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.

IX

A queer sensation overmastered Ivan Afanasiitch when, at last, he found himself in the street.

‘Why am I walking as it were in a dream?’ he thought to himself. ‘Am I out of my mind, or what? Why, it passes all belief, at last. Come, damn it, she’s tired of me, come, and I’ve grown tired of her, come, and … What is there out of the way in that?

Pyetushkov frowned.

‘I must put an end to it, once for all,’ he said almost aloud. ‘I’ll go and speak out decisively for the last time, so that it may never come up again.’

Pyetushkov made his way with rapid step to the baker’s shop. The nephew of the hired man, Luka, a little boy, friend and confidant of the goat that lived in the yard, darted swiftly to the little gate, directly he caught sight of Ivan Afanasiitch in the distance.

Praskovia Ivanovna came out to meet Pyetushkov.

‘Is your niece at home?’ asked Pyetushkov.

‘No, sir.’

Pyetushkov was inwardly relieved at Vassilissa’s absence.

‘I came to have a few words with you, Praskovia Ivanovna.’

‘What about, my good sir?’

‘I’ll tell you. You comprehend that after all … that has passed … after such, so to say, behaviour (Pyetushkov was a little confused) … in a word … But, pray, don’t be angry with me, though.’

‘Certainly not, sir.’

‘On the contrary, enter into my position, Praskovia Ivanovna.’

‘Certainly, sir.’

‘You’re a reasonable woman, you’ll understand of yourself, that … that

I can’t go on coming to see you any more.’

‘Certainly, sir,’ Praskovia Ivanovna repeated slowly.

‘I assure you I greatly regret it; I confess it is positively painful to me, genuinely painful …’

‘You know best, sir,’ Praskovia Ivanovna rejoined serenely. ‘It’s for you to decide, sir. And, oh, if you’ll allow me, I’ll give you your little account, sir.’

Pyetushkov had not at all anticipated such a prompt acquiescence. He had not desired acquiescence at all; he had only wanted to frighten Praskovia Ivanovna, and above all Vassilissa. He felt wretched.

‘I know,’ be began, ‘this will not be disagreeable to Vassilissa; on the contrary, I believe she will be glad.’

Praskovia Ivanovna got out her reckoning beads, and began rattling the counters.

‘On the other hand,’ continued Pyetushkov, growing more and more agitated, ‘if Vassilissa were, for instance, to give an explanation of her behaviour … possibly…. Though, of course … I don’t know, possibly, I might perceive that after all there was no great matter for blame in it.’

‘There’s thirty-seven roubles and forty kopecks in notes to your account, sir,’ observed Praskovia Ivanovna. ‘Here, would you be pleased to go through it?’

Ivan Afanasiitch made no reply.

‘Eighteen dinners at seventy kopecks each; twelve roubles sixty kopecks.’

‘And so we are to part, Praskovia Ivanovna.’

‘If so it must be, sir. Things do turn out so. Twelve samovars at ten kopecks each …’

‘But you might just tell me, Praskovia Ivanovna, where it was Vassilissa went, and what it was she …’

‘Oh, I never asked her, sir…. One rouble twenty kopecks in silver.’

Ivan Afanasiitch sank into meditation.

‘Kvas and effervescing drinks,’ pursued Praskovia Ivanovna, holding the counters apart on the frame not with her first, but her third finger, ‘half a rouble in silver. Sugar and rolls for tea, half a rouble. Four packets of tobacco bought by your orders, eighty kopecks in silver. To the tailor Kuprian Apollonov …’

Ivan Afanasiitch suddenly raised his head, put out his hand and mixed up the counters.

‘What are you about, my good man?’ cried Praskovia Ivanovna. ‘Don’t you trust me?’

‘Praskovia Ivanovna,’ replied Pyetushkov, with a hurried smile, ‘I’ve thought better of it. I was only, you know … joking. We’d better remain friends and go on in the old way. What nonsense it is! How can we separate—tell me that, please?’

Praskovia Ivanovna looked down and made him no reply.

‘Come, we’ve been talking nonsense, and there’s an end of it,’ pursued Ivan Afanasiitch, walking up and down the room, rubbing his hands, and, as it were, resuming his ancient rights. ‘Amen! and now I’d better have a pipe.’

Praskovia Ivanovna still did not move from her place….

‘I see you are angry with me,’ said Pyetushkov.

‘I’ve offended you, perhaps. Well! well! forgive me generously.’

‘How could you offend me, my good