In the course of his wanderings through the seven Semyons he had also reached his ancestral nest, which he had sold for a song to a speculator and usurer well known at that period.  The speculator was at home, and on learning of the arrival of the former owner, who had been transformed into a tramp, he gave orders that he was not to be admitted into the house, and that in case of need he was to be flung out by the scruff of the neck.  Misha declared that he would not enter the house, defiled as it was by the presence of a scoundrel; that he would allow no one to throw him out; but that he was on his way to the churchyard to salute the dust of his ancestors.  This he did.  At the churchyard he was joined by an old house-serf, who had formerly been his man-nurse.  The speculator had deprived the old man of his monthly stipend and expelled him from the home farm; from that time forth the man sought shelter in the kennel of a peasant.  Misha had managed his estate for so short a time that he had not succeeded in leaving behind him a specially good memory of himself; but the old servitor had not been able to resist, nevertheless, and on hearing of his young master’s arrival, he had immediately hastened to the churchyard, had found Misha seated on the ground among the mortuary stones, had begged leave to kiss his hand in memory of old times, and had even melted into tears as he gazed at the rags wherewith the once petted limbs of his nursling were swathed.  Misha looked long and in silence at the old man.

“Timofei!” he said at last.

Timofei gave a start.

“What do you wish?”

“Hast thou a spade?”

“I can get one....  But what do you want with a spade, Mikhailo Andreitch?”

“I want to dig a grave for myself here, Timofei; and lie down here forever between my parents.  For this is the only spot which is left to me in the world.  Fetch the spade!”

“I obey,” said Timofei; and went off and brought it.

And Misha immediately began to dig up the earth, while Timofei stood by with his chin propped on his hand, repeating:  “That’s the only thing left for thee and me, master!”

And Misha dug and dug, inquiring from time to time:  “Life isn’t worth living, is it, Timofei?”

“It is not, dear little father.”

The hole had already grown fairly deep.  People saw Misha’s work and ran to report about it to the speculator-owner.  At first the speculator flew into a rage, and wanted to send for the police.  “What hypocrisy!” he said.  But afterward, reflecting, probably, that it would be inconvenient to have a row with that lunatic, and that a scandal might be the result, he betook himself in person to the churchyard, and approaching the toiling Misha, he made a polite obeisance to him.  The latter continued to dig, as though he had not noticed his successor.

“Mikhail Andreitch,” began the speculator, “permit me to inquire what you are doing there?”