“He’s going on seventeen,” mother replied. “Petrusha was born the same year that aunt Nastasya Gerasimovna went one-eyed, and when…”
“Good,” father interrupted. “It’s time he was in the service. Enough of him running around the maids’ rooms and climbing the dovecotes.”
The thought of soon parting with me so struck my mother that she dropped her spoon into the pot and tears poured down her face. On the other hand, it is hard to describe my delight. The thought of the service merged in me with thoughts of freedom and the pleasures of Petersburg life. I pictured myself as an officer of the guards, which, in my opinion, was the height of human happiness.
Father did not like either to change his intentions or to postpone their execution. The day of my departure was appointed. On the eve, father announced that he intended to send with me a letter to my future superior, and he asked for pen and paper.
“Don’t forget, Andrei Petrovich,” mother said, “to pay my respects to Prince B. as well; tell him I hope he won’t deprive Petrusha of his favors.”
“What nonsense!” father replied, frowning. “Why on earth should I write to Prince B.?”
“But you just said you were going to write to Petrusha’s superior.”
“Well, what of it?”
“Petrusha’s commander is Prince B. Petrusha is enlisted in the Semyonovsky regiment.”
“Enlisted! What do I care if he’s enlisted? Petrusha’s not going to Petersburg. What will he learn, serving in Petersburg? To squander and philander? No, let him serve in the army, pull his load, get a whiff of powder, and be a soldier, not a wastrel. Enlisted in the guards! Where’s his passport?4 Give it here.”
Mother found my passport, which she kept in a box along with my baptismal gown, and held it out to father with a trembling hand. Father read it attentively, placed it in front of him on the table, and began his letter.
Curiosity tormented me: where was I being sent, if not to Petersburg? I did not take my eyes off father’s quill, which moved quite slowly. He finally finished, sealed the letter in the same envelope with the passport, took off his spectacles, and, beckoning to me, said: “Here’s a letter to Andrei Karlovich R., my old comrade and friend. You’re going to Orenburg5 to serve under him.”
And so all my bright hopes were dashed! Instead of a gay Petersburg life, garrison boredom awaited me in remote and godforsaken parts. Army service, which I had thought of a moment before with such rapture, now seemed to me like a dire misfortune. But there was no point in arguing. The next morning a traveling kibitka was brought to the porch; a trunk, a cellaret with tea things, and bundles of rolls and pies—the last tokens of a pampered home life—were put into it. My parents blessed me. Father said to me:
“Good-bye, Pyotr. Serve faithfully the one you are sworn to serve; obey your commanders; don’t curry favor with them; don’t thrust yourself into service; don’t excuse yourself from service; and remember the proverb: ‘Look after your clothes when they’re new, and your honor when it’s young.’ ” Mother tearfully bade me to look after my health, and Savelyich to watch over her little one. They put a hareskin coat on me, and a fox fur over it. I got into the kibitka with Savelyich and set off, drowning myself in tears.
That same night I arrived in Simbirsk, where I was to spend a day buying necessary things, a task that had been entrusted to Savelyich. I put up at an inn. The next morning Savelyich headed off to the shops. Bored with looking out the window at the muddy alley, I went rambling about all the rooms. Going into the billiard room, I saw a tall gentleman of about thirty-five, with long black moustaches, in a dressing gown, with a cue in his hand and a pipe in his teeth. He was playing with the marker, who drank a glass of vodka when he won, and had to crawl on all fours under the table when he lost. I started watching their game. The longer it went on, the more frequent became the promenades on all fours, until the marker finally just stayed under the table. The gentleman pronounced several strong phrases over him by way of a funeral oration and offered to play a round with me. Not knowing how to play, I declined. That evidently seemed strange to him. He gave me a pitying look; nevertheless we got to talking. I learned that his name was Ivan Ivanovich Zurin, that he was a captain in the * * * hussar regiment, that he was in Simbirsk to take recruits and was staying at the inn. Zurin invited me to share a meal with him, soldier fashion, of whatever there was. I eagerly accepted. We sat down at the table. Zurin drank a lot and also treated me, saying that I needed to get used to the service; he told me army jokes that had me nearly rolling with laughter, and we got up from the table as fast friends. Here he volunteered to teach me to play billiards.
