“Ah, yes—how could I have forgotten it! Mamma,” he again trumpeted into his mother’s ear, “mamma, Sub-lieutenant Romashov is from our province; he’s from Narovtschátski.”
“Ah, ah,” and the old woman raised her eyebrows as a sign that she understood. “Well, then, you’re, of course, a son of Sergei Petrovich Shishkin?”
“No, dear mother,” roared the Colonel, “you are wrong. His name is Romashov, not Shishkin.”
“Yes, didn’t I say so? I never knew Sergei Petrovich except by hearsay; but I often met Peter Petrovich. He was a charming young man. We were near neighbours, and I congratulate you, my young friend, on your relationship.”
“Well, as you will have it, you old deaf-as-a-post,” exclaimed the Colonel, interrupting her with good-humoured cynicism.” But now, let’s sit down; please take a seat, Sub-lieutenant. Lieutenant Federovski,” he shrieked towards the door, “stop your work and come and have a schnapps.” The Adjutant, who, according to the custom in many regiments, dined every day with his chief, hurriedly entered the dining-room. He clicked his spurs softly and discreetly, walked straight up to the little majolica table with the sakuska,[10] calmly helped himself to a schnapps, and ate with extreme calmness and enjoyment. Romashov noticed all that with an absurd, envious feeling of admiration.
“You’ll take one, won’t you?” said Shulgovich to Romashov. “You’re no teetotaller, you know.”
“No, thank you very much,” replied Romashov hoarsely; and, with a slight cough, “I do not usually——”
“Bravo, my young friend. Stick to that in future.”
They sat down to table. The dinner was good and abundant. Any one could observe that, in this childless family, both host and hostess had an innocent little weakness for good living. Dinner consisted of chicken soup with vegetables, roast bream with kascha,[11] a splendid fat duck and asparagus. On the table stood three remarkable decanters containing red wine, white wine, and madeira, resplendent with embossed silver stoppers bearing elegant foreign marks. The Colonel, whose violent explosion of wrath but a short time previously had evidently given him an excellent appetite, ate with an elegance and taste that struck the spectator with pleasure and surprise. He joked all the time with a certain rough humour. When the asparagus was put on the table, he crammed a corner of his dazzlingly white serviette well down under his chin, and exclaimed in a lively way—
“If I were the Tsar, I would eat asparagus every day of my life.”