“My God, my God! How you have humbled yourself, Father! Such great fame, and now like this …”
Sergius did not reply, but only smiled meekly, placing his wallet under the bench on which he sat.
“Másha, do you know who this is?”—And in a whisper Praskóvya Mikháylovna told her daughter who he was, and together they then carried the bed and the cradle out of the tiny room and cleared it for Sergius.
Praskóvya Mikháylovna led him into it.
“Here you can rest. Don’t take offence … but I must go out.”
“Where to?”
“I have to go to a lesson. I am ashamed to tell you, but I teach music!”
“Music? But that is good. Only just one thing, Praskóvya Mikháylovna, I have come to you with a definite object. When can I have a talk with you?”
“I shall be very glad. Will this evening do?”
“Yes. But one thing more. Don’t speak about me, or say who I am. I have revealed myself only to you. No one knows where I have gone to. It must be so.”
“Oh, but I have told my daughter.”
“Well, ask her not to mention it.”
And Sergius took off his boots, lay down, and at once fell asleep after a sleepless night and a walk of nearly thirty miles.