I became an officer. My work did not weigh heavily upon me. In this
heaven-blest fort there was no drill to do, no guard to mount, nor
review to pass. Sometimes the Commandant instructed his soldiers for his
own pleasure. But he had not yet succeeded in teaching them to know
their right hand from their left. Chvabrine had some French books; I
took to reading, and I acquired a taste for literature. In the morning I
used to read, and I tried my hand at translations, sometimes even at
compositions in verse. Nearly every day I dined at the Commandant's,
where I usually passed the rest of the day. In the evening, Father
Garasim used to drop in, accompanied by his wife, Akoulina, who was the
sturdiest gossip of the neighbourhood. It is scarcely necessary to say
that every day we met, Chvabrine and I. Still hour by hour his
conversation pleased me less. His everlasting jokes about the
Commandant's family, and, above all, his witty remarks upon Marya
Ivánofna, displeased me very much. I had no other society but that of
this family within the little fort, but I did not want any other.

In spite of all the prophecies, the Bashkirs did not revolt. Peace
reigned around our little fort. But this peace was suddenly troubled by
war within.

I have already said I dabbled a little in literature. My attempts were
tolerable for the time, and Soumarokoff[43] himself did justice to them
many years later. One day I happened to write a little song which
pleased me. It is well-known that under colour of asking advice, authors
willingly seek a benevolent listener; I copied out my little song, and
took it to Chvabrine, the only person in the fort who could appreciate a
poetical work.

After a short preface, I drew my manuscript from my pocket, and read to