One day I
happened
to write a little song which
pleased me.
pleased me.
Pushkin - Daughter of the Commandant
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! 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.
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! 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.
