My mother was terribly angry when the butler came with an abashed countenance to report Martin Petrovitch’s sudden and unexpected retreat. He did not dare to conceal the cause of this retreat; I was obliged to confirm his story. ‘Then it was all your doing!’ my mother cried, at the sight of Souvenir, who had run in like a hare, and was even approaching to kiss her hand: ‘Your vile tongue is to blame for it all!’ ‘Excuse me, d’rectly, d’rectly …’ faltered Souvenir, stuttering and drawing back his elbows behind him. ‘D’rectly, … d’rectly … I know your “d’rectly,”’ my mother repeated reprovingly, and she sent him out of the room. Then she rang the bell, sent for Kvitsinsky, and gave him orders to set off on the spot to Eskovo, with a carriage, to find Martin Petrovitch at all costs, and to bring him back. ‘Do not let me see you without him,’ she concluded. The gloomy Pole bowed his head without a word, and went away. I went back to my own room, sat down again at the window, and I pondered a long while, I remember, on what had taken place before my eyes. I was puzzled; I could not understand how it was that Harlov, who had endured the insults of his own family almost without a murmur, had lost all self-control, and been unable to put up with the jeers and pin-pricks of such an abject creature as Souvenir. I did not understand in those days what insufferable bitterness there may sometimes be in a foolish taunt, even when it comes from lips one scorns.… The hated name of Sletkin, uttered by Souvenir, had been like a spark thrown into powder. The sore spot could not endure this final prick. About an hour passed by. Our coach drove into the yard; but our steward sat in it alone. And my mother had said to him--‘don’t let me see you without him.’ Kvitsinsky jumped hurriedly out of the carriage, and ran up the steps. His face had a perturbed look--something very unusual with him. I promptly rushed downstairs, and followed at his heels into the drawing-room. ‘Well? have you brought him?’ asked my mother. ‘I have not brought him,’ answered Kvitsinsky--‘and I could not bring him.’ ‘How’s that? Have you seen him?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘What has happened to him? A fit?’ ‘No; nothing has happened.’ ‘How is it you didn’t bring him?’ ‘He’s pulling his house to pieces.’ ‘What?’ ‘He’s standing on the roof of the new building, and pulling it to pieces. Forty boards or more, I should guess, must have come down by now, and some five of the rafters too.’ (‘They shall not have a roof over their heads.’ Harlov’s words came back to me.) My mother stared at Kvitsinsky. ‘Alone … he’s standing on the roof, and pulling the roof down?’ ‘Exactly so. He is walking about on the flooring of the garret in the roof, and smashing right and left of him. His strength, you are aware, madam, is superhuman. And the roof too, one must say, is a poor affair; half-inch deal battens, laid wide apart, one inch nails.’