"Ah," said he, "it was but a short time Andrej Petrovitch was your age,
and now he has got a fine fellow of a son. Well, well--time, time."
He opened the letter, and began reading it half aloud, with a running
fire of remarks--
"'Sir, I hope your excellency'--What's all this ceremony? For shame! I
wonder he's not ashamed of himself! Of course, discipline before
everything; but is it thus one writes to an old comrade? 'Your
excellency will not have forgotten'--Humph! 'And when under the late
Field Marshal Muenich during the campaign, as well as little
Caroline'--Eh! eh! _bruder_! So he still remembers our old pranks? 'Now
for business. I send you my rogue'--Hum! 'Hold him with gloves of
porcupine-skin'--What does that mean--'gloves of porcupine-skin?' It
must be a Russian proverb.
"What does it mean, 'hold with gloves of porcupine-skin?'" resumed he,
turning to me.
"It means," I answered him, with the most innocent face in the world,
"to treat someone kindly, not too strictly, to leave him plenty of
liberty; that is what holding with gloves of porcupine-skin means."
"Humph! I understand."
"'And not give him any liberty'--No; it seems that porcupine-skin gloves
means something quite different.
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