“Have you heard that the children are going to Moscow, Nicola?” said Karl.

“Yes.  How could I help hearing it?”

At this point Nicola seemed to get up for Karl said, “Sit down, Nicola,” and then locked the door.  However, I came out of my corner and crept to the door to listen.

“However much you may do for people, and however fond of them you may be, never expect any gratitude, Nicola,” said Karl warmly.  Nicola, who was shoe-cobbling by the window, nodded his head in assent.

“Twelve years have I lived in this house,” went on Karl, lifting his eyes and his snuff-box towards the ceiling, “and before God I can say that I have loved them, and worked for them, even more than if they had been my own children.  You recollect, Nicola, when Woloda had the fever?  You recollect how, for nine days and nights, I never closed my eyes as I sat beside his bed?  Yes, at that time I was ’the dear, good Karl Ivanitch’—­I was wanted then; but now”—­and he smiled ironically—­“the children are growing up, and must go to study in earnest.  Perhaps they never learnt anything with me, Nicola?  Eh?”

“I am sure they did,” replied Nicola, laying his awl down and straightening a piece of thread with his hands.

“No, I am wanted no longer, and am to be turned out.  What good are promises and gratitude?  Natalia Nicolaevna”—­here he laid his hand upon his heart—­“I love and revere, but what can she I do here?  Her will is powerless in this house.”

He flung a strip of leather on the floor with an angry gesture.  “Yet I know who has been playing tricks here, and why I am no longer wanted.  It is because I do not flatter and toady as certain people do.  I am in the habit of speaking the truth in all places and to all persons,” he continued proudly, “God be with these children, for my leaving them will benefit them little, whereas I—­well, by God’s help I may be able to earn a crust of bread somewhere.  Nicola, eh?”

Nicola raised his head and looked at Karl as though to consider whether he would indeed be able to earn a crust of bread, but he said nothing.  Karl said a great deal more of the same kind—­in particular how much better his services had been appreciated at a certain general’s where he had formerly lived (I regretted to hear that).  Likewise he spoke of Saxony, his parents, his friend the tailor, Schonheit (beauty), and so on.

I sympathised with his distress, and felt dreadfully sorry that he and Papa (both of whom I loved about equally) had had a difference.  Then I returned to my corner, crouched down upon my heels, and fell to thinking how a reconciliation between them might be effected.

Returning to the study, Karl ordered me to get up and prepare to write from dictation.  When I was ready he sat down with a dignified air in his arm-chair, and in a voice which seemed to come from a profound abyss began to dictate:  “Von al-len Lei-den-shaf-ten die grau-samste ist.  Have you written that?” He paused, took a pinch of snuff, and began again:  “Die grausamste ist die Un-dank-bar-keit [The most cruel of all passions is ingratitude.] a capital U, mind.”