Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (330 page)

‘I can’t,’ he pronounced, with an intense emotion, which impressed even me; — ’excuse me; I cannot hear more of that author. He is an immoral slanderer; he is a liar … he upsets me. I cannot! Permit me to cut short my visit to - day.’

I began trying to persuade Punin to remain; but he insisted on having his own way with a sort of stupid, scared obstinacy: he repeated several times that he felt upset, and wished to get a breath of fresh air — and all the while his lips were faintly quivering and his eyes avoided mine, as though I had wounded him. So he went away. A little while after, I too went out of the house and set off to see Tarhov.

* * * * *

Without inquiring of any one, with a student’s usual lack of ceremony, I walked straight into his lodgings. In the first room there was no one. I called Tarhov by name, and receiving no answer, was just going to retreat; but the door of the adjoining room opened, and my friend appeared. He looked at me rather queerly, and shook hands without speaking. I had come to him to repeat all I had heard from Punin; and though I felt at once that I had called on Tarhov at the wrong moment, still, after talking a little about extraneous matters, I ended by informing him of Baburin’s intentions in regard to Musa. This piece of news did not, apparently, surprise him much; he quietly sat down at the table, and fixing his eyes intently upon me, and keeping silent as before, gave to his features an expression … an expression, as though he would say: ‘Well, what more have you to tell? Come, out with your ideas!’ I looked more attentively into his face…. It struck me as eager, a little ironical, a little arrogant even. But that did not hinder me from bringing out my ideas. On the contrary. ‘You’re showing off,’ was my thought; ‘so I am not going to spare you!’ And there and then I proceeded straightway to enlarge upon the mischief of yielding to impulsive feelings, upon the duty of every man to respect the freedom and personal life of another man — in short, I proceeded to enunciate useful and appropriate counsel. Holding forth in this manner, I walked up and down the room, to be more at ease. Tarhov did not interrupt me, and did not stir from his seat; he only played with his fingers on his chin.

‘I know,’ said I … (Exactly what was my motive in speaking so, I have no clear idea myself — envy, most likely; it was not devotion to morality, anyway!) ‘I know,’ said I, ‘that it’s no easy matter, no joking matter; I am sure you love Musa, and that Musa loves you — that it is not a passing fancy on your part…. But, see, let us suppose! (Here I folded my arms on my breast.) … Let us suppose you gratify your passion — what is to follow? You won’t marry her, you know. And at the same time you are wrecking the happiness of an excellent, honest man, her benefactor — and — who knows? (here my face expressed at the same time penetration and sorrow) — possibly her own happiness too….’

And so on, and so on!

For about a quarter of an hour my discourse flowed on. Tarhov was still silent. I began to be disconcerted by this silence. I glanced at him from time to time, not so much to satisfy myself as to the impression my words were making on him, as to find out why he neither objected nor agreed, but sat like a deaf mute. At last I fancied that there was … yes, there certainly was a change in his face. It began to show signs of uneasiness, agitation, painful agitation…. Yet, strange to say, the eager, bright, laughing something, which had struck me at my first glance at Tarhov, still did not leave that agitated, that troubled face! I could not make up my mind whether or no to congratulate myself on the success of my sermon, when Tarhov suddenly got up, and pressing both my hands, said, speaking very quickly, ‘Thank you, thank you. You’re right, of course, … though, on the other side, one might observe … What is your Baburin you make so much of, after all? An honest fool — and nothing more! You call him a republican — and he’s simply a fool! Oo! That’s what he is! All his republicanism simply means that he can never get on anywhere!’

‘Ah! so that’s your idea! A fool! can never get on! — but let me tell you,’ I pursued, with sudden heat, ‘let me tell you, my dear Vladimir Nikolaitch, that in these days to get on nowhere is a sign of a fine, a noble nature! None but worthless people — bad people — get on anywhere and accommodate themselves to everything. You say Baburin is an honest fool! Why, is it better, then, to your mind, to be dishonest and clever?’

‘You distort my words!’ cried Tarhov. ‘I only wanted to explain how I understand that person. Do you think he’s such a rare specimen? Not a bit of it! I’ve met other people like him in my time. A man sits with an air of importance, silent, obstinate, angular…. O - ho - ho! say you. It shows that there’s a great deal in him! But there’s nothing in him, not one idea in his head — nothing but a sense of his own dignity.’

‘Even if there is nothing else, that’s an honourable thing,’ I broke in. ‘But let me ask where you have managed to study him like this? You don’t know him, do you? Or are you describing him … from what Musa tells you?’

Tarhov shrugged his shoulders. ‘Musa and I … have other things to talk of. I tell you what,’ he added, his whole body quivering with impatience, — ’I tell you what: if Baburin has such a noble and honest nature, how is it he doesn’t see that Musa is not a fit match for him? It’s one of two things: either he knows that what he’s doing to her is something of the nature of an outrage, all in the name of gratitude … and if so, what about his honesty? — or he doesn’t realise it … and in that case, what can one call him but a fool?’

I was about to reply, but Tarhov again clutched my hands, and again began talking in a hurried voice. ‘Though … of course … I confess you are right, a thousand times right…. You are a true friend … but now leave me alone, please.’

I was puzzled. ‘Leave you alone?’

‘Yes. I must, don’t you see, think over all you’ve just said, thoroughly…. I have no doubt you are right … but now leave me alone!’

‘You ‘re in such a state of excitement …’ I was beginning.

‘Excitement? I?’ Tarhov laughed, but instantly pulled himself up. ‘Yes, of course I am. How could I help being? You say yourself it’s no joking matter. Yes; I must think about it … alone.’ He was still squeezing my hands. ‘Good - bye, my dear fellow, good - bye!’

‘Good - bye,’ I repeated. ‘Good - bye, old boy!’ As I was going away I flung a last glance at Tarhov. He seemed pleased. At what? At the fact that I, like a true friend and comrade, had pointed out the danger of the way upon which he had set his foot — or that I was going? Ideas of the most diverse kind were floating in my head the whole day till evening — till the very instant when I entered the house occupied by Punin and Baburin, for I went to see them the same day. I am bound to confess that some of Tarhov’s phrases had sunk deep into my soul … and were ringing in my ears…. In truth, was it possible Baburin … was it possible he did not see she was not a fit match for him?

But could this possibly be: Baburin, the self - sacrificing Baburin — an honest fool!

* * * * *

Punin had said, when he came to see me, that I had been expected there the day before. That may have been so, but on this day, it is certain, no one expected me…. I found every one at home, and every one was surprised at my visit. Baburin and Punin were both unwell: Punin had a headache, and he was lying curled up on the sofa, with his head tied up in a spotted handkerchief, and strips of cucumber applied to his temples. Baburin was suffering from a bilious attack; all yellow, almost dusky, with dark rings round his eyes, with scowling brow and unshaven chin — he did not look much like a bridegroom! I tried to go away…. But they would not let me go, and even made tea. I spent anything but a cheerful evening. Musa, it is true, had no ailment, and was less shy than usual too, but she was obviously vexed, angry…. At last she could not restrain herself, and, as she handed me a cup of tea, she whispered hurriedly: ‘You can say what you like, you may try your utmost, you won’t make any difference…. So there!’ I looked at her in astonishment, and, seizing a favourable moment, asked her, also in a whisper, ‘What’s the meaning of your words?’ ‘I’ll tell you,’ she answered, and her black eyes, gleaming angrily under her frowning brows, were fastened for an instant on my face, and turned away at once: ‘the meaning is that I heard all you said there to - day, and thank you for nothing, and things won’t be as you ‘d have them, anyway.’ ‘You were there,’ broke from me unconsciously…. But at this point Baburin’s attention was caught, and he glanced in our direction. Musa walked away from me.

Ten minutes later she managed to come near me again. She seemed to enjoy saying bold and dangerous things to me, and saying them in the presence of her protector, under his vigilant eye, only exercising barely enough caution not to arouse his suspicions. It is well known that walking on the brink, on the very edge, of the precipice is woman’s favourite pastime. ‘Yes, I was there,’ whispered Musa, without any change of countenance, except that her nostrils were faintly quivering and her lips twitching. ‘Yes, and if Paramon Semyonitch asks me what I am whispering about with you, I’d tell him this minute. What do I care?’

‘Be more careful,’ I besought her. ‘I really believe they are noticing.’

‘I tell you, I’m quite ready to tell them everything. And who’s noticing? One’s stretching his neck off the pillow, like a sick duck, and hears nothing; and the other’s deep in philosophy. Don’t you be afraid!’ Musa’s voice rose a little, and her cheeks gradually flushed a sort of malignant, dusky red; and this suited her marvellously, and never had she been so pretty. As she cleared the table, and set the cups and saucers in their places, she moved swiftly about the room; there was something challenging about her light, free and easy movement. ‘You may criticise me as you like,’ she seemed to say; ‘but I’m going my own way, and I’m not afraid of you.’

I cannot disguise the fact that I found Musa bewitching just that

evening. ‘Yes,’ I mused; ‘she’s a little spitfire — she’s a new type….

She’s — exquisite. Those hands know how to deal a blow, I dare say….

What of it! No matter!’

‘Paramon Semyonitch,’ she cried suddenly, ‘isn’t a republic an empire in which every one does as he chooses?’

‘A republic is not an empire,’ answered Baburin, raising his head, and contracting his brows; ‘it is a … form of society in which everything rests on law and justice.’

‘Then,’ Musa pursued, ‘in a republic no one can oppress any one else?’

‘No.’

‘And every one is free to dispose of himself?’

‘Quite free.’

‘Ah! that’s all I wanted to know.’

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Oh, I wanted to — I wanted
you
to tell me that.’

‘Our young lady is anxious to learn,’ Punin observed from the sofa.

When I went out into the passage Musa accompanied me, not, of course, from politeness, but with the same malicious intent. I asked her, as I took leave, ‘Can you really love him so much?’

‘Whether I love him, or whether I don’t, that’s
my
affair,’ she answered. ‘What is to be, will be.’

‘Mind what you’re about; don’t play with fire … you’ll get burnt.’

‘Better be burnt than frozen. You … with your good advice! And how can you tell he won’t marry me? How do you know I so particularly want to get married? If I am ruined … what business is it of yours?’

She slammed the door after me.

I remember that on the way home I reflected with some pleasure that my friend Vladimir Tarhov might find things rather hot for him with his new type…. He ought to have to pay something for his happiness!

That he would be happy, I was — regretfully — unable to doubt.

Three days passed by. I was sitting in my room at my writing - table, and not so much working as getting myself ready for lunch…. I heard a rustle, lifted my head, and I was stupefied. Before me — rigid, terrible, white as chalk, stood an apparition … Punin. His half - closed eyes were looking at me, blinking slowly; they expressed a senseless terror, the terror of a frightened hare, and his arms hung at his sides like sticks.

‘Nikander Vavilitch! what is the matter with you? How did you come here?

Did no one see you? What has happened? Do speak!’

‘She has run away,’ Punin articulated in a hoarse, hardly audible voice.

‘What do you say?’