bald patch on the top of his head, though his hair was still black
and he was still vigorous-looking, with thick black eyebrows like
a Georgian's, walked in. He bowed to Father Anastasy and sat down.

"What good news have you?" asked his Reverence.

"What good news?" answered the deacon, and after a pause he went
on with a smile: "When your children are little, your trouble is
small; when your children are big, your trouble is great. Such
goings on, Father Fyodor, that I don't know what to think of it.
It's a regular farce, that's what it is."

He paused again for a little, smiled still more broadly and said:

"Nikolay Matveyitch came back from Harkov to-day. He has been telling
me about my Pyotr. He has been to see him twice, he tells me."

"What has he been telling you, then?"

"He has upset me, God bless him. He meant to please me but when I
came to think it over, it seems there is not much to be pleased at.
I ought to grieve rather than be pleased. . . 'Your Petrushka,'
said he, 'lives in fine style. He is far above us now,' said he.
'Well thank God for that,' said I. 'I dined with him,' said he,
'and saw his whole manner of life. He lives like a gentleman,' he
said; 'you couldn't wish to live better.' I was naturally interested
and I asked, 'And what did you have for dinner?' 'First,' he said,
'a fish course something like fish soup, then tongue and peas,' and
then he said, 'roast turkey.' 'Turkey in Lent? that is something
to please me,' said I. 'Turkey in Lent? Eh?'"