always prevented the son from working. Likewise, the old man
occasionally arrived there drunk. Gradually, however, the son was
weaning his parent from his vicious ways and everlasting
inquisitiveness, and teaching the old man to look upon him, his
son, as an oracle, and never to speak without that son's
permission.

On the subject of his Petinka, as he called him, the poor old man
could never sufficiently rhapsodise and dilate. Yet when he
arrived to see his son he almost invariably had on his face a
downcast, timid expression that was probably due to uncertainty
concerning the way in which he would be received. For a long time
he would hesitate to enter, and if I happened to be there he
would question me for twenty minutes or so as to whether his
Petinka was in good health, as well as to the sort of mood he was
in, whether he was engaged on matters of importance, what
precisely he was doing (writing or meditating), and so on. Then,
when I had sufficiently encouraged and reassured the old man, he
would make up his mind to enter, and quietly and cautiously open
the door. Next, he would protrude his head through the chink, and
if he saw that his son was not angry, but threw him a nod, he
would glide noiselessly into the room, take off his scarf, and
hang up his hat (the latter perennially in a bad state of repair,
full of holes, and with a smashed brim)--the whole being done
without a word or a sound of any kind. Next, the old man would
seat himself warily on a chair, and, never removing his eyes from
his son, follow his every movement, as though seeking to gauge
Petinka's state of mind. On the other hand, if the son was not in
good spirits, the father would make a note of the fact, and at
once get up, saying that he had "only called for a minute or