“At the window stands his mother,
Shakes her finger—shakes her finger at the boy——”
“She shakes her finger at him, does she? The trouble with her is, she is too lazy to go out-of-doors and punish him. She ought to catch him by his little coat and give him a good spanking. It would do him more good than shaking her finger at him. If she doesn’t take care, he will grow up to be a drunkard. Who wrote that?” asked Pratchkin aloud.
“Pushkin, papa.”
“Pushkin? H’m. What an ass he is! People like that simply write without knowing themselves what they are saying.”
“Papa, here’s a peasant with a load of flour!” cried Vania.
“Let some one take charge of it!”
The arrival of the flour failed to cheer Pratchkin. The more he tried to console himself, the more poignant grew his sense of loss, and he regretted those eight roubles as keenly as if they had in reality been eight thousand. When Vania finished studying his lesson and silence fell, Pratchkin was standing gloomily at the window, his mournful gaze fixed upon the snowdrifts in the garden. But the sight of the snowdrifts only opened wider the wound in his breast. They reminded him of yesterday’s expedition to the chief of police. His spleen rose and embittered his heart. The need to vent his sorrow reached such a pitch that it would brook no delay. He could endure it no longer.
“Vania!” he shouted. “Come here and let me whip you for breaking that window-pane yesterday!”