we were, but yet we were magnanimous, you know!  There weren’t any boys like you in my day, they were all great hulking fellows, great strapping louts, one taller than another.  For instance, in our third class, there was Mamahin.  My goodness, he was a solid chap!  You know, a regular maypole, seven feet high.  When he moved, the floor shook; when he brought his great fist down on your back, he would knock the breath out of your body!  Not only we boys, but even the teachers were afraid of him.  So this Mamahin used to . . .”

Pelageya Ivanovna’s footsteps are heard through the door.  Pavel Vassilitch winks towards the door and says: 

“There’s mother coming.  Let’s get to work.  Well, so you see, my boy,” he says, raising his voice.  “This fraction has to be multiplied by that one.  Well, and to do that you have to take the numerator of the first fraction. . .”

“Come to tea!” cries Pelageya Ivanovna.  Pavel Vassilitch and his son abandon arithmetic and go in to tea.  Pelageya Ivanovna is already sitting at the table with an aunt who never speaks, another aunt who is deaf and dumb, and Granny Markovna, a midwife who had helped Styopa into the world.  The samovar is hissing and puffing out steam which throws flickering shadows on the ceiling.  The cats come in from the entry sleepy and melancholy with their tails in the air. . . .

“Have some jam with your tea, Markovna,” says Pelageya Ivanovna, addressing the midwife.  “To-morrow the great fast begins.  Eat well to-day.”

Markovna takes a heaped spoonful of jam hesitatingly as though it were a powder, raises it to her lips, and with a sidelong look at Pavel Vassilitch, eats it; at once her face is overspread with a sweet smile, as sweet as the jam itself.

“The jam is particularly good,” she says.  “Did you make it yourself, Pelageya Ivanovna, ma’am?”

“Yes.  Who else is there to do it?  I do everything myself.  Styopotchka, have I given you your tea too weak?  Ah, you have drunk it already.  Pass your cup, my angel; let me give you some more.”

“So this Mamahin, my boy, could not bear the French master,” Pavel Vassilitch goes on, addressing his son. “‘I am a nobleman,’ he used to shout, ’and I won’t allow a Frenchman to lord it over me!  We beat the French in 1812!’ Well, of course they used to thrash him for it . . . thrash him dre-ead-fully, and sometimes when he saw they were meaning to thrash him, he would jump out of window, and off he would go!  Then for five or six days afterwards he would not show himself at the school.  His mother would come to the head-master and beg him for God’s sake:  ’Be so kind, sir, as to find my Mishka, and flog him, the rascal!’ And the head-master would say to her:  ’Upon my word, madam, our five porters aren’t a match for him!’”

“Good heavens, to think of such ruffians being born,” whispers Pelageya Ivanovna, looking at her husband in horror.  “What a trial for the poor mother!”