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I explained to her the object of my visit, of which, however, as I observed, she must be aware. She listened to me, blinked her eyes rapidly, and only lifted her nose till it stuck out still more sharply, as though she were making ready to peck.

‘To be sure, to be sure,’ she said at last; ‘Ardalion Matveitch did say something, certainly; my son Vassinka’s art you were wanting…. But we can’t be sure, my dear sir….’

‘Oh, why so?’ I interposed. ‘As far as I’m concerned, you may feel perfectly easy…. I’m not an informer.’

‘Oh, mercy on us,’ the old woman caught me up hurriedly, ‘what do you mean? Could we dare to suppose such a thing of your honour! And on what ground could one inform against us? Do you suppose it’s some sinful contrivance of ours? No, sir, my son’s not the one to lend himself to anything wicked … or give way to any sort of witchcraft…. God forbid indeed, holy Mother of Heaven! (The old woman crossed herself three times.) He’s the foremost in prayer and fasting in the whole province; the foremost, your honour, he is! And that’s just it: great grace has been vouchsafed to him. Yes, indeed. It’s not the work of his hands. It’s from on high, my dear; so it is.’

‘So you agree?’ I asked: ‘when can I see your son?’

The old woman blinked again and shifted her rolled up handkerchief from one sleeve to the other.

‘Oh, well, sir–well, sir, I can’t say.’

‘Allow me, Mastridia Karpovna, to hand you this,’ I interrupted, and I gave her a ten-rouble note.

The old woman clutched it at once in her fat, crooked fingers, which recalled the fleshy claws of an owl, quickly slipped it into her sleeve, pondered a little, and as though she had suddenly reached a decision, slapped her thighs with her open hand.

‘Come here this evening a little after seven,’ she said, not in her previous voice, but in quite a different one, more solemn and subdued; ‘only not to this room, but kindly go straight up to the floor above, and you’ll find a door to your left, and you open that door; and you’ll go, your honour, into an empty room, and in that room you’ll see a chair. Sit you down on that chair and wait; and whatever you see, don’t utter a word and don’t do anything; and please don’t speak to my son either; for he’s but young yet, and he suffers from fits. He’s very easily scared; he’ll tremble and shake like any chicken … a sad thing it is!’

I looked at Mastridia. ‘You say he’s young, but since he’s your son …’

‘In the spirit, sir, in the spirit. Many’s the orphan I have under my care!’ she added, wagging her head in the direction of the corner, from which came the plaintive whimper. ‘O–O God Almighty, holy Mother of God! And do you, your honour, before you come here, think well which of your deceased relations or friends–the kingdom of Heaven to them!–you’re desirous of seeing. Go over your deceased friends, and whichever you select, keep him in your mind, keep him all the while till my son comes!’

‘Why, mustn’t I tell your son whom …’

‘Nay, nay, sir, not one word. He will find out what he needs in your thoughts himself. You’ve only to keep your friend thoroughly in mind; and at your dinner drink a drop of wine–just two or three glasses; wine never comes amiss.’ The old woman laughed, licked her lips, passed her hand over her mouth, and sighed.

‘So at half-past seven?’ I queried, getting up from my chair.

‘At half-past seven, your honour, at half-past seven,’ Mastridia Karpovna replied reassuringly.

* * * * *

I took leave of the old woman and went back to the hotel. I did not doubt that they were going to make a fool of me, but in what way?–that was what excited my curiosity. With Ardalion I did not exchange more than two or three words. ‘Did she see you?’ he asked me, knitting his brow, and on my affirmative reply, he exclaimed: ‘The old woman’s as good as any statesman!’ I set to work, in accordance with the ‘statesman’s’ counsel, to run over my deceased friends.