A Desperate Character and Other Stories - Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

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would you like me to show you I can walk straight? 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 nothing of my greys? Just look at them, they’re perfect lions! I’ve got them on hire for the time, but I shall buy them for certain, … and the coachman too. … It’s ever so much cheaper to have one’s own horses. And I had the money, but I lost it yesterday at faro. It’s no matter, I’ll make it up to-morrow. Uncle, … how about that little glass?’

      I was still unable to get over my amazement. ‘Really, Misha, how old are you? You ought not to be thinking about horses or cards, … but going into 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 come back another time. But I tell you what: you come in the evening to Sokolniki. I’ve a tent pitched there. The gypsies sing, … such goings-on. … And there’s a streamer on the tent, and on the streamer, written in large letters: “The Troupe of Poltyev’s Gypsies.” The streamer coils like a snake, the letters are of gold, attractive for every one to read. A free entertainment—whoever likes to come! … No refusal! I’m making the dust fly in Moscow … to my glory! … Eh? will you 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 tell what 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, Misha darted away into the courtyard, and into the carriage, waved his cap over his head, hallooed—the monstrous coachman leered at him over his beard, the greys dashed off, and all vanished!

      The next day I—like a sinner—set off to Sokolniki, and did actually see the tent with the streamer and the inscription. The drapery of the tent was raised; from it came clamour, creaking, and shouting. Crowds of people were thronging round it. On a carpet spread on the ground sat gypsies, men and women, singing and beating drums, and in the midst of them, in a red silk shirt and velvet breeches, was Misha, holding a guitar, dancing a jig. ‘Gentlemen! honoured friends! walk in, please! the performance is just beginning! Free to all!’ he was shouting in a high, cracked voice. ‘Hey! champagne! pop! a pop on the head! pop up to the 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 this transformation. But, how was it actually possible for that quiet and modest boy to change all at once into a drunken buffoon? Could it all have been latent in him from childhood, and have come to the surface directly the yoke of his parents’ control was removed? But that he had made 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 my day; but in this there was a sort of violence, a sort of frenzy of self-destruction, a sort of desperation!

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      For two months these diversions continued. … And once more I was standing at my drawing-room window, looking into the courtyard. … All of a sudden—what could it mean? … there came slowly stepping in at the gate a pilgrim … a squash hat pulled down on his forehead, his hair combed out straight to right and left below it, a long gown, a leather belt … 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: since all I had I’ve squandered to the last farthing—and a great repentance too has come upon me—so I have resolved to go to the Sergiev monastery of the Holy Trinity to expiate my sins in prayer. For what refuge was left me? … And so I have come to you to say good-bye, uncle, like a prodigal 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. … But he smelt of spirits.

      ‘Well,’ I pronounced at last, ‘it’s a good thing to do—since there’s nothing else to be done. But why is it you smell of spirits?’

      ‘A relic of the past,’ answered Misha, and he suddenly laughed, but immediately pulled himself up, and, making a straight, low bow—a monk’s bow—he added: ‘Won’t you help me on my way? I’m going, see, on foot to the 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 of human destiny.

      But he soon reminded me of his existence. Two months after his visit, I got a letter from him, the first of those letters, of which later on he furnished me with so abundant a supply. And note a peculiar fact: I have seldom seen a neater, more legible handwriting than that unbalanced fellow’s. And the wording of his letters was exceedingly correct, just a little flowery. Invariable entreaties for assistance, always attended with resolutions to reform, vows, and promises on his honour. … All of it seemed—and perhaps was—sincere. Misha’s signature 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 frequent were the plunges he took.) He was starting for the Caucasus on active service for his tsar and his country in the capacity of a cadet! And, though a certain benevolent aunt had entered into his impecunious position, and had sent him an inconsiderable sum, still he begged me to assist him in getting his equipment. I did what he asked, and for two years I heard nothing more of him.

      I must own I had the gravest doubts as to his having gone to the Caucasus. But it turned out that he really had gone there, had, by favour, got into the T—— regiment as a cadet, and had been serving in it for those two years. A perfect series of legends had sprung up there about him. An officer of his regiment related them to me.

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      I learned a great deal which I should never have expected of him.—I was, 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 I had not anticipated was that he was by no means conspicuous for much bravery; that in battle he had a downcast, woebegone air, seemed half-depressed, half-bewildered. Discipline of every sort worried him, and made him miserable; he was daring to the point of insanity when only his own personal safety was in question; no bet was too mad for him to accept; but do harm to others, kill, fight, he could not, possibly because his heart was too good—or possibly because his ‘cottonwool’ education (so he expressed it), had made him too soft. Himself he was quite 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 flabby creature, a poor stick—and yet such a desperate fellow—a perfect madman!’ I chanced in later days to ask Misha what evil spirit drove him, forced him, to drink to excess, risk his life, and so on. He always

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