“Do you think I drank at the expense of others? I drank at my own. I was seeing my son off. Forgive me, Father, for God’s sake.”
“It is not my business to forgave. I only say it is better not to drink.”
“Of course it is, but what am I to do? If I were just nobody—but, thank God, I am well off. I live openly. I am sorry for Mitri. Who could help being sorry for him? Why, only last year someone stole his horse. Oh, you have to keep a sharp eye on folk nowadays.”
Theodore began a long story about some horses that were stolen from a fair; how one was killed for the sake of its skin—but the thief was caught and was beaten black and blue, said Theodore, with evident satisfaction.
“They ought not to have beaten him.”
“Do you think they ought to have patted him on the back?”
While conversing in this manner they reached Father Vasily’s house.
Father Vasily wanted to go to his room and rest, but during his absence two letters had come—one from his son, one from the bishop. The bishop’s circular was of no importance, but the son’s letter gave rise to a stormy scene, which increased when his wife asked him for the half-rouble and found that he had given it away. Her anger grew, but the real cause was the boy’s letter and their inability to satisfy his demands—due entirely to her husband’s carelessness, she thought.