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THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY

BY

ANTON TCHEKHOV

IT is, as a rule, after losing heavily at cards or after a drinking-bout when an attack of

dyspepsia is setting in that Stepan Stepanitch Zhilin wakes up in an exceptionally gloomy

frame of mind. He looks sour, rumpled, and dishevelled; there is an expression of displeasure

on his grey face, as though he were offended or disgusted by something. He dresses slowly,sips his Vichy water deliberately, and begins walking about the rooms.

"I should like to know what b-b-beast comes in here and does not shut the door!" he grumbles

angrily, wrapping his dressing-gown about him and spitting loudly. "Take away that paper!

Why is it lying about here? We keep twenty servants, and the place is more untidy than a pot-house. Who was that ringing? Who the devil is that?"

"That's Anfissa, the midwife who brought our Fedya into the world," answers his wife.

"Always hanging about . . . these cadging toadies!"

"There's no making you out, Stepan Stepanitch. You asked her yourself, and now you scold."

"I am not scolding; I am speaking. You might find something to do, my dear, instead of

sitting with your hands in your lap trying to pick a quarrel. Upon my word, women are

beyond my comprehension! Beyond my comprehension! How can they waste whole daysdoing nothing? A man works like an ox, like a b-beast, while his wife, the partner of his life,

sits like a pretty doll, sits and does nothing but watch for an opportunity to quarrel with herhusband by way of diversion. It's time to drop these schoolgirlish ways, my dear. You are not

a schoolgirl, not a young lady; you are a wife and mother! You turn away? Aha! It's notagreeable to listen to the bitter truth!

"It's strange that you only speak the bitter truth when your liver is out of order."

"That's right; get up a scene."

"Have you been out late? Or playing cards?"

"What if I have? Is that anybody's business? Am I obliged to give an account of my doings to

any one? It's my own money I lose, I suppose? What I spend as well as what is spent in this

house belongs to meme. Do you hear? To me!"

And so on, all in the same style. But at no other time is Stepan Stepanitch so reasonable,

virtuous, stern or just as at dinner, when all his household are sitting about him. It usually

begins with the soup. After swallowing the first spoonful Zhilin suddenly frowns and puts

down his spoon.

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"Damn it all!" he mutters; "I shall have to dine at a restaurant,I suppose."

"What's wrong?" asks his wife anxiously. "Isn't the soup good?"

"One must have the taste of a pig to eat hogwash like that! There's too much salt in it; itsmells of dirty rags . . . more like bugs than onions. . . . It's simply revolting, AnfissaIvanovna," he says, addressing the midwife. "Every day I give no end of money for

housekeeping. . . . I deny myself everything, and this is what they provide for my dinner! Isuppose they want me to give up the office and go into the kitchen to do the cooking myself."

"The soup is very good to-day," the governess ventures timidly.

"Oh, you think so?" says Zhilin, looking at her angrily from under his eyelids. "Every one to

his taste, of course. It must be confessed our tastes are very different, Varvara Vassilyevna.

You, for instance, are satisfied with the behaviour of this boy" (Zhilin with a tragic gesture

points to his son Fedya); "you are delighted with him, while I . . . I am disgusted. Yes!"

Fedya, a boy of seven with a pale, sickly face, leaves off eating and drops his eyes. His face

grows paler still.

"Yes, you are delighted, and I am disgusted. Which of us is right, I cannot say, but I venture

to think as his father, I know my own son better than you do. Look how he is sitting! Is that

the way decently brought up children sit? Sit properly."

Fedya tilts his chin up, cranes his neck, and fancies that he is holding himself better. Tears

come into his eyes.

"Eat your dinner! Hold your spoon properly! You wait. I'll show you, you horrid boy! Don't

dare to whimper! Look straight at me!"

Fedya tries to look straight at him, but his face is quivering and his eyes fill with tears.

"A-ah! . . . you cry? You are naughty and then you cry? Go and stand in the corner, you

beast!"

"But . . . let him have his dinner first," his wife intervenes.

"No dinner for him! Such bla . . . such rascals don't deserve dinner!"

Fedya, wincing and quivering all over, creeps down from his chair and goes into the corner.

"You won't get off with that!" his parent persists. "If nobody else cares to look after yourbringing up, so be it; I must begin. . . . I won't let you be naughty and cry at dinner, my lad!

Idiot! You must do your duty! Do you understand? Do your duty! Your father works and youmust work, too! No one must eat the bread of idleness! You must be a man! A m-man!"

"For God's sake, leave off," says his wife in French. "Don't nag at us before outsiders, at

least. . . . The old woman is all ears; and now, thanks to her, all the town will hear of it."

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"I am not afraid of outsiders," answers Zhilin in Russian. "Anfissa Ivanovna sees that I amspeaking the truth. Why, do you think I ought to be pleased with the boy? Do you know what

he costs me? Do you know, you nasty boy, what you cost me? Or do you imagine that I coinmoney, that I get it for nothing? Don't howl! Hold your tongue! Do you hear what I say? Do

you want me to whip you, you young ruffian?"

Fedya wails aloud and begins to sob.

"This is insufferable," says his mother, getting up from the table and flinging down herdinner-napkin. "You never let us have dinner in peace! Your bread sticks in my throat."

And putting her handkerchief to her eyes, she walks out of the dining-room.

"Now she is offended," grumbles Zhilin, with a forced smile. "She's been spoilt. . . . That's

how it is, Anfissa Ivanovna; no one likes to hear the truth nowadays. . . . It's all my fault, it

seems."

Several minutes of silence follow. Zhilin looks round at the plates, and noticing that no one

has yet touched their soup, heaves a deep sigh, and stares at the flushed and uneasy face of

the governess.

"Why don't you eat, Varvara Vassilyevna?" he asks. "Offended, I suppose? I see. . . . You

don't like to be told the truth. You must forgive me, it's my nature; I can't be a hypocrite. . . . I

always blurt out the plain truth" (a sigh). "But I notice that my presence is unwelcome. No

one can eat or talk while I am here. . . . Well, you should have told me, and I would have

gone away. . . . I will go."

Zhilin gets up and walks with dignity to the door. As he passes the weeping Fedya he stops.

"After all that has passed here, you are free," he says to Fedya, throwing back his head with

dignity. "I won't meddle in your bringing up again. I wash my hands of it! I humbly apologise

that as a father, from a sincere desire for your welfare, I have disturbed you and your

mentors. At the same time, once for all I disclaim all responsibility for your future. . . ."

Fedya wails and sobs more loudly than ever. Zhilin turns with dignity to the door and departs

to his bedroom.

When he wakes from his after-dinner nap he begins to feel the stings of conscience. He isashamed to face his wife, his son, Anfissa Ivanovna, and even feels very wretched when he

recalls the scene at dinner, but his amour-propre is too much for him; he has not themanliness to be frank, and he goes on sulking and grumbling.

Waking up next morning, he feels in excellent spirits, and whistles gaily as he washes. Going

into the dining-room to breakfast, he finds there Fedya, who, at the sight of his father, gets upand looks at him helplessly.

"Well, young man?" Zhilin greets him good-humouredly, sitting down to the table. "What

have you got to tell me, young man? Are you all right? Well, come, chubby; give your father

a kiss."

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With a pale, grave face Fedya goes up to his father and touches his cheek with his quiveringlips, then walks away and sits down in his place without a word.