rushed to his head. He positively stammered; but he was beyond thinking of style, and he seized his hat.
“What is it he cannot?” cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, “that he absolutely cannot and certainly cannot? Your reverence, am I to come in or not? Will you receive me as your guest?”
“You are welcome with all my heart,” answered the Superior.
“Gentlemen!” he added, “I venture to beg you most earnestly to lay aside your dissensions, and to be united in love and family harmony—with prayer to the Lord at our humble table.”
“No, no, it is impossible!” cried Miüsov, beside himself.
“Well, if it is impossible for Pyotr Alexandrovitch, it is impossible for me, and I won’t stop. That is why I came. I will keep with Pyotr Alexandrovitch everywhere now. If you will go away, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, I will go away too, if you remain, I will remain. You stung him by what you said about family harmony, Father Superior, he does not admit he is my relation. That’s right, isn’t it, Von Sohn? Here’s Von Sohn. How are you, Von Sohn?”
“Do you mean me?” muttered Maximov, puzzled.
“Of course I mean you,” cried Fyodor Pavlovitch. “Who else? The Father Superior could not be Von Sohn.”
“But I am not Von Sohn either. I am Maximov.”
“No, you are Von Sohn. Your reverence, do you know who Von Sohn was? It was a famous murder case. He was killed in a house of harlotry—I believe that is what such places are called among you—he was killed and robbed, and in spite of his venerable age, he was nailed up in a box and sent from Petersburg to Moscow in the luggage van, and while they were nailing him up, the harlots sang songs and played the harp, that is to