! Kicked out of the house, like a cur!»

«Don’t think about that, Martin Petrovitch,» observed my mother.

«And when he told me, your Volodka,» Harlov went on with fresh force, «when he told me I was not to live in my room any more,—I laid every plank in that room with my own hands,—when he said that to me,—God only knows what passed within me! It was all confusion in my head, and like a knife in my heart. . . . Either to cut his throat or get away out of the house! . . . So, I have run to you, my benefactress, Natalia Nikolaevna . . . where had I to lay my head? And then the rain, the filth . . . I fell down twenty times, maybe! And now . . . in such unseemly. . .»

Harlov scanned himself and moved restlessly in his chair, as though intending to get up.

«Say no more, Martin Petrovitch,» my mother interposed hurriedly; «what does that signify? That you’ve made the floor dirty? That’s no great matter! Come, I want to make you a proposition. Listen! They shall take you now to a special room, and make you up a clean bed,—you undress, wash, and lie down and sleep a little. . . .»

«Natalia Nikolaevna! There’s no sleeping for me!» Harlov responded drearily. «It’s as though there were hammers beating in my brain! Me! like some good-for-nothing beast! . . .»

«Lie down and sleep,» my mother repeated insistently. «And then we’ll give you some tea,—yes, and we’ll have a talk. Don’t lose heart, old friend! If they’ve driven you out of your house, in my house you will always find a home. . . . I have not forgotten, you know, that you saved my life.»

«Benefactress!» moaned Harlov, and he covered his face with his hand. «You must save me now!»

This appeal touched my mother almost to tears. «I am ready and eager to help you, Martin Petrovitch, in everything I am able. But you must promise me that you will listen to me in future and dismiss every evil thought from you.»

Harlov took his hands from his face. «If need be,» he said, «I can forgive them, even!»

My mother nodded her head approvingly. «I am very glad to see you in such a truly Christian frame of mind, Martin Petrovitch; but we will talk of that later. Meanwhile, you put yourself to rights, and, most of all, sleep. Take Martin Petrovitch to what was the master’s room, the green room,» said my mother, addressing the butler, «and whatever he asks for, let him have it on the spot! Give orders for his clothes to be dried and washed, and ask the housekeeper for what linen is needed. Do you hear?»

«Yes, madam,» responded the butler.

«And as soon as he’s asleep, tell the tailor to take his measure; and his beard will have to be shaved. Not at once, but after.»

«Yes, madam,» repeated the butler. «Martin Petrovitch, kindly come.» Harlov got up, looked at my mother, was about to go up to her, but stopped, swinging a bow from the waist, crossed himself three times to the image, and followed the steward. Behind him, I, too, slipped out of the room. XXIV

THE butler conducted Harlov to the green room, and at once ran off for the wardroom maid, as it turned out there were no sheets on the bed. Souvenir, who met us in the passage, and popped into the green room with us, promptly proceeded to dance, grinning and chuckling, round Harlov, who stood, his arms held a little away from him, and his legs apart, in the middle of the room, seeming lost in thought. The water was still dripping from him.

«The Swede! The Swede, Harlus!» piped Souvenir, doubling up and holding his sides. «Mighty founder of the illustrious race of Harlovs, look down on thy descendant! What does he look like? Dost thou recognise him? Ha, ha, ha! Your excellency, your hand, I beg; why, have you got on black gloves?»

I tried to restrain Souvenir, to put him to shame . . . but it was too late for that now.

«He called me parasite, toady! ‘You’ve no roof,’ said he, ‘to call your own.’ But now, no doubt about it, he’s become as dependent as poor little me. Martin Petrovitch and Souvenir, the poor toady, are equal now. He’ll have to live on charity too. They’ll toss him the stale and dirty crust, that the dog has sniffed at and refused. . . . And they’ll tell him to eat it, too. Ha, ha, ha!»

Harlov still stood motionless, his head drawn in, his legs and arms held a little apart.

«Martin Harlov, a nobleman born!» Souvenir went on shrieking. «What airs he used to give himself. Just look at me! Don’t come near, or I’ll knock you down! . . . And when he was so clever as to give away and divide his property, didn’t he crow! ‘Gratitude! . . .’ he cackled, ‘gratitude!’ But why were you so mean to me? Why didn’t you make me a present? May be, I should have felt it more. And you see I was right when I said they’d strip you bare, and . . .»

«Souvenir!» I screamed; but Souvenir was in nowise daunted. Harlov still did not stir. It seemed as though he were only now beginning to be aware how soaking wet everything was that he had on, and was waiting to be helped off with his clothes. But the butler had not come back.

«And a military man too!» Souvenir began again. «In the year twelve, he saved his country; he showed proofs of his valour. I see how it is. Stripping the frozen marauders of their breeches is work he’s quite equal to, but when the hussies stamp their feet at him he’s frightened out of his skin.»

«Souvenir!» I screamed a second time.

Harlov looked askance at Souvenir. Till that instant he seemed not to have noticed his presence, and only my exclamation aroused his attention.

«Look out, brother,» he growled huskily, «don’t dance yourself into trouble.»

Souvenir fairly rolled about with laughter. «Ah, how you frighten me, most honoured brother. You’re a formidable person, to be sure. You must comb your hair, at any rate, or, God forbid, it’ll get dry, and you’ll never wash it clean again; you’ll have to mow it with a sickle.» Souvenir all of a sudden got into a fury. «And you give yourself airs still. A poor outcast, and he gives himself airs. Where’s your home now? you’d better tell me that, you were always boasting of it. ‘I have a home of my own,’ he used to say, but you’re homeless. ‘My ancestral roof,’ he would say.» Souvenir pounced on this phrase as an inspiration.

«Mr. Bitchkov,» I protested. «What are you about? you forget yourself.»

But he still persisted in chattering, and still danced and pranced up and down quite close to Harlov. And still the butler and the wardroom maid did not come.

I felt alarmed. I began to notice that Harlov, who had, during his conversation with my mother, gradually grown quieter, and even towards the end apparently resigned himself to his fate, was beginning to get worked up again. He breathed more hurriedly, it seemed as though his face were suddenly swollen under his ears, his fingers twitched, his eyes again began moving restlessly in the dark mask of his grim face. . . .

«Souvenir, Souvenir!» I cried. «Stop it, I’ll tell mamma.»

But Souvenir seemed possessed by frenzy. «Yes, yes, most honoured brother,» he began again, «here we find ourselves, you and I, in the most delicate position. While your daughters, with your son-in-law, Vladimir Vassilievitch, are having a fine laugh at you under your roof. And you should at least curse them, as you promised. Even that you’re not equal to. To be sure, how could you hold your own with Vladimir Vassilievitch? Why, you used to call him Volodka, too. You call him Volodka. He is Vladimir Vassilievitch, Mr. Sletkin, a landowner, a gentleman, while—what are you, pray?»

A furious roar drowned Souvenir’s words. . . . Harlov was aroused. His fists were clenched and lifted, his face was purple, there was foam on his drawn lips, he was shaking with rage. «Roof, you say!» he thundered in his iron voice, «curse, you say. . . . No! I will not curse them. . . . They don’t care for that . . . But the roof . . . I will tear the roof off them, and they shall have no roof over their heads, like me. They shall learn to know Martin Harlov. My strength is not all gone yet; they shall learn to laugh at me! . . . They shall have no roof over their heads!»

I was stupefied; never in my life had I witnessed such boundless anger. Not a man—a wild beast—paced to and fro before me. I was stupefied . . . as for Souvenir, he had hidden under the table in his fright.

«They shall not!» Harlov shouted for the last time, and almost knocking over the butler and the wardroom maid, he rushed away out of the house. . . . He dashed headlong across the yard, and vanished through the gates. XXV

MY mother was terribly angry when the butler came with an abashed countenance to report Martin Petrovitch’s sudden and unexpected retreat. He did not dare to conceal the cause of this retreat; I was obliged to confirm his story.