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 thought disjointedly: