you had abandoned me.  I wanted, you see, to touch the drunken hussies’ hearts, and pose as an unhappy father.  It’s my way, you know, when I want to screen my vices I throw all the blame on my innocent children.  I can’t tell lies and hide things from you, Borenka.  I came to see you as proud as a peacock, but when I saw your gentleness and kind heart, my tongue clave to the roof of my mouth, and it upset my conscience completely.”

“Hush, father, let’s talk of something else.”

“Mother of God, what children I have,” the old man went on, not heeding his son.  “What wealth God has bestowed on me.  Such children ought not to have had a black sheep like me for a father, but a real man with soul and feeling!  I am not worthy of you!”

The old man took off his cap with a button at the top and crossed himself several times.

“Thanks be to Thee, O Lord!” he said with a sigh, looking from side to side as though seeking for an ikon.  “Remarkable, exceptional children!  I have three sons, and they are all like one.  Sober, steady, hard-working, and what brains!  Cabman, what brains!  Grigory alone has brains enough for ten.  He speaks French, he speaks German, and talks better than any of your lawyers—­one is never tired of listening.  My children, my children, I can’t believe that you are mine!  I can’t believe it!  You are a martyr, my Borenka, I am ruining you, and I shall go on ruining you. . . .  You give to me endlessly, though you know your money is thrown away.  The other day I sent you a pitiful letter, I described how ill I was, but you know I was lying, I wanted the money for rum.  And you give to me because you are afraid to wound me by refusing.  I know all that, and feel it.  Grisha’s a martyr, too.  On Thursday I went to his office, drunk, filthy, ragged, reeking of vodka like a cellar . . .  I went straight up, such a figure, I pestered him with nasty talk, while his colleagues and superiors and petitioners were standing round.  I have disgraced him for life.  And he wasn’t the least confused, only turned a bit pale, but smiled and came up to me as though there were nothing the matter, even introduced me to his colleagues.  Then he took me all the way home, and not a word of reproach.  I rob him worse than you.  Take your brother Sasha now, he’s a martyr too!  He married, as you know, a colonel’s daughter of an aristocratic circle, and got a dowry with her. . . .  You would think he would have nothing to do with me.  No, brother, after his wedding he came with his young wife and paid me the first visit . . . in my hole. . . .  Upon my soul!”

The old man gave a sob and then began laughing.

“And at that moment, as luck would have it, we were eating grated radish with kvass and frying fish, and there was a stink enough in the flat to make the devil sick.  I was lying down—­I’d had a drop —­my virago bounced out at the young people with her face crimson, . . .  It was a disgrace in fact.  But Sasha rose superior to it all.”