"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.' And now I see what it all meant."
"Well, it is good at least the lamps have been burning. It is some relief to the soul. Where will you sit? Will you be my partner, or will you join your queen?"