One Autumn day, my mother was preserving fruit with honey in the family room, and I, smacking my lips, was looking at the liquid boiling; my father, seated near the window, had just opened the Court Almanac which he received every year.  This book had great influence over him; he read it with extreme attention, and reading prodigiously stirred up his bile.  My mother, knowing by heart all his ways and oddities, used to try to hide the miserable book, and often whole months would pass without a sight of it.  But, in revenge whenever he did happen to find it, he would sit for hours with the book before his eyes.

Well, my father was reading the Court Almanac, frequently shrugging his shoulders, and murmuring:  “‘General!’ Umph, he was a sergeant in my company.  ‘Knight of the Orders of Russia.’  Can it be so long since we—?”

Finally he flung the Almanac away on the sofa and plunged into deep thought; a proceeding that never presaged anything good.

“Avoditia,” said he, brusquely, to my mother, “how old is Peter?”

“His seventeenth precious year has just begun,” said my mother.  “Peter was born the year Aunt Anastasia lost her eye, and that was—­”

“Well, well,” said my father, “it is time he should join the army.  It is high time he should give up his nurse, leap-frog and pigeon training.”

The thought of a separation so affected my poor mother that she let the spoon fall into the preserving pan, and tears rained from her eyes.

As for me, it is difficult to express my joy.  The idea of army service was mingled in my head with that of liberty, and the pleasures offered by a great city like Saint Petersburg.  I saw myself an officer in the Guards, which, in my opinion was the height of felicity.

As my father neither liked to change his plans, nor delay their execution, the day of my departure was instantly fixed.  That evening, saying that he would give me a letter to my future chief, he called for writing materials.

“Do not forget, Andrew,” said my mother, “to salute for me Prince B. Tell him that I depend upon his favor for my darling Peter.”

“What nonsense,” said my father, frowning, “why should I write to Prince B.?”

“You have just said that you would write to Peter’s future chief.”

“Well, what then?”

“Prince B. is his chief.  You know very well that Peter is enrolled in the Semenofski regiment.”

“Enrolled! what’s that to me?  Enrolled or not enrolled, he shall not go to Saint Petersburg.  What would he learn there?  Extravagance and folly.  No! let him serve in the army, let him smell powder, let him be a soldier and not a do-nothing in the Guards; let him wear the straps of his knapsack out.  Where is the certificate of his birth and baptism?”

My mother brought the certificate, which she kept in a little box with my baptismal robe, and handed it to my father.  He read it, placed it before him on the table, and commenced his letter.