As to the old papers and curious documents on which Lavretsky had counted, he found nothing of the kind except one old volume in which his grandfather, Peter Andreich, had made various entries.  In one place might be read, “Celebration in the city of St. Petersburg, of the Peace concluded with the Turkish Empire by his Excellency, Prince Alexander Alexandrovich Prozorovsky”.  In another, “Recipe of a decoction for the chest,” with the remark.  “This prescription was given the Generaless Prascovia Fedorovna Saltykof, by the Archpresbyter of the Life-beginning Trinity, Fedor Avksentevich.”  Sometimes there occurred a piece of political information, as follows:—­

“About the French tigers there is somehow silence”—­and close by, “In the Moscow Gazette there is an announcement of the decease of the First-Major Mikhail Petrovich Kolychef.  Is not this the son of Peter Vasilievich Kolychef?”

Lavretsky also found some old calendars and dream-books, and the mystical work of M. Ambodik.  Many a memory did the long-forgotten but familiar “Symbols and Emblems” recall to his mind.  In the furthest recess of one of the drawers in Glafira’s toilette-table, Lavretsky found a small packet, sealed with black wax, and tied with a narrow black ribbon.  Inside the packet were two portraits lying face to face, the one, in pastel, of his father as a young man, with soft curls falling over his forehead, with long, languid eyes, and with a half-open mouth; the other an almost obliterated picture of a pale woman, in a white dress, with a white rose in her hand—­his mother.  Of herself Glafira never would allow a portrait to be taken.

“Although I did not then live in the house,” Anton would say to Lavretsky, “yet I can remember your great grandfather, Andrei Afanasich.  I was eighteen years old when he died.  One day I met him in the garden—­then my very thighs began to quake.  But he didn’t do anything, only asked me what my name was, and sent me to his bed-room for a pocket-handkerchief.  He was truly a seigneur—­every one must allow that; and he wouldn’t allow that any one was better than himself.  For I may tell you, your great grandfather had such a wonderful amulet—­a monk from Mount Athos had given him that amulet—­and that monk said to him, ’I give thee this, O Boyar, in return for thy hospitality.  Wear it, and fear no judge.’  Well, it’s true, as is well known, that times were different then.  What a seigneur wanted to do, that he did.  If ever one of the gentry took it into his head to contradict him, he would just look at him, and say, ’Thou swimmest in shallow water’[A]—­that was a favorite phrase with him.  And he lived, did your great grandfather of blessed memory, in small, wooden rooms.  But what riches he left behind him!  What silver, what stores of all kinds!  All the cellars were crammed full of them.  He was a real manager.  That little decanter which you were pleased to praise was his.  He used to drink brandy out of it.  But just see! your grandfather, Peter Andreich, provided himself with a stone mansion, but he lived worse than his father, and got himself no satisfaction, but spent all his money, and now there is nothing to remember him by—­not so much as a silver spoon has come down to us from him; and for all that is left, one must thank Glafira Petrovna’s care.”