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BORIS PILNYAl(
well. The eldest son Alexander had once-it was long -before
1905-been sent to the steamship office with an urgent letter;
but he had been late for the steamer and his father had slapped
his face with the words: "Get out of here, you scoundrel!" This
was the last straw. The boy was only fourteen, but he turned on
his heels and left the house, returning six years later as a student
of the Academy of Arts. In the meantime his father had sent him
a letter commanding him to come home and promising, other–
wise, to deprive him of his parental blessing and bestow
his
eternal curse upon him. The son scribbled "To hell with your
blessing !" on this letter, just below his father's signature, and
sent the epistle straight back to him. When Alexander entered
the sitting-room one sunny morning six years after his departure,
his father got up to meet him with a gleeful smile and with
his
hand raised to strike him; but, grinning cheerfully, the son seized
his father by the wrists; he smiled again-his smile glowed hap–
pily with strength-and he held his father's hands in a vice.
Pressing slightly on his wrists, he forced him down into an arm–
chair by the table, and then he said:
"How are you, papa? Why put yourself out, papa? Sit
down, papa!" The old man wheezed, giggled and breathed hard;
a wicked look of benevolence came over his face and he shouted
to his wife:
"Mariushka yes . . . he-he-he, a little vodka, bring us a
little vodka, my dove, a little chilled vodka from the cellar with
some nice cold
zakuski.
He's grown, our little boy, he's grown.
He's come back our little boy, to our sorrow, the son of a bitch!"
The eldest son, Alexander, was an artist and then came the
other sons: one was a priest, another a doctor and the youngest
was an engineer. The two younger brothers took after the eldest,
Alexander, and their father. Like Alexander they had left home,
and the engineer, Akim, had become a communist. He never
went near his father and whenever he came on a visit to
th~
