he physician had left, and his wife with tears in her eyes
began to insist on an operation, he clenched his fists and announced
threateningly:

"Don't you dare! It will be worse for you if I get well."

He died in the morning at the moment when the whistle called the men to
work. He lay in the coffin with open mouth, his eyebrows knit as if in
a scowl. He was buried by his wife, his son, the dog, an old drunkard
and thief, Daniel Vyesovshchikov, a discharged smelter, and a few
beggars of the suburb. His wife wept a little and quietly; Pavel did
not weep at all. The villagers who met the funeral in the street
stopped, crossed themselves, and said to one another: "Guess Pelagueya
is glad he died!" And some corrected: "He didn't die; he rotted away
like a beast."

When the body was put in the ground, the people went away, but the dog
remained for a long time, and sitting silently on the fresh soil, she
sniffed at the grave.

CHAPTER II

Two weeks after the death of his father, on a Sunday, Pavel came home
very drunk. Staggering he crawled to a corner in the front of the
room, and striking his fist on the table as his father used to do,
shouted to his mother:

"Supper!"

The mother walked up to him, sat down at his side, and with her arm
around her son, drew his head upon her breast. With his hand on her
shoulder he pushed her away and shouted:

"Mother, quick!"

"You foolish boy!" said the mother in a sad and affectionate voice,
trying to overcome his resistance.

"I am going to smoke, too. Give me father's pipe," mumbled Pavel
indistinctly, wagging his tongue heavily.

It was the first time he had been drunk. The alcohol weakened his
body, but it did not quench his consciousness, and the question knocked
at his brain: "Drunk? Drunk?"

The fondling of his mother troubled him, and he was touched by the
sadness in her eyes. He wanted to weep, and in order to overcome this
desire he endeavored to appear more drunk than he actually was.

The mother stroked his tangled hair, and said in a low voice:

"Why did you do it? You oughtn't to have done it."

He began to feel sick, and after a violent attack of nausea the mother
put him to bed, and laid a wet towel over his pale forehead. He sobered
a little, but under and around him everything seemed to be rocking; his
eyelids grew heavy; he felt a bad, sour taste in his mouth; he looked
through his eyelashes on his mother's large face, and t