“No, excuse me,” Fyodor Pavlovitch broke in shrilly, taking another step into the room. “Allow me to finish. There in the cell you blamed me for behaving disrespectfully just because I spoke of eating gudgeon, Pyotr Alexandrovitch. Miüsov, my relation, prefers to have _plus de noblesse que de sincérité_ in his words, but I prefer in mine _plus de sincérité que de noblesse_, and—damn the _noblesse_! That’s right, isn’t it, von Sohn? Allow me, Father Superior, though I am a buffoon and play the buffoon, yet I am the soul of honor, and I want to speak my mind. Yes, I am the soul of honor, while in Pyotr Alexandrovitch there is wounded vanity and nothing else. I came here perhaps to have a look and speak my mind. My son, Alexey, is here, being saved. I am his father; I care for his welfare, and it is my duty to care. While I’ve been playing the fool, I have been listening and having a look on the sly; and now I want to give you the last act of the performance. You know how things are with us? As a thing falls, so it lies. As a thing once has fallen, so it must lie for ever. Not a bit of it! I want to get up again. Holy Father, I am indignant with you. Confession is a great sacrament, before which I am ready to bow down reverently; but there in the cell, they all kneel down and confess aloud. Can it be right to confess aloud? It was ordained by the holy Fathers to confess in secret: then only your confession will be a mystery, and so it was of old. But how can I explain to him before every one that I did this and that ... well, you understand what—sometimes it would not be proper to talk about it—so it is really a scandal! No, Fathers, one might be carried along with you to the Flagellants, I dare say ... at the first opportunity I shall write to the Synod, and I shall take my son, Alexey, home.”