Muza (Bunin)
Short summary
Moscow, early 20th century. A young man past his first youth decided to study painting and moved to Moscow for the winter, taking lessons from a pretentious artist and living a dreary existence.
One March day, a tall girl in gray clothing appeared at his door, introducing herself as Muza Graf, a Conservatoire student who had heard he was interesting. She boldly entered his apartment, made herself at home, and kissed him, promising to return.
They began living together, first at a dacha outside Moscow, then at his village estate. A neighbor named Zavistovsky, a poor landowner and musician, began visiting them regularly. One winter evening, the narrator returned from town to find Muza missing. Suspecting she had gone to Zavistovsky's, he took a rifle and went there.
And noiselessly, also in felt boots, with a shawl on her shoulders, from the bedroom adjoining the study came Muza. "You've got a rifle," she said. "If you want to shoot, shoot not at him, but at me."
Muza had left the narrator for Zavistovsky. When the narrator expressed his anguish, she coldly dismissed him, saying the matter was "clear and done with." Heartbroken, he left.
Detailed summary
Division into chapters is editorial.
The narrators life as an art student in Moscow
The narrator, no longer in the first flush of youth, decided to study painting in Moscow, having abandoned his estate in Tambov Province for the winter. He took lessons from a well-known but talentless artist who affected all the expected artistic mannerisms: long greasy hair, a pipe, velvet jacket, and dirty gaiters. The narrator particularly despised the artist's condescending manner and empty praise of students' work.
He lived on the Arbat near the Prague restaurant in the Capital rooms. His days were spent working at the artist's studio and at home, while his evenings were often wasted in cheap restaurants with Bohemian acquaintances who were devoted to billiards and crayfish with beer. The narrator found this existence unpleasant and boring, surrounded by the slovenly artist, his neglected studio, and the gloomy Capital rooms. His memories of this period were dominated by endless snow, the sounds of horse-drawn trams, and the sour stench of beer and gas in dimly lit restaurants.
Muzas unexpected appearance and beginning of their relationship
One March day, as the narrator was working with pencils at home and noticing the first signs of spring through the window, someone knocked at his door. After calling out twice with no response, he opened the door to find a tall girl in a grey winter hat and coat, with rain and snow shining on her face. She introduced herself as Muza Graf, a Conservatoire student, and stated boldly that she had come to meet him because she had heard he was an interesting person.
"I'm a Conservatoire student, Muza Graf. I heard you were an interesting person and I've come to meet you. Do you have any objection?" Quite surprised, I replied, of course, with a courteous phrase.
After entering, she made herself at home, removing her hat and coat, and ordering the narrator to take off her overshoes and fetch her handkerchief. She mentioned seeing him at Shor's concert the previous day. The narrator was excited by her scent, the combination of her masculine directness and feminine youth, and the physical contact as he removed her overshoes. After drinking tea and eating apples he had ordered, she suddenly embraced him and kissed him on the lips.
I was excited by that scent, excited by the combination of her masculinity with all that was femininely youthful in her face, in her direct eyes, in her large and beautiful hand – in everything that I looked over and felt.
Muza then announced she wanted to have dinner with him at the Prague restaurant two days later. She claimed to be inexperienced and that he was her first love. The narrator soon abandoned his studies while Muza continued hers. They became inseparable, living like newlyweds, attending galleries, exhibitions, concerts, and even public lectures together.
Spring and summer at the dacha outside Moscow
In May, at Muza's request, the narrator moved to an old country estate outside Moscow where small dachas were available for rent. Muza would visit him there, returning to Moscow late at night. The narrator had never before experienced the life of a dacha-dweller with nothing to do, surrounded by pinewoods in such a climate.
Of course, I soon abandoned my studies, she somehow or other continued hers. We were never apart, lived like newly-weds... In May I moved, at her wish, to an old country estate outside Moscow.
The estate was characterized by constant rain, with thunder and sunshine alternating, creating fragrant pine vapors. The trees were enormous, making the dachas beneath them seem tiny. A huge black pond, half-covered in green duckweed, dominated the landscape. The narrator's log-built dacha was unfinished, with uncaulked walls, unplaned floors, and stoves without doors. The constant dampness caused his boots to grow moldy under the bed.
The summer evenings were magical, with darkness falling only around midnight. The half-light in the west lingered over the quiet woods, mixing strangely with moonlight on clear nights. Despite the apparent tranquility, torrential rain would often crash down with thunder and lightning while the narrator slept. Each day brought a cycle of weather: morning sunshine, midday storms, and evening clarity.
The narrator would meet Muza at the station in the evenings. She would arrive with a string bag containing hors d'oeuvres, fruits, and Madeira. After dining together, they would wander through the park before her late departure. She would become dreamy, walking with her head on his shoulder through the enchanted, silent night with its silvery moonlit glades.
Life together in the narrators village
In June, Muza accompanied the narrator to his village. Without marrying, she began living with him as his wife and managing the household. She spent the long autumn without boredom, occupied with daily chores and reading. Among their neighbors, they were most frequently visited by Zavistovsky, a solitary poor landowner who lived a couple of kilometers away.
The enchanted light night, endlessly silent, with the endlessly long shadows of trees on the silvery lakes of the glades... In June she went away with me to my village – without our having married, she began living with me as a wife.
Zavistovsky was described as puny, gingery, neither bold nor bright, but a decent musician. The narrator had known him since childhood and grew so accustomed to his company that an evening without him felt strange. They would play draughts together, or Zavistovsky would play piano duets with Muza.
Betrayal and confrontation with Zavistovsky
Just before Christmas, the narrator went into town. When he returned by moonlight, he could not find Muza anywhere in the house. His servant Dunya didn't know where she was, while his old nanny grimly remarked that she had gone out after breakfast. The narrator initially thought she might have gone to visit Zavistovsky and would return with him soon.
After falling asleep briefly, he awoke with the sudden realization that Muza might have abandoned him. He felt humiliated in front of his servants. Not knowing what to do, he put on his sheepskin coat, took a rifle, and set off down the main road to Zavistovsky's estate. The snowy fields gleamed beneath the low moon as he walked.
"She's abandoned me, hasn't she! She's hired a peasant in the village and left for the station, for Moscow – anything's possible with her! But perhaps she's come back?" I walked through the house – no, she hadn't come back.
Arriving at Zavistovsky's dark house, the narrator called out. Zavistovsky appeared noiselessly in felt boots, explaining he was sitting in the dark. When the narrator mentioned Muza's disappearance, Zavistovsky remained silent before saying he understood. At that moment, Muza herself emerged from the bedroom, also wearing felt boots and a shawl.
She told the narrator that if he wanted to shoot, he should aim at her rather than Zavistovsky. She declared the matter was clear and done with, and that scenes were useless. When the narrator accused her of cruelty and objected to her intimacy with Zavistovsky in his presence, she merely asked "Why?" and requested a cigarette from her new lover. With his heart pounding and temples thumping, the narrator rose and left, reeling from the betrayal.
"The matter's clear and done with," she said. "Scenes are no use." "You're monstrously cruel," I articulated with difficulty. "Give me a cigarette, dear," she said to Zavistovsky.