hink 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."

My blood boiled.

"Why have you such an opinion of her?" I asked him, restraining with
difficulty my indignation.

"Because," replied he, with a satanic smile, "because I know by
experience her views and habits."

"You lie, you rascal!" I shouted at him, in fury. "You are a shameless
liar."

Chvabrine's face changed.

"This I cannot overlook," he said; "you shall give me satisfaction."

"Certainly, whenever you like," replied I, joyfully; for at that moment
I was ready to tear him in pieces.

I rushed at once to Iwan Ignatiitch, whom I found with a needle in his
hand. In obedience to the order of the Commandant's wife, he was
threading mushrooms to be dried for the winter.

"Ah! Petr' Andrejitch," said he, when he saw me; "you are welcome. On
what errand does heaven send you, if I may presume to ask?"

I told him in a few words that I had quarrelled with Alexey Ivanytch,