A Desperate Character and Other Stories

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.

VIII

Three years later, I was again at home in the country; all of a sudden a servant came in and announced that Madame Poltyev was asking to see me. I knew no Madame Poltyev, and the servant, who made this announcement, for some unknown reason smiled sarcastically. To my glance of inquiry, he responded that the lady asking for me was young, poorly dressed, and had come in a peasant's cart with one horse, which she was driving herself! I told him to ask Madame Poltyev up to my room.

I saw a woman of five-and-twenty, in the dress of the small tradesman class, with a large kerchief on her head. Her face was simple, roundish, not without charm; she looked dejected and gloomy, and was shy and awkward in her movements.

'You are Madame Poltyev?' I inquired, and I asked her to sit down.

'Yes,' she answered in a subdued voice, and she did not sit down. 'I am the widow of your nephew, Mihail Andreevitch Poltyev.'

'Is Mihail Andreevitch dead? Has he been dead long? But sit down, I beg.'

She sank into a chair.

'It's two months.'

'And had you been married to him long?'

'I had been a year with him.'

'Where have you come from now?'

'From out Tula way…. There's a village there, Znamenskoe-Glushkovo—perhaps you may know it. I am the daughter of the deacon there. Mihail Andreitch and I lived there…. He lived in my father's house. We were a whole year together.'

The young woman's lips twitched a little, and she put her hand up to them. She seemed to be on the point of tears, but she controlled herself, and cleared her throat.

'Mihail Andreitch,' she went on: 'before his death enjoined upon me to go to you; 'You must be sure to go,' said he! And he told me to thank you for all your goodness, and to give you … this … see, this little thing (she took a small packet out of her pocket) which he always had about him…. And Mihail Andreitch said, if you would be pleased to accept it in memory of him, if you would not disdain it…. 'There's nothing else,' said he, 'I can give him' … that is, you….'

In the packet there was a little silver cup with the monogram of Misha's mother. This cup I had often seen in Misha's hands, and once he had even said to me, speaking of some poor fellow, that he really was destitute, since he had neither cup nor bowl, 'while I, see, have this anyway.'

I thanked her, took the cup, and asked:

'Of what complaint had Misha died? No doubt….'

Then I bit my tongue … but the young woman understood my unuttered hint…. She took a swift glance at me, then looked down again, smiled mournfully, and said at once: 'Oh no! he had quite given that up, ever since he got to know me … But he had no health at all! … It was shattered quite. As soon as he gave up drink, he fell into ill health directly. He became so steady; he always wanted to help father in his land or in the garden, … or any other work there might be … in spite of his being of noble birth. But how could he get the strength? … At writing, too, he tried to work; as you know, he could do that work capitally, but his hands shook, and he couldn't hold the pen properly. … He was always finding fault with himself; 'I'm a white-handed poor creature,' he would say; 'I've never done any good to anybody, never helped, never laboured!' He worried himself very much about that…. He used to say that our people labour,—but what use are we? … Ah, Nikolai Nikolaitch, he was a good man—and he was fond of me … and I… Ah, pardon me….'

Here the young woman wept outright. I would have consoled her, but I did not know how.

'Have you a child left you?' I asked at last.

She sighed. 'No, no child…. Is it likely?' And her tears flowed faster than ever.

'And so that was how Misha's troubled wanderings had ended,' the old man P. wound up his narrative. 'You will agree with me, I am sure, that I'm right in calling him a desperate character; but you will most likely agree too that he was not like the desperate characters of to-day; still, a philosopher, you must admit, would find a family likeness between him and them. In him and in them there's the thirst for self-destruction, the wretchedness, the dissatisfaction…. And what it all comes from, I leave the philosopher to decide.'

BOUGIVALLE, November 1881.

A STRANGE STORY

Fifteen years ago—began H.—official duties compelled me to spend a few days in the principal town of the province of T——. I stopped at a very fair hotel, which had been established six months before my arrival by a Jewish tailor, who had grown rich. I am told that it did not flourish long, which is often the case with us; but I found it still in its full splendour: the new furniture emitted cracks like pistol-shots at night; the bed-linen, table-cloths, and napkins smelt of soap, and the painted floors reeked of olive oil, which, however, in the opinion of the waiter, an exceedingly elegant but not very clean individual, tended to prevent the spread of insects. This waiter, a former valet of Prince G.'s, was conspicuous for his free-and-easy manners and his self-assurance. He invariably wore a second-hand frockcoat and slippers trodden down at heel, carried a table-napkin under his arm, and had a multitude