sion of sincere sorrow, that, hearing him, it was not possible to abstain from a certain mingled feeling of pity, fear, and sadness.
That was the saintly fool and pilgrim, Grísha.
Whence did he come? Who were his parents? What had incited him to choose the pilgrim's life which he was leading? Nobody knew that. I only know that he had been known as a saintly fool ever since his fifteenth year, that he walked barefoot in summer and winter, that he visited monasteries, presented images to those he took a fancy to, and spoke mysterious words which some regarded as prophecies, that no one had ever known him otherwise, that he at times called on grandmother, and that some said that he was the unfortunate son of rich parents, but a pure soul, while others maintained that he was simply a peasant and a lazy man.
At last long-wished-for and punctual Fóka appeared, and we went down-stairs. Grísha, sobbing and continuing to utter incoherent words, went down after us, and struck the steps with his staff. Papa and mamma were walking hand in hand in the living-room, and discussing something. Márya Ivánovna sat stiffly in an armchair, which symmetrically adjoined the sofa at right angles, and in a stern, though reserved voice, gave instructions to the girls, who were sitting near her.
The moment Karl Ivánovich entered the room, she glanced at him, immediately turned away, and her face assumed an expression which may be rendered by, "I do not notice you, Karl Ivánovich." We could read in the eyes of the girls that they were anxious to transmit to us some very important information, but it would have been a transgression of Mimi's rules to jump up from their seats and come to us. We had first to walk up to her, to say "Bonjour, Mimi!" to scuff, and then only we were permitted to enter into a conversation.
What an intolerable person that Mimi was! In her
