does not keep them through
infidelity. Yes."

The deacon looked timidly at Father Fyodor's stern face and said:

"There is worse to follow. . . . We talked and discussed one thing
and another, and it turned out that my infidel of a son is living
with some madame, another man's wife. She takes the place of wife
and hostess in his flat, pours out the tea, receives visitors and
all the rest of it, as though she were his lawful wife. For over
two years he has been keeping up this dance with this viper. It's
a regular farce. They have been living together for three years and
no children."

"I suppose they have been living in chastity!" chuckled Father
Anastasy, coughing huskily. "There are children, Father Deacon--
there are, but they don't keep them at home! They send them to the
Foundling! He-he-he! . . ." Anastasy went on coughing till he choked.

"Don't interfere, Father Anastasy," said his Reverence sternly.

"Nikolay Matveyitch asked him, 'What madame is this helping the
soup at your table?'" the deacon went on, gloomily scanning
Anastasy's bent figure. "'That is my wife,' said he. 'When was
your wedding?' Nikolay Matveyitch asked him, and Pyotr answered,
'We were married at Kulikov's restaurant.'"

His Reverence's eyes flashed wrathfully and the colour came into
his temples. Apart from his sinfulness, Pyotr was not a person he
liked. Father Fyodor had, as they say, a grudge against him. He
remembered him a boy at school--he remembered him distinctly,
because even then the boy had seemed to him not normal. As a
schoolboy, Petrushka had been ashamed to serve at the altar, had
been offended at being addressed without ceremony, had not crossed
himself on entering the room, and what was still more noteworthy,
was fond of talking a great deal and with heat--and, in Father
Fyodor's opinion, much talking was unseemly in children and pernicious
to them; moreover Petrushka had taken up a contemptuous and critical
attitude to fishing, a pursuit to which both his Reverence and the
deacon were greatly addicted. As a student Pyotr had not gone to
church at all, had slept till midday, had looked down on people,
and had been given to raising delicate and insoluble questions with
a peculiarly provoking zest.

"What would you have?" his Reverence asked, going up to the deacon
and looking at him angrily. "What would you have? This was to be
expected! I always knew and was convinced that nothing good would
come of your Pyotr! I