A Desperate Character

by Ivan S. Turgenev

　　I... We were a party of eight in the room, and we were talking ofcontemporary affairs and men.'I don't understand these men!' observed A.: 'they're such desperatefellows.... Really desperate.... There has never been anything likeit before.''Yes, there has,' put in P., a man getting on in years, with grey hair,born some time in the twenties of this century: 'there were desperatecharacters in former days too, only they were not like the desperatefellows of to-day. Of the poet Yazikov some one has said that he hadenthusiasm, but not applied to anything--an enthusiasm without anobject. So it was with those people--their desperateness was without anobject. But there, if you'll allow me, I'll tell you the story of mynephew, or rather cousin, Misha Poltyev. It may serve as an example ofthe desperate characters of those days.He came into God's world, I remember, in 1828, at his father's nativeplace and property, in one of the sleepiest corners of a sleepy provinceof the steppes. Misha's father, Andrei Nikolaevitch Poltyev, I rememberwell to this day. He was a genuine old-world landowner, a God-fearing,sedate man, fairly--for those days--well educated, just a littlecracked, to tell the truth--and, moreover, he suffered from epilepsy....That too is an old-world, gentlemanly complaint.... AndreiNikolaevitch's fits were, however, slight, and generally ended in sleepand depression. He was good-hearted, and of an affable demeanour, notwithout a certain stateliness: I always pictured to myself the tsarMihail Fedorovitch as like him. The whole life of Andrei Nikolaevitchwas passed in the punctual fulfilment of every observance establishedfrom old days, in strict conformity with all the usages of the oldorthodox holy Russian mode of life. He got up and went to bed, ate hismeals, and went to his bath, rejoiced or was wroth (both very rarely, itis true), even smoked his pipe and played cards (two greatinnovations!), not after his own fancy, not in a way of his own, butaccording to the custom and ordinance of his fathers--with due decorumand formality. He was tall, well built, and stout; his voice was softand rather husky, as is so often the case with virtuous people inRussia; he was scrupulously neat in his dress and linen, and wore whitecravats and full-skirted snuff-coloured coats, but his noble blood wasnevertheless evident; no one could have taken him for a priest's son ora merchant! At all times, on all possible occasions, and in all possiblecontingencies, Andrei Nikolaevitch knew without fail what ought to bedone, what was to be said, and precisely what expressions were to beused; he knew when he ought to take medicine, and just what he ought totake; what omens were to be believed and what might be disregarded ...in fact, he knew everything that ought to be done.... For as everythinghad been provided for and laid down by one's elders, one had only to besure not to imagine anything of one's self.... And above all, withoutGod's blessing not a step to be taken!--It must be confessed that adeadly dulness reigned supreme in his house, in those low-pitched, warm,dark rooms, that so often resounded with the singing of liturgies andall-night services, and had the smell of incense and Lenten dishesalmost always hanging about them!Andrei Nikolaevitch--no longer in his first youth--married a younglady of a neighbouring family, without fortune, a very nervous andsickly person, who had had a boarding-school education. She played thepiano fairly, spoke boarding-school French, was easily moved toenthusiasm, and still more easily to melancholy and even tears....She was of unbalanced character, in fact. She regarded her life aswasted, could not care for her husband, who, 'of course,' did notunderstand her; but she respected him, ... she put up with him; andbeing perfectly honest and perfectly cold, she never even dreamed ofanother 'affection.' Besides, she was always completely engrossed inthe care, first, of her own really delicate health, secondly, of thehealth of her husband, whose fits always inspired in her somethinglike superstitious horror, and lastly, of her only son, Misha, whomshe brought up herself with great zeal. Andrei Nikolaevitch did notoppose his wife's looking after Misha, on the one condition of hiseducation never over-stepping the lines laid down, once and for all,within which everything must move in his house! Thus, for instance, atChristmas-time, and at New Year, and St. Vassily's eve, it waspermissible for Misha to dress up and masquerade with the servantboys--and not only permissible, but even a binding duty.... But, atany other time, God forbid! and so on, and so on.III remember Misha at thirteen. He was a very pretty boy, with rosy littlecheeks and soft lips (indeed he was soft and plump-looking all over),with prominent liquid eyes, carefully brushed and combed, caressing andmodest--a regular little girl! There was only one thing about him I didnot like: he rarely laughed; but when he did laugh, his teeth--largewhite teeth, pointed like an animal's--showed disagreeably, and thelaugh itself had an abrupt, even savage, almost animal sound, and therewere unpleasant gleams in his eyes. His mother was always praising himfor being so obedient and well behaved, and not caring to make friendswith rude boys, but always preferring feminine society. 'A mother'sdarling, a milksop,' his father, Andrei Nikolaevitch, would call him;'but he's always ready to go into the house of God.... And that I amglad to see.' Only one old neighbour, who had been a police captain,once said before me, speaking of Misha, 'Mark my words, he'll be arebel.' And this saying, I remember, surprised me very much at the time.The old police captain, it is true, used to see rebels on all sides.Just such an exemplary youth Misha continued to be till the eighteenthyear of his age, up to the death of his parents, both of whom he lostalmost on the same day. As I was all the while living constantly atMoscow, I heard nothing of my young kinsman. An acquaintance coming fromhis province did, it is true, inform me that Misha had sold the paternalestate for a trifling sum; but this piece of news struck me as toowildly improbable! And behold, all of a sudden, one autumn morning thereflew into the courtyard of my house a carriage, with a pair of splendidtrotting horses, and a coachman of monstrous size on the box; and in thecarriage, wrapped in a cloak of military cut, with a beaver collar twoyards deep, and with a foraging cap cocked on one side, _ la diablem'emporte_, sat ... Misha! On catching sight of me (I was standing atthe drawing-room window, gazing in astonishment at the flying equipage),he laughed his abrupt laugh, and jauntily flinging back his cloak, hejumped out of the carriage and ran into the house.'Misha! Mihail Andreevitch!' I was beginning, ... 'Is it you?''Call me Misha,'--he interrupted me. 'Yes, it's I, ... I, in my ownperson.... I have come to Moscow ... to see the world ... and showmyself. And here I am, come to see you. What do you say to myhorses?... Eh?' he laughed again.Though it was seven years since I had seen Misha last, I recognised himat once. His face had remained just as youthful and as pretty asever--there was no moustache even visible; only his cheeks looked alittle swollen under his eyes, and a smell of spirits came from hislips. 'Have you been long in Moscow?' I inquired.'I supposed you were at home in the country, looking after theplace.' ...'Eh! The country I threw up at once! As soon as my parents died--maytheir souls rest in peace--(Misha crossed himself scrupulously, withouta shade of mockery) at once, without a moment's delay, ... _ein, zwei,drei!_ ha, ha! I let it go cheap, damn it! A rascally fellow turned up.But it's no matter! Anyway, I am living as I fancy, and amusing otherpeople. But why are you staring at me like that? Was I, really, to godragging on in the same old round, do you suppose? ... My dear fellow,couldn't I have a glass of something?'Misha spoke fearfully quick and hurriedly, and, at the same time, asthough he were only just waked up from sleep.'Misha, upon my word!' I wailed; 'have you no fear of God? What do youlook like? What an attire! And you ask for a glass too! And to sell sucha fine estate for next to nothing....''God I fear always, and do not forget,' he broke in.... 'But He is good,you know--God is.... He will forgive! And I am good too.... I havenever yet hurt any one in my life. And drink is good too; and as forhurting,... it never hurt any one either. And my get-up is quite the mostcorrect thing.... Uncle, would you like me to show you I can walkstraight? Or to do a little dance?''Oh, spare me, please! A dance, indeed! You'd better sit down.''As to that, I'll sit down with pleasure.... But why do you say nothingof my greys? Just look at them, they're perfect lions! I've got them onhire for the time, but I shall buy them for certain, ... and thecoachman too.... It's ever so much cheaper to have one's own horses. AndI had the money, but I lost it yesterday at faro. It's no matter, I'llmake it up to-morrow. Uncle, ... how about that little glass?'I was still unable to get over my amazement. 'Really, Misha, how old areyou? You ought not to be thinking about horses or cards, ... but goinginto the university or the service.'Misha first laughed again, then gave vent to a prolonged whistle.'Well, uncle, I see you're in a melancholy humour to-day. I'll comeback another time. But I tell you what: you come in the evening toSokolniki. I've a tent pitched there. The gypsies sing, ... suchgoings-on.... And there's a streamer on the tent, and on the streamer,written in large letters: "The Troupe of Poltyev's Gypsies." Thestreamer coils like a snake, the letters are of gold, attractive forevery one to read. A free entertainment--whoever likes to come! ... Norefusal! I'm making the dust fly in Moscow ... to my glory! ... Eh? willyou come? Ah, I've one girl there ... a serpent! Black as your boot,spiteful as a dog, and eyes ... like living coals! One can never tellwhat she's going to do--kiss or bite! ... Will you come, uncle? ...Well, good-bye, till we meet!'And with a sudden embrace, and a smacking kiss on my shoulder, Mishadarted away into the courtyard, and into the carriage, waved his capover his head, hallooed,--the monstrous coachman leered at him over hisbeard, the greys dashed off, and all vanished!The next day I--like a sinner--set off to Sokolniki, and did actuallysee the tent with the streamer and the inscription. The drapery of thetent was raised; from it came clamour, creaking, and shouting. Crowds ofpeople were thronging round it. On a carpet spread on the ground satgypsies, men and women, singing and beating drums, and in the midst ofthem, in a red silk shirt and velvet breeches, was Misha, holding aguitar, dancing a jig. 'Gentlemen! honoured friends! walk in, please!the performance is just beginning! Free to all!' he was shouting in ahigh, cracked voice. 'Hey! champagne! pop! a pop on the head! pop up tothe ceiling! Ha! you rogue there, Paul de Kock!'Luckily he did not see me, and I hastily made off.I won't enlarge on my astonishment at the spectacle of thistransformation. But, how was it actually possible for that quiet andmodest boy to change all at once into a drunken buffoon? Could it allhave been latent in him from childhood, and have come to the surfacedirectly the yoke of his parents' control was removed? But that he hadmade the dust fly in Moscow, as he expressed it--of that, certainly,there could be no doubt. I have seen something of riotous living in myday; but in this there was a sort of violence, a sort of frenzy ofself-destruction, a sort of desperation!IIIFor two months these diversions continued.... And once more I wasstanding at my drawing-room window, looking into the courtyard.... Allof a sudden--what could it mean? ... there came slowly stepping in at thegate a pilgrim ... a squash hat pulled down on his forehead, his haircombed out straight to right and left below it, a long gown, a leatherbelt ... Could it be Misha? He it was!I went to meet him on the steps.... 'What's this masquerade for?'I demanded.'It's not a masquerade, uncle,' Misha answered with a deep sigh: sinceall I had I've squandered to the last farthing--and a great repentancetoo has come upon me--so I have resolved to go to the Sergiev monasteryof the Holy Trinity to expiate my sins in prayer. For what refuge wasleft me? ... And so I have come to you to say good-bye, uncle, like aprodigal son.'I looked intently at Misha. His face was just the same, rosy and fresh(indeed it remained almost unchanged to the end), and the eyes, liquid,affectionate, and languishing--and the hands, as small and white.... Buthe smelt of spirits.'Well,' I pronounced at last, 'it's a good thing to do--since there'snothing else to be done. But why is it you smell of spirits?''A relic of the past,' answered Misha, and he suddenly laughed, butimmediately pulled himself up, and, making a straight, low bow--a monk'sbow--he added: 'Won't you help me on my way? I'm going, see, on foot tothe monastery....''When?''To-day ... at once.''Why be in such a hurry?''Uncle, my motto always was, "Make haste, make haste!"''But what is your motto now?''It's the same now.... Only, make haste towards _good_!'And so Misha went off, leaving me to ponder on the vicissitudes ofhuman destiny.But he soon reminded me of his existence. Two months after his visit, Igot a letter from him, the first of those letters, of which later on hefurnished me with so abundant a supply. And note a peculiar fact: Ihave seldom seen a neater, more legible handwriting than thatunbalanced fellow's. And the wording of his letters was exceedinglycorrect, just a little flowery. Invariable entreaties for assistance,always attended with resolutions to reform, vows, and promises on hishonour.... All of it seemed--and perhaps was--sincere. Misha'ssignature to his letters was always accompanied by peculiar strokes,flourishes, and stops, and he made great use of marks of exclamation.In this first letter Misha informed me of a new 'turn in his fortune.'(Later on he used to refer to these turns as plunges, ... and frequentwere the plunges he took.) He was starting for the Caucasus on activeservice for his tsar and his country in the capacity of a cadet! And,though a certain benevolent aunt had entered into his impecuniousposition, and had sent him an inconsiderable sum, still he begged me toassist him in getting his equipment. I did what he asked, and for twoyears I heard nothing more of him.I must own I had the gravest doubts as to his having gone to theCaucasus. But it turned out that he really had gone there, had, byfavour, got into the T---- regiment as a cadet, and had been serving init for those two years. A perfect series of legends had sprung up thereabout him. An officer of his regiment related them to me.IVI learned a great deal which I should never have expected of him.--Iwas, of course, hardly surprised that as a military man, as an officer,he was not a success, that he was in fact worse than useless; but what Ihad not anticipated was that he was by no means conspicuous for muchbravery; that in battle he had a downcast, woebegone air, seemedhalf-depressed, half-bewildered. Discipline of every sort worried him,and made him miserable; he was daring to the point of insanity when onlyhis _own personal_ safety was in question; no bet was too mad for him toaccept; but do harm to others, kill, fight, he could not, possiblybecause his heart was too good--or possibly because his 'cottonwool'education (so he expressed it), had made him too soft. Himself he wasquite ready to murder in any way at any moment.... But others--no.'There's no making him out,' his comrades said of him; 'he's a flabbycreature, a poor stick--and yet such a desperate fellow--a perfectmadman!' I chanced in later days to ask Misha what evil spiritdrove him, forced him, to drink to excess, risk his life, and soon. He always had one answer--'wretchedness.''But why are you wretched?''Why! how can you ask? If one comes, anyway, to one's self, begins tofeel, to think of the poverty, of the injustice, of Russia.... Well,it's all over with me! ... one's so wretched at once--one wants to put abullet through one's head! One's forced to start drinking.''Why ever do you drag Russia in?''How can I help it? Can't be helped! That's why I'm afraid to think.''It all comes, and your wretchedness too, from having nothing to do.''But I don't know how to do anything, uncle! dear fellow! Take one'slife, and stake it on a card--that I can do! Come, you tell me what Iought to do, what to risk my life for? This instant ... I'll ...''But you must simply live.... Why risk your life?''I can't! You say I act thoughtlessly.... But what else can I do? ... Ifone starts thinking--good God, all that comes into one's head! It's onlyGermans who can think! ...'What use was it talking to him? He was a desperate man, and that's allone can say.Of the Caucasus legends I have spoken about, I will tell you two orthree. One day, in a party of officers, Misha began boasting of a sabrehe had got by exchange--'a genuine Persian blade!' The officersexpressed doubts as to its genuineness. Misha began disputing. 'Herethen,' he cried at last; 'they say the man that knows most about sabresis Abdulka the one-eyed. I'll go to him, and ask.' The officerswondered. 'What Abdulka? Do you mean that lives in the mountains? Therebel never subdued? Abdul-khan?' 'Yes, that's him.' 'Why, but he'lltake you for a spy, will put you in a hole full of bugs, or else cutyour head off with your own sabre. And, besides, how are you going toget to him? They'll catch you directly.' 'I'll go to him, though, allthe same.' 'Bet you won't!' 'Taken!' And Misha promptly saddled hishorse and rode off to Abdulka. He disappeared for three days. All feltcertain that the crazy fellow had come by his end. But, behold! he cameback--drunk, and with a sabre, not the one he had taken, but another.They began questioning him. 'It was all right,' said he; 'Abdulka's anice fellow. At first, it's true, he ordered them to put irons on mylegs, and was even on the point of having me impaled. Only, I explainedwhy I had come, and showed him the sabre. "And you'd better not keepme," said I; "don't expect a ransom for me; I've not a farthing to blessmyself with--and I've no relations." Abdulka was surprised; he looked atme with his solitary eye. "Well," said he, "you are a bold one, youRussian; am I to believe you?" "You may believe me," said I; "I nevertell a lie." (And this was true; Misha never lied.) Abdulka looked at meagain. "And do you know how to drink wine?" "I do," said I; "give me asmuch as you will, I'll drink it." Abdulka was surprised again; he calledon Allah. And he told his--daughter, I suppose--such a pretty creature,only with an eye like a jackal's--to bring a wine-skin. And I began toget to work on it. "But your sabre," said he, "isn't genuine; here, takethe real thing. And now we are pledged friends." But you've lost yourbet, gentlemen; pay up.'The second legend of Misha is of this nature. He was passionately fondof cards; but as he had no money, and could never pay his debts at cards(though he was never a card-sharper), no one at last would sit down to agame with him. So one day he began urgently begging one of his comradesamong the officers to play with him! 'But if you lose, you don't pay.''The money certainly I can't pay, but I'll put a shot through my lefthand, see, with this pistol here!' 'But whatever use will that be tome?' 'No use, but still it will be curious.' This conversation tookplace after a drinking bout in the presence of witnesses. Whether it wasthat Misha's proposition struck the officer as really curious--anyway heagreed. Cards were brought, the game began. Misha was in luck; he won ahundred roubles. And thereupon his opponent struck his forehead withvexation. 'What an ass I am!' he cried, 'to be taken in like this! As ifyou'd have shot your hand if you had lost!--a likely story! hold outyour purse!' 'That's a lie,' retorted Misha: 'I've won--but I'll shootmy hand.' He snatched up his pistol--and bang, fired at his own hand.The bullet passed right through it ... and in a week the wound hadcompletely healed.Another time, Misha was riding with his comrades along a road atnight ... and they saw close to the roadside a narrow ravine like a deepcleft, dark--so dark you couldn't see the bottom. 'Look,' said one ofthe officers, 'Misha may be a desperate fellow, but he wouldn't leapinto that ravine.' 'Yes, I'd leap in!' 'No, you wouldn't, for I dare sayit's seventy feet deep, and you might break your neck.' His friend knewhis weak point--vanity.... There was a great deal of it in Misha. 'ButI'll leap in anyway! Would you like to bet on it? Ten roubles.' 'Good!'And the officer had hardly uttered the word, when Misha and his horsewere off--into the ravine--and crashing down over the stones. All weresimply petrified.... A full minute passed, and they heard Misha's voice,dimly, as it were rising up out of the bowels of the earth: 'All right!fell on the sand ... but it was a long flight! Ten roubles you've lost!''Climb out!' shouted his comrades. 'Climb out, I dare say!' echoedMisha. 'A likely story! I should like to see you climb out. You'll haveto go for torches and ropes now. And, meanwhile, to keep up my spiritswhile I wait, fling down a flask....'And so Misha had to stay five hours at the bottom of the ravine; andwhen they dragged him out, it turned out that his shoulder wasdislocated. But that in no way troubled him. The next day a bone-setter,one of the black-smiths, set his shoulder, and he used it as thoughnothing had been the matter.His health in general was marvellous, incredible. I have alreadymentioned that up to the time of his death he kept his almost childishlyfresh complexion. Illness was a thing unknown to him, in spite of hisexcesses; the strength of his constitution never once showed signs ofgiving way. When any other man would infallibly have been seriously ill,or even have died, he merely shook himself, like a duck in the water,and was more blooming than ever. Once, also in the Caucasus ... _this_legend is really incredible, but one may judge from it what Misha wasthought to be capable of.... Well, once, in the Caucasus, in a state ofdrunkenness, he fell down with the lower half of his body in a stream ofwater; his head and arms were on the bank, out of water. It waswinter-time, there was a hard frost, and when he was found next morning,his legs and body were pulled out from under a thick layer of ice, whichhad formed over them in the night--and he didn't even catch cold!Another time--this was in Russia (near Orel, and also in a time ofsevere frost)--he was in a tavern outside the town in company with sevenyoung seminarists (or theological students), and these seminarists werecelebrating their final examination, but had invited Misha, as adelightful person, a man of 'inspiration,' as the phrase was then. Avery great deal was drunk, and when at last the festive party got readyto depart, Misha, dead drunk, was in an unconscious condition. All theseven seminarists together had but one three-horse sledge with a highback; where were they to stow the unresisting body? Then one of theyoung men, inspired by classical reminiscences, proposed tying Misha byhis feet to the back of the sledge, as Hector was tied to the chariot ofAchilles! The proposal met with approval ... and jolting up and downover the holes, sliding sideways down the slopes, with his legs torn andflayed, and his head rolling in the snow, poor Misha travelled on hisback for the mile and a half from the tavern to the town, and hadn't asmuch as a cough afterwards, hadn't turned a hair! Such heroic health hadnature bestowed upon him!VFrom the Caucasus he came again to Moscow, in a Circassian dress, adagger in his sash, a high-peaked cap on his head. This costume heretained to the end, though he was no longer in the army, from which hehad been discharged for outstaying his leave. He stayed with me,borrowed a little money ... and forthwith began his 'plunges,' hiswanderings, or, as he expressed it, 'his peregrinations from pillar topost,' then came the sudden disappearances and returns, and the showersof beautifully written letters addressed to people of every possibledescription, from an archbishop down to stable-boys and mid-wives! Thencame calls upon persons known and unknown! And this is worth noticing:when he made these calls, he was never abject and cringing, he neverworried people by begging, but on the contrary behaved with propriety,and had positively a cheerful and pleasant air, though the inveteratesmell of spirits accompanied him everywhere, and his Oriental costumegradually changed into rags. 'Give, and God will reward you, though Idon't deserve it,' he would say, with a bright smile and a candid blush;'if you don't give, you'll be perfectly right, and I shan't blame youfor it. I shall find food to eat, God will provide! And there are peoplepoorer than I, and much more deserving of help--plenty, plenty!' Mishawas particularly successful with women: he knew how to appeal to theirsympathy. But don't suppose that he was or fancied himself aLovelace....Oh, no! in that way he was very modest. Whether it was thathe had inherited a cool temperament from his parents, or whether indeedthis too is to be set down to his dislike for doing any one harm--as,according to his notions, relations with a woman meant inevitably doinga woman harm--I won't undertake to decide; only in all his behaviourwith the fair sex he was extremely delicate. Women felt this, and werethe more ready to sympathise with him and help him, until at last herevolted them by his drunkenness and debauchery, by the desperateness ofwhich I have spoken already.... I can think of no other word for it.But in other relations he had by that time lost every sort of delicacy,and was gradually sinking to the lowest depths of degradation. He once,in the public assembly at T----, got as far as setting on the table ajug with a notice: 'Any one, to whom it may seem agreeable to give thehigh-born nobleman Poltyev (authentic documents in proof of hispedigree are herewith exposed) a flip on the nose, may satisfy thisinclination on putting a rouble into this jug.' And I am told therewere persons found willing to pay for the privilege of flipping anobleman's nose! It is true that one such person, who put in only onerouble and gave him _two_ flips, he first almost strangled, and thenforced to apologise; it is true, too, that part of the money gained inthis fashion he promptly distributed among other poor devils ... butstill, think what a disgrace!In the course of his 'peregrinations from pillar to post,' he made hisway, too, to his ancestral home, which he had sold for next to nothingto a speculator and money-lender well known in those days. Themoney-lender was at home, and hearing of the presence in theneighbourhood of the former owner, now reduced to vagrancy, he gaveorders not to admit him into the house, and even, in case of necessity,to drive him away. Misha announced that he would not for his partconsent to enter the house, polluted by the presence of so repulsive aperson; that he would permit no one to drive him away, but was going tothe churchyard to pay his devotions at the grave of his parents. So infact he did.In the churchyard he was joined by an old house-serf, who had once beenhis nurse. The money-lender had deprived this old man of his monthlyallowance, and driven him off the estate; since then his refuge had beena corner in a peasant's hut. Misha had been too short a time inpossession of his estate to have left behind him a particularlyfavourable memory; still the old servant could not resist running to thechurchyard as soon as he heard of his young master's being there. Hefound Misha sitting on the ground between the tombstones, asked for hishand to kiss, as in old times, and even shed tears on seeing the ragswhich clothed the limbs of his once pampered young charge.Misha gazed long and silently at the old man. 'Timofay!' he said atlast; Timofay started.'What do you desire?''Have you a spade?''I can get one.... But what do you want with a spade, MihailoAndreitch, sir?''I want to dig myself a grave, Timofay, and to lie here for timeeverlasting between my father and mother. There's only this spot left mein the world. Get a spade!''Yes, sir,' said Timofay; he went and got it. And Misha began at oncedigging in the ground, while Timofay stood by, his chin propped in hishand, repeating: 'It's all that's left for you and me, master!'Misha dug and dug, from time to time observing: 'Life's not worthliving, is it, Timofay?''It's not indeed, master.'The hole was already of a good depth. People saw what Misha was about,and ran to tell the new owner about it. The money-lender was at firstvery angry, wanted to send for the police: 'This is sacrilege,' said he.But afterwards, probably reflecting that it was inconvenient anyway tohave to do with such a madman, and that it might lead to a scandal,--hewent in his own person to the churchyard, and approaching Misha, stilltoiling, made him a polite bow. He went on with his digging as though hehad not noticed his successor. 'Mihail Andreitch,' began themoney-lender, 'allow me to ask what you are doing here?''You can see--I am digging myself a grave.''Why are you doing so?''Because I don't want to live any longer.'The money-lender fairly threw up his hands in amazement. 'You don'twant to live?'Misha glanced menacingly at the money-lender. 'That surprises you?Aren't you the cause of it all? ... You? ... You? ... Wasn't it you,Judas, who robbed me, taking advantage of my childishness? Aren't youflaying the peasants' skins off their backs? Haven't you taken fromthis poor old man his crust of dry bread? Wasn't it you? ... O God!everywhere nothing but injustice, and oppression, and evil-doing....Everything must go to ruin then, and me too! I don't care for life, Idon't care for life in Russia!' And the spade moved faster than ever inMisha's hands.'Here's a devil of a business!' thought the money-lender; 'he'spositively burying himself alive.' 'Mihail Andreevitch,' he beganagain: 'listen. I've been behaving badly to you, indeed; they told mefalsely of you.'Misha went on digging.'But why be desperate?'Misha still went on digging, and kept throwing the earth at themoney-lender's feet, as though to say, 'Here you are, land-grabber.''Really, you 're wrong in this. Won't you be pleased to come in to havesome lunch, and rest a bit?'Misha raised his head. 'So that's it now! And anything to drink?'The money-lender was delighted. 'Why, of course ... I should think so.''You invite Timofay too?''Well, ... yes, him too.'Misha pondered. 'Only, mind ... you made me a beggar, you know.... Don'tthink you can get off with one bottle!''Set your mind at rest ... there shall be all you can want.'Misha got up and flung down the spade.... 'Well, Timosha,' said he tohis old nurse; 'let's do honour to our host.... Come along.''Yes, sir,' answered the old man.And all three started off to the house together. The money-lender knewthe man he had to deal with. At the first start Misha, it is true,exacted a promise from him to 'grant all sorts of immunities' to thepeasants; but an hour later, this same Misha, together with Timofay,both drunk, were dancing a galop in the big apartments, which stillseemed pervaded by the God-fearing shade of Andrei Nikolaevitch; and anhour later still, Misha in a dead sleep (he had a very weak head forspirits), laid in a cart with his high cap and dagger, was being drivenoff to the town, more than twenty miles away, and there was flung undera hedge.... As for Timofay, who could still keep on his legs, and onlyhiccupped--him, of course, they kicked out of the house; since theycouldn't get at the master, they had to be content with the old servant.VISome time passed again, and I heard nothing of Misha.... God knows whathe was doing. But one day, as I sat over the samovar at aposting-station on the T---- highroad, waiting for horses, I suddenlyheard under the open window of the station room a hoarse voice, utteringin French the words: 'Monsieur ... monsieur ... prenez piti d'un pauvregentil-homme ruin.' ... I lifted my head, glanced.... Themangy-looking fur cap, the broken ornaments on the ragged Circassiandress, the dagger in the cracked sheath, the swollen, but still rosyface, the dishevelled, but still thick crop of hair.... Mercy on us!Misha! He had come then to begging alms on the high-roads. I could nothelp crying out. He recognised me, started, turned away, and was aboutto move away from the window. I stopped him ... but what could I say tohim? Give him a lecture? ... In silence I held out a five-rouble note;he, also in silence, took it in his still white and plump, thoughshaking and dirty hand, and vanished round the corner of the house.It was a good while before they gave me horses, and I had time to givemyself up to gloomy reflections on my unexpected meeting with Misha; Ifelt ashamed of having let him go so unsympathetically.At last I set off on my way, and half a mile from the station I observedahead of me, in the road, a crowd of people moving along with a curious,as it seemed rhythmic, step. I overtook this crowd--and what did I see?Some dozen or so beggars, with sacks over their shoulders, were walkingtwo by two, singing and leaping about, while in front of them dancedMisha, stamping time with his feet, and shouting, 'Natchiki-tchikaldy,tchuk, tchuk, tchuk! ... Natchiki-tchikaldy, tchuk, tchuk, tchuk!'Directly my carriage caught them up, and he saw me, he began at onceshouting, 'Hurrah! Stand in position! right about face, guard of theroadside!'The beggars took up his shout, and halted; while he, with his peculiarlaugh, jumped on to the carriage step, and again yelled: Hurrah!'What's the meaning of this?' I asked with involuntary astonishment.'This? This is my company, my army--all beggars, God's people, friendsof my heart. Every one of them, thanks to you, has had a glass; andnow we are all rejoicing and making merry! ... Uncle! Do you know it'sonly with beggars, God's people, that one can live in the world ... byGod, it is!'I made him no answer ... but at that moment he struck me as sucha kind good creature, his face expressed such childlikesimple-heartedness.... A light seemed suddenly as it were to dawn uponme, and I felt a pang in my heart.... 'Get into the carriage,' I saidto him. He was taken aback....'What? Into the carriage?''Yes, get in, get in,' I repeated; 'I want to make you a suggestion. Sitdown.... Come along with me.''Well, as you will.' He sat down. 'Well, and you, my honoured friends,my dear comrades,' he added, addressing the beggars, 'fare-well, till wemeet again.' Misha took off his high cap, and bowed low. The beggars allseemed overawed.... I told the coachman to whip up the horses, and thecarriage rolled off.The suggestion I wanted to make Misha was this: the idea suddenlyoccurred to me to take him with me to my home in the country, aboutfive-and-twenty miles from that station, to rescue him, or at least tomake an effort to rescue him. 'Listen, Misha,' I said; 'will you comealong and live with me? ... You shall have everything provided you; youshall have clothes and linen made you; you shall be properly fitted out,and you shall have money to spend on tobacco, and so on, only on onecondition, that you give up drink.... Do you agree?'Misha was positively aghast with delight; he opened his eyes wide,flushed crimson, and suddenly falling on my shoulder, began kissing me,and repeating in a broken voice, 'Uncle ... benefactor ... God rewardyou.' ... He burst into tears at last, and taking off his cap fell towiping his eyes, his nose, his lips with it.'Mind,' I observed; 'remember the condition, not to touch strong drink.''Damnation to it!' he cried, with a wave of both arms, and with thisimpetuous movement, I was more than ever conscious of the strong smellof spirits with which he seemed always saturated.... 'Uncle, if youknew what my life has been.... If it hadn't been for sorrow, a cruelfate.... But now I swear, I swear, I will mend my ways, I will showyou.... Uncle, I've never told a lie--you can ask whom you like.... I'mhonest, but I'm an unlucky fellow, uncle; I've known no kindness fromany one....'Here he broke down finally into sobs. I tried to soothe him, andsucceeded so far that when we reached home Misha had long been lost in aheavy sleep, with his head on my knees.VIIHe was at once assigned a room for himself, and at once, first thing,taken to the bath, which was absolutely essential. All his clothes, andhis dagger and cap and torn boots, were carefully put away in a loft; hewas dressed in clean linen, slippers, and some clothes of mine, which,as is always the way with poor relations, at once seemed to adaptthemselves to his size and figure. When he came to table, washed, clean,and fresh, he seemed so touched and happy, he beamed all over with suchjoyful gratitude, that I too felt moved and joyful.... His face wascompletely transformed.... Boys of twelve have faces like that on EasterSundays, after the communion, when, thickly pomaded, in new jacket andstarched collars, they come to exchange Easter greetings with theirparents. Misha was continually--with a sort of cautiousincredulity--feeling himself and repeating: 'What does it mean? ... Am Iin heaven?' The next day he announced that he had not slept all night,he had been in such ecstasy.I had living in my house at that time an old aunt with her niece; bothof them were extremely disturbed when they heard of Misha's presence;they could not comprehend how I could have asked him into my house!There were very ugly rumours about him. But in the first place, I knewhe was always very courteous with ladies; and, secondly, I counted onhis promises of amendment. And, in fact, for the first two days of hisstay under my roof Misha not merely justified my expectations butsurpassed them, while the ladies of the household were simply enchantedwith him. He played piquet with the old lady, helped her to wind herworsted, showed her two new games of patience; for the niece, who had asmall voice, he played accompaniments on the piano, and read Russian andFrench poetry. He told both the ladies lively but discreet anecdotes; infact, he showed them every attention, so that they repeatedly expressedtheir surprise to me, and the old lady even observed how unjust peoplesometimes were.... The things--the things they had said of him ... andhe such a quiet fellow, and so polite ... poor Misha! It is true that attable 'poor Misha' licked his lips in a rather peculiar, hurried way, ifhe simply glanced at the bottle. But I had only to shake my finger athim, and he would turn his eyes upwards, and lay his hand on hisheart ... as if to say, I have sworn.... 'I am regenerated now,' heassured me.... 'Well, God grant it be so,' was my thought.... Butthis regeneration did not last long.The first two days he was very talkative and cheerful. But even on thethird day he seemed somehow subdued, though he remained, as before, withthe ladies and tried to entertain them. A half mournful, half dreamyexpression flitted now and then over his face, and the face itself waspaler and looked thinner. 'Are you unwell?' I asked him.'Yes,' he answered; 'my head aches a little.' On the fourth day he wascompletely silent; for the most part he sat in a corner, hanging hishead disconsolately, and his dejected appearance worked upon thecompassionate sympathies of the two ladies, who now, in their turn,tried to amuse him. At table he ate nothing, stared at his plate, androlled up pellets of bread. On the fifth day the feeling of compassionin the ladies began to be replaced by other emotions--uneasiness andeven alarm. Misha was so strange, he held aloof from people, and keptmoving along close to the walls, as though trying to steal by unnoticed,and suddenly looking round as though some one had called him. And whathad become of his rosy colour? It seemed covered over by a layer ofearth. 'Are you still unwell?' I asked him.'No, I'm all right,' he answered abruptly.'Are you dull?''Why should I be dull?' But he turned away and would not look mein the face.'Or is it that wretchedness come over you again?' To this he made noreply. So passed another twenty-four hours.Next day my aunt ran into my room in a state of great excitement,declaring that she would leave the house with her niece, if Misha was toremain in it.'Why so?''Why, we are dreadfully scared with him.... He's not a man, he's awolf,--nothing better than a wolf. He keeps moving and moving about, anddoesn't speak--and looks so wild.... He almost gnashes his teeth at me.My Katia, you know, is so nervous.... She was so struck with him thefirst day.... I'm in terror for her, and indeed for myself too.' ... Ididn't know what to say to my aunt. I couldn't, anyway, turn Misha out,after inviting him.He relieved me himself from my difficult position. The same day,--I wasstill sitting in my own room,--suddenly I heard behind me a husky andangry voice: 'Nikolai Nikolaitch, Nikolai Nikolaitch!' I looked round;Misha was standing in the doorway with a face that was fearful,black-looking and distorted. 'Nikolai Nikolaitch!' he repeated ... (not'uncle' now).'What do you want?''Let me go ... at once!''Why?''Let me go, or I shall do mischief, I shall set the house on fire or cutsome one's throat.' Misha suddenly began trembling. 'Tell them to giveme back my clothes, and let a cart take me to the highroad, and let mehave some money, however little!''Are you displeased, then, at anything?''I can't live like this!' he shrieked at the top of his voice. 'I can'tlive in your respectable, thrice-accursed house! It makes me sick, andashamed to live so quietly! ... How _you_ manage to endure it!''That is,' I interrupted in my turn, 'you mean--you can't live withoutdrink....''Well, yes! yes!' he shrieked again: 'only let me go to mybrethren, my friends, to the beggars! ... Away from yourrespectable, loathsome species!'I was about to remind him of his sworn promises, but Misha's frenziedlook, his breaking voice, the convulsive tremor in his limbs,--it wasall so awful, that I made haste to get rid of him; I said that hisclothes should be given him at once, and a cart got ready; and takinga note for twenty-five roubles out of a drawer, I laid it on thetable. Misha had begun to advance in a menacing way towards me,--buton this, suddenly he stopped, his face worked, flushed, he struckhimself on the breast, the tears rushed from his eyes, and muttering,'Uncle! angel! I know I'm a ruined man! thanks! thanks!' he snatchedup the note and ran away.An hour later he was sitting in the cart dressed once more in hisCircassian costume, again rosy and cheerful; and when the horsesstarted, he yelled, tore off the peaked cap, and, waving it over hishead, made bow after bow. Just as he was going off, he had given me along and warm embrace, and whispered, 'Benefactor, benefactor ...there's no saving me!' He even ran to the ladies and kissed their hands,fell on his knees, called upon God, and begged their forgiveness! KatiaI found afterwards in tears.The coachman, with whom Misha had set off, on coming home informed methat he had driven him to the first tavern on the highroad--and thatthere 'his honour had stuck,' had begun treating every oneindiscriminately--and had quickly sunk into unconsciousness.From that day I never came across Misha again, but his ultimate fate Ilearned in the following manner.VIIIThree years later, I was again at home in the country; all of a sudden aservant came in and announced that Madame Poltyev was asking to see me.I knew no Madame Poltyev, and the servant, who made this announcement,for some unknown reason smiled sarcastically. To my glance of inquiry,he responded that the lady asking for me was young, poorly dressed, andhad come in a peasant's cart with one horse, which she was drivingherself! I told him to ask Madame Poltyev up to my room.I saw a woman of five-and-twenty, in the dress of the small tradesmanclass, with a large kerchief on her head. Her face was simple, roundish,not without charm; she looked dejected and gloomy, and was shy andawkward in her movements.'You are Madame Poltyev?' I inquired, and I asked her to sit down.'Yes,' she answered in a subdued voice, and she did not sit down. 'I amthe widow of your nephew, Mihail Andreevitch Poltyev.''Is Mihail Andreevitch dead? Has he been dead long? But sit down, Ibeg.'She sank into a chair.'It's two months.''And had you been married to him long?''I had been a year with him.''Where have you come from now?''From out Tula way.... There's a village there,Znamenskoe-Glushkovo--perhaps you may know it. I am the daughter of thedeacon there. Mihail Andreitch and I lived there.... He lived in myfather's house. We were a whole year together.'The young woman's lips twitched a little, and she put her hand up tothem. She seemed to be on the point of tears, but she controlledherself, and cleared her throat.'Mihail Andreitch,' she went on: 'before his death enjoined upon me togo to you; "You must be sure to go," said he! And he told me to thankyou for all your goodness, and to give you ... this ... see, this littlething (she took a small packet out of her pocket) which he always hadabout him.... And Mihail Andreitch said, if you would be pleased toaccept it in memory of him, if you would not disdain it.... "There'snothing else," said he, "I can give him" ... that is, you....'In the packet there was a little silver cup with the monogram of Misha'smother. This cup I had often seen in Misha's hands, and once he had evensaid to me, speaking of some poor fellow, that he really was destitute,since he had neither cup nor bowl, 'while I, see, have this anyway.'I thanked her, took the cup, and asked:'Of what complaint had Misha died? No doubt....'Then I bit my tongue ... but the young woman understood my unutteredhint.... She took a swift glance at me, then looked down again, smiledmournfully, and said at once: 'Oh no! he had quite given that up, eversince he got to know me ... But he had no health at all! ... It wasshattered quite. As soon as he gave up drink, he fell into ill healthdirectly. He became so steady; he always wanted to help father in hisland or in the garden, ... or any other work there might be ... in spiteof his being of noble birth. But how could he get the strength? ... Atwriting, too, he tried to work; as you know, he could do that workcapitally, but his hands shook, and he couldn't hold the pen properly.... He was always finding fault with himself; "I'm a white-handed poorcreature," he would say; "I've never done any good to anybody, neverhelped, never laboured!" He worried himself very much about that.... Heused to say that our people labour,--but what use are we? ... Ah,Nikolai Nikolaitch, he was a good man--and he was fond of me ... andI... Ah, pardon me....'Here the young woman wept outright. I would have consoled her, but I didnot know how.'Have you a child left you?' I asked at last.She sighed. 'No, no child.... Is it likely?' And her tears flowed fasterthan ever.'And so that was how Misha's troubled wanderings had ended,' the old manP. wound up his narrative. 'You will agree with me, I am sure, that I'mright in calling him a desperate character; but you will most likelyagree too that he was not like the desperate characters of to-day;still, a philosopher, you must admit, would find a family likenessbetween him and them. In him and in them there's the thirst forself-destruction, the wretchedness, the dissatisfaction.... And what itall comes from, I leave the philosopher to decide.'