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 conversation took place after a carouse, in the presence of

witnesses. Whether Mísha's proposal really did strike the officer as

curious or not,--at all events, he consented. The cards were brought,

the game began. Mísha was lucky; he won one hundred rubles. And

thereupon his opponent smote himself on the forehead.

"What a blockhead I am!" he cried.--"On what a bait was I caught! If

thou hadst lost, much thou wouldst have shot thyself through the

hand!--so it's just an assault on my pocket!"

"That's where thou art mistaken," retorted Mísha:--"I have won--but I'll

shoot the hole through my hand."

He seized his pistol, and bang! shot himself through the hand. The

bullet went clear through ... and a week later the wound was completely

healed!

On another occasion still, Mísha is riding along the road by night with

his comrades.... And they see yawning, right by the side of the road, a

narrow ravine in the nature of a cleft, dark, very dark, and the bottom

of it not visible.

"Here now," says one comrade, "Mísha is reckless enough about some

things, but he will not leap into this ravine."

"Yes, I will!"

"No, thou wilt not, because it is, probably, ten fathoms deep, and thou

mightest break thy neck."

His friend knew how to attack him--through his vanity.... Mísha had a

great deal of it.

"But I will leap, nevertheless! Wilt thou bet on it? Ten rubles."

"All right!"

And before his comrade had managed to finish the last word Mísha flew

off his horse into the ravine, and crashed down on the stones. They were

all fairly petrified with horror.... A good minute passed, and they

heard Mísha's voice proceeding as though from the bowels of the earth,

and very dull:

"I'm whole! I landed on sand.... But the descent was long! Ten rubles on

you!"

"Climb out!" shouted his comrades.

"Yes, climb out!"--returned Mísha. "Damn it! One can't climb out of

here! You will have to ride off now for ropes and lanterns. And in the

meanwhile, so that I may not find the waiting tedious, toss me down a

flask...."

And so Mísha had to sit for five hours at the bottom of the ravine; and

when they dragged him out, it appeared that he had a dislocated

shoulder. But this did not daunt him in the least. On the following day

a blacksmith bone-setter set his shoulder, and he used it as though

nothing were the matter.

Altogether, his health was remarkable, unprecedented. I have already

told you that until his death he preserved an almost childish freshness

of complexion. He did not know what it was to be ill, in spite of all

his excesses; the vigour of his constitution was not affected in a

single instance. Where any other man would have fallen dangerously ill,

or even have died, he merely shook himself like a duck in the water, and

became more blooming than ever. Once--that also was in the Caucasus....

This legend is improbable, it is true, but from it one can judge what

Mísha was regarded as capable of doing.... So then, once, in the

Caucasus, when in a state of intoxication, he fell into a small stream

that covered the lower part of his body; his head and arms remained

exposed on the bank. The affair took place in winter; a rigorous frost

set in; and when he was found on the following morning, his legs and

body were visible beneath a stout crust of ice which had frozen over in

the course of the night--and he never even had a cold in the head in

consequence! On another occasion (this happened in Russia, near

Orél,[10] and also during a severe frost), he chanced to go to a

suburban eating-house in company with seven young theological students.

These theological students were celebrating their graduation

examination, and had invited Mísha, as a charming fellow, "a man with a

sigh," as it was called then. They drank a great deal; and when, at

last, the merry crew were preparing to depart, Mísha, dead drunk, was

found to be already in a state of unconsciousness. The whole seven

theological students had between them only one tróika sledge with a high

back;[11]--where were they to put the helpless body? Then one of the

young men, inspired by classical reminiscences, suggested that Mísha be

tied by the feet to the back of the sledge, as Hector was to the chariot

of Achilles! The suggestion was approved ... and bouncing over the

hummocks, sliding sideways down the declivities, with his feet strung up

in the air, and his head dragging through the snow, our Mísha traversed

on his back the distance of two versts which separated the restaurant

from the town, and never even so much as coughed or frowned. With such

marvellous health had nature endowed him!

V

Leaving the Caucasus, he presented himself once more in Moscow, in a

Circassian coat, with cartridge-pouches on the breast, a dagger in his

belt, and a tall fur cap on his head. From this costume he did not part

until the end, although he was no longer in the military service, from

which he had been dismissed for not reporting on time. He called on me,

borrowed a little money ... and then began his "divings," his progress

through the tribulations,[12] or, as he expressed it, "through the seven

Semyóns";[13] then began his sudden absences and returns, the

despatching of beautifully-written letters addressed to all possible

persons, beginning with the Metropolitan and ending with riding-masters

and midwives! Then began the visits to acquaintances and strangers! And

here is one point which must be noted: in making his calls he did not

cringe and did not importune; but, on the contrary, he behaved himself

in decorous fashion, and even wore a cheery and pleasant aspect,

although an ingrained odour of liquor accompanied him everywhere--and

his Oriental costume was gradually reduced to rags.

"Give--God will reward you--although I do not deserve it," he was

accustomed to say, smiling brightly and blushing openly. "If you do not

give, you will be entirely in the right, and I shall not be angry in the

least. I shall support myself. God will provide! For there are many,

very many people who are poorer and more worthy than I!"

Mísha enjoyed particular success with women; he understood how to arouse

their compassion. And do not think that he was or imagined himself to be

a Lovelace.... Oh, no! In that respect he was very modest. Whether he

had inherited from his parents such cold blood, or whether herein was

expressed his disinclination to do evil to any one,--since, according to

his ideas, to consort with a woman means inevitably to insult the

woman,--I will not take it upon myself to decide; only, in his relations

with the fair sex he was extremely delicate. The women felt this, and

all the more willingly did they pity and aid him until he, at last,

repelled them by his sprees and hard drinking, by the recklessness of

which I have already spoken.... I cannot hit upon any other word.

On the other hand, in other respects he had already lost all delicacy

and had gradually descended to the extreme depths of degradation. He

once went so far that in the Assembly of Nobility of T---- he placed on

the table a jug with the inscription:

"Any one who finds it agreeable to tweak the nose of hereditary

nobleman[14] Pólteff (whose authentic documents are herewith appended)

may satisfy his desire, on condition that he puts a ruble in this jug."

And it is said that there were persons who did care to tweak the

nobleman's nose! It is true that he first all but throttled one amateur

who, having put but one ruble in the jug, tweaked his nose twice, and

then made him sue for pardon; it is true also that he immediately

distributed to other tatterdemalions a portion of the money thus

secured ... but, nevertheless, what outrageous conduct!

In the course of his wanderings through the seven Semyóns he had also

reached his ancestral nest, which he had sold for a song to a speculator

and usurer well known at that period. The speculator was at home, and on

learning of the arrival of the former owner, who had been transformed

into a tramp, he gave orders that he was not to be admitted into the

house, and that in case of need he was to be flung out by the scruff of

the neck. Mísha declared that he would not enter the house, defiled as

it was by the presence of a scoundrel; that he would allow no one to

throw him out; but that he was on his way to the churchyard to salute

the dust of his ancestors. This he did. At the churchyard he was joined

by an old house-serf, who had formerly been his man-nurse. The

speculator had deprived the old man of his monthly stipend and expelled

him from the home farm; from that time forth the man sought shelter in

the kennel of a peasant. Mísha had managed his estate for so short a

time that he had not succeeded in leaving behind him a specially good

memory of himself; but the old servitor had not been able to resist,

nevertheless, and on hearing of his young master's arrival, he had

immediately hastened to the churchyard, had found Mísha seated on the

ground among the mortuary stones, had begged leave to kiss his hand in

memory of old times, and had even melted into tears as he gazed at the

rags wherewith the once petted limbs of his nursling were swathed. Mísha

looked long and in silence at the old man.

"Timoféi!" he said at last.

Timoféi gave a start.

"What do you wish?"

"Hast thou a spade?"

"I can get one.... But what do you want with a spade, Mikhaílo

Andréitch?"

"I want to dig a grave for myself here, Timoféi; and lie down here

forever between my parents. For this is the only spot which is left to

me in the world. Fetch the spade!"

"I obey," said Timoféi; and went off and brought it.

And Mísha immediately began to dig up the earth, while Timoféi stood by

with his chin propped on his hand, repeating: "That's the only thing

left for thee and me, master!"

And Mísha dug and dug, inquiring from time to time: "Life isn't worth

living, is it, Timoféi?"

"It is not, dear little father."

The hole had already grown fairly deep. People saw Mísha's work and ran

to report about it to the speculator-owner. At first the speculator flew

into a rage, and wanted to send for the police. "What hypocrisy!" he

said. But afterward, reflecting, probably, that it would be inconvenient

to have a row with that lunatic, and that a scandal might be the result,

he betook himself in person to the churchyard, and approaching the

toiling Mísha, he made a polite obeisance to him. The latter continued

to dig, as though he had not noticed his successor.

"Mikhaíl Andréitch," began the speculator, "permit me to inquire what

you are doing there?"

"As you see--I am digging a grave for myself."

"Why are you doing that?"

"Because I do not wish to live any longer."

The speculator fairly flung apart his hands in surprise.--"You do not

wish to live?"

Mísha cast a menacing glance at the speculator:--"Does that surprise

you? Are not you the cause of it all?... Is it not you?... Is it not

thou?...[15] Is it not thou, Judas, who hast robbed me, by taking

advantage of my youth? Dost not thou skin the peasants? Is it not thou

who hast deprived this decrepit old man of his daily bread? Is it not

thou?... O Lord! Everywhere there is injustice, and oppression, and

villainy.... So down with everything,--and with me also! I don't wish to

live--I don't wish to live any longer in Russia!"--And the spade made

swifter progress than ever in Mísha's hands.

"The devil knows the meaning of this!" thought the speculator: "he

actually is burying himself."--"Mikhaíl Andréitch,"--he began afresh,

"listen; I really am guilty toward you; people did not represent you

properly to me."

Mísha went on digging.

"But why this recklessness?"

Mísha went on digging--and flung the dirt on the speculator, as much as

to say: "Take that, earth-devourer!"

"Really, you have no cause for this. Will not you come to my house to

eat and rest?"

Mísha raised his head a little. "Now you're talking! And will there be

anything to drink?"