Seven years had passed by. We were living as before at Moscow—but I was by now a student in my second year—and the authority of my grandmother, who had aged very perceptibly in the last years, no longer weighed upon me. Of all my fellow-students the one with whom I was on the friendliest terms was a light-hearted and good-natured youth called Tarhov. Our habits and our tastes were similar. Tarhov was a great lover of poetry, and himself wrote verses; while in me the seeds sown by Punin had not been without fruit. As is often the case with young people who are very close friends, we had no secrets from one another. But behold, for several days together I noticed a certain excitement and agitation in Tarhov.... He disappeared for hours at a time, and I did not know where he had got to—a thing which had never happened before. I was on the point of demanding, in the name of friendship, a full explanation.... He anticipated me.
One day I was sitting in his room.... ‘Petya,’ he said suddenly, blushing gaily, and looking me straight in the face, ‘I must introduce you to my muse.’
‘Your muse! how queerly you talk! Like a classicist. (Romanticism was at that time, in 1837, at its full height.) As if I had not known it ever so long—your muse! Have you written a new poem, or what?’
‘You don’t understand what I mean,’ rejoined Tarhov, still laughing and blushing. ‘I will introduce you to a living muse.’
‘Aha! so that’s it! But how is she—yours?’
‘Why, because ... But hush, I believe it’s she coming here.’
There was the light click of hurrying heels, the door opened, and in the doorway appeared a girl of eighteen, in a chintz cotton gown, with a black cloth cape on her shoulders, and a black straw hat on her fair, rather curly hair. On seeing me she was frightened and disconcerted, and was beating a retreat ... but Tarhov at once rushed to meet her.
‘Please, please, Musa Pavlovna, come in! This is my great friend, a splendid fellow—and the soul of discretion. You’ve no need to be afraid of him. Petya,’ he turned to me, ‘let me introduce my Musa—Musa Pavlovna Vinogradov, a great friend of mine.’
I bowed.
‘How is that ... Musa?’ I was beginning.... Tarhov laughed. ‘Ah, you didn’t know there was such a name in the calendar? I didn’t know it either, my boy, till I met this dear young lady. Musa! such a charming name! And suits her so well!’