A Reckless Character | Page 4

... 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 he is--a regular dare-devil!"--I happened afterward to
ask Mísha what evil spirit prompted him, made him indulge in
drinking-bouts, risk his life, and so forth. He always had one answer:
"Spleen."
"But why hast thou spleen?"
"Just because I have, good gracious! One comes to himself, recovers
his senses, and begins to meditate about poverty, about injustice, about
Russia.... Well, and that settles it! Immediately one feels such spleen
that he is ready to send a bullet into his forehead! One goes on a
carouse instinctively."
"But why hast thou mixed up Russia with this?"
"What else could I do? Nothing!--That's why I am afraid to think."
"All that--that spleen--comes