"Iwán Ignatiitch," said he, "approves of the compact we have made."

"And with whom, my little father, did you quarrel?"

"Why, with Petr' Andréjïtch, to be sure, and we even got to high words."

"What for?"

"About a mere trifle, over a little song."

"Fine thing to quarrel over--a little song! How did it happen?"

"Thus. Petr' Andréjïtch lately composed a song, and he began singing it
to me this morning. So I--I struck up mine, 'Captain's daughter, don't
go abroad at dead of night!' As we did not sing in the same key, Petr'
Andréjïtch became angry. But afterwards he reflected that 'every one is
free to sing what he pleases,' and that's all."

Chvabrine's insolence made me furious, but no one else, except myself,
understood his coarse allusions. Nobody, at least, took up the subject.
From poetry the conversation passed to poets in general, and the
Commandant made the remark that they were all rakes and confirmed
drunkards; he advised me as a friend to give up poetry as a thing
opposed to the service, and leading to no good.

Chvabrine's presence was to me unbearable. I hastened to take leave of
the Commandant and his family. After coming home I looked at my sword; I
tried its point, and I went to bed after ordering Savéliitch to wake me
on the morrow at six o'clock.