I bowed again to my comrade’s great friend. She left the door, took two steps forward and stood still. She was very attractive, but I could not agree with Tarhov’s opinion, and inwardly said to myself: ‘Well, she’s a strange sort of muse!’
The features of her curved, rosy face were small and delicate; there was an air of fresh, buoyant youth about all her slender, miniature figure; but of the muse, of the personification of the muse, I—and not only I—all the young people of that time had a very different conception! First of all the muse had infallibly to be dark-haired and pale. An expression of scornful pride, a bitter smile, a glance of inspiration, and that ‘something’—mysterious, demonic, fateful—that was essential to our conception of the muse, the muse of Byron, who at that time held sovereign sway over men’s fancies. There was nothing of that kind to be discerned in the face of the girl who came in. Had I been a little older and more experienced I should probably have paid more attention to her eyes, which were small and deep-set, with full lids, but dark as agate, alert and bright, a thing rare in fair-haired people. Poetical tendencies I should not have detected in their rapid, as it were elusive, glance, but hints of a passionate soul, passionate to self-forgetfulness. But I was very young then.
I held out my hand to Musa Pavlovna—she did not give me hers—she did not notice my movement; she sat down on the chair Tarhov placed for her, but did not take off her hat and cape.
She was, obviously, ill at ease; my presence embarrassed her. She drew deep breaths, at irregular intervals, as though she were gasping for air.
‘I’ve only come to you for one minute, Vladimir Nikolaitch,’ she began—her voice was very soft and deep; from her crimson, almost childish lips, it seemed rather strange;—‘but our madame would not let me out for more than half an hour. You weren’t well the day before yesterday ... and so, I thought ...’
She stammered and hung her head. Under the shade of her thick, low brows her dark eyes darted—to and fro—elusively. There are dark, swift, flashing beetles that flit so in the heat of summer among the blades of dry grass.
‘How good you are, Musa, Musotchka!’ cried Tarhov. ‘But you must stay, you must stay a little.... We’ll have the samovar in directly.’
‘Oh no, Vladimir Nikolaevitch! it’s impossible! I must go away this minute.’
‘You must rest a little, anyway. You’re out of breath.... You’re tired.’
‘I’m not tired. It’s ... not that ... only ... give me another book; I’ve finished this one.’ She took out of her pocket a tattered grey volume of a Moscow edition.