I disliked his constant jokes about the Commandant’s family and, in particular, his derisive remarks about Marya Ivanovna. There was no other society in the fortress; and, indeed, I wished for no other.

In spite of the prophecies, the Bashkirs did not rise. Peace reigned around our fortress. But the peace was suddenly disturbed by an internal war.

I have already said that I tried my hand at literature. Judged by the standards of that period my attempts were quite creditable, and several years later Alexander Petrovich Sumarokov‡ thoroughly approved of them. One day I succeeded in writing a song that pleased me. Everybody knows that sometimes under the pretext of seeking advice writers try to find an appreciative listener. And so, having copied out my song, I took it to Shvabrin, who was the only person in the fortress capable of doing justice to the poet’s work. After a few preliminary remarks I took my notebook out of my pocket and read the following verses to him:

“Thoughts of love I try to banish

And her beauty to forget,

And, ah me! avoiding Masha

Hope I shall my freedom get.

But the eyes that have seduced me

Are before me night and day,

To confusion they’ve reduced me,

Driven rest and peace away.

When you hear of my misfortunes

Pity, Masha, pity me!

You can see my cruel torments:

I am captive held by thee.”

“What do you think of it?” I asked Shvabrin, expecting praise as my rightful due. But to my extreme annoyance Shvabrin, who was usually a kind critic, declared that my song was bad.

“Why so?” I asked, concealing my vexation.

“Because such lines are worthy of my teacher, Vassily Kirilych Tretyakovsky,§ and greatly remind me of his love verses.”

He then took my notebook from me and began mercilessly criticizing every line and every word of the poem, mocking me in a most derisive manner. I could not endure it, snatched the notebook from him, and said I would never show him my verses again. Shvabrin laughed at this threat too.

“We shall see,” he said, “whether you will keep your word. Poets need a listener as much as Ivan Kuzmich needs his decanter of vodka before dinner. And who is this Masha to whom you declare your tender passion and lovesickness? Is it Marya Ivanovna, by any chance?”

“It’s none of your business whoever she may be,” I answered, frowning. “I want neither your opinion nor your conjectures.”

“Oho! A touchy poet and a modest lover!” Shvabrin went on, irritating me more and more. “But take a friend’s advice: if you want to succeed, you must have recourse to something better than songs.”

“What do you mean, sir? Please explain yourself.”

“Willingly. I mean that if you want Masha Mironov to visit you at dusk, present her with a pair of earrings instead of tender verses.”

My blood boiled.

“And why have you such an opinion of her?” I asked, hardly able to restrain my indignation.

“Because I know her manners and morals from experience,” he answered, with a fiendish smile.

“It’s a lie, you scoundrel,” I cried furiously. “It’s a shameless lie!”

Shvabrin changed color.

“You’ll have to pay for this,” he said, gripping my arm; “you will give me satisfaction.”

“Certainly—whenever you like,” I answered, with relief. I was ready to tear him to pieces at that moment.

I went at once to Ivan Ignatyich, whom I found with a needle in his hands threading mushrooms to dry for the winter, at Vasilisa Yegorovna’s request.

“Ah, Pyotr Andreyich! Pleased to see you!” he said, when he saw me. “What good fortune brings you? What business, may I ask?”

I explained to him briefly that I had quarreled with Alexey Ivanych and was asking him, Ivan Ignatyich, to be my second. Ivan Ignatyich listened to me attentively, staring at me with his solitary eye.

“You are pleased to say,” he answered, “that you intend to kill Alexey Ivanych and wish me to witness it? Is that so, may I ask?”

“Quite so.”

“Good heavens, Pyotr Andreyich! What are you thinking about? You have quarreled with Alexey Ivanych? What ever does it matter? Bad words are of no consequence. He abuses you—you swear back at him; he hits you in the face—you hit him on the ear, twice, three times—and then go your own way; and we shall see to it that you make it up later on. But killing a fellow-creature—is that a right thing to do, let me ask you? And, anyway, if you killed him it wouldn’t matter so much; I am not very fond of Alexey Ivanych myself, for the matter of that. But what if he makes a hole in you? What will that be like? Who will be made a fool of then, may I ask?”

The sensible old man’s arguments did not shake me. I stuck to my intention.

“As you like,” said Ivan Ignatyich. “Do what you think best. But why should I be your witness? What for? Two men fighting each other! What is there worth seeing in it, may I ask? I’ve been in the Swedish War and the Turkish, and, believe me, I’ve seen enough.”

I tried to explain to him the duties of a second, but Ivan Ignatyich simply could not understand me.

“You may say what you like,” he said, “but if I am to take part in this affair, it is only to go to Ivan Kuzmich and tell him, as duty bids me, that a crime contrary to the interests of the State is being planned in the fortress—and to ask if the Commandant would be pleased to take proper measures.”

I was alarmed and begged Ivan Ignatyich to say nothing to the Commandant. I had difficulty in persuading him, but at last he gave me his word and I left him.

I spent the evening, as usual, at the Commandant’s. I tried to appear cheerful and indifferent so as to escape inquisitive questions, and not give grounds for suspicion, but I confess I could not boast of the indifference which people in my position generally profess to feel. That evening I was inclined to be tender and emotional.