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
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