buffoon for a long time in the past. But the latter
did not even smile, on the contrary, he asked, as it were, suspiciously:

"So you intend to publish your will in your lifetime and get rewarded
for it?"

"And what if I do, Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch? What if I do?" said
Lebyadkin, watching him carefully. "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. Bringing his verses on the scene, the captain
thought to exculpate himself on one point about which, for some reason,
he always felt himself most apprehensive, and most guilty.

"'In case of her breaking her leg.' That is, of her riding on
horseback. It's a fantasy, Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, a wild fancy,
but the fancy of a poet. One day I was struck by meeting a lady on
horseback, and asked myself the vital question, 'What would happen
then?' That is, in case of accident. All her followers turn away, all
her suitors are gone. A pretty kettle of fish. Only the poet
remains faithful, with his heart shattered in his breast, Nikolay
Vsyevolodovitch. Even a louse may be in love, and is not forbidden by
law. And yet the lady was offended by the letter and the verses. I'm
told that even you were angry. Were you? I wouldn't believe in anything
so grievous. Whom could I harm simply by imagination? Besides, I swear
on my honour, Liputin kept saying, 'Send it, send it,' every man,
however humble, has a right to send a letter! And so I sent it."

"You offered yourself as a suitor, I understand."

"Enemies, enemies, enemies!"

"Repeat the verses," said Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch sternly.

"Ravings