"Nowadays, mother dear, unmarried people live like married ones.
Nowadays they laugh at the precepts of religion.
They get married without benefit of clergy, like heathens.
They call it civil marriage."
Yudushka suddenly recollected that he, too, was living in sinful relationship with a daughter of the clergy.
"Of course, sometimes you can't help it," he hastened to add. "If a man, let us say, is in full vigor and a widower—in an emergency the law itself is often modified."
"Yes, of course.
When hard pressed a snipe sings like a nightingale.
Even saints sin when sorely tried, let alone us mortals."
"Yes, that's just it.
Do you know what I would do if I were you?"
"Yes, tell me, please tell me."
"I would insist that they make Pogorelka over to you in full legal fashion."
Arina Petrovna looked at him in fright.
"Well, I have a deed giving me the full powers and rights of a manager."
"Manager is not enough.
You ought to get a deed that would entitle you to sell and mortgage it, in a word, to dispose of the property as you see fit."
Arina Petrovna lowered her eyes and remained silent.
"Of course, it is a matter that requires deliberation.
Think it over, mother dear," Yudushka insisted.
But Arina Petrovna said nothing.
Though age had considerably dulled her powers of judgment, she was somehow uneasy about Yudushka's insinuations.
She was afraid of Yudushka, and loath to part with the warmth, spaciousness, and abundance that reigned at Golovliovo, but at the same time she felt that Yudushka had something up his sleeve when he spoke of the Pogorelka deed, and was casting a new snare.
The situation grew so embarrassing that she began to scold herself inwardly for having shown him the letter.
Happily Yevpraksia came to the rescue.
"Well, are we going to play cards or not?" she asked.
"Yes, come on, come on!" Arina Petrovna hurried them and jumped up quickly.
On her way to the card table a new thought dawned upon her.
"Do you know what day it is?" she turned to Porfiry Vladimirych.
"The twenty-third of November," Yudushka replied, somewhat nonplussed.
"Yes, the twenty-third. Do you remember what happened on the twenty-third of November?
You have forgotten about the requiem, haven't you?"
Porfiry Vladimirych turned pale and made the sign of the cross.
"Oh, Lord! Did you ever!" he exclaimed. "Really? Is that so? Just a moment. Let's look at the calendar."
In a few minutes he had brought the calendar and taken out a sheet of paper inserted in it, on which was written.
"November 23.
The death of my dear son Vladimir."
"Rest in peace, beloved dust, till the joyous morn. And pray the Lord for your father, who will never fail to have memorial services performed on this day."
"There, now!" said Porfiry Vladimirych. "Ah, Volodya! You are not a good son. You are a wicked son. You haven't prayed for your papa in Heaven, it seems, and so he has lost his memory. What are we going to do about it, mother dear?"
"It is not so terrible, after all. You can have the requiem service tomorrow.
A requiem and a mass—we'll have both of them sung.
It is all my fault, I am old and have lost my memory.
I came on purpose to remind you, but on my way it slipped my mind."
"Ah, what a sin!
It is a good thing the ikon lamps are burning.
It is as if it had dawned on me from above.
To-day is not a holiday, but the lamps have been left burning ever since the day of Presentation. The other day Yevpraksia came over to me and asked:
'Do you think I ought to put out the side ikon lamps?'
And I, as if a voice were speaking to me from within, thought a while and said:
'Don't touch them. Let them burn.'