A Desperate Character and Other Stories

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'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?'

'She has run away,' he repeated.

'Who?'

'Musa. She went away in the night, and left a note.'

'A note?'

'Yes. "I thank you," she said, "but I am not coming back again. Don't
look for me." We ran up and down; we questioned the cook; she knew
nothing. I can't speak loud; you must excuse me. I've lost my voice.'

'Musa Pavlovna has left you!' I exclaimed. 'Nonsense! Mr. Baburin must
be in despair. What does he intend to do now?'

'He has no intention of doing anything. I wanted to run to the
Governor-general: he forbade it. I wanted to give information to the
police; he forbade that too, and got very angry. He says, "She's free."
He says, "I don't want to constrain her." He has even gone to work, to
his office. But he looks more dead than alive. He loved her
terribly....Oh, oh, we both loved her!'

Here Punin for the first time showed that he was not a wooden image, but
a live man; he lifted both his fists in the air, and brought them down
on his pate, which shone like ivory.

'Ungrateful girl!' he groaned; 'who was it gave you food and drink,
clothed you, and brought you up? who cared for you, would have given all
his life, all his soul ... And you have forgotten it all? To cast me
off, truly, were no great matter, but Paramon Semyonitch, Paramon ...'

I begged him to sit down, to rest.

Punin shook his head. 'No, I won't. I have come to you ... I don't know
what for. I'm like one distraught; to stay at home alone is fearful;
what am I to do with myself? I stand in the middle of the room, shut my
eyes, and call, "Musa! Musotchka!" That's the way to go out of one's
mind. But no, why am I talking nonsense? I know why I have come to you.
You know, the other day you read me that thrice-accursed poem ... you
remember, where there is talk of an old husband. What did you do that
for? Did you know something then ... or guessed something?' Punin
glanced at me. 'Piotr Petrovitch,' he cried suddenly, and he began
trembling all over, 'you know, perhaps, where she is. Kind friend, tell
me whom she has gone to!'

I was disconcerted, and could not help dropping my eyes....

'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 Reaumur.
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.

III

1849

Not seven, but fully twelve years had passed by, and I was in my
thirty-second year. My grandmother had long been dead; I was living in
Petersburg, with a post in the Department of Home Affairs. Tarhov I had
lost sight of; he had gone into the army, and lived almost always in the
provinces. We had met twice, as old friends, glad to see each other; but
we had not touched on the past in our talk. At the time of our last
meeting he was, if I remember right, already a married man.

One sultry summer day I was sauntering along Gorohov Street, cursing
my official duties for keeping me in Petersburg, and the heat and
stench and dust of the city. A funeral barred my way. It consisted of
a solitary car, that is, to be accurate, of a decrepit hearse, on
which a poor-looking wooden coffin, half-covered with a threadbare
black cloth, was shaking up and down as it was jolted violently over
the uneven pavement. An old man with a white head was walking alone
after the hearse.

I looked at him.... His face seemed familiar.... He too turned his eyes
upon me.... Merciful heavens! it was Baburin! I took off my hat, went up
to him, mentioned my name, and walked along beside him.

'Whom are you burying?' I asked.

'Nikander Vavilitch Punin,' he answered.

I felt, I knew beforehand, that he would utter that name, and yet it set
my heart aching. I felt melancholy, and yet I was glad that chance had
enabled me to pay my last respects to my old friend....

'May I go with you, Paramon Semyonitch?'

'You may.... I was following him alone; now there'll be two of us.'

Our walk lasted more than an hour. My companion moved forward, without
lifting his eyes or opening his lips. He had become quite an old man
since I had seen him last; his deeply furrowed, copper-coloured face
stood out sharply against his white hair. Signs of a life of toil and
suffering, of continual struggle, could be seen in Baburin's whole
figure; want and poverty had worked cruel havoc with him. When
everything was over, when what was Punin had disappeared for ever in the
damp ... yes, undoubtedly damp earth of the Smolensky cemetery, Baburin,
after standing a couple of minutes with bowed, uncovered head before the
newly risen mound of sandy clay, turned to me his emaciated, as it were
embittered, face, his dry, sunken eyes, thanked me grimly, and was about
to move away; but I detained him.

'Where do you live, Paramon Semyonitch? Let me come and see you. I had
no idea you were living in Petersburg. We could recall old days, and
talk of our dead friend.'

Baburin did not answer me at once.

'It's two years since I found my way to Petersburg,' he observed at
last; 'I live at the very end of the town. However, if you really care
to visit me, come.' He gave me his address. 'Come in the evening; in the
evening we are always at home ... both of us.'

'Both of you?'

'I am married. My wife is not very well to-day, and that's why she
did not come too. Though, indeed, it's quite enough for one person to
go through this empty formality, this ceremony. As if anybody
believed in it all!'

I was a little surprised at Baburin's last words, but I said nothing,
called a cab, and proposed to Baburin to take him home; but he refused.

* * * * *

The same day I went in the evening to see him. All the way there I was
thinking of Punin. I recalled how I had met him the first time, and how
ecstatic and amusing he was in those days; and afterwards in Moscow how
subdued he had grown--especially the last time I saw him; and now he had
made his last reckoning with life;--life is in grim earnest, it seems!
Baburin was living in the Viborgsky quarter, in a little house which
reminded me of the Moscow 'nest': the Petersburg abode was almost
shabbier in appearance. When I went into his room he was sitting on a
chair in a corner with his hands on his knees; a tallow candle, burning
low, dimly lighted up his bowed, white head. He heard the sound of my
footsteps, started up, and welcomed me more warmly than I had expected.
A few moments later his wife came in; I recognised her at once as
Musa--and only then understood why Baburin had invited me to come; he
wanted to show me that he had after all come by his own.

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