"It seems it's too early for me. Others drink and nothing happens--
and I feel sick."

Somewhere from a distance came the mother's soft voice:

"What sort of a breadgiver will you be to me if you begin to drink?"

He shut his eyes tightly and answered:

"Everybody drinks."

The mother sighed. He was right. She herself knew that besides
the tavern there was no place where people could enjoy themselves;
besides the taste of whisky there was no other gratification.
Nevertheless she said:

"But don't you drink. Your father drank for both of you. And he made
enough misery for me. Take pity on your mother, then, will you not?"

Listening to the soft, pitiful words of his mother, Pavel remembered
that in his father's lifetime she had remained unnoticed in the
house. She had been silent and had always lived in anxious
expectation of blows. Desiring to avoid his father, he had been
home very little of late; he had become almost unaccustomed to his
mother, and now, as he gradually sobered up, he looked at her fixedly.

She was tall and somewhat stooping. Her heavy body, broken down
with long years of toil and the beatings of her husband, moved about
noiselessly and inclined to one side, as if she were in constant