‘How is that ... Musa?’ I was beginning.... Tarhov laughed. ‘Ah, you
didn’t know there was such a name in the calendar? I didn’t know it
either, my boy, till I met this dear young lady. Musa! such a charming
name! And suits her so well!’
I bowed again to my comrade’s great friend. She left the door, took two
steps forward and stood still. She was very attractive, but I could not
agree with Tarhov’s opinion, and inwardly said to myself: ‘Well, she’s a
strange sort of muse!’
The features of her curved, rosy face were small and delicate; there was
an air of fresh, buoyant youth about all her slender, miniature figure;
but of the muse, of the personification of the muse, I--and not only
I--all the young people of that time had a very different conception!
First of all the muse had infallibly to be dark-haired and pale. An
expression of scornful pride, a bitter smile, a glance of inspiration,
and that ‘something’--mysterious, demonic, fateful--that was essential
to our conception of the muse, the muse of Byron, who at that time held
sovereign sway over men’s fancies. There was nothing of that kind to be
discerned in the face of the girl who came in. Had I been a little older
and more experienced I should probably have paid more attention to her
eyes, which were small and deep-set, with full lids, but dark as agate,
alert and bright, a thing rare in fair-haired people. Poetical
tendencies I should not have detected in their rapid, as it were
elusive, glance, but hints of a passionate soul, passionate to
self-forgetfulness. But I was very young then.
I held out my hand to Musa Pavlovna--she did not give me hers--she did
not notice my movement; she sat down on the chair Tarhov placed for her,
but did not take off her hat and cape.
She was, obviously, ill at ease; my presence embarrassed her. She
drew deep breaths, at irregular intervals, as though she were
gasping for air.
‘I’ve only come to you for one minute, Vladimir Nikolaitch,’ she
began--her voice was very soft and deep; from her crimson, almost
childish lips, it seemed rather strange;--‘but our madame would not let
me out for more than half an hour. You weren’t well the day before
yesterday ... and so, I thought ...’
She stammered and hung her head. Under the shade of her thick, low brows
her dark eyes darted--to and fro--elusively. There are dark, swift,
flashing beetles that flit so in the heat of summer among the blades of
dry grass.
‘How good you are, Musa, Musotchka!’ cried Tarhov. ‘But you must stay,
you must stay a little.... We’ll have the samovar in directly.’
‘Oh no, Vladimir Nikolaevitch! it’s impossible! I must go away
this minute.’
‘You must rest a little, anyway. You’re out of breath.... You’re tired.’
‘I’m not tired. It’s ... not that ... only ... give me another book;
I’ve finished this one.’ She took out of her pocket a tattered grey
volume of a Moscow edition.
‘Of course, of course. Well, did you like it? _Roslavlev_,’ added
Tarhov, addressing me.
‘Yes. Only I think _Yury Miloslavsky_ is much better. Our madame is very
strict about books. She says they hinder our working. For, to her
thinking ...’
‘But, I say, _Yury Miloslavsky_‘s not equal to Pushkin’s _Gipsies_? Eh?
Musa Pavlovna?’ Tarhov broke in with a smile.
‘No, indeed! The _Gipsies_ ...’ she murmured slowly. ‘Oh yes, another
thing, Vladimir Nikolaitch; don’t come to-morrow ... you know where.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s impossible.’
‘But why?’
The girl shrugged her shoulders, and all at once, as though she had
received a sudden shove, got up from her chair.
‘Why, Musa, Musotchka,’ Tarhov expostulated plaintively. ‘Stay a
little!’
‘No, no, I can’t.’ She went quickly to the door, took hold of the
handle....
‘Well, at least, take the book!’
‘Another time.’
Tarhov rushed towards the girl, but at that instant she darted out of
the room. He almost knocked his nose against the door. ‘What a girl!
She’s a regular little viper!’ he declared with some vexation, and then
sank into thought.
I stayed at Tarhov’s. I wanted to find out what was the meaning of it
all. Tarhov was not disposed to be reserved. He told me that the girl
was a milliner; that he had seen her for the first time three weeks
before in a fashionable shop, where he had gone on a commission for his
sister, who lived in the provinces, to buy a hat; that he had fallen in
love with her at first sight, and that next day he had succeeded in
speaking to her in the street; that she had herself, it seemed, taken
rather a fancy to him.
‘Only, please, don’t you suppose,’ he added with warmth,--‘don’t you
imagine any harm of her. So far, at any rate, there’s been nothing of
that sort between us.
‘Harm!’ I caught him up; ‘I’ve no doubt of that; and I’ve no doubt
either that you sincerely deplore the fact, my dear fellow! Have
patience--everything will come right’
‘I hope so,’ Tarhov muttered through his teeth, though with a laugh.
‘But really, my boy, that girl ... I tell you--it’s a new type, you
know. You hadn’t time to get a good look at her. She’s a shy thing!--oo!
such a shy thing! and what a will of her own! But that very shyness is
what I like in her. It’s a sign of independence! I’m simply over head
and ears, my boy!’
Tarhov fell to talking of his ‘charmer,’ and even read me the beginning
of a poem entitled: ‘My Muse.’ His emotional outpourings were not quite
to my taste. I felt secretly jealous of him. I soon left him.
* * * * *
A few days after I happened to be passing through one of the arcades of
the Gostinny Dvor. It was Saturday; there were crowds of people
shopping; on all sides, in the midst of the pushing and crushing, the
shopmen kept shouting to people to buy. Having bought what I wanted, I
was thinking of nothing but getting away from their teasing importunity
as soon as possible--when all at once I halted involuntarily: in a fruit
shop I caught sight of my comrade’s charmer--Musa, Musa Pavlovna! She
was standing, profile to me, and seemed to be waiting for something.
After a moment’s hesitation I made up my mind to go up to her and speak.
But I had hardly passed through the doorway of the shop and taken off my
cap, when she tottered back dismayed, turned quickly to an old man in a
frieze cloak, for whom the shopman was weighing out a pound of raisins,
and clutched at his arm, as though fleeing to put herself under his
protection. The latter, in his turn, wheeled round facing her--and,
imagine my amazement, I recognised him as Punin!
Yes, it was he; there were his inflamed eyes, his full lips, his soft,
overhanging nose. He had, in fact, changed little during the last seven
years; his face was a little flabbier, perhaps.
‘Nikander Vavilitch!’ I cried. ‘Don’t you know me?’ Punin started,
opened his mouth, stared at me....
‘I haven’t the honour,’ he was beginning--and all at once he piped out
shrilly: ‘The little master of Troïtsky (my grandmother’s property was
called Troïtsky)! Can it be the little master of Troïtsky?’
The pound of raisins tumbled out of his hands.
‘It really is,’ I answered, and, picking up Punin’s purchase from the
ground, I kissed him.
He was breathless with delight and excitement; he almost cried, removed
his cap--which enabled me to satisfy myself that the last traces of hair
had vanished from his ‘egg’--took a handkerchief out of it, blew his
nose, poked the cap into his bosom with the raisins, put it on again,
again dropped the raisins.... I don’t know how Musa was behaving all
this time, I tried not to look at her. I don’t imagine Punin’s agitation
proceeded from any extreme attachment to my person; it was simply that
his nature could not stand the slightest unexpected shock. The nervous
excitability of these poor devils!
‘Come and see us, my dear boy,’ he faltered at last; ‘you won’t be too
proud to visit our humble nest? You’re a student, I see ...’
‘On the contrary, I shall be delighted, really.’
‘Are you independent now?’
‘Perfectly independent.’
‘That’s capital! How pleased Paramon Semyonitch will be! To-day he’ll be
home earlier than usual, and madame lets her, too, off for Saturdays.
But, stop, excuse me, I am quite forgetting myself. Of course, you don’t
know our niece!’