_Court Almanack_, which he received every year. He was very fond of
this book; he never read it except with great attention, and it had the
power of upsetting his temper very much. My mother, who knew all his
whims and habits by heart, generally tried to keep the unlucky book
hidden, so that sometimes whole months passed without the _Court
Almanack_ falling beneath his eye. On the other hand, when he did chance
to find it, he never left it for hours together. He was now reading it,
frequently shrugging his shoulders, and muttering, half aloud--

"General! He was sergeant in my company. Knight of the Orders of Russia!
Was it so long ago that we--"

At last my father threw the _Almanack_ away from him on the sofa, and
remained deep in a brown study, which never betokened anything good.

"Avdotia Vassiliéva,"[6] said he, sharply addressing my mother, "how
old is Petróusha?"[7]

"His seventeenth year has just begun," replied my mother. "Petróusha was
born the same year our Aunt Anastasia Garasimofna[8] lost an eye, and
that--"

"All right," resumed my father; "it is time he should serve. 'Tis time
he should cease running in and out of the maids' rooms and climbing into
the dovecote."

The thought of a coming separation made such an impression on my mother
that she dropped her spoon into her saucepan, and her eyes filled with
tears. As for me, it is difficult to express the joy which took
possession of me. The idea of service was mingled in my mind with the