He was at once assigned a room for himself, and at once, first thing,
taken to the bath, which was absolutely essential. All his clothes, and
his dagger and cap and torn boots, were carefully put away in a loft; he
was dressed in clean linen, slippers, and some clothes of mine, which,
as is always the way with poor relations, at once seemed to adapt
themselves to his size and figure. When he came to table, washed, clean,
and fresh, he seemed so touched and happy, he beamed all over with such
joyful gratitude, that I too felt moved and joyful.... His face was
completely transformed.... Boys of twelve have faces like that on Easter
Sundays, after the communion, when, thickly pomaded, in new jacket and
starched collars, they come to exchange Easter greetings with their
parents. Misha was continually--with a sort of cautious
incredulity--feeling himself and repeating: ‘What does it mean? ... Am I
in heaven?’ The next day he announced that he had not slept all night,
he had been in such ecstasy.
I had living in my house at that time an old aunt with her niece; both
of them were extremely disturbed when they heard of Misha’s presence;
they could not comprehend how I could have asked him into my house!
There were very ugly rumours about him. But in the first place, I knew
he was always very courteous with ladies; and, secondly, I counted on
his promises of amendment. And, in fact, for the first two days of his
stay under my roof Misha not merely justified my expectations but
surpassed them, while the ladies of the household were simply enchanted
with him. He played piquet with the old lady, helped her to wind her
worsted, showed her two new games of patience; for the niece, who had a
small voice, he played accompaniments on the piano, and read Russian and
French poetry. He told both the ladies lively but discreet anecdotes; in
fact, he showed them every attention, so that they repeatedly expressed
their surprise to me, and the old lady even observed how unjust people
sometimes were.... The things--the things they had said of him ... and
he such a quiet fellow, and so polite ... poor Misha! It is true that at
table ‘poor Misha’ licked his lips in a rather peculiar, hurried way, if
he simply glanced at the bottle. But I had only to shake my finger at
him, and he would turn his eyes upwards, and lay his hand on his
heart ... as if to say, I have sworn.... ‘I am regenerated now,’ he
assured me.... ‘Well, God grant it be so,’ was my thought.... But
this regeneration did not last long.
The first two days he was very talkative and cheerful. But even on the
third day he seemed somehow subdued, though he remained, as before, with
the ladies and tried to entertain them. A half mournful, half dreamy
expression flitted now and then over his face, and the face itself was
paler and looked thinner. ‘Are you unwell?’ I asked him.
‘Yes,’ he answered; ‘my head aches a little.’ On the fourth day he was
completely silent; for the most part he sat in a corner, hanging his
head disconsolately, and his dejected appearance worked upon the
compassionate sympathies of the two ladies, who now, in their turn,
tried to amuse him. At table he ate nothing, stared at his plate, and
rolled up pellets of bread. On the fifth day the feeling of compassion
in the ladies began to be replaced by other emotions--uneasiness and
even alarm. Misha was so strange, he held aloof from people, and kept
moving along close to the walls, as though trying to steal by unnoticed,
and suddenly looking round as though some one had called him. And what
had become of his rosy colour? It seemed covered over by a layer of
earth. ‘Are you still unwell?’ I asked him.
‘No, I’m all right,’ he answered abruptly.
‘Are you dull?’
‘Why should I be dull?’ But he turned away and would not look me
in the face.
‘Or is it that wretchedness come over you again?’ To this he made no
reply. So passed another twenty-four hours.
Next day my aunt ran into my room in a state of great excitement,
declaring that she would leave the house with her niece, if Misha was to
remain in it.
‘Why so?’
‘Why, we are dreadfully scared with him.... He’s not a man, he’s a
wolf,--nothing better than a wolf. He keeps moving and moving about, and
doesn’t speak--and looks so wild.... He almost gnashes his teeth at me.
My Katia, you know, is so nervous.... She was so struck with him the
first day.... I’m in terror for her, and indeed for myself too.’ ... I
didn’t know what to say to my aunt. I couldn’t, anyway, turn Misha out,
after inviting him.
He relieved me himself from my difficult position. The same day,--I was
still sitting in my own room,--suddenly I heard behind me a husky and
angry voice: ‘Nikolai Nikolaitch, Nikolai Nikolaitch!’ I looked round;
Misha was standing in the doorway with a face that was fearful,
black-looking and distorted. ‘Nikolai Nikolaitch!’ he repeated ... (not
‘uncle’ now).
‘What do you want?’
‘Let me go ... at once!’
‘Why?’
‘Let me go, or I shall do mischief, I shall set the house on fire or cut
some one’s throat.’ Misha suddenly began trembling. ‘Tell them to give
me back my clothes, and let a cart take me to the highroad, and let me
have some money, however little!’
‘Are you displeased, then, at anything?’
‘I can’t live like this!’ he shrieked at the top of his voice. ‘I can’t
live in your respectable, thrice-accursed house! It makes me sick, and
ashamed to live so quietly! ... How _you_ manage to endure it!’
‘That is,’ I interrupted in my turn, ‘you mean--you can’t live without
drink....’
‘Well, yes! yes!’ he shrieked again: ‘only let me go to my
brethren, my friends, to the beggars! ... Away from your
respectable, loathsome species!’
I was about to remind him of his sworn promises, but Misha’s frenzied
look, his breaking voice, the convulsive tremor in his limbs,--it was
all so awful, that I made haste to get rid of him; I said that his
clothes should be given him at once, and a cart got ready; and taking
a note for twenty-five roubles out of a drawer, I laid it on the
table. Misha had begun to advance in a menacing way towards me,--but
on this, suddenly he stopped, his face worked, flushed, he struck
himself on the breast, the tears rushed from his eyes, and muttering,
‘Uncle! angel! I know I’m a ruined man! thanks! thanks!’ he snatched
up the note and ran away.
An hour later he was sitting in the cart dressed once more in his
Circassian costume, again rosy and cheerful; and when the horses
started, he yelled, tore off the peaked cap, and, waving it over his
head, made bow after bow. Just as he was going off, he had given me a
long and warm embrace, and whispered, ‘Benefactor, benefactor ...
there’s no saving me!’ He even ran to the ladies and kissed their hands,
fell on his knees, called upon God, and begged their forgiveness! Katia
I found afterwards in tears.
The coachman, with whom Misha had set off, on coming home informed me
that he had driven him to the first tavern on the highroad--and that
there ‘his honour had stuck,’ had begun treating every one
indiscriminately--and had quickly sunk into unconsciousness.
From that day I never came across Misha again, but his ultimate fate I
learned in the following manner.