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!’

I hastened to slip in that I had not yet had the pleasure.

‘Of course, of course! How could you know her! Musotchka … Take note, my dear sir, this girl’s name is Musa—and it’s not a nickname, but her real name … Isn’t that a predestination? Musotchka, I want to introduce you to Mr. … Mr. …’

‘B.,’ I prompted.

‘B.,’ he repeated. ‘Musotchka, listen! You see before you the most excellent, most delightful of young men. Fate threw us together when he was still in years of boyhood! I beg you to look on him as a friend!’

I swung off a low bow. Musa, red as a poppy, flashed a look on me from under her eyelids, and dropped them immediately.

‘Ah!’ thought I, ‘you ‘re one of those who in difficult moments don’t turn pale, but red; that must be made a note of.’

‘You must be indulgent, she’s not a fine lady,’ observed Punin, and he went out of the shop into the street; Musa and I followed him.

* * * * *

The house in which Punin lodged was a considerable distance from the Gostinny Dvor, being, in fact, in Sadovoy Street. On the way my former preceptor in poetry had time to communicate a good many details of his mode of existence. Since the time of our parting, both he and Baburin had been tossed about holy Russia pretty thoroughly, and had not long—only a year and a half before—found a permanent home in Moscow. Baburin had succeeded in becoming head-clerk in the office of a rich merchant and manufacturer. ‘Not a lucrative berth,’ Punin observed with a sigh,—’a lot of work, and not much profit … but what’s one to do? One must be thankful to get that! I, too, am trying to earn something by copying and lessons; only my efforts have so far not been crowned with success. My writing, you perhaps recollect, is old-fashioned, not in accordance with the tastes of the day; and as regards lessons—what has been a great obstacle is the absence of befitting attire; moreover, I greatly fear that in the matter of instruction—in the subject of Russian literature—I am also not in harmony with the tastes of the day; and so it comes about that I am turned away.’ (Punin laughed his sleepy, subdued laugh. He had retained his old, somewhat high-flown manner of speech, and his old weakness for falling into rhyme.) ‘All run after novelties, nothing but innovations! I dare say you, too, do not honour the old divinities, and fall down before new idols?’

‘And you, Nikander Vavilitch, do you really still esteem Heraskov?’

Punin stood still and waved both hands at once. ‘In the highest degree, sir! in the high … est de … gree, I do!’

‘And you don’t read Pushkin? You don’t like Pushkin?’

Punin again flung his hands up higher than his head.

‘Pushkin? Pushkin is the snake, lying hid in the grass, who is endowed with the note of the nightingale!’

While Punin and I talked like this, cautiously picking our way over the unevenly laid brick pavement of so-called ‘white-stoned’ Moscow—in which there is not one stone, and which is not white at all—Musa walked silently beside