ut 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. . . .
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 father
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 nothing? 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 table
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 a