There were a sound of footsteps.

“Father Fyodor, you are not resting?” a bass voice asked from the passage.

“No, deacon; come in.”

Orlov’s colleague, the deacon Liubimov, an elderly man with a big bald patch on the top of his head, though his hair was still black and he was still vigorous-looking, with thick black eyebrows like a Georgian’s, walked in.  He bowed to Father Anastasy and sat down.

“What good news have you?” asked his Reverence.

“What good news?” answered the deacon, and after a pause he went on with a smile:  “When your children are little, your trouble is small; when your children are big, your trouble is great.  Such goings on, Father Fyodor, that I don’t know what to think of it.  It’s a regular farce, that’s what it is.”

He paused again for a little, smiled still more broadly and said: 

“Nikolay Matveyitch came back from Harkov to-day.  He has been telling me about my Pyotr.  He has been to see him twice, he tells me.”

“What has he been telling you, then?”

“He has upset me, God bless him.  He meant to please me but when I came to think it over, it seems there is not much to be pleased at.  I ought to grieve rather than be pleased. . .  ‘Your Petrushka,’ said he, ‘lives in fine style.  He is far above us now,’ said he.  ‘Well thank God for that,’ said I.  ‘I dined with him,’ said he, ‘and saw his whole manner of life.  He lives like a gentleman,’ he said; ‘you couldn’t wish to live better.’  I was naturally interested and I asked, ‘And what did you have for dinner?’ ‘First,’ he said, ‘a fish course something like fish soup, then tongue and peas,’ and then he said, ‘roast turkey.’  ’Turkey in Lent? that is something to please me,’ said I.  ‘Turkey in Lent?  Eh?’”

“Nothing marvellous in that,” said his Reverence, screwing up his eyes ironically.  And sticking both thumbs in his belt, he drew himself up and said in the tone in which he usually delivered discourses or gave his Scripture lessons to the pupils in the district school:  “People who do not keep the fasts are divided into two different categories:  some do not keep them through laxity, others through infidelity.  Your Pyotr 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.