‘Perhaps she said something in her letter,’ I began....
‘She said she was leaving us because she loved some one else! Dear, good
friend, you know, surely, where she is? Save her, let us go to her; we
will persuade her. Only think what a man she’s bringing to ruin.’
Punin all at once flushed crimson, the blood seemed to rush to his
head, he plumped heavily down on his knees. ‘Save us, friend, let us
go to her.’
My servant appeared in the doorway, and stood still in amazement.
I had no little trouble to get Punin on to his feet again, to convince
him that, even if I did suspect something, still it would not do to act
like that, on the spur of the moment, especially both together--that
would only spoil all our efforts--that I was ready to do my best, but
would not answer for anything. Punin did not oppose me, nor did he
indeed hear me; he only repeated from time to time in his broken voice,
‘Save her, save her and Paramon Semyonitch.’ At last he began to cry.
‘Tell me at least one thing,’ he asked ... ‘is _he_ handsome, young?’
‘Yes, he is young,’ I answered.
‘He is young,’ repeated Punin, smearing the tears over his cheeks; ‘and
she is young.... It’s from that that all the trouble’s sprung!’
This rhyme came by chance; poor Punin was in no mood for versifying. I
would have given a good deal to hear his rhapsodical eloquence again, or
even his almost noiseless laugh.... Alas! his eloquence was quenched for
ever, and I never heard his laugh again.
I promised to let him know, as soon as I should find out anything
positive.... Tarhov’s name I did not, however, mention. Punin suddenly
collapsed completely. ‘Very good, very good, sir, thank you,’ he said
with a pitiful face, using the word ‘sir,’ which he had never done
before; ‘only mind, sir, do not say anything to Paramon Semyonitch ...
or he’ll be angry. In one word, he has forbidden it. Good-bye, sir.’
As he got up and turned his back to me, Punin struck me as such a poor
feeble creature, that I positively marvelled; he limped with both legs,
and doubled up at each step....
‘It’s a bad look-out. It’s the end of him, that’s what it means,’
I thought.
* * * * *
Though I had promised Punin to trace Musa, yet as I set off the same day
to Tarhov’s, I had not the slightest expectation of learning anything,
as I considered it certain that either I should not find him at home, or
that he would refuse to see me. My supposition turned out to be a
mistaken one. I found Tarhov at home; he received me, and I found out
indeed all I wanted to know; but there was nothing gained by that.
Directly I crossed the threshold of his door, Tarhov came resolutely,
rapidly, to meet me, and his eyes sparkling and glowing, his face grown
handsomer and radiant, he said firmly and briskly: ‘Listen, Petya, my
boy; I guess what you’ve come for, and what you want to talk about; but
I give you warning, if you say a single word about her, or about her
action, or about what, according to you, is the course dictated to me by
common sense, we’re friends no longer, we’re not even acquainted, and I
shall beg you to treat me as a stranger.’
I looked at Tarhov; he was quivering all over inwardly, like a tightly
drawn harpstring; he was tingling all over, hardly could he hold back
the tide of brimming youth and passion; violent, ecstatic happiness had
burst into his soul, and had taken full possession of him--and he of it.
* * * * *
‘Is that your final decision?’ I pronounced mournfully.
‘Yes, Petya, my boy, it’s final.’
‘In that case, there’s nothing for me but to say good-bye.’
Tarhov faintly dropped his eyelids.... He was too happy at that moment.
‘Good-bye, Petya, old boy,’ he said, a little through his nose, with a
candid smile and a gay flash of all his white teeth.
What was I to do? I left him to his ‘happiness.’ As I slammed the door
after me, the other door of the room slammed also--I heard it.
* * * * *
It was with a heavy heart that I trudged off next day to see my luckless
acquaintances. I secretly hoped--such is human weakness--that I should
not find them at home, and again I was mistaken. Both were at home. The
change that had taken place in them during the last three days must have
struck any one. Punin looked ghastly white and flabby. His talkativeness
had completely vanished. He spoke listlessly, feebly, still in the same
husky voice, and looked somehow lost and bewildered. Baburin, on the
contrary, seemed shrunk into himself, and blacker than ever; taciturn at
the best of times, he uttered nothing now but a few abrupt sounds; an
expression of stony severity seemed to have frozen on his countenance.
I felt it impossible to be silent; but what was there to say? I confined
myself to whispering to Punin, ‘I have discovered nothing, and my advice
to you is to give up all hope.’ Punin glanced at me with his swollen,
red little eyes--the only red left in his face--muttered something
inaudible, and hobbled away. Baburin most likely guessed what I had been
speaking about to Punin, and opening his lips, which were tightly
compressed, as though glued together, he pronounced, in a deliberate
voice, ‘My dear sir, since your last visit to us, something disagreeable
has happened to us; our young friend, Musa Pavlovna Vinogradov, finding
it no longer convenient to live with us, has decided to leave us, and
has given us a written communication to that effect. Not considering
that we have any right to hinder her doing so, we have left her to act
according to her own views of what is best. We trust that she may be
happy,’ he added, with some effort; ‘and I humbly beg you not to allude
to the subject, as any such references are useless, and even painful.’
‘So he too, like Tarhov, forbids my speaking of Musa,’ was the thought
that struck me, and I could not help wondering inwardly. He might well
prize Zeno so highly. I wished to impart to him some facts about that
sage, but my tongue would not form the words, and it did well.
I soon went about my business. At parting neither Punin nor Baburin
said, ‘Till we meet!’ both with one voice pronounced, ‘Good-bye.’
Punin even returned me a volume of the _Telegraph_ I had brought him, as
much as to say, ‘he had no need of anything of that kind now.’
A week later I had a curious encounter. An early spring had set in
abruptly; at midday the heat rose to eighteen degrees Réaumur.
Everything was turning green, and shooting up out of the spongy, damp
earth. I hired a horse at the riding-school, and went out for a ride
into the outskirts of the town, towards the Vorobyov hills. On the road
I was met by a little cart, drawn by a pair of spirited ponies,
splashed with mud up to their ears, with plaited tails, and red ribbons
in their manes and forelocks. Their harness was such as sportsmen
affect, with copper discs and tassels; they were being driven by a
smart young driver, in a blue tunic without sleeves, a yellow striped
silk shirt, and a low felt hat with peacock’s feathers round the crown.
Beside him sat a girl of the artisan or merchant class, in a flowered
silk jacket, with a big blue handkerchief on her head--and she was
simply bubbling over with mirth. The driver was laughing too. I drew my
horse on one side, but did not, however, take particular notice of the
swiftly passing, merry couple, when, all at once, the young man shouted
to his ponies.... Why, that was Tarhov’s voice! I looked round.... Yes,
it was he; unmistakably he, dressed up as a peasant, and beside
him--wasn’t it Musa?
But at that instant their ponies quickened their pace, and they were
out of my sight in a minute. I tried to put my horse into a gallop
in pursuit of them, but it was an old riding school hack, that
shambled from side to side as it moved; it went more slowly
galloping than trotting.
‘Enjoy yourselves, my dear friends!’ I muttered through my teeth.
I ought to observe that I had not seen Tarhov during the whole week,
though I had been three times to his rooms. He was never at home.
Baburin and Punin I had not seen either.... I had not been to see them.
I caught cold on my ride; though it was very warm, there was a piercing
wind. I was dangerously ill, and when I recovered I went with my
grandmother into the country ‘to feed up,’ by the doctor’s advice. I did
not get to Moscow again; in the autumn I was transferred to the
Petersburg university.