ss and slight attacks of fever, but he was scarcely
ever at home. His heart was fired, he no longer thought of his illness.
He was for ever rushing about Moscow, having secret interviews with
various persons, writing for whole nights, disappearing for whole days;
he had informed his landlord that he was going away shortly, and had
presented him already with his scanty furniture. Elena too on her side
was getting ready for departure. One wet evening she was sitting in her
room, and listening with involuntary depression to the sighing of the
wind, while she hemmed handkerchiefs. Her maid came in and told her that
her father was in her mother's room and sent for her there. 'Your mamma
is crying,' she whispered after the retreating Elena, 'and your papa is
angry.'

Elena gave a slight shrug and went into Anna Vassflyevna's room. Nikolai
Artemyevitch's kind-hearted spouse was half lying on a reclining chair,
sniffing a handkerchief steeped in _eau de Cologne_; he himself was
standing at the hearth, every button buttoned up, in a high, hard
cravat, with a stiffly starched collar; his deportment had a vague
suggestion of some parliamentary orator. With an orator's wave of the
arm he motioned his daughter to a chair, and when she, not understanding
his gesture, looked inquiringly at him, he brought out with dignity,
without turning his head: 'I beg you to be seated.' Nikolai Artemyevitch
always used the formal plural in addressing his wife, but only on
extraordinary occasions in addressing his daughter.

Elena sat down.

Anna Vassilyevna blew her nose tearfully. Nikolai Artemyevitch thrust
his fingers between his coat-buttons.

'I sent for you, Elena Nikolaevna,' he began after a protracted silence,
'in order to have an explanation with you, or rather in order to ask you
for an explanation. I am displeased with you--or no--that is too little
to say: your behaviour is a pain and an outrage to me--to me and to your
mother--your mother whom you see here.'

Nikolai Artemyevitch was giving vent only to the few bass notes in
his voice. Elena gazed in silence at him, then at Anna Vassilyevna and
turned pale.

'There was a time,' Nikolai Artemyevitch resumed, 'when daughters did
not allow themselves to look down on their parents--when the parental
authority forced the disobedient to tremble. That time has passed,
unhappily: so at least many persons imagine; but let me tell you, there
are still laws which do not permit--do not pe