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Updated: June 12, 2025
'But I don't mind her, I added contemptuously. 'What do I care! Punin shook his head. 'Ah, you gentlefolk, you gentlefolk! you're too fond of foreigners! You have turned away from what is Russian, towards all that's strange. You've turned your hearts to those that come from foreign parts.... 'Hullo! Are you talking in verse? I asked. 'Well, and why not?
I was a little surprised at Baburin's last words, but I said nothing, called a cab, and proposed to Baburin to take him home; but he refused. The same day I went in the evening to see him. All the way there I was thinking of Punin.
Punin, Nikander Vavilitch, at this moment, is not at home, truly, Baburin responded deliberately; 'but allow me to make an observation, young man: it's not the proper thing to come into another person's room like this, without asking leave. I! ... young man! ... how dared he! ... I grew crimson with fury.
I looked in the direction she had taken. 'Aha, my boy, thought I, 'you must have had notice, then, since you're on the look-out. And whistling to myself, I started homewards. Next morning I had only just drunk my morning tea, when Punin made his appearance.
'You must be indulgent, she's not a fine lady, observed Punin, and he went out of the shop into the street; Musa and I followed him. The house in which Punin lodged was a considerable distance from the Gostinny Dvor, being, in fact, in Sadovoy Street. On the way my former preceptor in poetry had time to communicate a good many details of his mode of existence.
'In the highest degree, sir! in the high ... est de ... gree, I do! 'And you don't read Pushkin? You don't like Pushkin? Punin again flung his hands up higher than his head. 'Pushkin? Pushkin is the snake, lying hid in the grass, who is endowed with the note of the nightingale!
Almost with horror, Punin turned his plump face to me. 'To whom did you apply that expression? he asked me, with round eyes. 'Why, to him, of course.... What's his name? that ... Baburin. 'Paramon Semyonevitch? 'Why, yes; that ... blackfaced fellow. 'Eh ... eh ... eh ...! Punin protested, with caressing reproachfulness. 'How can you talk like that, little master!
I wanted to have another chat with the queer fellow I had seen the day before. Without knocking at the door the very idea of doing so would never have occurred to us I walked straight into the room. I found in it not the man I was looking for, not Punin, but his protector the philanthropist, Baburin. He was standing before the window, without his outer garment, his legs wide apart.
The latter, in his turn, wheeled round facing her and, imagine my amazement, I recognised him as Punin! Yes, it was he; there were his inflamed eyes, his full lips, his soft, overhanging nose. He had, in fact, changed little during the last seven years; his face was a little flabbier, perhaps. 'Nikander Vavilitch! I cried. 'Don't you know me? Punin started, opened his mouth, stared at me....
Between the windows and on the walls hung about a dozen tiny wooden cages containing larks, canaries, and siskins. 'My subjects! Punin pronounced triumphantly, pointing his finger at them. We had hardly time to get in and look about us, Punin had hardly sent Musa for the samovar, when Baburin himself came in.
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