Short Stories
I won't let you be naughty and cry at dinner, my lad! Idiot! You
must do your duty! Do you understand? Do your duty! Your fa-
ther works and you must work, too! No one must eat the bread
of idleness! You must be a man! A m-man!"
"For God's sake, leave off," says his wife in French. "Don't
nag at us before outsiders, at least. . . . The old woman is all ears;
and now, thanks to her, all the town will hear of it."
I am not afraid of outsiders," answers Zhilin in Russian.
"Anfissa Ivanovna sees that I am speaking the truth. Why, do
you think I ought to be pleased with the boy? Do you know
what he costs me? Do you know, you nasty boy, what you cost
me? Or do you imagine that I coin money, that I get it for noth-
ing? Don't howl! Hold your tongue! Do you hear what I say? Do
you want me to whip you, you young ruffian?"
Fedya wails aloud and begins to sob.
"This is insufferable," says his mother, getting up from the ta-
ble and flinging down her dinner-napkin. "You never let us have
dinner in peace! Your bread sticks in my throat."
And putting her handkerchief to her eyes, she walks out of
the dining-room.
"Now she is offended," grumbles Zhilin, with a forced smile.
"She's been spoilt. . . . That's how it is, Anfissa Ivanovna; no one
likes to hear the truth nowadays. . . . It's all my fault, it seems."
Several minutes of silence follow. Zhilin looks round at the
plates, and noticing that no one has yet touched their soup,
heaves a deep sigh, and stares at the flushed and uneasy face of
the governess.
"Why don't you eat, Varvara Vassilyevna?" he asks.
"Offended, I suppose? I see. . . . You don't like to be told the
126