No More Learning

Several weeks passed, during which my life in Fort Belogorsk became not
merely endurable, but even pleasant. I was received like one of the
family in the household of the Commandant. The husband and wife were
excellent people. Ivan Kouzmitch, who had been a child of the regiment,
had become an officer, and was a simple, uneducated man, but good and
true. His wife led him completely, which, by the way, very well suited
his natural laziness.

It was Vassilissa Igorofna who directed all military business as she
did that of her household, and commanded in the little fort as she did
in her house. Marya Ivanofna soon ceased being shy, and we became better
acquainted. I found her a warm-hearted and sensible girl. By degrees I
became attached to this honest family, even to Iwan Ignatiitch, the
one-eyed lieutenant, whom Chvabrine accused of secret intrigue with
Vassilissa Igorofna, an accusation which had not even a shadow of
probability. But that did not matter to Chvabrine.

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
Ivanofna, 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
him the following verses:[44]

"By waging war with thoughts of love
I try to forget my beauty;
Alas!