Читать книгу A Desperate Character and Other Stories - Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev - Страница 6

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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 animal’s—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. ‘A mother’s darling, a milksop,’ his father, Andrei Nikolaevitch, would call him; ‘but he’s always ready to go into the house of God. … And that I am glad to see.’ Only one old neighbour, who had been a police captain, once said before me, speaking of Misha, ‘Mark my words, he’ll be a rebel.’ 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, à la diable m’emporte, 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.

‘Misha! Mihail Andreevitch!’ I was beginning, … ‘Is it you?’

‘Call me Misha,’—he interrupted me. ‘Yes, it’s 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?’ 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. ‘Have you been long in Moscow?’ I inquired.

‘I supposed you were at home in the country, looking after the place.’ …

‘Eh! 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 moment’s delay, … ein, zwei, drei! ha, ha! I let it go cheap, damn it! A rascally fellow turned up. But it’s 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, couldn’t I have a glass of something?’

Misha spoke fearfully quick and hurriedly, and, at the same time, as though he were only just waked up from sleep.

‘Misha, upon my word!’ I wailed; ‘have 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. …’

‘God I fear always, and do not forget,’ he broke in. … ‘But 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?’

‘Oh, spare me, please! A dance, indeed! You’d better sit down.’

‘As to that, I’ll sit down with pleasure. … But why do you say nothing of my greys? Just look at them, they’re perfect lions! I’ve got them on hire for the time, but I shall buy them for certain, … and the coachman too. … It’s ever so much cheaper to have one’s own horses. And I had the money, but I lost it yesterday at faro. It’s no matter, I’ll make it up to-morrow. Uncle, … how about that little glass?’

I was still unable to get over my amazement. ‘Really, Misha, how old are you? You ought not to be thinking about horses or cards, … but going into the university or the service.’

Misha first laughed again, then gave vent to a prolonged whistle.

‘Well, uncle, I see you’re in a melancholy humour to-day. I’ll come back another time. But I tell you what: you come in the evening to Sokolniki. I’ve a tent pitched there. The gypsies sing, … such goings-on. … And there’s a streamer on the tent, and on the streamer, written in large letters: “The Troupe of Poltyev’s Gypsies.” 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! I’m making the dust fly in Moscow … to my glory! … Eh? will you come? Ah, I’ve one girl there … a serpent! Black as your boot, spiteful as a dog, and eyes … like living coals! One can never tell what she’s going to do—kiss or bite! … Will you come, uncle? … Well, good-bye, till we meet!’

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. ‘Gentlemen! honoured friends! walk in, please! the performance is just beginning! Free to all!’ he was shouting in a high, cracked voice. ‘Hey! champagne! pop! a pop on the head! pop up to the ceiling! Ha! you rogue there, Paul de Kock!’

Luckily he did not see me, and I hastily made off.

I won’t 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 parents’ 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!