“Cabman, stop!”

The old man sprang out of the cab again and ran into a tavern.  While Boris was driving with him to his lodging he jumped out twice again, while his son sat silent and waited patiently for him.  When, after dismissing the cab, they made their way across a long, filthy yard to the “virago’s” lodging, the old man put on an utterly shamefaced and guilty air, and began timidly clearing his throat and clicking with his lips.

“Borenka,” he said in an ingratiating voice, “if my virago begins saying anything, don’t take any notice . . . and behave to her, you know, affably.  She is ignorant and impudent, but she’s a good baggage.  There is a good, warm heart beating in her bosom!”

The long yard ended, and Boris found himself in a dark entry.  The swing door creaked, there was a smell of cooking and a smoking samovar.  There was a sound of harsh voices.  Passing through the passage into the kitchen Boris could see nothing but thick smoke, a line with washing on it, and the chimney of the samovar through a crack of which golden sparks were dropping.

“And here is my cell,” said the old man, stooping down and going into a little room with a low-pitched ceiling, and an atmosphere unbearably stifling from the proximity of the kitchen.

Here three women were sitting at the table regaling themselves.  Seeing the visitors, they exchanged glances and left off eating.

“Well, did you get it?” one of them, apparently the “virago” herself, asked abruptly.

“Yes, yes,” muttered the old man.  “Well, Boris, pray sit down.  Everything is plain here, young man . . . we live in a simple way.”

He bustled about in an aimless way.  He felt ashamed before his son, and at the same time apparently he wanted to keep up before the women his dignity as cock of the walk, and as a forsaken, unhappy father.

“Yes, young man, we live simply with no nonsense,” he went on muttering.  “We are simple people, young man. . . .  We are not like you, we don’t want to keep up a show before people.  No! . . .  Shall we have a drink of vodka?”

One of the women (she was ashamed to drink before a stranger) heaved a sigh and said: 

“Well, I’ll have another drink on account of the mushrooms. . . .  They are such mushrooms, they make you drink even if you don’t want to.  Ivan Gerasimitch, offer the young gentleman, perhaps he will have a drink!”

The last word she pronounced in a mincing drawl.

“Have a drink, young man!” said the father, not looking at his son.  “We have no wine or liqueurs, my boy, we live in a plain way.”

“He doesn’t like our ways,” sighed the “virago.”  “Never mind, never mind, he’ll have a drink.”

Not to offend his father by refusing, Boris took a wineglass and drank in silence.  When they brought in the samovar, to satisfy the old man, he drank two cups of disgusting tea in silence, with a melancholy face.  Without a word he listened to the virago dropping hints about there being in this world cruel, heartless children who abandon their parents.