“Really, mother,” he had assured Nina Alexandrovna upstairs, “really you had better let him drink. He has not had a drop for three days; he must be suffering agonies—” The general now entered the room, threw the door wide open, and stood on the threshold trembling with indignation.
“Look here, my dear sir,” he began, addressing Ptitsin in a very loud tone of voice; “if you have really made up your mind to sacrifice an old man—your father too or at all events father of your wife—an old man who has served his emperor—to a wretched little atheist like this, all I can say is, sir, my foot shall cease to tread your floors. Make your choice, sir; make your choice quickly, if you please! Me or this—screw! Yes, screw, sir; I said it accidentally, but let the word stand—this screw , for he screws and drills himself into my soul—”
“Hadn’t you better say corkscrew?” said Hippolyte.
“No, sir, not corkscrew. I am a general, not a bottle, sir. Make your choice, sir—me or him.”
Here Colia handed him a chair, and he subsided into it, breathless with rage.
“Hadn’t you better—better—take a nap?” murmured the stupefied Ptitsin.
“A nap?” shrieked the general. “I am not drunk, sir; you insult me! I see,” he continued, rising, “I see that all are against me here. Enough—I go; but know, sirs—know that—”
He was not allowed to finish his sentence. Somebody pushed him back into his chair, and begged him to be calm. Nina Alexandrovna trembled, and cried quietly. Gania retired to the window in disgust.
“But what have I done? What is his grievance?” asked Hippolyte, grinning.