Having piled up the sledges full of meat we set off to the butcher’s shop in the market.  It began to get light.  Cooks with baskets and elderly ladies in mantles came along one after another, Prokofy, with a chopper in his hand, in a white apron spattered with blood, swore fearful oaths, crossed himself at the church, shouted aloud for the whole market to hear, that he was giving away the meat at cost price and even at a loss to himself.  He gave short weight and short change, the cooks saw that, but, deafened by his shouts, did not protest, and only called him a hangman.  Brandishing and bringing down his terrible chopper he threw himself into picturesque attitudes, and each time uttered the sound “Geck” with a ferocious expression, and I was afraid he really would chop off somebody’s head or hand.

I spent all the morning in the butcher’s shop, and when at last I went to the Governor’s, my overcoat smelt of meat and blood.  My state of mind was as though I were being sent spear in hand to meet a bear.  I remember the tall staircase with a striped carpet on it, and the young official, with shiny buttons, who mutely motioned me to the door with both hands, and ran to announce me.  I went into a hall luxuriously but frigidly and tastelessly furnished, and the high, narrow mirrors in the spaces between the walls, and the bright yellow window curtains, struck the eye particularly unpleasantly.  One could see that the governors were changed, but the furniture remained the same.  Again the young official motioned me with both hands to the door, and I went up to a big green table at which a military general, with the Order of Vladimir on his breast, was standing.

“Mr. Poloznev, I have asked you to come,” he began, holding a letter in his hand, and opening his mouth like a round “o,” “I have asked you to come here to inform you of this.  Your highly respected father has appealed by letter and by word of mouth to the Marshal of the Nobility begging him to summon you, and to lay before you the inconsistency of your behaviour with the rank of the nobility to which you have the honour to belong.  His Excellency Alexandr Pavlovitch, justly supposing that your conduct might serve as a bad example, and considering that mere persuasion on his part would not be sufficient, but that official intervention in earnest was essential, presents me here in this letter with his views in regard to you, which I share.”

He said this, quietly, respectfully, standing erect, as though I were his superior officer and looking at me with no trace of severity.  His face looked worn and wizened, and was all wrinkles; there were bags under his eyes; his hair was dyed; and it was impossible to tell from his appearance how old he was—­forty or sixty.

“I trust,” he went on, “that you appreciate the delicacy of our honoured Alexandr Pavlovitch, who has addressed himself to me not officially, but privately.  I, too, have asked you to come here unofficially, and I am speaking to you, not as a Governor, but from a sincere regard for your father.  And so I beg you either to alter your line of conduct and return to duties in keeping with your rank, or to avoid setting a bad example, remove to another district where you are not known, and where you can follow any occupation you please.  In the other case, I shall be forced to take extreme measures.”