The creak of boots resounded in the passage, and then there was heard
the usual suppressed cough which announces the presence of a person
of subordinate position. Onisim went out and promptly came back,
accompanied by a diminutive soldier with a little, old woman’s face,
in a patched cloak yellow with age, and wearing neither breeches nor
cravat. Pyetushkov was startled; while the soldier drew himself up,
wished him good day, and handed him a large envelope bearing the
government seal. In this envelope was a note from the major in
command of the garrison: he called upon Pyetushkov to come to him
without fail or delay.
Pyetushkov turned the note over in his hands, and could not refrain from
asking the messenger, did he know why the major desired his presence,
though he was very well aware of the utter futility of his question.
‘We cannot tell!’ the soldier cried, with great effort, yet hardly
audibly, as though he were half asleep.
‘Isn’t he summoning the other officers?’ Pyetushkov pursued.
‘We cannot tell,’ the soldier cried a second time, in just the
same voice.
‘All right, you can go,’ pronounced Pyetushkov.
The soldier wheeled round to the left, scraping his foot as he did so,
and slapping himself below the spine (this was considered smart in the
twenties), withdrew.
Pyetushkov exchanged glances with Onisim, who at once assumed a look of
anxiety. Without a word Ivan Afanasiitch set off to the major’s.
The major was a man of sixty, corpulent and clumsily built, with a red
and bloated face, a short neck, and a continual trembling in his
fingers, resulting from excessive indulgence in strong drink. He
belonged to the class of so-called ‘bourbons,’ that’s to say, soldiers
risen from the ranks; had learned to read at thirty, and spoke with
difficulty, partly from shortness of breath, partly from inability to
follow his own thought. His temperament exhibited all the varieties
known to science: in the morning, before drinking, he was melancholy; in
the middle of the day, choleric; and in the evening, phlegmatic, that is
to say, he did nothing at that time but snore and grunt till he was put
to bed. Ivan Afanasiitch appeared before him during the choleric period.
He found him sitting on a sofa, in an open dressing-gown, with a pipe
between his teeth. A fat, crop-eared cat had taken up her position
beside him.
‘Aha! he’s come!’ growled the major, casting a sidelong glance out of
his pewtery eyes upon Pyetushkov, and not stirring from his place. ‘Sit
down. Well, I’m going to give you a talking to. I’ve wanted to get hold
of you this long while.’
Pyetushkov sank into a chair.
‘For,’ the major began, with an unexpected lurch of his whole body,
‘you’re an officer, d’ye see, and so you’ve got to behave yourself
according to rule. If you’d been a soldier, I’d have flogged you, and
that’s all about it, but, as ‘tis, you’re an officer. Did any one ever
see the like of it? Disgracing yourself--is that a nice thing?’
‘Allow me to know to what these remarks may refer?’ Pyetushkov was
beginning....
‘I’ll have no arguing! I dislike that beyond everything. I’ve said: I
dislike it; and that’s all about it! Ugh--why, your hooks are not in
good form even;--what a disgrace! He sits, day in and day out, at the
baker’s shop; and he a gentleman born! There’s a petticoat to be found
there--and so there he sits. Let her go to the devil, the petticoat!
Why, they do say he puts the bread in the oven. It’s a stain on the
uniform ... so it is!’
‘Allow me to submit,’ articulated Pyetushkov with a cold chill at his
heart, ‘that all this, as far as I can make out, refers to my private
life, so to say....’
‘No arguing with me, I tell you! Private life, he protests, too! If it
had been a matter of the service I’d have sent you straight to the
guard-room! Alley, marsheer! Because of the oath. Why, there was a whole
birch copse, maybe, used upon my back, so I should think I know the
service; every rule of discipline I’m very well up in. And I’d have you
to understand, I say this just for the honour of the uniform. You’re
disgracing the uniform ... so you are. I say this like a father ... yes.
Because all that’s put in my charge. I’ve to answer for it. And you dare
to argue too!’ the major shrieked with sudden fury, and his face turned
purple, and he foamed at the mouth, while the cat put its tail in the
air and jumped down to the ground. ‘Why, do you know ... why, do you
know what I can do? ... I can do anything, anything, anything! Why, do
you know whom you’re talking to? Your superior officer gives you orders
and you argue! Your superior officer ... your superior officer....’
Here the major positively choked and spluttered, while poor Pyetushkov
could only draw himself up and turn pale, sitting on the very edge of
his chair.
‘I must have’ ... the major continued, with an imperious wave of his
trembling hand, ‘I must have everything ... up to the mark! Conduct
first-class! I’m not going to put up with any irregularities! You can
make friends with whom you like, that makes no odds to me! But if you
are a gentleman, why, act as such ... behave like one! No putting bread
in the oven for me! No calling a draggletail old woman auntie! No
disgracing the uniform! Silence! No arguing!’
The major’s voice broke. He took breath, and turning towards the door
into the passage, bawled, ‘Frolka, you scoundrel! The herrings!’
Pyetushkov rose hurriedly and darted away, almost upsetting the
page-boy, who ran to meet him, carrying some sliced herring and a stout
decanter of spirits on an iron tray.
‘Silence! No arguing!’ sounded after Pyetushkov the disjointed
exclamations of his exasperated superior officer.