"What sort of luck have I had?
I've given up writing poetry, and at one time even you were amused by my verses, Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch.

Do you remember our reading them over a bottle?
But it's all over with my pen.

I've written only one poem, like Gogol's 'The Last Story.' Do you remember he proclaimed to Russia that it broke spontaneously from his bosom?
It's the same with me; I've sung my last and it's over." "What sort of poem ?" "'In case she were to break her leg.'" "Wha-a-t ?" That was all the captain was waiting for.

He had an unbounded admiration for his own poems, but, through a certain cunning duplicity, he was pleased, too, that Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch always made merry over his poems, and sometimes laughed at them immoderately.

In this way he killed two birds with one stone, satisfying at once his poetical aspirations and his desire to be of service; but now he had a third special and very ticklish object in view.