‘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. IX A queer sensation overmastered Ivan Afanasiitch when, at last, he found himself in the street. ‘Why am I walking as it were in a dream?’ he thought to himself. ‘Am I out of my mind, or what? Why, it passes all belief, at last. Come, damn it, she’s tired of me, come, and I’ve grown tired of her, come, and ... What is there out of the way in that? Pyetushkov frowned. ‘I must put an end to it, once for all,’ he said almost aloud. ‘I’ll go and speak out decisively for the last time, so that it may never come up again.’ Pyetushkov made his way with rapid step to the baker’s shop. The nephew of the hired man, Luka, a little boy, friend and confidant of the goat that lived in the yard, darted swiftly to the little gate, directly he caught sight of Ivan Afanasiitch in the distance. Praskovia Ivanovna came out to meet Pyetushkov. ‘Is your niece at home?’ asked Pyetushkov. ‘No, sir.’ Pyetushkov was inwardly relieved at Vassilissa’s absence.