A Desperate Character | Page 6

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.

IV
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
had one answer--'wretchedness.'
'But why are you wretched?'
'Why! how can you ask? If one comes, anyway, to one's self, begins to
feel, 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 a bullet
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's
life, and stake it on a card--that I can do! Come, you tell me what I
ought 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? ...