anything but himself. When it is he who has not got something he wants—that is a different matter! Then all the house is upset by his shouts. And I—I am a scoundrel, a cheat, he says. No, I don’t love him, although he is my father. It may be wrong, but I hate him.”
There was a knock at the door. The servant brought a letter—a message from his friend. “They want an answer,” said the servant.
The letter ran as follows:
I ask you now for the third time to pay me back the six roubles you have borrowed; you are trying to avoid me. That is not the way an honest man ought to behave. Will you please send the amount by my messenger? I am myself in a frightful fix. Can you not get the money somewhere?— Yours, according to whether you send the money or not, with scorn, or love,
“There we have it! Such a pig! Could he not wait a while? I will have another try.”
Mitia went to his mother. This was his last hope. His mother was very kind, and hardly ever refused him anything. She would probably have helped him this time also out of his trouble, but she was in great anxiety: her younger child, Petia, a boy of two, had fallen ill. She got angry with Mitia for rushing so noisily into the nursery, and refused him almost without listening to what he had to say. Mitia muttered something to himself and turned to go. The mother felt sorry for him. “Wait, Mitia,” she said; “I have not got the money you want now, but I will get it for you tomorrow.”
But Mitia was still raging against his father.
“What is the use of having it tomorrow, when I want it today? I am going to see a friend. That is all I have got to say.”