I have already mentioned that I occupied myself with literature. My essays were tolerable for those days, and Alexander Petrovitch Soumarokoff,[1] some years afterwards, praised them very much. One day I contrived to write a little song with which I was much pleased. It is well-known that, under the appearance of asking advice, authors frequently endeavour to secure a well-disposed listener. And so, writing out my little song, I took it to Shvabrin, who was the only person in the whole fortress who could appreciate a poetical production. After a short preamble, I drew my manuscript out of my pocket, and read to him the following verses:
“I banish thoughts of love, and try
My fair one to forget;
And, to be free again, I fly
From Masha with regret.
‘My troubled soul no rest can know,
No peace of mind for me;
For wheresoever I may go,
Those eyes I still shall see.
“Take pity, Masha, on this heart
Oppressed by grief and care;
And let compassion rend apart
The clouds of dark despair.”
“What do you think of it?” I asked Shvabrin, expecting that praise which I considered I was justly entitled to. But, to my great disappointment, Shvabrin, who was generally complaisant; declared very peremptorily that the verses were not worth much.
“And why?” I asked, hiding my vexation.
“Because,” he replied, “such verses are worthy of my instructor Tredyakovsky,[2] and remind me very much of his love couplets.”
Then he took the manuscript from me and began unmercifully to pull to pieces every verse and word, jeering at me in the most sarcastic manner. This was more than I could endure, and snatching my manuscript out of his hand, I told him that I would never show him any more of my compositions. Shvabrin laughed at my threat.
“We shall see,” said he, “if you will keep your word. A poet needs a listener, just as Ivan Kouzmitch needs his decanter of brandy before dinner. And who is this Masha to whom you declare your tender passion and your amorous distress? Can it be Maria Ivanovna?”
“That is not your business,” replied I, frowning; “it is nothing to do with you who she is. I want neither your opinion nor your conjectures.”
“Oho! my vain poet and discreet lover!” continued Shvabrin, irritating me more and more. “But listen to a friend’s advice; if you wish to succeed, I advise you not to have recourse to writing verses.”
“What do you mean, sir? Please explain yourself.”