Kabanata Kabanata 5 · THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY

. THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY

IT is, as a rule, after losing heavily at cards or after a drinking-bout

when an attack of dyspepsia is setting in that Stepan Stepanitch Zhilin

wakes up in an exceptionally gloomy frame of mind. He looks sour,

rumpled, and dishevelled; there is an expression of displeasure on his

grey face, as though he were offended or disgusted by something. He

dresses slowly, sips his Vichy water deliberately, and begins walking

about the rooms.

"I should like to know what b-b-beast comes in here and does not shut

the door!" he grumbles angrily, wrapping his dressing-gown about him and

spitting loudly. "Take away that paper! Why is it lying about here? We

keep twenty servants, and the place is more untidy than a pot-house. Who

was that ringing? Who the devil is that?"

"That's Anfissa, the midwife who brought our Fedya into the world,"

answers his wife.

"Always hanging about ... these cadging toadies!"

"There's no making you out, Stepan Stepanitch. You asked her yourself,

and now you scold."

"I am not scolding; I am speaking. You might find something to do, my

dear, instead of sitting with your hands in your lap trying to pick a

quarrel. Upon my word, women are beyond my comprehension! Beyond my

comprehension! How can they waste whole days doing nothing? A man works

like an ox, like a b-beast, while his wife, the partner of his life,

sits like a pretty doll, sits and does nothing but watch for an

opportunity to quarrel with her husband by way of diversion. It's time

to drop these schoolgirlish ways, my dear. You are not a schoolgirl, not

a young lady; you are a wife and mother! You turn away? Aha! It's not

agreeable to listen to the bitter truth!"

"It's strange that you only speak the bitter truth when your liver is

out of order."

"That's right; get up a scene."

"Have you been out late? Or playing cards?"

"What if I have? Is that anybody's business? Am I obliged to give an

account of my doings to any one? It's my own money I lose, I suppose?

What I spend as well as what is spent in this house belongs to me--me.

Do you hear? To me!"

And so on, all in the same style. But at no other time is Stepan

Stepanitch so reasonable, virtuous, stern or just as at dinner, when all

his household are sitting about him. It usually begins with the soup.

After swallowing the first spoonful Zhilin suddenly frowns and puts down

his spoon.

"Damn it all!" he mutters; "I shall have to dine at a restaurant, I

suppose."

"What's wrong?" asks his wife anxiously. "Isn't the soup good?"

"One must have the taste of a pig to eat hogwash like that! There's too

much salt in it; it smells of dirty rags ... more like bugs than

onions.... It's simply revolting, Anfissa Ivanovna," he says, addressing

the midwife. "Every day I give no end of money for housekeeping.... I

deny myself everything, and this is what they provide for my dinner! I

suppose they want me to give up the office and go into the kitchen to do

the cooking myself."

"The soup is very good to-day," the governess ventures timidly.

"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 eating 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.... 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 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 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 apologise 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."

With a pale, grave face Fedya goes up to his father and touches his

cheek with his quivering lips, then walks away and sits down in his

place without a word.