from my hand and began unmercifully
criticizing
each
verse, each word, cutting me up in the most spiteful way.
verse, each word, cutting me up in the most spiteful way.
Pushkin - Daughter of the Commandant
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! by flight from Masha,
I hope my freedom to regain!
"But the eyes which enslaved me are ever before me.
My soul have they troubled and ruined my rest.
"Oh! Masha, who knowest my sorrows,
Seeing me in this miserable plight,
Take pity on thy captive. "
"What do you think of that? " I said to Chvabrine, expecting praise as a
tribute due to me. But to my great displeasure Chvabrine, who usually
showed kindness, told me flatly my song was worth nothing.
"Why? " I asked, trying to hide my vexation.
"Because such verses," replied he, "are only worthy of my master
Trediakofski,[45] and, indeed, remind me very much of his little erotic
couplets. "
He took the MSS.
from my hand and began unmercifully criticizing each
verse, each word, cutting me up in the most spiteful way. That was too
much for me; I snatched the MSS. out of his hands, and declared that
never, no never, would I ever again show him one of my compositions.
Chvabrine did not laugh the less at this threat.
"Let us see," said he, "if you will be able to keep your word; poets
have as much need of an audience as Ivan Kouzmitch has need of his
'_petit verre_' before dinner. And who is this Masha to whom you declare
your tender sentiments and your ardent flame? Surely it must be Marya
Ivanofna? "
"That does not concern you," replied I, frowning; "I don't ask for your
advice nor your suppositions. "
"Oh! oh! a vain poet and a discreet lover," continued Chvabrine,
irritating me more and more. "Listen to a little friendly advice: if you
wish to succeed, I advise you not to stick at songs. "
"What do you mean, sir? " I exclaimed; "explain yourself if you please. "
"With pleasure," rejoined he. "I mean that if you want to be well with
Masha Mironoff, you need only make her a present of a pair of earrings
instead of your languishing verses.
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! by flight from Masha,
I hope my freedom to regain!
"But the eyes which enslaved me are ever before me.
My soul have they troubled and ruined my rest.
"Oh! Masha, who knowest my sorrows,
Seeing me in this miserable plight,
Take pity on thy captive. "
"What do you think of that? " I said to Chvabrine, expecting praise as a
tribute due to me. But to my great displeasure Chvabrine, who usually
showed kindness, told me flatly my song was worth nothing.
"Why? " I asked, trying to hide my vexation.
"Because such verses," replied he, "are only worthy of my master
Trediakofski,[45] and, indeed, remind me very much of his little erotic
couplets. "
He took the MSS.
from my hand and began unmercifully criticizing each
verse, each word, cutting me up in the most spiteful way. That was too
much for me; I snatched the MSS. out of his hands, and declared that
never, no never, would I ever again show him one of my compositions.
Chvabrine did not laugh the less at this threat.
"Let us see," said he, "if you will be able to keep your word; poets
have as much need of an audience as Ivan Kouzmitch has need of his
'_petit verre_' before dinner. And who is this Masha to whom you declare
your tender sentiments and your ardent flame? Surely it must be Marya
Ivanofna? "
"That does not concern you," replied I, frowning; "I don't ask for your
advice nor your suppositions. "
"Oh! oh! a vain poet and a discreet lover," continued Chvabrine,
irritating me more and more. "Listen to a little friendly advice: if you
wish to succeed, I advise you not to stick at songs. "
"What do you mean, sir? " I exclaimed; "explain yourself if you please. "
"With pleasure," rejoined he. "I mean that if you want to be well with
Masha Mironoff, you need only make her a present of a pair of earrings
instead of your languishing verses.
