Punin and Baburin Page #2

"Punin and Baburin" is a novella by the renowned Russian author Ivan Turgenev, written in 1872. The story revolves around two central characters: the introspective Punin, a middle-aged man who grapples with his philosophical musings on life, love, and society, and the boisterous Baburin, a more practical and straightforward individual. Set against the backdrop of 19th-century Russia, the narrative explores themes of friendship, the clash of differing worldviews, and the complexities of human relationships. Through sharp dialogue and rich character development, Turgenev delves into the nuances of personal ambition and social dynamics, offering a poignant reflection on the human condition.

• Novel

								

and straw-coloured caps, and golden balls of 'hen-dazzle' blazed in
light patches. Here in spring-time the nightingales sang, the
blackbirds whistled, the cuckoos called; here in the heat of summer it
was always cool--and I loved to make my way into the wilderness and
thicket, where I had favourite secret spots, known--so, at least, I
imagined--only to me.

On coming out of my grandmother's room I made straight for one of these
spots, which I had named 'Switzerland.' But what was my astonishment
when, before I had reached 'Switzerland,' I perceived through the
delicate network of half-dry twigs and green branches that some one
besides me had found it out! A long, long figure in a long, loose coat
of yellow frieze and a tall cap was standing in the very spot I loved
best of all! I stole up a little nearer, and made out the face, which
was utterly unknown to me, also very long and soft, with small reddish
eyes, and a very funny nose; drawn out as long as a pod of peas, it
positively over-hung the full lips; and these lips, quivering and
forming a round O, were giving vent to a shrill little whistle, while
the long fingers of the bony hands, placed facing one another on the
upper part of the chest, were rapidly moving with a rotatory action.
From time to time the motion of the hands subsided, the lips ceased
whistling and quivering, the head was bent forward as though listening.
I came still nearer, examined him still more closely.... The stranger
held in each hand a small flat cup, such as people use to tease
canaries and make them sing. A twig snapped under my feet; the stranger
started, turned his dim little eyes towards the copse, and was
staggering away ... but he stumbled against a tree, uttered an
exclamation, and stood still.

I came out into the open space. The stranger smiled.

'Good morning,' said I.

'Good morning, little master!'

I did not like his calling me little master. Such familiarity!

'What are you doing here?' I asked sternly.

'Why, look here,' he responded, never leaving off smiling, 'I'm calling
the little birds to sing.' He showed me his little cups. 'The
chaffinches answer splendidly! You, at your tender years, take delight,
no doubt, in the feathered songsters' notes! Listen, I beg; I will begin
chirping, and they'll answer me directly--it's so delightful!'

He began rubbing his little cups. A chaffinch actually did chirp in
response from a mountain ash near. The stranger laughed without a sound,
and winked at me.

The laugh and the wink--every gesture of the stranger, his weak,
lisping voice, his bent knees and thin hands, his very cap and long
frieze coat--everything about him suggested good-nature, something
innocent and droll.

'Have you been here long?' I asked.

'I came to-day.'

'Why, aren't you the person of whom ...'

'Mr. Baburin spoke to the lady here. The same, the same.'

'Your friend's name's Baburin, and what's yours?'

'I'm Punin. Punin's my name; Punin. He's Baburin and I'm Punin.' He set
the little cups humming again. 'Listen, listen to the chaffinch.... How
it carols!'

This queer creature took my fancy 'awfully' all at once. Like almost all
boys, I was either timid or consequential with strangers, but I felt
with this man as if I had known him for ages.

'Come along with me,' I said to him; 'I know a place better than
this; there's a seat there; we can sit down, and we can see the dam
from there.'

'By all means let us go,' my new friend responded in his singing voice.
I let him pass before me. As he walked he rolled from side to side,
tripped over his own feet, and his head fell back.

I noticed on the back of his coat, under the collar, there hung a small
tassel. 'What's that you've got hanging there?' I asked.

'Where?' he questioned, and he put his hand up to the collar to feel.
'Ah, the tassel? Let it be! I suppose it was sewn there for ornament!
It's not in the way.'

I led him to the seat, and sat down; he settled himself beside me. 'It's
lovely here!' he commented, and he drew a deep, deep sigh. 'Oh, how
lovely! You have a most splendid garden! Oh, o--oh!'

I looked at him from one side. 'What a queer cap you've got!' I couldn't
help exclaiming. 'Show it me here!'

'By all means, little master, by all means.' He took off the cap; I was
holding out my hand, but I raised my eyes, and--simply burst out
laughing. Punin was completely bald; not a single hair was to be seen on
the high conical skull, covered with smooth white skin. He passed his
open hand over it, and he too laughed. When he laughed he seemed, as it
were, to gulp, he opened his mouth wide, closed his eyes--and vertical
wrinkles flitted across his forehead in three rows, like waves. 'Eh,'
said he at last, 'isn't it quite like an egg?'

'Yes, yes, exactly like an egg!' I agreed with enthusiasm. 'And have you
been like that long?'

'Yes, a long while; but what hair I used to have!--A golden fleece like
that for which the Argonauts sailed over the watery deeps.'

Though I was only twelve, yet, thanks to my mythological studies, I knew
who the Argonauts were; I was the more surprised at hearing the name on
the lips of a man dressed almost in rags.

'You must have learned mythology, then?' I queried, as I twisted his cap
over and over in my hands. It turned out to be wadded, with a
mangy-looking fur trimming, and a broken cardboard peak.

'I have studied that subject, my dear little master; I've had time
enough for everything in my life! But now restore to me my covering, it
is a protection to the nakedness of my head.'

He put on the cap, and, with a downward slope of his whitish eyebrows,
asked me who I was, and who were my parents.

'I'm the grandson of the lady who owns this place,' I answered. 'I live
alone with her. Papa and mamma are dead.'

Punin crossed himself. 'May the kingdom of heaven be theirs! So then,
you're an orphan; and the heir, too. The noble blood in you is visible
at once; it fairly sparkles in your eyes, and plays like this ... sh ...
sh ... sh ...' He represented with his fingers the play of the blood.
'Well, and do you know, your noble honour, whether my friend has come to
terms with your grandmamma, whether he has obtained the situation he was
promised?'

'I don't know.'

Punin cleared his throat. 'Ah! if one could be settled here, if only for
a while! Or else one may wander and wander far, and find not a place to
rest one's head; the disquieting alarms of life are unceasing, the soul
is confounded....'

'Tell me,' I interrupted: 'are you of the clerical profession?'

Punin turned to me and half closed his eyelids. 'And what may be the
cause of that question, gentle youth?'

'Why, you talk so--well, as they read in church.'

'Because I use the old scriptural forms of expression? But that ought
not to surprise you. Admitting that in ordinary conversation such forms
of expression are not always in place; but when one soars on the wings
of inspiration, at once the language too grows more exalted. Surely your
teacher--the professor of Russian literature--you do have lessons in
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes