Reading my name, he glanced at me quickly. “Mein Gott,” said he, “it is
so short a time since Andrew Grineff was your age, and now, see what a
fine fellow of a son he has. Ah! time! time!” He opened the letter and
began to run it over with a commentary of remarks.
“‘Sir, I hope your Excellency,’--What is this; what is the meaning of
this ceremony? discipline, of course before all, but is this the way
to write to an old friend? Hum--‘Field-marshal Munich--little
Caroline--brother.’ Ah! then he remembers--‘Now to business. I send you
my son; hold him with porcupine gloves.’
“What does that mean?” said he, “that must be a Russian proverb.”
“It means,” said I, with an air of innocence, “to treat a person mildly,
to give one liberty.”
“Hum!” said he, reading, “‘and give him no liberty.’ No,” he continued,
“your proverb does not mean liberty. Well, my son,” said he, having
finished the letter, “every thing shall be done for you. You shall be an
officer in the ---- regiment, and not to lose time, go tomorrow to the
fort of Belogorsk, where you will serve under Captain Mironoff, a brave
and honest man. There you will see service and learn discipline. You
have nothing to do here at Orenbourg, and amusements are dangerous to a
young man. Today I invite you to dine with me.”
From bad to worse, thought I. What was the use of being a Sergeant in
the Guards almost from my mother’s womb? To what has it led? To the
regiment of ----, and an abandoned fortress on the frontier of the
steppes!
I dined at the General’s in company with his old Aid-de-camp. Severe
German economy reigned at table, and I think the fear of having an
occasional guest the more had something to do with sending me to a
distant garrison.
The next day I took my leave of the General and set out for Belogorsk.