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