“It’s not your business to teach me,” said his father.

“Yes, it is my business!  You can quarrel with me as much as you like, but leave my mother in peace!  I will not allow you to torment my mother!” the student went on, with flashing eyes.  “You are spoilt because no one has yet dared to oppose you.  They tremble and are mute towards you, but now that is over!  Coarse, ill-bred man!  You are coarse... do you understand?  You are coarse, ill-humoured, unfeeling.  And the peasants can’t endure you!”

The student had by now lost his thread, and was not so much speaking as firing off detached words.  Yevgraf Ivanovitch listened in silence, as though stunned; but suddenly his neck turned crimson, the colour crept up his face, and he made a movement.

“Hold your tongue!” he shouted.

“That’s right!” the son persisted; “you don’t like to hear the truth!  Excellent!  Very good! begin shouting!  Excellent!”

“Hold your tongue, I tell you!” roared Yevgraf Ivanovitch.

Fedosya Semyonovna appeared in the doorway, very pale, with an astonished face; she tried to say something, but she could not, and could only move her fingers.

“It’s all your fault!” Shiryaev shouted at her.  “You have brought him up like this!”

“I don’t want to go on living in this house!” shouted the student, crying, and looking angrily at his mother.  “I don’t want to live with you!”

Varvara uttered a shriek behind the screen and broke into loud sobs.  With a wave of his hand, Shiryaev ran out of the house.

The student went to his own room and quietly lay down.  He lay till midnight without moving or opening his eyes.  He felt neither anger nor shame, but a vague ache in his soul.  He neither blamed his father nor pitied his mother, nor was he tormented by stings of conscience; he realized that every one in the house was feeling the same ache, and God only knew which was most to blame, which was suffering most....

At midnight he woke the labourer, and told him to have the horse ready at five o’clock in the morning for him to drive to the station; he undressed and got into bed, but could not get to sleep.  He heard how his father, still awake, paced slowly from window to window, sighing, till early morning.  No one was asleep; they spoke rarely, and only in whispers.  Twice his mother came to him behind the screen.  Always with the same look of vacant wonder, she slowly made the cross over him, shaking nervously.

At five o’clock in the morning he said good-bye to them all affectionately, and even shed tears.  As he passed his father’s room, he glanced in at the door.  Yevgraf Ivanovitch, who had not taken off his clothes or gone to bed, was standing by the window, drumming on the panes.

“Good-bye; I am going,” said his son.

“Good-bye... the money is on the round table...” his father answered, without turning round.

A cold, hateful rain was falling as the labourer drove him to the station.  The sunflowers were drooping their heads still lower, and the grass seemed darker than ever.