Not to offend his father by refusing, Boris took a wineglass and drank in silence. When they brought in the samovar, to satisfy the old man, he drank two cups of disgusting tea in silence, with a melancholy face. Without a word he listened to the virago dropping hints about there being in this world cruel, heartless children who abandon their parents.

“I know what you are thinking now!” said the old man, after drinking more and passing into his habitual state of drunken excitement. “You think I have let myself sink into the mire, that I am to be pitied, but to my thinking, this simple life is much more normal than your life,⁠ ⁠… I don’t need anybody, and⁠ ⁠… and I don’t intend to eat humble pie.⁠ ⁠… I can’t endure a wretched boy’s looking at me with compassion.”

After tea he cleaned a herring and sprinkled it with onion, with such feeling, that tears of emotion stood in his eyes. He began talking again about the races and his winnings, about some Panama hat for which he had paid sixteen roubles the day before. He told lies with the same relish with which he ate herring and drank. His son sat on in silence for an hour, and began to say goodbye.

“I don’t venture to keep you,” the old man said, haughtily. “You must excuse me, young man, for not living as you would like!”

He ruffled up his feathers, snorted with dignity, and winked at the women.

“Goodbye, young man,” he said, seeing his son into the entry. “ Attendez. ”

In the entry, where it was dark, he suddenly pressed his face against the young man’s sleeve and gave a sob.