“You—” Sergey began again. Suddenly his face wrinkled pitiably, childishly, and his eyes filled with tears immediately. Through the sparkling gleams of his tears he looked closely into the white face of his father, whose eyes had also filled. “You, father, are a noble man!” “What is that? What are you saying?” said the colonel, surprised. And then suddenly, as if broken in two, he fell with his head upon his son’s shoulder. He had been taller than Sergey, but now he became short, and his dry, downy head lay like a white ball upon his son’s shoulder. And they kissed silently and passionately: Sergey kissed the silvery white hair, and the old man kissed the prisoner’s garb. “And I?” suddenly said a loud voice. They looked around. Sergey’s mother was standing, her head thrown back, looking at them angrily, almost with contempt. “What is it, mother?” cried the colonel. “And I?” she said, shaking her head with insane intensity. “You kiss—and I? You men! Yes? And I? And I?” “Mother!” Sergey rushed over to her. What took place then it is unnecessary and impossible to describe... . The last words of the colonel were: “I give you my blessing for your death, Seryozha. Die bravely, like an officer.” And they went away. Somehow they went away. They had been there, they had stood, they had spoken—and suddenly they had gone. Here sat his mother, there stood his father—and suddenly somehow they had gone away. Returning to the cell, Sergey lay down on the cot, his face turned toward the wall, in order to hide it from the soldiers, and he wept for a long time. Then, exhausted by his tears, he slept soundly. To Vasily Kashirin only his mother came. His father, who was a wealthy tradesman, did not want to come. Vasily met the old woman, as he was pacing up and down the room, trembling with cold, although it was warm, even hot. And the conversation was brief, painful. “It wasn’t worth coming, mother. You’ll only torture yourself and me.” “Why did you do it, Vasya? Why did you do it? Oh, Lord!” The old woman burst out weeping, wiping her face with the ends of her black, woolen kerchief. And with the habit which he and his brothers had always had of crying at their mother, who did not understand anything, he stopped, and, shuddering as with cold, spoke angrily: “There! You see! I knew it! You understand nothing, mother! Nothing!” “Well—well—all right! Do you feel—cold?” “Cold!” Vasily answered bluntly, and again began to pace the room, looking at his mother askance, as if annoyed. “Perhaps you have caught cold?” “Oh, mother what is a cold, when—” and he waved his hand helplessly. The old woman was about to say: “And your father ordered wheat cakes beginning with Monday,” but she was frightened, and said: “I told him: ‘It is your son, you should go, give him your blessing.’ No, the old beast persisted—” “Let him go to the devil! What sort of father has he been to me? He has been a scoundrel all his life, and remains a scoundrel!”