not do any of the terrible things which Sergey had feared. She just
kissed him and silently sat down. And with her trembling hands she even
adjusted her black silk dress.

Sergey did not know that the colonel, having locked himself all the
previous night in his little study, had deliberated upon this ritual
with all his power. "We must not aggravate, but ease the last moments
of our son," resolved the colonel firmly, and he carefully weighed every
possible phase of the conversation, every act and movement that might
take place on the following day. But somehow he became confused,
forgetting what he had prepared, and he wept bitterly in the corner of
the oilcloth-covered couch. In the morning he explained to his wife how
she should behave at the meeting.

"The main thing is, kiss--and say nothing!" he taught her. "Later you may
speak--after a while--but when you kiss him, be silent. Don't speak right
after the kiss, do you understand? Or you will say what you should not
say."

"I understand, Nikolay Sergeyevich," answered the mother, weeping.

"And you must not weep. For God's sake, do not weep! You will kill him
if you weep, old woman!"

"Why do you weep?"

"With women one cannot help weeping. But you must not weep, do you
hear?"

"Very well, Nikolay Sergeyevich."

Riding in the drozhky, he had intended to school her in the instructions
again, but he forgot. And so they rode in silence, bent, both gray and
old, and they were lost in thought, while the city was gay and noisy. It
was Shrovetide, and the streets were crowded.

They sat down. Then the colonel stood up, assumed a studied pose,
placing his right hand upon the border of his coat. Sergey sat for an
instant, looked closely upon the wrinkled face of his mother and then
jumped up.

"Be seated, Seryozhenka," begged the mother.

"Sit down, Sergey," repeated the father.

They became silent. The mother smiled.

"How we have petitioned for you, Seryozhenka! Father--"

"You should not have done that, mother----"

The colonel spoke firmly:

"We had to do it, Sergey, so that you should not think your parents had
forsaken you."

They became silent again. It was terrible for them to utter even a word,
as though each word in the language had lost its individual meaning and
meant but one thing--Death. Sergey looked at his father's coat, which
smelt of benzine, and thought: "They have no servant now, consequently
he must have cleaned it himself. How is i