Fedya, a boy of seven with a pale, sickly face, leaves off eating and drops his eyes. His face grows paler still.
"Yes, you are delighted, and I am disgusted. Which of us is right, I cannot say, but I venture to think as his father, I know my own son better than you do. Look how he is sitting! Is that the way decently brought up children sit? Sit properly."
Fedya tilts his chin up, cranes his neck, and fancies that he is holding himself better. Tears come into his eyes.
"Eat your dinner! Hold your spoon properly! You wait. I'll show you, you horrid boy! Don't dare to whimper! Look straight at me!"
Fedya tries to look straight at him, but his face is quivering and his eyes fill with tears.
"A-ah!... you cry? You are naughty and then you cry? Go and stand in the corner, you beast!"
"But ... let him have his dinner first," his wife intervenes.
"No dinner for him! Such bla ... such rascals don't deserve dinner!"
Fedya, wincing and quivering all over, creeps down from his chair and goes into the corner.
"You won't get off with that!" his parent persists. "If nobody else cares to look after your bringing up, so be it; I must begin.... I won't let you be naughty and cry at dinner, my lad! Idiot! You must do your duty! Do you understand? Do your duty! Your father works and you must work, too! No one must eat the bread of idleness! You must be a man! A m-man!"