"Well, how did you get on? How were you marked?" asked his mother,
going to his bedside.

Vanya blinked, twisted his mouth, and burst into tears. His mother
turned pale, let her mouth fall open, and clasped her hands. The
breeches she was mending dropped out of her hands.

"What are you crying for? You've failed, then?" she asked.

"I am plucked. . . . I got a two."

"I knew it would be so! I had a presentiment of it," said his mother.
"Merciful God! How is it you have not passed? What is the reason
of it? What subject have you failed in?"

"In Greek. . . . Mother, I . . . They asked me the future of _phero_,
and I . . . instead of saying _oisomai_ said _opsomai_. Then . . .
then there isn't an accent, if the last syllable is long, and I
. . . I got flustered. . . . I forgot that the alpha was long in it
. . . . I went and put in the accent. Then Artaxerxov told me to give
the list of the enclitic particles. . . . I did, and I accidentally
mixed in a pronoun . . . and made a mistake . . . and so he gave
me a two. . . . I am a miserable person. . . . I was working all
night. . . I've been getting up at four o'clock all this
week . . . ."

"No, it's not you but I who am miserable, you wretched boy! It's I
that am miserable! You've worn me to a threadpaper, you Herod, you
torment, you bane of my life! I pay for you, you good-for-nothing
rubbish; I've bent my back toiling for you, I'm worried to death,