“But what can I do, madam?  You are not the only one to complain, everybody’s complaining, but what am I to do with him?  One goes to his room and begins putting him to shame, saying:  ’Hannibal Ivanitch, have some fear of God!  It’s shameful! and he’ll punch you in the face with his fists and say all sorts of things:  ’there, put that in your pipe and smoke it,’ and such like.  It’s a disgrace!  He wakes up in the morning and sets to walking about the corridor in nothing, saving your presence, but his underclothes.  And when he has had a drop he will pick up a revolver and set to putting bullets into the wall.  By day he is swilling liquor and at night he plays cards like mad, and after cards it is fighting. . . .  I am ashamed for the other lodgers to see it!”

“Why don’t you get rid of the scoundrel?”

“Why, there’s no getting him out!  He owes me for three months, but we don’t ask for our money, we simply ask him to get out as a favour . . . .  The magistrate has given him an order to clear out of the rooms, but he’s taking it from one court to another, and so it drags on. . . .  He’s a perfect nuisance, that’s what he is.  And, good Lord, such a man, too!  Young, good-looking and intellectual. . . .  When he hasn’t had a drop you couldn’t wish to see a nicer gentleman.  The other day he wasn’t drunk and he spent the whole day writing letters to his father and mother.”

“Poor father and mother!” sighed the colonel’s lady.

“They are to be pitied, to be sure!  There’s no comfort in having such a scamp!  He’s sworn at and turned out of his lodgings, and not a day passes but he is in trouble over some scandal.  It’s sad!”

“His poor unhappy wife!” sighed the lady.

“He has no wife, madam.  A likely idea!  She would have to thank God if her head were not broken. . . .”

The lady walked up and down the room.

“He is not married, you say?”

“Certainly not, madam.”

The lady walked up and down the room again and mused a little.

“H’m, not married . . .” she pronounced meditatively.  “H’m.  Lilya and Mila, don’t sit at the window, there’s a draught!  What a pity!  A young man and to let himself sink to this!  And all owing to what?  The lack of good influence!  There is no mother who would. . . .  Not married?  Well . . . there it is. . . .  Please be so good,” the lady continued suavely after a moment’s thought, “as to go to him and ask him in my name to . . . refrain from using expressions. . . .  Tell him that Madame Nashatyrin begs him. . . .  Tell him she is staying with her daughters in No. 47 . . . that she has come up from her estate in the country. . . .”

“Certainly.”

“Tell him, a colonel’s lady and her daughters.  He might even come and apologize. . . .  We are always at home after dinner.  Oh, Mila, shut the window!”

“Why, what do you want with that . . . black sheep, mamma?” drawled Lilya when the hotel-keeper had retired.  “A queer person to invite!  A drunken, rowdy rascal!”