"I never gave my permission. He wrote to me, 'Papa, I want to marry Lida,' you understand, 'I want to,' not 'I beg your permission.' Well, I answered him, 'If you want to marry, you can marry. I cannot stand in your way.' That's all there was to it." "That's all there was to it," Petenka said jeeringly. "And wasn't that giving your permission?" "That's exactly what it wasn't. What did I say? I said, 'I cannot stand in your way.' That's all. But whether I give my permission or not, is a different question. He did not ask my permission, he simply wrote, 'Papa, I want to marry Lida.' Well, and as to permission he kept mum. You want to marry. Well, my friend, may God be with you, marry Lida or Fida, I cannot stand in your way!" "But you could leave him without a crust of bread. So why didn't you write this way, 'I do not approve of your intention, and therefore, though I will not hinder you, I warn you that you can not longer rely on financial aid from me.' That, at least, would have been clear." "No, I shall never permit myself to do such things, to make threats against a grown son--never! I have a rule never to be in anybody's way. If you want to marry--marry! Well, and as to consequences--I am sorry. It was your business to foresee them yourself. That's why God gave you reason. And as to me, brother, I don't like to thrust myself into other people's affairs. I not only keep from meddling myself, but I don't invite others to meddle in my affairs, I don't invite it, I don't, I don't, I even forbid it! Do you hear me, you wicked, disrespectful son, I f-o-r-b-i-d it!" "You may forbid it, if you like, but you can't muzzle everybody." "If at least he had repented! And if at least he had realized that he offended his father! Well, you committed a folly--say you are sorry. Ask forgiveness! 'Forgive me, dear papa, for the mortification I caused you.' But he wouldn't!" "But he did write to you. He made it clear to you that he had nothing to live on, that he could not endure it any longer." "That's not the kind of thing to write to a father. From a father one asks pardon, that's all." "He did so. He was so tortured that he begged forgiveness, too. He did everything, he did." "And even if he did, he was wrong. You ask forgiveness once, you see your father does not forgive you, you ask again!" "Oh, you!" At this Petenka suddenly ceased swaying his chair, turned about, faced the table and rested both elbows on it. "And here I, too----" he whispered. His face gradually became disfigured. "And here I too----" he repeated, and burst into hysterical sobbing. "Whose fault----"