"To think of the pains I have taken for your sake!" he said, with bitterness. "Even here I never stop thinking how to improve this and that, so that you may be comfortable and cozy, and suffer no lack, and have no worry. And all of you fight shy of me."
"Who is 'all of you'?"
"Well, you. And the deceased, too, may his soul rest in peace, he was just the same."
"Well, I am grateful to you."
"I don't see your gratitude—neither gratitude nor affection—nothing."
"I'm not affectionate—that's all. But you speak in the plural all the time. One of us is dead already."
"Yes, he is dead. God punished him. God punishes disobedient children. Still, I remember him. He was unruly, but I remember him. Tomorrow, you see, we shall have the memorial services performed. He offended me, but I, notwithstanding, remember my duty. Lord! The sort of thing that goes on these days! Here a son comes to his father and snarls at the very first word. Is that how we acted in our days? I remember we used to come to Golovliovo, and when we were thirty versts away, we began to shiver in our boots. Well, here is mother dear, a live witness, she will tell you. And nowadays. I don't understand it. I don't understand it."
"I don't either. I came quietly, greeted you, kissed your hand and now I sit here and don't bother you. I drink tea, and if you give me supper, I'll have my supper. Why did you raise all this fuss?"
Arina Petrovna sat in her chair listening attentively. She seemed to be hearing the same old familiar tale that had begun long, long ago, time out of mind. Aware that such a meeting of father and son foreboded no good, she considered it her duty to intervene and put in a word of reconciliation:
"Well, well, you turkey-cocks!" she said, trying to give the situation a humorous turn. "Just met and already quarreling. Look at them jumping at each other, look at them! Feathers will soon be flying. My, my, how naughty! Why don't you fellows sit down quietly and properly and have a friendly chat, and let your old mother enjoy it, too? Petenka, you give in. My child, you must always give in to your father, because he is your father. Even if at times father gives you bitter medicine, take it without complaint, with obedience, with respect, because you are his son. Who knows, maybe the bitter medicine will turn sweet—so it will be to your good. And you, Porfiry Vladimirych, come down from your high perch. He is your son, young, delicate. He has made seventy-five versts over hollows and snow-drifts, he is tired, and chilled, and sleepy. We are through with the tea now, suppose you order supper and then let's all go to bed. So, my friend. We'll all go to our nooks and offer up a prayer, and maybe our temper will pass away. And then we'll rise early in the morning and pray for Volodya's soul. We'll have a memorial service performed, and then we'll go home and have a talk. Both of you will be rested and you'll state your affairs in a clear, orderly way. Petenka, you will tell us about St. Petersburg and you, Porfiry, about your country life. And now, let's have supper and to bed!"