My mother went to find my commission, which she kept in a box with my
christening clothes, and gave it to my father with, a trembling hand. My
father read it with attention, laid it before him on the table, and
began his letter.

Curiosity pricked me.

"Where shall I be sent," thought I, "if not to Petersburg?"

I never took my eyes off my father's pen as it travelled slowly over the
paper. At last he finished his letter, put it with my commission into
the same cover, took off his spectacles, called me, and said--

"This letter is addressed to Andréj Karlovitch R., my old friend and
comrade. You are to go to Orenburg[9] to serve under him."

All my brilliant expectations and high hopes vanished. Instead of the
gay and lively life of Petersburg, I was doomed to a dull life in a far
and wild country. Military service, which a moment before I thought
would be delightful, now seemed horrible to me. But there was nothing
for it but resignation. On the morning of the following day a travelling
_kibitka_ stood before the hall door. There were packed in it a trunk
and a box containing a tea service, and some napkins tied up full of
rolls and little cakes, the last I should get of home pampering.

My parents gave me their blessing, and my father said to me--

"Good-bye, Petr'; serve faithfully he to whom you have sworn fidelity;
obey your superiors; do not seek for favours; do not struggle after
active service, but do not refuse it either, and remember the proverb,