“Is it? Do you find it so?” inquires Jilin scowling angrily at her. “Every one to his taste, but I must confess that yours and mine differ widely, Varvara Vasilievna. You, for instance, admire the behavior of that child there (Jilin points a tragic forefinger at his son). You are in ecstasies over him, but I—I am shocked! Yes, I am!”
Fedia, a boy of seven with a delicate, pale face, stops eating and lowers his eyes. His cheeks grow paler than ever.
“Yes, you are in ecstasies, and I am shocked. I don’t know which of us is right, but I venture to think that I, as his father, know my own son better than you do. Look at the way he is sitting! Is that how well-behaved children should hold themselves? Sit up!”
Fedia raises his chin and sticks out his neck and thinks he is sitting up straighter. His eyes are filling with tears.
“Eat your dinner! Hold your spoon properly! Don’t dare to snuffle! Look me in the face!”
Fedia tries to look at him, but his lips are quivering and the tears are trickling down his cheeks.
“Aha, so you’re crying? You’re naughty and that makes you cry, eh? Leave the table and go and stand in the corner, puppy!”
“But—do let him finish his dinner first!” his wife intercedes for the boy.
“No—no dinner! Such a—such a naughty brat has no right to eat dinner!”
Fedia makes a wry face, slides down from his chair, and takes his stand in a corner.