A.P. Chekhov - The Head of the Family
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'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
days doing 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 her husband 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 not agreeable 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 me -- me. 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.
"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; it smells of dirty rags . . . more
like bugs than onions. . . . It's simply revolting, Anfissa
Ivanovna," 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! I suppose they want
me to give up the office and go into the kitchen to do the
"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
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
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 your bringing 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 you must 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."
"I am not afraid of outsiders," answers Zhilin in Russian. "Anfissa
Ivanovna sees that I am speaking 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 coin money, 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 her dinner-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
"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,
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
"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 is ashamed 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 the manliness to be frank, and he goes on sulking and
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 up and 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."
With a pale, grave face Fedya goes up to his father and touches
his cheek with his quivering lips, then walks away and sits down
in his place without a word.
Vichy water: an effervescent mineral water
pot-house: low-class pub
French: the upper classes in 19th century Russia spoke French
amour-propre: conceit, vanity