slightly between the third and fourth button of his uniform. Kvitsinsky, as a Catholic, remained in the next room. But the attorney prayed so fervently, sighed so sympathetically after Martin Petrovitch, and so persistently muttered and chewed his lips, turning his eyes upwards, that I felt moved, as I looked at him, and began to pray fervently too. At the conclusion of the service and the sprinkling with holy water, during which every one present, even the blind cornet-player, the contemporary of Potemkin, even Kvitsinsky, moistened their eyes with holy water, Anna and Evlampia once more, at Martin Petrovitch’s bidding, prostrated themselves to the ground to thank him. Then at last came the moment of lunch. There were a great many dishes and all very nice; we all ate terribly much. The inevitable bottle of Don wine made its appearance. The police captain, who was of all of us the most familiar with the usages of the world, and besides, the representative of government, was the first to propose the toast to the health «of the fair proprietresses!» Then he proposed we should drink to the health of our most honoured and most generous-hearted friend, Martin Petrovitch. At the words «most generous-hearted,» Sletkin uttered a shrill little cry and ran to kiss his benefactor. . . . «There, that’ll do, that’ll do,» muttered Harlov, as it were with annoyance, keeping him off with his elbow . . . But at this point a not quite pleasant, as they say, incident took place. XIV

SOUVENIR, who had been drinking continuously ever since the beginning of luncheon, suddenly got up from his chair as red as a beetroot, and pointing his finger at Martin Petrovitch, went off into his mawkish, paltry laugh.

«Generous-hearted! Generous-hearted!» he began croaking; «but we shall see whether this generosity will be much to his taste when he’s stripped naked, the servant of God . . . and out in the snow, too!»

«What rot are you talking, fool?» said Harlov contemptuously.

«Fool! fool!» repeated Souvenir. «God Almighty alone knows which of us is the real fool. But you, brother, did my sister, your wife, to her death, and now you’ve done for yourself . . . ha-ha-ha!»

«How dare you insult our honoured benefactor?» Sletkin began shrilly, and, tearing himself away from Martin Petrovitch, whose shoulder he had clutched, he flew at Souvenir. «But let me tell you, if our benefactor desires it, we can cancel the deed this very minute!»

«And yet, you’ll strip him naked, and turn him out into the snow . . .» returned Souvenir, retreating behind Kvitsinsky.

«Silence!» thundered Harlov. «I’ll pound you into a jelly! And you hold your tongue too, puppy!» he turned to Sletkin; «don’t put in your word where you’re not wanted! If I, Martin Petrovitch Harlov, have decided to make a deed of partition, who can cancel the same act against my will? Why, in the whole world there is no power.» . . .

«Martin Petrovitch!» the attorney began in a mellow bass—he too had drunk a good deal, but his dignity was only increased thereby—«but how if the gentleman has spoken the truth? You have done a generous action; to be sure, but how if—God forbid—in reality in place of fitting gratitude, some affront come of it?»

I stole a glance at both Martin Petrovitch’s daughters. Anna’s eyes were simply pinned upon the speaker, and a face more spiteful, more snake-like, and more beautiful in its very spite I had certainly never seen! Evlampia sat turned away, with her arms folded. A smile more scornful than ever curved her full, rosy lips.

Harlov got up from his chair, opened his mouth, but apparently his tongue failed him. . . . He suddenly brought his fist down on the table, so that everything in the room danced and rang.

«Father,» Anna said hurriedly, «they do not know us, and that is why they judge of us so. But don’t, please, make yourself ill. You are angered for nothing, indeed; see, your face is, as it were, twisted awry.»

Harlov looked towards Evlampia; she did not stir, though Zhitkov, sitting beside her, gave her a poke in the side.

«Thank you, my daughter Anna,» said Harlov huskily; «you are a sensible girl; I rely upon you and on your husband too.» Sletkin once more gave vent to a shrill little sound; Zhitkov expanded his chest and gave a little scrape with his foot; but Harlov did not observe his efforts. «This dolt,» he went on, with a motion of his chin in the direction of Souvenir, «is pleased to get a chance to tease me; but you, my dear sir,» he addressed himself to the attorney, «it is not for you to pass judgment on Martin Harlov; that is something beyond you. Though you are a man in official position, your words are most foolish. Besides, the deed is done, there will be no going back from my determination. . . . Now, I will wish you good-day, I am going away. I am no longer the master of this house, but a guest in it. Anna, do you do your best; but I will go to my own room. Enough!»

Martin Petrovitch turned his back on us, and, without adding another word, walked deliberately out of the room.

This sudden withdrawal on the part of our host could not but break up the party, especially as the two hostesses also vanished not long after. Sletkin vainly tried to keep us. The police captain did not fail to blame the attorney for his uncalled-for candour. «Couldn’t help it!» the latter responded. . . . «My conscience spoke.»

«There, you see that he’s a mason,» Souvenir whispered to me.

«Conscience!» retorted the police captain. «We know all about your conscience! I suppose it’s in your pocket, just the same as it is with us sinners!»

The priest, meanwhile, even though already on his feet, foreseeing the speedy termination of the repast, lifted mouthful after mouthful to his mouth without a pause.

«You’ve got a fine appetite, I see,» Sletkin observed to him sharply.

«Storing up for the future,» the priest responded with a meek grimace; years of hunger were expressed in that reply.

The carriages rattled up . . . and we separated. On the way home, no one hindered Souvenir’s chatter and silly tricks, as Kvitsinsky had announced that he was sick of all this «wholly superfluous» unpleasantness, and had set off home before us on foot. In his place, Zhitkov took a seat in our coach. The retired major wore a most dissatisfied expression, and kept twitching his moustaches like a spider.

«Well, your noble Excellency,» lisped Souvenir, «is subordination exploded, eh? Wait a bit and see what will happen! They’ll give you the sack too. Ah, a poor bridegroom you are, a poor bridegroom, an unlucky bridegroom!»

Souvenir was positively beside himself; while poor Zhitkov could do nothing but twitch his moustaches.

When I got home I told my mother all I had seen. She heard me to the end, and shook her head several times. «It’s a bad business,» was her comment. «I don’t like all these innovations!» XV

NEXT day Martin Petrovitch came to dinner. My mother congratulated him on the successful conclusion of his project. «You are now a free man,» she said, «and ought to feel more at ease.»

«More at ease, to be sure, madam,» answered Martin Petrovitch, by no means, however, showing in the expression of his face that he really was more at ease. «Now I can meditate upon my soul, and make ready for my last hour, as I ought.»

«Well,» queried my mother, «and do the shooting pains still tingle in your arms?»

Harlov twice clenched and unclenched his left arm. «They do, madam; and I’ve something else to tell you. As I begin to drop asleep, some one cries in my head, ‘Take care!’ ‘Take care!'»

«That’s nerves,» observed my mother, and she began speaking of the previous day, and referred to certain circumstances which had attended the completion of the deed of partition. . . .

«To be sure, to be sure,» Harlov interrupted her, «there was something of the sort . . . of no consequence. Only there’s something I would tell you,» he added, hesitating—«I was not disturbed yesterday by Souvenir’s silly words—even Mr. Attorney, though he’s no fool—even he did not trouble me; no, it was quite another person disturbed me—-» Here Harlov faltered.

«Who?» asked my mother.

Harlov fastened his eyes upon her: «Evlampia!»

«Evlampia? Your daughter? How was that?»

«Upon my word, madam, she was like a stone! nothing but a statue! Can it be she has no feeling? Her sister, Anna—well, she was all she should be. She’s a keen-witted creature! But Evlampia—why, I’d shown her—I must own—so much partiality! Can it be she’s no feeling for me! It’s clear I’m in a bad way; it’s clear I’ve a feeling that I’m not long for this world, since I make over everything to them; and yet she’s like a stone! she might at least utter a sound! Bows—yes, she bows, but there’s no thankfulness to be seen.»

«There, give over,» observed my mother, «we’ll marry her to Gavrila Fedulitch . . . she’ll soon get softer in his hands.»

Martin Petrovitch once more looked from under his brows at my mother. «Well, there’s Gavrila Fedulitch, to be sure! You have confidence in him, then, madam?»

«I’ve confidence in him.»

«Very well; you should know best, to be sure. But Evlampia, let me tell you, is like me. The character is just the same. She has the wild Cossack blood, and her heart’s like a burning coal!»

«Why, do you mean to tell me you’ve a heart like