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Fedosya Semyonovna, as though she did not grasp what was happening to her husband, went on: "He is not a little boy now, you know; he is ashamed to go about without clothes." Shiryaev suddenly jumped up, and with all his might flung down his fat pocket-book in the middle of the table, so that a hunk of bread flew off a plate.
At your age I was earning my living, while you... Do you know what you cost me, you scoundrel? I'll turn you out! Wastrel!" "Yevgraf Ivanovitch," muttered Fedosya Semyonovna, moving her fingers nervously; "you know he... you know Petya...!" "Hold your tongue!" Shiryaev shouted out to her, and tears actually came into his eyes from anger. "It is you who have spoilt them you! It's all your fault!
"That's right!" the son persisted; "you don't like to hear the truth! Excellent! Very good! begin shouting! Excellent!" "Hold your tongue, I tell you!" roared Yevgraf Ivanovitch. Fedosya Semyonovna appeared in the doorway, very pale, with an astonished face; she tried to say something, but she could not, and could only move her fingers. "It's all your fault!" Shiryaev shouted at her.
As though trying their patience, Shiryaev deliberately dried his hands, deliberately said his prayer, and sat down to the table without hurrying himself. Cabbage-soup was served immediately. Big, sparse drops of rain pattered on the window. Pyotr, a round-shouldered student in spectacles, kept exchanging glances with his mother as he ate his dinner.
The little boys and the elder daughter Varvara, a girl in her teens, with a pale ugly face, laid down their spoons and sat mute. Shiryaev, growing more and more ferocious, uttering words each more terrible than the one before, dashed up to the table and began shaking the notes out of his pocket-book. "Take them!" he muttered, shaking all over.
The student heaved a faint sigh and looked with relief at his mother. Deliberately Shiryaev took a pocket-book out of his coat-pocket and put on his spectacles. "How much do you want?" he asked. "The fare to Moscow is eleven roubles forty-two kopecks...." "Ah, money, money!" sighed the father. You will have change out of that which will be of use to you on the journey." "Thank you."
YEVGRAF IVANOVITCH SHIRYAEV, a small farmer, whose father, a parish priest, now deceased, had received a gift of three hundred acres of land from Madame Kuvshinnikov, a general's widow, was standing in a corner before a copper washing-stand, washing his hands. As usual, his face looked anxious and ill-humoured, and his beard was uncombed. "What weather!" he said.
After waiting a little, the student said: "I did not get lessons quite at first last year. I don't know how it will be this year; most likely it will take me a little time to find work. I ought to ask you for fifteen roubles for my lodging and dinner." Shiryaev thought a little and heaved a sigh. "You will have to make ten do," he said. "Here, take it." The student thanked him.
His corpse would be found, and there would be a paragraph in all the papers saying that a student called Shiryaev had died of hunger.... A white dog with a muddy tail who was wandering about the vegetable-garden looking for something gazed at him and sauntered after him.
"You have brought him up like this!" "I don't want to go on living in this house!" shouted the student, crying, and looking angrily at his mother. "I don't want to live with you!" Varvara uttered a shriek behind the screen and broke into loud sobs. With a wave of his hand, Shiryaev ran out of the house. The student went to his own room and quietly lay down.
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