“What about?”
“About a mere trifle—about a song, Vassilissa Egorovna.”
“A nice thing to quarrel about, a song! But how did it happen?”
“In this way. Peter Andreitch composed a song a short time ago, and this morning he began to sing it to me, and I began to hum my favourite ditty:
‘Daughter of the Captain,
Walk not out at midnight.’
Then there arose a disagreement. Peter Andreitch grew angry, but then he reflected that everyone likes to sing what pleases him best, and there the matter ended.”
Shvabrin’s insolence nearly made me boil over with fury; but nobody except myself understood his coarse insinuations; at least, nobody paid any attention to them. From songs the conversation turned upon poets, and the Commandant observed that they were all rakes and terrible drunkards, and advised me in a friendly manner to have nothing to do with poetry, as it was contrary to the rules of the service, and would lead to no good.
Shvabrin’s presence was insupportable to me. I soon took, leave of the Commandant and his family, and returned home. I examined my sword, tried the point of it, and then lay down to sleep, after giving Savelitch orders to wake me at seven o’clock.
The next morning, at the appointed hour, I stood ready behind the hayricks, awaiting my adversary. He soon made his appearance.
“We may be surprised,” he said to me, “so we must make haste.”