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.
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