He wanted to weep, and in order to overcome this desire he endeavored to appear more drunk than he actually was.
The mother stroked his tangled hair, and said in a low voice: "Why did you do it?
You oughtn't to have done it." He began to feel sick, and after a violent attack of nausea the mother put him to bed, and laid a wet towel over his pale forehead.

He sobered a little, but under and around him everything seemed to be rocking; his eyelids grew heavy; he felt a bad, sour taste in his mouth; he looked through his eyelashes on his mother's large face, and thought disjointedly: "It seems it's too early for me.

Others drink and nothing happens--and I feel sick." Somewhere from a distance came the mother's soft voice: "What sort of a breadgiver will you be to me if you begin to drink ?" He shut his eyes tightly and answered: "Everybody drinks." The mother sighed.

He was right.

She herself knew that besides the tavern there was no place where people could enjoy themselves; besides the taste of whisky there was no other gratification.