Several weeks elapsed, during which my life in the fortress became not only supportable, but even agreeable.  I was received as a member of the family in the Commandant’s house.  The husband and wife were excellent people.  Ivan Mironoff, from being the adopted child of the regiment, rose to officer’s rank.  He was a plain, simple, uneducated man, but thoroughly good and loyal.  His wife governed him, and that suited his natural indolence.  Basilia directed the affairs of the garrison, as she did her household, and commanded through the fortress as she did in her own kitchen.  Marie soon lost her shyness, and as we became better acquainted I found that she was a girl full of affection and intelligence.  Little by little I became deeply attached to this good family.

I was promoted, and ranked as an officer.  Military service did not oppress me.  In this fortress, blessed by God, there was no duty to do, no guard to mount, nor review to pass.  Occasionally, for his own amusement, the Commandant drilled his soldiers.  He had not yet succeeded in teaching them which was the right flank and which the left.

Alexis had some French books, and in my idleness I set work to read, so that a taste for literature awoke within me.  I read every morning, and essayed some translations, even metrical compositions.  Almost every day I dined at the Commandant’s, where, as a general thing, I spent the rest of the day.  In the evening, Father Garasim came with his wife, Accoulina, the greatest gossip of the place.  Of course Alexis and I met daily, yet gradually his society displeased me.  His perpetual jokes upon the Commandant’s family, and above all his biting remarks about Marie, rendered his conversation very disagreeable to me.  I had no other society than this family in the fortress, and I desired no other.  All predictions to the contrary, the Bashkirs did not revolt, and peace reigned around us.

I have already said that I busied myself somewhat with literature.  One day I happened to write a little song, of which I was proud.  It is well known that authors, under pretext of asking advice, willingly seek a kindly audience.  I copied my little song and took it to Alexis, the only one in the fortress who could appreciate a poetical work.  After preluding a little, I drew my pages from my pocket and read my verses to him.

“How do you like that?” said I, expecting praise as a tribute due me.  To my great annoyance, Alexis, who was generally pleased with my writings, declared frankly that my song was worth nothing.

“What do you mean?” said I, with forced calmness.  He took the paper out of my hand and began to criticize without pity, every verse, every word, tearing me up in the most malicious fashion.  It was too much.  I snatched the paper from him, declaring that never again would I show him any of my compositions.

“We shall see,” said he, “if you can keep your word; poets need a listener as Ivan Mironoff needs a decanter of brandy before dinner.  Who is this Marie to whom you declare your tender feelings?  Might it not be Marie Mironoff?”