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‘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!’