"Enough!" said Pavel. "I am not going to give myself up any more."
And opening his dark eyes wide, he waved the hammer in the air.
His father looked at him, folded his shaggy hands on his back, and,
smiling, said:
"All right." Then he drew a heavy breath and added: "Ah, you
dirty vermin!"
Shortly after this he said to his wife:
"Don't ask me for money any more. Pasha will feed you now."
"And you will drink up everything?" she ventured to ask.
"None of your business, dirty vermin!" From that time, for three
years, until his death, he did not notice, and did not speak to his son.
Vlasov had a dog as big and shaggy as himself. She accompanied him
to the factory every morning, and every evening she waited for him
at the gate. On holidays Vlasov started off on his round of the
taverns. He walked in silence, and stared into people's faces as if
looking for somebody. His dog trotted after him the whole day long.
Returning home drunk he sat down to supper, and gave his dog to eat
from his own bowl. He never beat her, never scolded, and never
petted her. After supper he flung the dishes from the table--if his
wife was not quick enough to remove them in time--put a bottle of
whisky before him, and leaning his back against the wall, began in a
hoarse voice that spread anguish about him to bawl a song, his mouth
wide open and his eyes closed.
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