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‘What? Musa Pavlovna too?’ I queried.

‘She too. She’s a charming girl we have got with us, isn’t she? What do you say?’

‘Very charming,’ I assented. Punin rubbed his bare head with extraordinary rapidity.

‘She’s a beauty, sir, a pearl or even a diamond–it’s the truth I am telling you.’ He bent down quite to my ear. ‘Noble blood, too,’ he whispered to me, ‘only–you understand–left-handed; the forbidden fruit was eaten. Well, the parents died, the relations would do nothing for her, and flung her to the hazards of destiny, that’s to say, despair, dying of hunger! But at that point Paramon Semyonitch steps forward, known as a deliverer from of old! He took her, clothed her and cared for her, brought up the poor nestling; and she has blossomed into our darling! I tell you, a man of the rarest qualities!’

Punin subsided against the back of the armchair, lifted his hands, and again bending forward, began whispering again, but still more mysteriously: ‘You see Paramon Semyonitch himself too…. Didn’t you know? he too is of exalted extraction–and on the left side, too. They do say–his father was a powerful Georgian prince, of the line of King David…. What do you make of that? A few words–but how much is said? The blood of King David! What do you think of that? And according to other accounts, the founder of the family of Paramon Semyonitch was an Indian Shah, Babur. Blue blood! That’s fine too, isn’t it? Eh?’

‘Well?’ I queried, ‘and was he too, Baburin, flung to the hazards of destiny?’

Punin rubbed his pate again. ‘To be sure he was! And with even greater cruelty than our little lady! From his earliest childhood nothing but struggling! And, in fact, I will confess that, inspired by Ruban, I composed in allusion to this fact a stanza for the portrait of Paramon Semyonitch. Wait a bit … how was it? Yes!

‘E’en from the cradle fate’s remorseless blows
Baburin drove towards the abyss of woes!
But as in darkness gleams the light, so now
The conqueror’s laurel wreathes his noble brow!’

Punin delivered these lines in a rhythmic, sing-song voice, with full rounded vowels, as verses should be read.

‘So that’s how it is he’s a republican!’ I exclaimed.

‘No, that’s not why,’ Punin answered simply. ‘He forgave his father long ago; but he cannot endure injustice of any sort; it’s the sorrows of others that trouble him!’

I wanted to turn the conversation on what I had learned from Musa the day before, that is to say, on Baburin’s matrimonial project,–but I did not know how to proceed. Punin himself got me out of the difficulty.

‘Did you notice nothing?’ he asked me suddenly, slily screwing up his eyes, ‘while you were with us? nothing special?’

‘Why, was there anything to notice?’ I asked in my turn.

Punin looked over his shoulder, as though anxious to satisfy himself that no one was listening. ‘Our little beauty, Musotchka, is shortly to be a married lady!’

‘How so?’

‘Madame Baburin,’ Punin announced with an effort, and slapping his knees several times with his open hands, he nodded his head, like a china mandarin.

‘Impossible!’ I cried, with assumed astonishment. Punin’s head slowly came to rest, and his hands dropped down. ‘Why impossible, allow me to ask?’

‘Because Paramon Semyonitch is more fit to be your young lady’s father; because such a difference in age excludes all likelihood of love–on the girl’s side.’

‘Excludes?’ Punin repeated excitedly. ‘But what about gratitude? and pure affection? and tenderness of feeling? Excludes! You must consider this: admitting that Musa’s a splendid girl; but then to gain Paramon Semyonitch’s affection, to be his comfort, his prop–his spouse, in short! is that not the loftiest possible happiness even for such a girl? And she realises it! You should look, turn an attentive eye! In Paramon Semyonitch’s presence Musotchka is all veneration, all tremor and enthusiasm!’

‘That’s just what’s wrong, Nikander Vavilitch, that she is, as you say, all tremor. If you love any one you don’t feel tremors in their presence.’