At last my father flung the “Calendar” down upon the sofa, and sank into a reverie—a proceeding that was always of evil augury.
Suddenly he turned to my mother:
“Avdotia Vassilevna,[3] how old is Petrousha?”[4]
“He is getting on for seventeen,” replied my mother: “Petrousha was born in the same year that aunt Nastasia Gerasimovna[5] lost her eye, and——”
“Very well,” said my father, interrupting her; “it is time that he entered the service. He has had quite enough of running about the servants’ rooms and climbing up to the dovecots.”
The thought of soon having to part with me produced such an effect upon my mother, that she let the spoon fall into the saucepan, and the tears streamed down her cheeks. As for myself, it would be difficult to describe the delight that I felt. The thought of the service was associated in my mind with thoughts of freedom and the pleasures of a life in St. Petersburg. I imagined myself an officer in the Guards, that being, in my opinion, the summit of human felicity.
My father loved neither to change his intentions, nor to delay putting them into execution. The day for my departure was fixed. On the evening before, my father informed me that he intended to write to my future chief, and asked for pens and paper.
“Do not forget, Andrei Petrovitch,”[6] said my mother, “to send my salutations to Prince B——, and say that I hope he will take our Petrousha under his protection.”
“What nonsense!” exclaimed my father, frowning. “Why should I write to Prince B——”
“Why, you said just now that you wanted to write to Petrousha’s chief.”