Short Stories
truth. You must forgive me, it's my nature; I can't be a hypocrite.
. . . I always blurt out the plain truth" (a sigh). "But I notice that
my presence is unwelcome. No one can eat or talk while I am
here. . . . Well, you should have told me, and I would have gone
away. . . . I will go."
Zhilin gets up and walks with dignity to the door. As he
passes the weeping Fedya he stops.
"After all that has passed here, you are free," he says to
Fedya, throwing back his head with dignity. "I won't meddle in
your bringing up again. I wash my hands of it! I humbly apolo-
gise that as a father, from a sincere desire for your welfare, I
have disturbed you and your mentors. At the same time, once
for all I disclaim all responsibility for your future. . . ."
Fedya wails and sobs more loudly than ever. Zhilin turns
with dignity to the door and departs to his bedroom.
When he wakes from his after-dinner nap he begins to feel
the stings of conscience. He is ashamed to face his wife, his son,
Anfissa Ivanovna, and even feels very wretched when he recalls
the scene at dinner, but his amour-propre is too much for him;
he has not the manliness to be frank, and he goes on sulking and
grumbling.
Waking up next morning, he feels in excellent spirits, and
whistles gaily as he washes. Going into the dining-room to
breakfast, he finds there Fedya, who, at the sight of his father,
gets up and looks at him helplessly.
"Well, young man?" Zhilin greets him good-humouredly,
sitting down to the table. "What have you got to tell me, young
man? Are you all right? Well, come, chubby; give your father a
kiss."
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