"What nonsense!" cried my father, frowning. "Why do you wish me to write to Prince Banojik?"
"But you have just told us you are good enough to write to Petróusha's superior officer."
"Well, what of that?"
"But Prince Banojik is Petróusha's superior officer. You know very well he is on the roll of the Séménofsky regiment."
"On the roll! What is it to me whether he be on the roll or no? Petróusha shall not go to Petersburg! What would he learn there? To spend money and commit follies. No, he shall serve with the army, he shall smell powder, he shall become a soldier and not an idler of the Guard, he shall wear out the straps of his knapsack. Where is his commission? Give it to me."
My mother went to find my commission, which she kept in a box with my christening clothes, and gave it to my father with, a trembling hand. My father read it with attention, laid it before him on the table, and began his letter.
Curiosity pricked me.
"Where shall I be sent," thought I, "if not to Petersburg?"
I never took my eyes off my father's pen as it travelled slowly over the paper. At last he finished his letter, put it with my commission into the same cover, took off his spectacles, called me, and said—
"This letter is addressed to Andréj Karlovitch R., my old friend and comrade. You are to go to Orenburg[9] to serve under him."