teeth. My Kátya is such a nervous girl, as thou knowest. … She took a great interest in him the first day. … I am afraid for her and for myself. … "
I did not know what reply to make to my aunt. But I could not expel
Mísha, whom I had invited in.
He himself extricated me from this dilemma.
That very day—before I had even left my study—I suddenly heard a dull and vicious voice behind me.
"Nikolái Nikoláitch, hey there, Nikolái Nikoláitch!"
I looked round. In the doorway stood Mísha, with a terrible, lowering, distorted visage.
"Nikolái Nikoláitch," he repeated … (it was no longer "dear uncle").
"What dost thou want?"
"Let me go … this very moment!"
"What?"
"Let me go, or I shall commit a crime—set the house on fire or cut some one's throat."—Mísha suddenly fell to shaking.—"Order them to restore my garments, and give me a cart to carry me to the highway, and give me a trifling sum of money!"
"But art thou dissatisfied with anything?" I began.
"I cannot live thus!" he roared at the top of his voice.—"I cannot live in your lordly, thrice-damned house! I hate, I am ashamed to live so tranquilly! … How do you manage to endure it?!"
"In other words," I interposed, "thou wishest to say that thou canst not live without liquor. … "
"Well, yes! well, yes!" he yelled again.—"Only let me go to my brethren, to my friends, to the beggars! … Away from your noble, decorous, repulsive race!"
I wanted to remind him of his promise on oath, but the criminal expression of Mísha's face, his unrestrained voice, the convulsive trembling of all his limbs—all this was so frightful that I made haste to get rid of him. I informed him that he should receive his clothing at once, that a cart should be harnessed for him; and taking from a casket a twenty-ruble bank-note, I laid it on the table. Mísha was already beginning to advance threateningly upon me, but now he suddenly stopped short, his face instantaneously became distorted, and flushed up; he smote his breast, tears gushed from his eyes, and he stammered—"Uncle!—Angel! I am a lost man, you see!—Thanks! Thanks!"—He seized the bank-note and rushed out of the room.
An hour later he was already seated in a cart, again clad in his Circassian coat, again rosy and jolly; and when the horses started off he uttered a yell, tore off his tall kazák cap, and waving it above his head, he made bow after bow. Immediately before his departure he embraced me long and warmly, stammering:—"Benefactor, benefactor! … It was impossible to save me!" He even ran in to see the ladies, and kissed their hands over and over again, went down on his knees, appealed to God, and begged forgiveness! I found Kátya in tears later on.
But the coachman who had driven Mísha reported to me, on his return, that he had taken him to the first drinking establishment on the highway, and that there he "had got stranded," had begun to stand treat to every one without distinction, and had soon arrived at a state of inebriation.
Since that time I have never met Mísha, but I learned his final fate in the following manner.
VIII
Three years later I again found myself in the country; suddenly a servant entered and announced that Madame Pólteff was inquiring for me. I knew no Madame Pólteff, and the servant who made the announcement was grinning in a sarcastic sort of way, for some reason or other. In reply to my questioning glance he said that the lady who was asking for me was young, poorly clad, and had arrived in a peasant-cart drawn by one horse which she was driving herself! I ordered that Madame Pólteff should be requested to do me the favour to step into my study.
I beheld a woman of five-and-twenty—belonging to the petty burgher class, to judge from her attire—with a large kerchief on her head. Her face was simple, rather round in contour, not devoid of agreeability; her gaze was downcast and rather melancholy, her movements were embarrassed.
"Are you Madame Pólteff?" I asked, inviting her to be seated.
"Just so, sir," she answered, in a low voice, and without sitting down.—"I am the widow of your nephew, Mikhaíl Andréevitch Pólteff."
"Is Mikhaíl Andréevitch dead? Has he been dead long?—But sit down, I beg of you."
She dropped down on a chair.
"This is the second month since he died."
"And were you married to him long ago?"
"I lived with him one year in all."
"And whence come you now?"
"I come from the vicinity of Túla. … There is a village there called Známenskoe-Glúshkovo—perhaps you deign to know it. I am the daughter of the sexton there. Mikhaíl Andréitch and I lived there. … He settled down with my father. We lived together a year in all." The young woman's lips twitched slightly, and she raised her hand to them. She seemed to be getting ready to cry, but conquered herself, and cleared her throat.
"The late Mikhaíl Andréitch, before his death," she went on, "bade me go to you. 'Be sure to go,' he said. And he told me that I was to thank you for all your goodness, and transmit to you … this … trifle" (she drew from her pocket a small package), "which he always carried on his person. … And Mikhaíl Andréitch said, Wouldn't you be so kind as to accept it in memory—that you must not scorn it. … 'I have nothing else to give him,' … meaning you … he said. … "
In the packet was a small silver cup with the monogram of Mikhaíl's mother. This tiny cup I had often seen in Mikhaíl's hands; and once he had even said to me, in speaking of a pauper, that he must be stripped bare, since he had neither cup nor bowl, "while I have this here," he said.
I thanked her, took the cup and inquired, "Of what malady did Mikhaíl
Andréitch die?—Probably. … "
Here I bit my tongue, but the young woman understood my unspoken thought. … She darted a swift glance at me, then dropped her eyes, smiled sadly, and immediately said, "Akh, no! He had abandoned that entirely from the time he made my acquaintance. … Only, what health had he?! … It was utterly ruined. As soon as he gave up drinking, his malady immediately manifested itself. He became so steady, he was always wanting to help my father, either in the household affairs, or in the vegetable garden … or whatever other work happened to be on hand … in spite of the fact that he was of noble birth. Only, where was he to get the strength? … And he would have liked to busy himself in the department of writing also—he knew how to do that beautifully, as you are aware; but his hands shook so, and he could not hold the pen properly. … He was always reproaching himself: 'I'm an idle dog,' he said. 'I have done no one any good, I have helped no one, I have not toiled!' He was very much afflicted over that same. … He used to say, 'Our people toil, but what are we doing? … ' Akh, Nikolái Nikoláitch, he was a fine man—and he loved me … and I. … Akh, forgive me. … "
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