Produced by Distributed Proofreaders A DESPERATE CHARACTER, AND OTHER STORIES By Ivan Turgenev Translated from the Russian By Constance Garnett 1899 THE NOVELS OF IVAN TURGENEV Complete in Fifteen Volumes. i. Rudin. ii. A House of Gentlefolk. iii. On the Eve. iv. Fathers and Children. v. Smoke. vi. & vii. Virgin Soil. 2 Vols. viii, & ix. A Sportsmanâs Sketches. 2 Vols. x. Dream Tales and Prose Poems. xi. The Torrents of Spring and other Stories. xii. A Lear of the Steppes and other Stories. xiii. The Diary of a Superfluous Man and other Stories. xiv. A Desperate Character and other Tales. xv. The Jew and other Stories. TO JOSEPH CONRAD WHOSE ART IN ESSENCE OFTEN RECALLS THE ART AND ESSENCE OF TURGENEV INTRODUCTION The six tales now translated for the English reader were written by Turgenev at various dates between 1847 and 1881. Their chronological order is:-- _Pyetushkov_, 1847 _The Brigadier_, 1867 _A Strange Story_, 1869 _Punin and Baburin_, 1874 _Old Portraits_, 1881 _A Desperate Character_, 1881 _Pyetushkov_ is the work of a young man of twenty-nine, and its lively, unstrained realism is so bold, intimate, and delicate as to contradict the flattering compliment that the French have paid to one another--that Turgenev had need to dress his art by the aid of French mirrors. Although _Pyetushkov_ shows us, by a certain open _naÃ¯vetÃ©_ of style, that a youthful hand is at work, it is the hand of a young master, carrying out the realism of the âfortiesâ--that of Gogol, Balzac, and Dickens--straightway, with finer point, to find a perfect equilibrium free from any bias or caricature. The whole strength and essence of the realistic method has been developed in _Pyetushkov_ to its just limits. The Russians are _instinctive_ realists, and carry the warmth of life into their pages, which warmth the French seem to lose in clarifying their impressions and crystallising them in art. _Pyetushkov_ is not exquisite: it is irresistible. Note how the reader is transported bodily into Pyetushkovâs stuffy room, and how the major fairly boils out of the two pages he lives in! (pp. 301, 302). That is _realism_ if you like. A woman will see the point of _Pyetushkov_ very quickly. Onisim and Vassilissa and the aunt walk and chatter around the stupid Pyetushkov, and glance at him significantly in a manner that reveals everything about these peopleâs world. All the servants who appear in the tales in this volume are hit off so marvellously that one sees the lower-class world, which is such a mystery to certain refined minds, has no secrets for Turgenev. Of a different, and to our taste more fascinating, _genre_ is _The Brigadier_. It is greater art because lifeâs prosaic growth is revealed not merely realistically, but also poetically, life as a tiny part of the great universe around it. The tale is a microcosm of Turgenevâs own nature; his love of Nature, his tender sympathy for all humble, ragged, eccentric, despised human creatures; his unfaltering keenness of gaze into character, his fine sense of proportion, mingle in. _The Brigadier_, to create for us a sense of the pitiableness of manâs tiny life, of the mere human seed which springs and spreads a while on earth, and dies under the menacing gaze of the advancing years. âOut of the sweetness came forth strengthâ is perhaps the best saying by which one can define Turgenevâs peculiar merits in _The Brigadier_. _Punin and Baburin_ presents to us again one of those ragged ones, one of âthe poor in spirit,â the idealist Punin, a character whose portrait challenges Dostoievskyâs skill on the latterâs own ground. That delicious Punin! and that terrible grandmotherâs scene with Baburin! How absolutely Slav is the blending of irony and kindness in the treatment of Punin, Cucumber, and Pyetushkov, few English readers will understand. All the characters in _Punin and Baburin_ are so strongly drawn, so intensely alive, that, like Rembrandtâs portraits, they make the living people, who stand looking at them, absurdly grey and lifeless by comparison! Baburin is a Nihilist before the times of Nihilism, he is a type of the strong characters that arose later in the movement of the âeighties.â A pre-Nihilistic type is also the character of Sophie in _A Strange Story_. But the chief value of this last psychological study is that it gives the English mind a clue to the fundamental distinction that marks off the Russian people from the peoples of the West. Sophieâs words--âYou spoke of the will--thatâs what must be brokenâ (p. 61)--define most admirably the deepest aspiration of the Russian soul. To be lowly and suffering, to be despised, sick, to be under the lash of fate, to be trampled under foot by others, _to be_ unworthy, all this secret desire of the Russian soul implies that the Russian has little _will_, that he finds it easier to resign himself than to make the effort to be powerful, triumphant, worthy. It is from the resignation and softness of the Russian nature that all its characteristic virtues spring. Whereas religion with the English mind is largely an anxiety to be moral, to be _right_ and righteous, to be âa chosen vessel of the Lord,â religion with the Russian implies a genuine abasement and loss of self, a bowing before the will of Heaven, and true brotherly love. The Western mind rises to greatness by concentrating the will-power in action, by assertion of all its inner force, by shutting out forcibly whatever might dominate or distract or weaken it. But the Russian mind, through its lack of character, will-power, and hardness, rises to greatness in its acceptance of life, and in its sympathy with all the unfortunate, the wretched, the poor in spirit. Of course in practical life the Russian lacks many of the useful virtues the Western peoples possess and has most of their vices; but certainly his pity, charity, and brotherliness towards men more unfortunate than himself largely spring from his fatalistic acceptance of his own unworthiness and weakness. So in Sophieâs case the desire for self-sacrifice, and her impregnable conviction that to suffer and endure is _right_, is truly Russian in the sense of letting the individuality go _with_ the stream of fate, not _against_ it. And hence the formidable spirit of the youthful generation that sacrificed itself in the Nihilistic movement: the strenuous action of âthe youthâ once set in movement, the spirit of self-sacrifice impelled it calmly towards its goal despite all the forces and threats of fate. Sophie is indeed an early Nihilist born before her time. We have said that the lack of will in the Russian nature is at the root of Russian virtues and vices, and in this connection it is curious to remark that a raceâs soul seems often to grow out of the raceâs _aspiration towards what it is not in life_. Is not the French intellect, for example, so cool, clear-headed, so delicately analytic of its own motives, that through the principle of _counterpoise_ it strives to lose itself and release itself in continual rhetoric and emotional positions? Is not the German mind so alive to the material facts of life, to the necessity of getting hold of concrete advantages in life, and of not letting them go, that it deliberately slackens the bent bow, and plunges itself and relaxes itself in floods of abstractions, and idealisations, and dreams of sentimentality? Assuredly it is because the Russian is so inwardly discontented with his own actions that he is such a keen and incisive critic of everything _false_ and exaggerated, that he despises all French rhetoric and German sentimentalism. And in this sense it is that the Russianâs lack of will comes in to deepen his soul. He surrenders himself thereby to the universe, and, as do the Asiatics, does not let the tiny shadow of his fate, dark though it may be, shut out the universe so thoroughly from his consciousness, as does the aggressive struggling will-power of the Western man striving to let his individuality have full play. The Russianâs attitude may indeed be compared to a bowl which catches and sustains what life brings it; and the Western manâs to a bowl inverted to ward off what drops from the impassive skies. The mental attitude of the Russian peasant indeed implies that in blood he is nearer akin to the Asiatics than Russian ethnologists have wished to allow. Certainly in the inner life of thought, intellectually, morally, and emotionally, he is a half-way house between the Western and Eastern races, just as geographically he spreads over the two continents. By natural law his destiny calls him towards the East. Should he one day spread his rule further and further among the Asiatics and hold the keys of an immense Asiatic empire, well! future English philosophers may feel thereat a curious fatalistic satisfaction. EDWARD GARNETT. _October_ 1899. CONTENTS A DESPERATE CHARACTER A STRANGE STORY PUNIN AND BABURIN OLD PORTRAITS THE BRIGADIER PYETUSHKOV A DESPERATE CHARACTER I ... We were a party of eight in the room, and we were talking of contemporary affairs and men. âI donât understand these men!â observed A.: âtheyâre such desperate fellows.... Really desperate.... There has never been anything like it before.â âYes, there has,â put in P., a man getting on in years, with grey hair, born some time in the twenties of this century: âthere were desperate characters in former days too, only they were not like the desperate fellows of to-day. Of the poet Yazikov some one has said that he had enthusiasm, but not applied to anything--an enthusiasm without an object. So it was with those people--their desperateness was without an object. But there, if youâll allow me, Iâll tell you the story of my nephew, or rather cousin, Misha Poltyev. It may serve as an example of the desperate characters of those days. He came into Godâs world, I remember, in 1828, at his fatherâs native place and property, in one of the sleepiest corners of a sleepy province of the steppes. Mishaâs father, Andrei Nikolaevitch Poltyev, I remember well to this day. He was a genuine old-world landowner, a God-fearing, sedate man, fairly--for those days--well educated, just a little cracked, to tell the truth--and, moreover, he suffered from epilepsy.... That too is an old-world, gentlemanly complaint.... Andrei Nikolaevitchâs fits were, however, slight, and generally ended in sleep and depression. He was good-hearted, and of an affable demeanour, not without a certain stateliness: I always pictured to myself the tsar Mihail Fedorovitch as like him. The whole life of Andrei Nikolaevitch was passed in the punctual fulfilment of every observance established from old days, in strict conformity with all the usages of the old orthodox holy Russian mode of life. He got up and went to bed, ate his meals, and went to his bath, rejoiced or was wroth (both very rarely, it is true), even smoked his pipe and played cards (two great innovations!), not after his own fancy, not in a way of his own, but according to the custom and ordinance of his fathers--with due decorum and formality. He was tall, well built, and stout; his voice was soft and rather husky, as is so often the case with virtuous people in Russia; he was scrupulously neat in his dress and linen, and wore white cravats and full-skirted snuff-coloured coats, but his noble blood was nevertheless evident; no one could have taken him for a priestâs son or a merchant! At all times, on all possible occasions, and in all possible contingencies, Andrei Nikolaevitch knew without fail what ought to be done, what was to be said, and precisely what expressions were to be used; he knew when he ought to take medicine, and just what he ought to take; what omens were to be believed and what might be disregarded ... in fact, he knew everything that ought to be done.... For as everything had been provided for and laid down by oneâs elders, one had only to be sure not to imagine anything of oneâs self.... And above all, without Godâs blessing not a step to be taken!--It must be confessed that a deadly dulness reigned supreme in his house, in those low-pitched, warm, dark rooms, that so often resounded with the singing of liturgies and all-night services, and had the smell of incense and Lenten dishes almost always hanging about them! Andrei Nikolaevitch--no longer in his first youth--married a young lady of a neighbouring family, without fortune, a very nervous and sickly person, who had had a boarding-school education. She played the piano fairly, spoke boarding-school French, was easily moved to enthusiasm, and still more easily to melancholy and even tears.... She was of unbalanced character, in fact. She regarded her life as wasted, could not care for her husband, who, âof course,â did not understand her; but she respected him, ... she put up with him; and being perfectly honest and perfectly cold, she never even dreamed of another âaffection.â Besides, she was always completely engrossed in the care, first, of her own really delicate health, secondly, of the health of her husband, whose fits always inspired in her something like superstitious horror, and lastly, of her only son, Misha, whom she brought up herself with great zeal. Andrei Nikolaevitch did not oppose his wifeâs looking after Misha, on the one condition of his education never over-stepping the lines laid down, once and for all, within which everything must move in his house! Thus, for instance, at Christmas-time, and at New Year, and St. Vassilyâs eve, it was permissible for Misha to dress up and masquerade with the servant boys--and not only permissible, but even a binding duty.... But, at any other time, God forbid! and so on, and so on. II I remember Misha at thirteen. He was a very pretty boy, with rosy little cheeks and soft lips (indeed he was soft and plump-looking all over), with prominent liquid eyes, carefully brushed and combed, caressing and modest--a regular little girl! There was only one thing about him I did not like: he rarely laughed; but when he did laugh, his teeth--large white teeth, pointed like an animalâs--showed disagreeably, and the laugh itself had an abrupt, even savage, almost animal sound, and there were unpleasant gleams in his eyes. His mother was always praising him for being so obedient and well behaved, and not caring to make friends with rude boys, but always preferring feminine society. âA motherâs darling, a milksop,â his father, Andrei Nikolaevitch, would call him; âbut heâs always ready to go into the house of God.... And that I am glad to see.â Only one old neighbour, who had been a police captain, once said before me, speaking of Misha, âMark my words, heâll be a rebel.â And this saying, I remember, surprised me very much at the time. The old police captain, it is true, used to see rebels on all sides. Just such an exemplary youth Misha continued to be till the eighteenth year of his age, up to the death of his parents, both of whom he lost almost on the same day. As I was all the while living constantly at Moscow, I heard nothing of my young kinsman. An acquaintance coming from his province did, it is true, inform me that Misha had sold the paternal estate for a trifling sum; but this piece of news struck me as too wildly improbable! And behold, all of a sudden, one autumn morning there flew into the courtyard of my house a carriage, with a pair of splendid trotting horses, and a coachman of monstrous size on the box; and in the carriage, wrapped in a cloak of military cut, with a beaver collar two yards deep, and with a foraging cap cocked on one side, _Ã la diable mâemporte_, sat ... Misha! On catching sight of me (I was standing at the drawing-room window, gazing in astonishment at the flying equipage), he laughed his abrupt laugh, and jauntily flinging back his cloak, he jumped out of the carriage and ran into the house. âMisha! Mihail Andreevitch!â I was beginning, ... âIs it you?â âCall me Misha,â--he interrupted me. âYes, itâs I, ... I, in my own person.... I have come to Moscow ... to see the world ... and show myself. And here I am, come to see you. What do you say to my horses?... Eh?â he laughed again. Though it was seven years since I had seen Misha last, I recognised him at once. His face had remained just as youthful and as pretty as ever--there was no moustache even visible; only his cheeks looked a little swollen under his eyes, and a smell of spirits came from his lips. âHave you been long in Moscow?â I inquired. âI supposed you were at home in the country, looking after the place.â ... âEh! The country I threw up at once! As soon as my parents died--may their souls rest in peace--(Misha crossed himself scrupulously, without a shade of mockery) at once, without a momentâs delay, ... _ein, zwei, drei!_ ha, ha! I let it go cheap, damn it! A rascally fellow turned up. But itâs no matter! Anyway, I am living as I fancy, and amusing other people. But why are you staring at me like that? Was I, really, to go dragging on in the same old round, do you suppose? ... My dear fellow, couldnât I have a glass of something?â Misha spoke fearfully quick and hurriedly, and, at the same time, as though he were only just waked up from sleep. âMisha, upon my word!â I wailed; âhave you no fear of God? What do you look like? What an attire! And you ask for a glass too! And to sell such a fine estate for next to nothing....â âGod I fear always, and do not forget,â he broke in.... âBut He is good, you know--God is.... He will forgive! And I am good too.... I have never yet hurt any one in my life. And drink is good too; and as for hurting,... it never hurt any one either. And my get-up is quite the most correct thing.... Uncle, would you like me to show you I can walk straight? Or to do a little dance?â âOh, spare me, please! A dance, indeed! Youâd better sit down.â âAs to that, Iâll sit down with pleasure.... But why do you say nothing of my greys? Just look at them, theyâre perfect lions! Iâve got them on hire for the time, but I shall buy them for certain, ... and the coachman too.... Itâs ever so much cheaper to have oneâs own horses. And I had the money, but I lost it yesterday at faro. Itâs no matter, Iâll make it up to-morrow. Uncle, ... how about that little glass?â I was still unable to get over my amazement. âReally, Misha, how old are you? You ought not to be thinking about horses or cards, ... but going into the university or the service.â Misha first laughed again, then gave vent to a prolonged whistle. âWell, uncle, I see youâre in a melancholy humour to-day. Iâll come back another time. But I tell you what: you come in the evening to Sokolniki. Iâve a tent pitched there. The gypsies sing, ... such goings-on.... And thereâs a streamer on the tent, and on the streamer, written in large letters: âThe Troupe of Poltyevâs Gypsies.â The streamer coils like a snake, the letters are of gold, attractive for every one to read. A free entertainment--whoever likes to come! ... No refusal! Iâm making the dust fly in Moscow ... to my glory! ... Eh? will you come? Ah, Iâve one girl there ... a serpent! Black as your boot, spiteful as a dog, and eyes ... like living coals! One can never tell what sheâs going to do--kiss or bite! ... Will you come, uncle? ... Well, good-bye, till we meet!â And with a sudden embrace, and a smacking kiss on my shoulder, Misha darted away into the courtyard, and into the carriage, waved his cap over his head, hallooed,--the monstrous coachman leered at him over his beard, the greys dashed off, and all vanished! The next day I--like a sinner--set off to Sokolniki, and did actually see the tent with the streamer and the inscription. The drapery of the tent was raised; from it came clamour, creaking, and shouting. Crowds of people were thronging round it. On a carpet spread on the ground sat gypsies, men and women, singing and beating drums, and in the midst of them, in a red silk shirt and velvet breeches, was Misha, holding a guitar, dancing a jig. âGentlemen! honoured friends! walk in, please! the performance is just beginning! Free to all!â he was shouting in a high, cracked voice. âHey! champagne! pop! a pop on the head! pop up to the ceiling! Ha! you rogue there, Paul de Kock!â Luckily he did not see me, and I hastily made off. I wonât enlarge on my astonishment at the spectacle of this transformation. But, how was it actually possible for that quiet and modest boy to change all at once into a drunken buffoon? Could it all have been latent in him from childhood, and have come to the surface directly the yoke of his parentsâ control was removed? But that he had made the dust fly in Moscow, as he expressed it--of that, certainly, there could be no doubt. I have seen something of riotous living in my day; but in this there was a sort of violence, a sort of frenzy of self-destruction, a sort of desperation! III For two months these diversions continued.... And once more I was standing at my drawing-room window, looking into the courtyard.... All of a sudden--what could it mean? ... there came slowly stepping in at the gate a pilgrim ... a squash hat pulled down on his forehead, his hair combed out straight to right and left below it, a long gown, a leather belt ... Could it be Misha? He it was! I went to meet him on the steps.... âWhatâs this masquerade for?â I demanded. âItâs not a masquerade, uncle,â Misha answered with a deep sigh: since all I had Iâve squandered to the last farthing--and a great repentance too has come upon me--so I have resolved to go to the Sergiev monastery of the Holy Trinity to expiate my sins in prayer. For what refuge was left me? ... And so I have come to you to say good-bye, uncle, like a prodigal son.â I looked intently at Misha. His face was just the same, rosy and fresh (indeed it remained almost unchanged to the end), and the eyes, liquid, affectionate, and languishing--and the hands, as small and white.... But he smelt of spirits. âWell,â I pronounced at last, âitâs a good thing to do--since thereâs nothing else to be done. But why is it you smell of spirits?â âA relic of the past,â answered Misha, and he suddenly laughed, but immediately pulled himself up, and, making a straight, low bow--a monkâs bow--he added: âWonât you help me on my way? Iâm going, see, on foot to the monastery....â âWhen?â âTo-day ... at once.â âWhy be in such a hurry?â âUncle, my motto always was, âMake haste, make haste!ââ âBut what is your motto now?â âItâs the same now.... Only, make haste towards _good_!â And so Misha went off, leaving me to ponder on the vicissitudes of human destiny. But he soon reminded me of his existence. Two months after his visit, I got a letter from him, the first of those letters, of which later on he furnished me with so abundant a supply. And note a peculiar fact: I have seldom seen a neater, more legible handwriting than that unbalanced fellowâs. And the wording of his letters was exceedingly correct, just a little flowery. Invariable entreaties for assistance, always attended with resolutions to reform, vows, and promises on his honour.... All of it seemed--and perhaps was--sincere. Mishaâs signature to his letters was always accompanied by peculiar strokes, flourishes, and stops, and he made great use of marks of exclamation. In this first letter Misha informed me of a new âturn in his fortune.â (Later on he used to refer to these turns as plunges, ... and frequent were the plunges he took.) He was starting for the Caucasus on active service for his tsar and his country in the capacity of a cadet! And, though a certain benevolent aunt had entered into his impecunious position, and had sent him an inconsiderable sum, still he begged me to assist him in getting his equipment. I did what he asked, and for two years I heard nothing more of him. I must own I had the gravest doubts as to his having gone to the Caucasus. But it turned out that he really had gone there, had, by favour, got into the T---- regiment as a cadet, and had been serving in it for those two years. A perfect series of legends had sprung up there about him. An officer of his regiment related them to me. IV I learned a great deal which I should never have expected of him.--I was, of course, hardly surprised that as a military man, as an officer, he was not a success, that he was in fact worse than useless; but what I had not anticipated was that he was by no means conspicuous for much bravery; that in battle he had a downcast, woebegone air, seemed half-depressed, half-bewildered. Discipline of every sort worried him, and made him miserable; he was daring to the point of insanity when only his _own personal_ safety was in question; no bet was too mad for him to accept; but do harm to others, kill, fight, he could not, possibly because his heart was too good--or possibly because his âcottonwoolâ education (so he expressed it), had made him too soft. Himself he was quite ready to murder in any way at any moment.... But others--no. âThereâs no making him out,â his comrades said of him; âheâs a flabby creature, a poor stick--and yet such a desperate fellow--a perfect madman!â I chanced in later days to ask Misha what evil spirit drove him, forced him, to drink to excess, risk his life, and so on. He always had one answer--âwretchedness.â âBut why are you wretched?â âWhy! how can you ask? If one comes, anyway, to oneâs self, begins to feel, to think of the poverty, of the injustice, of Russia.... Well, itâs all over with me! ... oneâs so wretched at once--one wants to put a bullet through oneâs head! Oneâs forced to start drinking.â âWhy ever do you drag Russia in?â âHow can I help it? Canât be helped! Thatâs why Iâm afraid to think.â âIt all comes, and your wretchedness too, from having nothing to do.â âBut I donât know how to do anything, uncle! dear fellow! Take oneâs life, and stake it on a card--that I can do! Come, you tell me what I ought to do, what to risk my life for? This instant ... Iâll ...â âBut you must simply live.... Why risk your life?â âI canât! You say I act thoughtlessly.... But what else can I do? ... If one starts thinking--good God, all that comes into oneâs head! Itâs only Germans who can think! ...â What use was it talking to him? He was a desperate man, and thatâs all one can say. Of the Caucasus legends I have spoken about, I will tell you two or three. One day, in a party of officers, Misha began boasting of a sabre he had got by exchange--âa genuine Persian blade!â The officers expressed doubts as to its genuineness. Misha began disputing. âHere then,â he cried at last; âthey say the man that knows most about sabres is Abdulka the one-eyed. Iâll go to him, and ask.â The officers wondered. âWhat Abdulka? Do you mean that lives in the mountains? The rebel never subdued? Abdul-khan?â âYes, thatâs him.â âWhy, but heâll take you for a spy, will put you in a hole full of bugs, or else cut your head off with your own sabre. And, besides, how are you going to get to him? Theyâll catch you directly.â âIâll go to him, though, all the same.â âBet you wonât!â âTaken!â And Misha promptly saddled his horse and rode off to Abdulka. He disappeared for three days. All felt certain that the crazy fellow had come by his end. But, behold! he came back--drunk, and with a sabre, not the one he had taken, but another. They began questioning him. âIt was all right,â said he; âAbdulkaâs a nice fellow. At first, itâs true, he ordered them to put irons on my legs, and was even on the point of having me impaled. Only, I explained why I had come, and showed him the sabre. âAnd youâd better not keep me,â said I; âdonât expect a ransom for me; Iâve not a farthing to bless myself with--and Iâve no relations.â Abdulka was surprised; he looked at me with his solitary eye. âWell,â said he, âyou are a bold one, you Russian; am I to believe you?â âYou may believe me,â said I; âI never tell a lie.â (And this was true; Misha never lied.) Abdulka looked at me again. âAnd do you know how to drink wine?â âI do,â said I; âgive me as much as you will, Iâll drink it.â Abdulka was surprised again; he called on Allah. And he told his--daughter, I suppose--such a pretty creature, only with an eye like a jackalâs--to bring a wine-skin. And I began to get to work on it. âBut your sabre,â said he, âisnât genuine; here, take the real thing. And now we are pledged friends.â But youâve lost your bet, gentlemen; pay up.â The second legend of Misha is of this nature. He was passionately fond of cards; but as he had no money, and could never pay his debts at cards (though he was never a card-sharper), no one at last would sit down to a game with him. So one day he began urgently begging one of his comrades among the officers to play with him! âBut if you lose, you donât pay.â âThe money certainly I canât pay, but Iâll put a shot through my left hand, see, with this pistol here!â âBut whatever use will that be to me?â âNo use, but still it will be curious.â This conversation took place after a drinking bout in the presence of witnesses. Whether it was that Mishaâs proposition struck the officer as really curious--anyway he agreed. Cards were brought, the game began. Misha was in luck; he won a hundred roubles. And thereupon his opponent struck his forehead with vexation. âWhat an ass I am!â he cried, âto be taken in like this! As if youâd have shot your hand if you had lost!--a likely story! hold out your purse!â âThatâs a lie,â retorted Misha: âIâve won--but Iâll shoot my hand.â He snatched up his pistol--and bang, fired at his own hand. The bullet passed right through it ... and in a week the wound had completely healed. Another time, Misha was riding with his comrades along a road at night ... and they saw close to the roadside a narrow ravine like a deep cleft, dark--so dark you couldnât see the bottom. âLook,â said one of the officers, âMisha may be a desperate fellow, but he wouldnât leap into that ravine.â âYes, Iâd leap in!â âNo, you wouldnât, for I dare say itâs seventy feet deep, and you might break your neck.â His friend knew his weak point--vanity.... There was a great deal of it in Misha. âBut Iâll leap in anyway! Would you like to bet on it? Ten roubles.â âGood!â And the officer had hardly uttered the word, when Misha and his horse were off--into the ravine--and crashing down over the stones. All were simply petrified.... A full minute passed, and they heard Mishaâs voice, dimly, as it were rising up out of the bowels of the earth: âAll right! fell on the sand ... but it was a long flight! Ten roubles youâve lost!â âClimb out!â shouted his comrades. âClimb out, I dare say!â echoed Misha. âA likely story! I should like to see you climb out. Youâll have to go for torches and ropes now. And, meanwhile, to keep up my spirits while I wait, fling down a flask....â And so Misha had to stay five hours at the bottom of the ravine; and when they dragged him out, it turned out that his shoulder was dislocated. But that in no way troubled him. The next day a bone-setter, one of the black-smiths, set his shoulder, and he used it as though nothing had been the matter. His health in general was marvellous, incredible. I have already mentioned that up to the time of his death he kept his almost childishly fresh complexion. Illness was a thing unknown to him, in spite of his excesses; the strength of his constitution never once showed signs of giving way. When any other man would infallibly have been seriously ill, or even have died, he merely shook himself, like a duck in the water, and was more blooming than ever. Once, also in the Caucasus ... _this_ legend is really incredible, but one may judge from it what Misha was thought to be capable of.... Well, once, in the Caucasus, in a state of drunkenness, he fell down with the lower half of his body in a stream of water; his head and arms were on the bank, out of water. It was winter-time, there was a hard frost, and when he was found next morning, his legs and body were pulled out from under a thick layer of ice, which had formed over them in the night--and he didnât even catch cold! Another time--this was in Russia (near Orel, and also in a time of severe frost)--he was in a tavern outside the town in company with seven young seminarists (or theological students), and these seminarists were celebrating their final examination, but had invited Misha, as a delightful person, a man of âinspiration,â as the phrase was then. A very great deal was drunk, and when at last the festive party got ready to depart, Misha, dead drunk, was in an unconscious condition. All the seven seminarists together had but one three-horse sledge with a high back; where were they to stow the unresisting body? Then one of the young men, inspired by classical reminiscences, proposed tying Misha by his feet to the back of the sledge, as Hector was tied to the chariot of Achilles! The proposal met with approval ... and jolting up and down over the holes, sliding sideways down the slopes, with his legs torn and flayed, and his head rolling in the snow, poor Misha travelled on his back for the mile and a half from the tavern to the town, and hadnât as much as a cough afterwards, hadnât turned a hair! Such heroic health had nature bestowed upon him! V From the Caucasus he came again to Moscow, in a Circassian dress, a dagger in his sash, a high-peaked cap on his head. This costume he retained to the end, though he was no longer in the army, from which he had been discharged for outstaying his leave. He stayed with me, borrowed a little money ... and forthwith began his âplunges,â his wanderings, or, as he expressed it, âhis peregrinations from pillar to post,â then came the sudden disappearances and returns, and the showers of beautifully written letters addressed to people of every possible description, from an archbishop down to stable-boys and mid-wives! Then came calls upon persons known and unknown! And this is worth noticing: when he made these calls, he was never abject and cringing, he never worried people by begging, but on the contrary behaved with propriety, and had positively a cheerful and pleasant air, though the inveterate smell of spirits accompanied him everywhere, and his Oriental costume gradually changed into rags. âGive, and God will reward you, though I donât deserve it,â he would say, with a bright smile and a candid blush; âif you donât give, youâll be perfectly right, and I shanât blame you for it. I shall find food to eat, God will provide! And there are people poorer than I, and much more deserving of help--plenty, plenty!â Misha was particularly successful with women: he knew how to appeal to their sympathy. But donât suppose that he was or fancied himself a Lovelace....Oh, no! in that way he was very modest. Whether it was that he had inherited a cool temperament from his parents, or whether indeed this too is to be set down to his dislike for doing any one harm--as, according to his notions, relations with a woman meant inevitably doing a woman harm--I wonât undertake to decide; only in all his behaviour with the fair sex he was extremely delicate. Women felt this, and were the more ready to sympathise with him and help him, until at last he revolted them by his drunkenness and debauchery, by the desperateness of which I have spoken already.... I can think of no other word for it. But in other relations he had by that time lost every sort of delicacy, and was gradually sinking to the lowest depths of degradation. He once, in the public assembly at T----, got as far as setting on the table a jug with a notice: âAny one, to whom it may seem agreeable to give the high-born nobleman Poltyev (authentic documents in proof of his pedigree are herewith exposed) a flip on the nose, may satisfy this inclination on putting a rouble into this jug.â And I am told there were persons found willing to pay for the privilege of flipping a noblemanâs nose! It is true that one such person, who put in only one rouble and gave him _two_ flips, he first almost strangled, and then forced to apologise; it is true, too, that part of the money gained in this fashion he promptly distributed among other poor devils ... but still, think what a disgrace! In the course of his âperegrinations from pillar to post,â he made his way, too, to his ancestral home, which he had sold for next to nothing to a speculator and money-lender well known in those days. The money-lender was at home, and hearing of the presence in the neighbourhood of the former owner, now reduced to vagrancy, he gave orders not to admit him into the house, and even, in case of necessity, to drive him away. Misha announced that he would not for his part consent to enter the house, polluted by the presence of so repulsive a person; that he would permit no one to drive him away, but was going to the churchyard to pay his devotions at the grave of his parents. So in fact he did. In the churchyard he was joined by an old house-serf, who had once been his nurse. The money-lender had deprived this old man of his monthly allowance, and driven him off the estate; since then his refuge had been a corner in a peasantâs hut. Misha had been too short a time in possession of his estate to have left behind him a particularly favourable memory; still the old servant could not resist running to the churchyard as soon as he heard of his young masterâs being there. He found Misha sitting on the ground between the tombstones, asked for his hand to kiss, as in old times, and even shed tears on seeing the rags which clothed the limbs of his once pampered young charge. Misha gazed long and silently at the old man. âTimofay!â he said at last; Timofay started. âWhat do you desire?â âHave you a spade?â âI can get one.... But what do you want with a spade, Mihailo Andreitch, sir?â âI want to dig myself a grave, Timofay, and to lie here for time everlasting between my father and mother. Thereâs only this spot left me in the world. Get a spade!â âYes, sir,â said Timofay; he went and got it. And Misha began at once digging in the ground, while Timofay stood by, his chin propped in his hand, repeating: âItâs all thatâs left for you and me, master!â Misha dug and dug, from time to time observing: âLifeâs not worth living, is it, Timofay?â âItâs not indeed, master.â The hole was already of a good depth. People saw what Misha was about, and ran to tell the new owner about it. The money-lender was at first very angry, wanted to send for the police: âThis is sacrilege,â said he. But afterwards, probably reflecting that it was inconvenient anyway to have to do with such a madman, and that it might lead to a scandal,--he went in his own person to the churchyard, and approaching Misha, still toiling, made him a polite bow. He went on with his digging as though he had not noticed his successor. âMihail Andreitch,â began the money-lender, âallow me to ask what you are doing here?â âYou can see--I am digging myself a grave.â âWhy are you doing so?â âBecause I donât want to live any longer.â The money-lender fairly threw up his hands in amazement. âYou donât want to live?â Misha glanced menacingly at the money-lender. âThat surprises you? Arenât you the cause of it all? ... You? ... You? ... Wasnât it you, Judas, who robbed me, taking advantage of my childishness? Arenât you flaying the peasantsâ skins off their backs? Havenât you taken from this poor old man his crust of dry bread? Wasnât it you? ... O God! everywhere nothing but injustice, and oppression, and evil-doing.... Everything must go to ruin then, and me too! I donât care for life, I donât care for life in Russia!â And the spade moved faster than ever in Mishaâs hands. âHereâs a devil of a business!â thought the money-lender; âheâs positively burying himself alive.â âMihail Andreevitch,â he began again: âlisten. Iâve been behaving badly to you, indeed; they told me falsely of you.â Misha went on digging. âBut why be desperate?â Misha still went on digging, and kept throwing the earth at the money-lenderâs feet, as though to say, âHere you are, land-grabber.â âReally, you âre wrong in this. Wonât you be pleased to come in to have some lunch, and rest a bit?â Misha raised his head. âSo thatâs it now! And anything to drink?â The money-lender was delighted. âWhy, of course ... I should think so.â âYou invite Timofay too?â âWell, ... yes, him too.â Misha pondered. âOnly, mind ... you made me a beggar, you know.... Donât think you can get off with one bottle!â âSet your mind at rest ... there shall be all you can want.â Misha got up and flung down the spade.... âWell, Timosha,â said he to his old nurse; âletâs do honour to our host.... Come along.â âYes, sir,â answered the old man. And all three started off to the house together. The money-lender knew the man he had to deal with. At the first start Misha, it is true, exacted a promise from him to âgrant all sorts of immunitiesâ to the peasants; but an hour later, this same Misha, together with Timofay, both drunk, were dancing a galop in the big apartments, which still seemed pervaded by the God-fearing shade of Andrei Nikolaevitch; and an hour later still, Misha in a dead sleep (he had a very weak head for spirits), laid in a cart with his high cap and dagger, was being driven off to the town, more than twenty miles away, and there was flung under a hedge.... As for Timofay, who could still keep on his legs, and only hiccupped--him, of course, they kicked out of the house; since they couldnât get at the master, they had to be content with the old servant. VI Some time passed again, and I heard nothing of Misha.... God knows what he was doing. But one day, as I sat over the samovar at a posting-station on the T---- highroad, waiting for horses, I suddenly heard under the open window of the station room a hoarse voice, uttering in French the words: âMonsieur ... monsieur ... prenez pitiÃ© dâun pauvre gentil-homme ruinÃ©.â ... I lifted my head, glanced.... The mangy-looking fur cap, the broken ornaments on the ragged Circassian dress, the dagger in the cracked sheath, the swollen, but still rosy face, the dishevelled, but still thick crop of hair.... Mercy on us! Misha! He had come then to begging alms on the high-roads. I could not help crying out. He recognised me, started, turned away, and was about to move away from the window. I stopped him ... but what could I say to him? Give him a lecture? ... In silence I held out a five-rouble note; he, also in silence, took it in his still white and plump, though shaking and dirty hand, and vanished round the corner of the house. It was a good while before they gave me horses, and I had time to give myself up to gloomy reflections on my unexpected meeting with Misha; I felt ashamed of having let him go so unsympathetically. At last I set off on my way, and half a mile from the station I observed ahead of me, in the road, a crowd of people moving along with a curious, as it seemed rhythmic, step. I overtook this crowd--and what did I see? Some dozen or so beggars, with sacks over their shoulders, were walking two by two, singing and leaping about, while in front of them danced Misha, stamping time with his feet, and shouting, âNatchiki-tchikaldy, tchuk, tchuk, tchuk! ... Natchiki-tchikaldy, tchuk, tchuk, tchuk!â Directly my carriage caught them up, and he saw me, he began at once shouting, âHurrah! Stand in position! right about face, guard of the roadside!â The beggars took up his shout, and halted; while he, with his peculiar laugh, jumped on to the carriage step, and again yelled: Hurrah! âWhatâs the meaning of this?â I asked with involuntary astonishment. âThis? This is my company, my army--all beggars, Godâs people, friends of my heart. Every one of them, thanks to you, has had a glass; and now we are all rejoicing and making merry! ... Uncle! Do you know itâs only with beggars, Godâs people, that one can live in the world ... by God, it is!â I made him no answer ... but at that moment he struck me as such a kind good creature, his face expressed such childlike simple-heartedness.... A light seemed suddenly as it were to dawn upon me, and I felt a pang in my heart.... âGet into the carriage,â I said to him. He was taken aback.... âWhat? Into the carriage?â âYes, get in, get in,â I repeated; âI want to make you a suggestion. Sit down.... Come along with me.â âWell, as you will.â He sat down. âWell, and you, my honoured friends, my dear comrades,â he added, addressing the beggars, âfare-well, till we meet again.â Misha took off his high cap, and bowed low. The beggars all seemed overawed.... I told the coachman to whip up the horses, and the carriage rolled off. The suggestion I wanted to make Misha was this: the idea suddenly occurred to me to take him with me to my home in the country, about five-and-twenty miles from that station, to rescue him, or at least to make an effort to rescue him. âListen, Misha,â I said; âwill you come along and live with me? ... You shall have everything provided you; you shall have clothes and linen made you; you shall be properly fitted out, and you shall have money to spend on tobacco, and so on, only on one condition, that you give up drink.... Do you agree?â Misha was positively aghast with delight; he opened his eyes wide, flushed crimson, and suddenly falling on my shoulder, began kissing me, and repeating in a broken voice, âUncle ... benefactor ... God reward you.â ... He burst into tears at last, and taking off his cap fell to wiping his eyes, his nose, his lips with it. âMind,â I observed; âremember the condition, not to touch strong drink.â âDamnation to it!â he cried, with a wave of both arms, and with this impetuous movement, I was more than ever conscious of the strong smell of spirits with which he seemed always saturated.... âUncle, if you knew what my life has been.... If it hadnât been for sorrow, a cruel fate.... But now I swear, I swear, I will mend my ways, I will show you....
{'title': 'A Desperate Character and Other Stories by Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}