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 of thy idleness."
"But I don't know how to do anything, uncle! My dear relative! Here now, if it were a question of taking and staking my life on a card—losing my all and shooting myself, bang! in the neck!—I can do that!—Here now, tell me what to do, what to risk my life for.—I'll do it this very minute! … "
"But do thou simply live. … Why risk thy life?"
"I can't!—You will tell me that I behave recklessly. What else can I do? … One begins to think—and, O Lord, what comes into his head! 'T is only the Germans who think! … "
What was the use of arguing with him? He was a reckless man—and that is all there is to say!
I will repeat to you two or three of the Caucasian legends to which I have alluded. One day, in the company of the officers, Mísha began to brag of a Circassian sabre which he had obtained in barter.—"A genuine Persian blade!"—The officers expressed doubt as to whether it were really genuine. Mísha began to dispute.—"See here," he exclaimed at last—"they say that the finest judge of Circassian sabres is one-eyed Abdulka. I will go to him and ask."—The officers were dumbfounded.
"What Abdulka? The one who lives in the mountains? The one who is not at peace with us? Abdul-Khan?"
"The very man."
"But he will take thee for a scout, he will place thee in the bug-house—or he will cut off thy head with that same sabre. And how wilt thou make thy way to him? They will seize thee immediately."
"But I will go to him, nevertheless."
"We bet that thou wilt not go!"
"I take your bet!"
And Mísha instantly saddled his horse and rode off to Abdulka. He was gone for three days. All were convinced that he had come to some dreadful end. And behold! he came back, somewhat tipsy, and with a sabre, only not the one which he had carried away with him, but another. They began to question him.
"It's all right," said he. "Abdulka is a kind man. At first he really did order fetters to be riveted on my legs, and was even preparing to impale me on a stake. But I explained to him why I had come. 'Do not expect any ransom from me,' said I. 'I haven't a farthing to my name—and I have no relatives.'—Abdulka was amazed; he stared at me with his solitary eye.-'Well,' says he, 'thou art the chief of heroes, Russian! Am I to believe thee?'—'Believe me,' said I; 'I never lie' (and Mísha really never did lie).—Abdulka looked at me again.-'And dost thou know how to drink wine?'-'I do,' said I; 'as much as thou wilt give, so much will I drink.'—Again Abdulka was astonished, and mentioned Allah. And then he ordered his daughter, or some pretty maiden, whoever she was—anyhow, she had the gaze of a jackal—to fetch a leathern bottle of wine.—And I set to work.—'But thy sabre is spurious,' says he; 'here, take this genuine one. And now thou and I are friends.'—And you have lost your wager, gentlemen, so pay up."
A second legend concerning Mísha runs as follows. He was passionately fond of cards; but as he had no money and did not pay his gambling debts (although he was never a sharper), no one would any longer sit down to play with him. So one day he began to importune a brother officer, and insisted upon the latter's playing with him.
"But thou wilt be sure to lose, and thou wilt not pay."
"I will not pay in money, that's true—but I will shoot a hole through my left hand with this pistol here!"
"But what profit is there for me in that?"
"No profit whatever—but it's a curious thing, nevertheless."
This
