In the course of his ‘peregrinations from pillar to post,’ he made his way, too, to his ancestral home, which he had sold for next to nothing to a speculator and money-lender well known in those days. The money-lender was at home, and hearing of the presence in the neighbourhood of the former owner, now reduced to vagrancy, he gave orders not to admit him into the house, and even, in case of necessity, to drive him away. Misha announced that he would not for his part consent to enter the house, polluted by the presence of so repulsive a person; that he would permit no one to drive him away, but was going to the churchyard to pay his devotions at the grave of his parents. So in fact he did. In the churchyard he was joined by an old house-serf, who had once been his nurse. The money-lender had deprived this old man of his monthly allowance, and driven him off the estate; since then his refuge had been a corner in a peasant’s hut. Misha had been too short a time in possession of his estate to have left behind him a particularly favourable memory; still the old servant could not resist running to the churchyard as soon as he heard of his young master’s being there. He found Misha sitting on the ground between the tombstones, asked for his hand to kiss, as in old times, and even shed tears on seeing the rags which clothed the limbs of his once pampered young charge. Misha gazed long and silently at the old man. ‘Timofay!’ he said at last; Timofay started. ‘What do you desire?’ ‘Have you a spade?’ ‘I can get one.... But what do you want with a spade, Mihailo Andreitch, sir?’ ‘I want to dig myself a grave, Timofay, and to lie here for time everlasting between my father and mother. There’s only this spot left me in the world. Get a spade!’ ‘Yes, sir,’ said Timofay; he went and got it. And Misha began at once digging in the ground, while Timofay stood by, his chin propped in his hand, repeating: ‘It’s all that’s left for you and me, master!’ Misha dug and dug, from time to time observing: ‘Life’s not worth living, is it, Timofay?’ ‘It’s not indeed, master.’ The hole was already of a good depth. People saw what Misha was about, and ran to tell the new owner about it. The money-lender was at first very angry, wanted to send for the police: ‘This is sacrilege,’ said he. But afterwards, probably reflecting that it was inconvenient anyway to have to do with such a madman, and that it might lead to a scandal,--he went in his own person to the churchyard, and approaching Misha, still toiling, made him a polite bow. He went on with his digging as though he had not noticed his successor. ‘Mihail Andreitch,’ began the money-lender, ‘allow me to ask what you are doing here?’ ‘You can see--I am digging myself a grave.’ ‘Why are you doing so?’ ‘Because I don’t want to live any longer.’ The money-lender fairly threw up his hands in amazement. ‘You don’t want to live?’