The cornet, Elias Vasilich, was an educated Cossack. He had been to Russia proper, was a regimental schoolteacher, and above all he was noble. He wished to appear noble, but one could not help feeling beneath his grotesque pretence of polish, his affectation, his self-confidence, and his absurd way of speaking, he was just the same as Daddy Eroshka.

This could also be clearly seen by his sunburnt face and his hands and his red nose. Olenin asked him to sit down.

‘Good morning. Father Elias Vasilich,’ said Eroshka, rising with (or so it seemed to Olenin) an ironically low bow.

‘Good morning. Daddy. So you’re here already,’ said the cornet, with a careless nod.

The cornet was a man