Short Stories
"Oh, you think so?" says Zhilin, looking at her angrily from
under his eyelids. "Every one to his taste, of course. It must be
confessed our tastes are very different, Varvara Vassilyevna. You,
for instance, are satisfied with the behaviour of this boy" (Zhilin
with a tragic gesture points to his son Fedya); "you are delighted
with him, while I . . . I am disgusted. Yes!"
Fedya, a boy of seven with a pale, sickly face, leaves off eat-
ing and drops his eyes. His face grows paler still.
"Yes, you are delighted, and I am disgusted. Which of us is
right, I cannot say, but I venture to think as his father, I know
my own son better than you do. Look how he is sitting! Is that
the way decently brought up children sit? Sit properly."
Fedya tilts his chin up, cranes his neck, and fancies that he is
holding himself better. Tears come into his eyes.
"Eat your dinner! Hold your spoon properly! You wait. I'll
show you, you horrid boy! Don't dare to whimper! Look straight
at me!"
Fedya tries to look straight at him, but his face is quivering
and his eyes fill with tears.
"A-ah! . . . you cry? You are naughty and then you cry? Go
and stand in the corner, you beast!"
"But . . . let him have his dinner first," his wife intervenes.
"No dinner for him! Such bla . . . such rascals don't deserve
dinner!"
Fedya, wincing and quivering all over, creeps down from his
chair and goes into the corner.
"You won't get off with that!" his parent persists. "If nobody
else cares to look after your bringing up, so be it; I must begin.
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