Another year passed by, and suddenly Ivan Petrovitch grew feeble, and ailing; his health began to break up.

He, the free-thinker, began to go to church and have prayers put up for him; he, the European, began to sit in steam-baths, to dine at two o'clock, to go to bed at nine, and to doze off to the sound of the chatter of the old steward; he, the man of! political ideas, burnt all his schemes, all his correspondence, trembled before the governor, and was uneasy at the sigh of the police-captain; he, the man of iron will, whimpered and complained, when he had a gumboil or when they gave him a plate of cold soup.

Glafira Petrovna again took control of everything in the house; once more the overseers, bailiffs and simple peasants began to come to the back stairs to speak to the "old witch," as the servants called her.

The change in Ivan Petrovitch produced a powerful impression on his son.

He had now reached his nineteenth year, and had begun to reflect and to emancipate himself from the hand that pressed like a weight upon him.