April 28

I am already completely reconciled to the thought that papa has become close-fisted and harsh, and that he thinks only of himself, but today he gave me a great surprise.

In the evening he brought from the factory-store about six pounds of bread. All day long Alexander had complained of hunger, but did not ask for anything to eat. He knew that everything was locked away. My heart aches, but I have nothing to give him.

As soon as papa came, I said to him:

“Oh, papa, how hungry we are!”

At once his eyebrows contracted into a frown. But he said:

“Go, prepare a herring.”

And he followed me into the kitchen. He opened the cupboard himself and took out a herring and some boiled beets. He seems to have put aside a week’s supply of these beets. In fact, they are already boiled.

I want to wash the herring, but it has a bad smell. And the beets are almost putrid, like those we had yesterday.

“Oh, papa, but all of this is rotten.”

Papa does not look at me, and says in a didactic tone:

“It’s not rotten; just a little frozen. We can’t throw it away now. It costs money.”

Well, if we can’t throw it away, we can’t. I prepared it and we all sat down. Papa cut off a thin slice of the fresh bread for me and for Alexander.

Of course, we ate it quickly. Suddenly papa asks kindly, kindly, — he has given us an extra piece of bread:

“Well, have you had enough?”

I almost choked at this question; it was so revolting. If I could, I would tear from my throat the piece of bread I have swallowed and would throw it back to him. I answer maliciously:

“No.”

He did not expect this and looked at me sternly and attentively. He said nothing. Silently he cuts another piece for me and wraps the bread in paper. There is no second piece for Alexander. I am ashamed to eat an extra piece with him looking on. I glance quickly toward him, and Alexander turns away and looks through the window. I am so sorry for him that the tears come to my eyes. Without touching my piece of bread, I say to papa:

“And Shura?”

Alexander keeps looking through the window. Something passes across father’s face but does not dare come to his tongue. Without a word he unwrapped the bread and cut off a piece for Alexander. Alexander hastily snatched the bread without looking at it, and walked out to the kitchen.

As soon as he had left papa’s face changed, as if by magic. He gazes at me with a sort of strange reproach, and at the same time triumphantly. Not getting any sign of curiosity from me, he suddenly pulls out of his pocket about a pound and a half of white bread and indicates it with his eyes. Then he says out loud:

“On the card … white … good.”

He cuts it into two shares: a larger one for himself and a smaller one for me, and keeps looking at me with triumphant reproach. And the blood rushes to my cheeks. I want to say: “Shame, shame, is he not your son?” — and I do not know what it is that prevents me. Very well, I will give him half of my portion, later.

And papa seems to have guessed my thought: “Have you had enough today?”

“Yes.” “Well, then, let me put it away. You’ll have it tomorrow, with your tea.”