LITMIR.BIZ

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      I lived like a stay-at-home son (nédorossíl)[4], amusing myself by scaring the pigeons on the roofs, and playing leapfrog with the lads of the courtyard[5], till I was past the age of sixteen. But at this age my life underwent a great change.

      One autumn day, my mother was making honey jam in her parlour, while, licking my lips, I was watching the operations, and occasionally tasting the boiling liquid. My father, seated by the window, had just opened the Court Almanack, which he received every year. He was very fond of this book; he never read it except with great attention, and it had the power of upsetting his temper very much. My mother, who knew all his whims and habits by heart, generally tried to keep the unlucky book hidden, so that sometimes whole months passed without the Court Almanack falling beneath his eye. On the other hand, when he did chance to find it, he never left it for hours together. He was now reading it, frequently shrugging his shoulders, and muttering, half aloud —

      “General! He was sergeant in my company. Knight of the Orders of Russia! Was it so long ago that we —”

      At last my father threw the Almanack away from him on the sofa, and remained deep in a brown study, which never betokened anything good.

      “Avdotia Vassiliévna,”[6] said he, sharply addressing my mother, “how old is Petróusha[7]?”

      “His seventeenth year has just begun,” replied my mother. “Petróusha was born the same year our Aunt Anastasia Garasimofna[8] lost an eye, and that – ”

      “All right,” resumed my father; “it is time he should serve. ’tis time he should cease running in and out of the maids’ rooms and climbing into the dovecote.”

      The thought of a coming separation made such an impression on my mother that she dropped her spoon into her saucepan, and her eyes filled with tears. As for me, it is difficult to express the joy which took possession of me. The idea of service was mingled in my mind with the liberty and pleasures offered by the town of Petersburg. I already saw myself officer of the Guard, which was, in my opinion, the height of human happiness.

      My father neither liked to change his plans, nor to defer the execution of them. The day of my departure was at once fixed. The evening before my father told me that he was going to give me a letter for my future superior officer, and bid me bring him pen and paper.

      “Don’t forget, Andréj Petróvitch,” said my mother, “to remember me to Prince Banojik; tell him I hope he will do all he can for my Petróusha.”

      “What nonsense!” cried my father, frowning. “Why do you wish me to write to Prince Banojik?”

      “But you have just told us you are good enough to write to Petróusha’s superior officer.”

      “Well, what of that?”

      “But Prince Banojik is Petróusha’s superior officer. You know very well he is on the roll of the Séménofsky regiment.”

      “On the roll! What is it to me whether he be on the roll or no? Petróusha shall not go to Petersburg! What would he learn there? To spend money and commit follies. No, he shall serve with the army, he shall smell powder, he shall become a soldier and not an idler of the Guard, he shall wear out the straps of his knapsack. Where is his commission? Give it to me.”

      My mother went to find my commission, which she kept in a box with my christening clothes, and gave it to my father with, a trembling hand. My father read it with attention, laid it before him on the table, and began his letter.

      Curiosity pricked me.

      “Where shall I be sent,” thought I, “if not to Petersburg?”

      I never took my eyes off my father’s pen as it travelled slowly over the paper. At last he finished his letter, put it with my commission into the same cover, took off his spectacles, called me, and said:

      “This letter is addressed to Andréj Karlovitch R., my old friend and comrade. You are to go to Orenburg[9] to serve under him.”

      All my brilliant expectations and high hopes vanished. Instead of the gay and lively life of Petersburg, I was doomed to a dull life in a far and wild country. Military service, which a moment before I thought would be delightful, now seemed horrible to me. But there was nothing for it but resignation. On the morning of the following day a travelling kibitka stood before the hall door. There were packed in it a trunk and a box containing a tea service, and some napkins tied up full of rolls and little cakes, the last I should get of home pampering.

      My parents gave me their blessing, and my father said to me:

      “Good-bye, Petr’; serve faithfully he to whom you have sworn fidelity; obey your superiors; do not seek for favours; do not struggle after active service, but do not refuse it either, and remember the proverb, ’take care of your coat while it is new, and of your honour while it is young.’”

      My mother tearfully begged me not to neglect my health, and bade Savéliitch take great care of the darling. I was dressed in a short “touloup”[10] of hareskin, and over it a thick pelisse of foxskin. I seated myself in the kibitka with Savéliitch, and started for my destination, crying bitterly.

      I arrived at Simbirsk during the night, where I was to stay twenty-four hours, that Savéliitch might do sundry commissions entrusted to him. I remained at an inn, while Savéliitch went out to get what he wanted. Tired of looking out at the windows upon a dirty lane, I began wandering about the rooms of the inn. I went into the billiard room. I found there a tall gentleman, about forty years of age, with long, black moustachios, in a dressing-gown, a cue in his hand, and a pipe in his mouth. He was playing with the marker, who was to have a glass of brandy if he won, and, if he lost, was to crawl under the table on all fours. I stayed to watch them; the longer their games lasted, the more frequent became the all-fours performance, till at last the marker remained entirely under the table. The gentleman addressed to him some strong remarks, as a funeral sermon, and proposed that I should play a game with him. I replied that I did not know how to play billiards. Probably it seemed to him very odd. He looked at me with a sort of pity. Nevertheless, he continued talking to me. I learnt that his name was Iván Ivánovitch[11] Zourine, that he commanded a troop in the ::th Hussars, that he was recruiting just now at Simbirsk, and that he had established himself at the same inn as myself. Zourine asked me to lunch with him, soldier fashion, and, as we say, on what Heaven provides. I accepted with pleasure; we sat down to table; Zourine drank a great deal, and pressed me to drink, telling me I must get accustomed to the service. He told good stories, which made me roar with laughter, and we got up from table the best of friends. Then he proposed to teach me billiards.

      “It is,” said he, “a necessity for soldiers like us. Suppose, for instance, you come to a little town; what are you to do? One cannot always find a Jew to afford one sport. In short, you must go to the inn and play billiards, and to play you must know how to play.”

      These reasons completely convinced me, and with great ardour I began taking my lesson. Zourine encouraged me loudly; he was surprised at my rapid progress, and after a few lessons he proposed that we should play for money, were it only for a “groch” (two kopeks)[12], not for the profit, but that we might not play for nothing, which, according to him, was a very bad habit.

      I agreed to this, and Zourine called for punch; then he advised me to taste it, always repeating that I must get accustomed to the service.

      “And what,” said he, “would the service be without punch?”

      I followed his advice. We continued playing, and the more I sipped my glass, the bolder I became. My balls flew beyond the cushions. I got angry; I was impertinent to the marker who scored for us. I raised the stake; in short, I behaved

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