part in his life, and he never had shed a bitter tear owing to it. But he was so carried away by his simulated emotion, that he was for one moment almost believing it himself. He was so touched he was almost weeping. But at that very instant, he felt that it was time to draw back. The Father Superior bowed his head at his malicious lie, and again spoke impressively: “It is written again, ‘Bear circumspectly and gladly dishonor that cometh upon thee by no act of thine own, be not confounded and hate not him who hath dishonored thee.’ And so will we.” “Tut, tut, tut! Bethinking thyself and the rest of the rigmarole. Bethink yourselves, Fathers, I will go. But I will take my son, Alexey, away from here for ever, on my parental authority. Ivan Fyodorovitch, my most dutiful son, permit me to order you to follow me. Von Sohn, what have you to stay for? Come and see me now in the town. It is fun there. It is only one short verst; instead of lenten oil, I will give you sucking‐pig and kasha. We will have dinner with some brandy and liqueur to it.... I’ve cloudberry wine. Hey, von Sohn, don’t lose your chance.” He went out, shouting and gesticulating. It was at that moment Rakitin saw him and pointed him out to Alyosha. “Alexey!” his father shouted, from far off, catching sight of him. “You come home to me to‐day, for good, and bring your pillow and mattress, and leave no trace behind.” Alyosha stood rooted to the spot, watching the scene in silence. Meanwhile, Fyodor Pavlovitch had got into the carriage, and Ivan was about to follow him in grim silence without even turning to say good‐by to Alyosha. But at this point another almost incredible scene of grotesque buffoonery gave the finishing touch to the episode. Maximov suddenly appeared by the side of the carriage. He ran up, panting, afraid of being too late. Rakitin and Alyosha saw him running. He was in such a hurry that in his impatience he put his foot on the step on which Ivan’s left foot was still resting, and clutching the carriage he kept trying to jump in. “I am going with you!” he kept shouting, laughing a thin mirthful laugh with a look of reckless glee in his face. “Take me, too.” “There!” cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, delighted. “Did I not say he was von Sohn. It is von Sohn himself, risen from the dead. Why, how did you tear yourself away? What did you _vonsohn_ there? And how could you get away from the dinner? You must be a brazen‐faced fellow! I am that myself, but I am surprised at you, brother! Jump in, jump in! Let him pass, Ivan. It will be fun. He can lie somewhere at our feet. Will you lie at our feet, von Sohn? Or perch on the box with the coachman. Skip on to the box, von Sohn!” But Ivan, who had by now taken his seat, without a word gave Maximov a violent punch in the breast and sent him flying. It was quite by chance he did not fall. “Drive on!” Ivan shouted angrily to the coachman. “Why, what are you doing, what are you about? Why did you do that?” Fyodor Pavlovitch protested. But the carriage had already driven away. Ivan made no reply. “Well, you are a fellow,” Fyodor Pavlovitch said again. After a pause of two minutes, looking askance at his son, “Why, it was you got up all this monastery business. You urged it, you approved of it. Why are you angry now?” “You’ve talked rot enough. You might rest a bit now,” Ivan snapped sullenly. Fyodor Pavlovitch was silent again for two minutes. “A drop of brandy would be nice now,” he observed sententiously, but Ivan made no response. “You shall have some, too, when we get home.” Ivan was still silent. Fyodor Pavlovitch waited another two minutes. “But I shall take Alyosha away from the monastery, though you will dislike it so much, most honored Karl von Moor.” Ivan shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, and turning away stared at the road. And they did not speak again all the way home. Book III. The Sensualists