A Reckless Character, and Other Stories. Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev
another drink! And to sell such a fine estate for a song! … "
"I always fear God and remember him," he caught me up.—"And he 's good—God, I mean. … He'll forgive! And I also am good. … I have never injured any one in my life as yet. And a drink is good also; and as for hurting … it won't hurt anybody, either. And as for my looks, they are all right. … If thou wishest, uncle, I'll walk a line on the floor. Or shall I dance a bit?"
"Akh, please drop that!—What occasion is there for dancing? Thou hadst better sit down."
"I don't mind sitting down. … But why don't you say something about my greys? Just look at them, they're regular lions! I'm hiring them for the time being, but I shall certainly buy them together with the coachman. It is incomparably cheaper to own one's horses. And I did have the money, but I dropped it last night at faro.—Never mind, I'll retrieve my fortunes to-morrow. Uncle … how about that drink?"
I still could not collect myself.—"Good gracious! Mísha, how old art thou? Thou shouldst not be occupying thyself with horses, or with gambling … thou shouldst enter the university or the service."
Mísha first roared with laughter again, then he emitted a prolonged whistle.
"Well, uncle, I see that thou art in a melancholy frame of mind just now. I'll call another time.—But see here: just look in at Sokólniki[6] some evening. I have pitched my tent there. The Gipsies sing. … Well, well! One can hardly restrain himself! And on the tent there is a pennant, and on the pennant is written in bi-i-ig letters: 'The Band of Poltéva[7] Gipsies.' The pennant undulates like a serpent; the letters are gilded; any one can easily read them. The entertainment is whatever any one likes! … They refuse nothing. It has kicked up a dust all over Moscow … my respects. … Well? Will you come? I've got a Gipsy there—a regular asp! Black as my boot, fierce as a dog, and eyes … regular coals of fire! One can't possibly make out whether she is kissing or biting. … Will you come, uncle? … Well, farewell for the present!"
And abruptly embracing me and kissing me with a smack on my shoulder, Mísha darted out into the court to his calash, waving his cap over his head, and uttering a yell; the monstrous coachman[8] bestowed upon him an oblique glance across his beard, the trotters dashed forward, and all disappeared!
On the following day, sinful man that I am, I did go to Sokólniki, and actually did see the tent with the pennant and the inscription. The tent-flaps were raised; an uproar, crashing, squealing, proceeded thence. A crowd of people thronged around it. On the ground, on an outspread rug, sat the Gipsy men and Gipsy women, singing, and thumping tambourines; and in the middle of them, with a guitar in his hands, clad in a red-silk shirt and full trousers of velvet, Mísha was gyrating like a whirligig.—"Gentlemen! Respected sirs! Pray enter! The performance is about to begin! Free!"—he was shouting in a cracked voice.—"Hey there! Champagne! Bang! In the forehead! On the ceiling! Akh, thou rascal, Paul de Kock!"—Luckily, he did not catch sight of me, and I hastily beat a retreat.
I shall not dilate, gentlemen, on my amazement at the sight of such a change. And, as a matter of fact, how could that peaceable, modest lad suddenly turn into a tipsy good-for-nothing? Was it possible that all this had been concealed within him since his childhood, and had immediately come to the surface as soon as the weight of parental authority had been removed from him?—And that he had kicked up a dust in Moscow, as he had expressed it, there could be no possible doubt, either. I had seen rakes in my day; but here something frantic, some frenzy of self-extermination, some sort of recklessness, had made itself manifest!
III
This diversion lasted for two months. … And lo! again I am standing at the window of the drawing-room and looking out into the courtyard. … Suddenly—what is this? … Through the gate with quiet step enters a novice. … His conical cap is pulled down on his brow, his hair is combed smoothly and flows from under it to right and left … he wears a long cassock and a leather girdle. … Can it be Mísha? It is!
I go out on the steps to meet him. … "What is the meaning of this masquerade?" I ask.
"It is not a masquerade, uncle," Mísha answers me, with a deep sigh;—"but as I have squandered all my property to the last kopék, and as a mighty repentance has seized upon me, I have made up my mind to betake myself to the Tróitzko-Sérgieva Lávra,[9] to pray away my sins. For what asylum is now left to me? … And so I have come to bid you farewell, uncle, like the Prodigal Son. … "
I gazed intently at Mísha. His face was the same as ever, fresh and rosy (by the way, it never changed to the very end), and his eyes were humid and caressing and languishing, and his hands were small and white. … But he reeked of liquor.
"Very well!" I said at last: "It is a good move if there is no other issue. But why dost thou smell of liquor?"
"Old habit," replied Mísha, and suddenly burst out laughing, but immediately caught himself up, and making a straight, low, monastic obeisance, he added:—"Will not you contribute something for the journey? For I am going to the monastery on foot. … "
"When?"
"To-day … at once."
"Why art thou in such a hurry?"
"Uncle! my motto has always been 'Hurry! Hurry!'"
"But what is thy motto now?"
"It is the same now. … Only 'Hurry—to good!'"
So Mísha went away, leaving me to meditate over the mutability of human destinies.
But he speedily reminded me of his existence. A couple of months after his visit I received a letter from him—the first of those letters with which he afterward favoured me. And note this peculiarity: I have rarely beheld a neater, more legible handwriting than was possessed by this unmethodical man. The style of his letters also was very regular, and slightly florid. The invariable appeals for assistance alternated with promises of amendment, with honourable words and with oaths. … All this appeared to be—and perhaps was—sincere. Mísha's signature at the end of his letters was always accompanied by peculiar flourishes, lines and dots, and he used a great many exclamation-points. In that first letter Mísha informed me of a new "turn in his fortune." (Later on he called these turns "dives" … and he dived frequently.) He had gone off to the Caucasus to serve the Tzar and fatherland "with his breast," in the capacity of a yunker. And although a certain benevolent aunt had commiserated his poverty-stricken condition and had sent him an insignificant sum, nevertheless he asked me to help him to equip himself. I complied with his request, and for a period of two years thereafter I heard nothing about him. I must confess that I entertained strong doubts as to his having gone to the Caucasus. But it turned out that he really had gone thither, had entered the T—— regiment as yunker, through influence, and had served in it those two years. Whole legends were fabricated there about him. One of the officers in his regiment communicated them to me.
IV
I learned a great deal which I had not expected from him. I was not surprised, of course, that he had proved to be a poor, even a downright worthless military man and soldier; but what I had not expected was, that he had displayed no special bravery; that in battle he wore a dejected and languid aspect, as though he were partly bored, partly daunted. All discipline oppressed him, inspired him with sadness; he was audacious to recklessness when it was a question of himself personally; there was no wager too crazy for him to accept; but do evil to others, kill, fight, he could not, perhaps because he had a good heart—and perhaps because his "cotton-wool" education (as he expressed it) had enervated him. He was ready to exterminate himself in any sort of way at any time. … But others—no. "The devil only can make him out," his comrades said of him:—"he's puny, a rag—and what a reckless fellow