A Reckless Character, and Other Stories Part 1

A Reckless Character.

by Ivan Turgenev.

A RECKLESS CHARACTER[1]

(1881)

I

There were eight of us in the room, and we were discussing contemporary matters and persons,

"I do not understand these gentlemen!" remarked A.--"They are fellows of a reckless sort.... Really, desperate.... There has never been anything of the kind before."

"Yes, there has," put in P., a grey-haired old man, who had been born about the twenties of the present century;--"there were reckless men in days gone by also. Some one said of the poet Yazykoff, that he had enthusiasm which was not directed to anything, an objectless enthusiasm; and it was much the same with those people--their recklessness was without an object. But see here, if you will permit me, I will narrate to you the story of my grandnephew, Misha Polteff. It may serve as a sample of the recklessness of those days."

He made his appearance in G.o.d's daylight in the year 1828, I remember, on his father's ancestral estate, in one of the most remote nooks of a remote government of the steppes. I still preserve a distinct recollection of Misha's father, Andrei Nikolaevitch Polteff. He was a genuine, old-fashioned landed proprietor, a pious inhabitant of the steppes, sufficiently well educated,--according to the standards of that epoch,--rather crack-brained, if the truth must be told, and subject, in addition, to epileptic fits.... That also is an old-fashioned malady....

However, Andrei Nikolaevitch's attacks were quiet, and they generally terminated in a sleep and in a fit of melancholy.--He was kind of heart, courteous in manner, not devoid of some pomposity: I have always pictured to myself the Tzar Mikhail Feodorovitch as just that sort of a man.

Andrei Nikolaevitch's whole life flowed past in the punctual discharge of all the rites established since time immemorial, in strict conformity with all the customs of ancient-orthodox, Holy-Russian life. He rose and went to bed, he ate and went to the bath, he waxed merry or wrathful (he did both the one and the other rarely, it is true), he even smoked his pipe, he even played cards (two great innovations!), not as suited his fancy, not after his own fashion, but in accordance with the rule and tradition handed down from his ancestors, in proper and dignified style.

He himself was tall of stature, of n.o.ble mien and brawny; he had a quiet and rather hoa.r.s.e voice, as is frequently the case with virtuous Russians; he was neat about his linen and his clothing, wore white neckerchiefs and long-skirted coats of snuff-brown hue, but his n.o.ble blood made itself manifest notwithstanding; no one would have taken him for a priest's son or a merchant! Andrei Nikolaevitch always knew, in all possible circ.u.mstances and encounters, precisely how he ought to act and exactly what expressions he must employ; he knew when he ought to take medicine, and what medicine to take, which symptoms he should heed and which might be disregarded ... in a word, he knew everything that it was proper to do.... It was as though he said: "Everything has been foreseen and decreed by the old men--the only thing is not to devise anything of your own.... And the chief thing of all is, don't go even as far as the threshold without G.o.d's blessing!"--I am bound to admit that deadly tedium reigned in his house, in those low-ceiled, warm, dark rooms which so often resounded from the chanting of vigils and prayer-services,[2] with an odour of incense and fasting-viands,[3]

which almost never left them!

Andrei Nikolaevitch had married, when he was no longer in his first youth, a poor young n.o.blewoman of the neighbourhood, a very nervous and sickly person, who had been reared in one of the government inst.i.tutes for gentlewomen. She played far from badly on the piano; she spoke French in boarding-school fashion; she was given to enthusiasm, and still more addicted to melancholy, and even to tears.... In a word, she was of an uneasy character. As she considered that her life had been ruined, she could not love her husband, who, "as a matter of course,"

did not understand her; but she respected, she tolerated him; and as she was a thoroughly honest and perfectly cold being, she never once so much as thought of any other "object." Moreover, she was constantly engrossed by anxieties: in the first place, over her really feeble health; in the second place, over the health of her husband, whose fits always inspired her with something akin to superst.i.tious terror; and, in conclusion, over her only son, Misha, whom she reared herself with great zeal.

Andrei Nikolaevitch did not prevent his wife's busying herself with Misha--but on one condition: she was never, under any circ.u.mstances, to depart from the limits, which had been defined once for all, wherein everything in his house must revolve! Thus, for example: during the Christmas holidays and Vasily's evening preceding the New Year, Misha was not only permitted to dress up in costume along with the other "lads,"--doing so was even imposed upon him as an obligation....[4]

On the other hand, G.o.d forbid that he should do it at any other time!

And so forth, and so forth.

II

I remember this Misha at the age of thirteen. He was a very comely lad with rosy little cheeks and soft little lips (and altogether he was soft and plump), with somewhat prominent, humid eyes; carefully brushed and coifed--a regular little girl!--There was only one thing about him which displeased me: he laughed rarely; but when he did laugh his teeth, which were large, white, and pointed like those of a wild animal, displayed themselves unpleasantly; his very laugh had a sharp and even fierce--almost brutal--ring to it; and evil flashes darted athwart his eyes. His mother always boasted of his being so obedient and polite, and that he was not fond of consorting with naughty boys, but always was more inclined to feminine society.

"He is his mother's son, an effeminate fellow," his father, Andrei Nikolaevitch, was wont to say of him:--"but, on the other hand, he likes to go to G.o.d's church.... And that delights me."

Only one old neighbour, a former commissary of the rural police, once said in my presence concerning Misha:--"Good gracious! he will turn out a rebel." And I remember that that word greatly surprised me at the time. The former commissary of police, it is true, had a habit of descrying rebels everywhere.

Just this sort of exemplary youth did Misha remain until the age of eighteen,--until the death of his parents, whom he lost on almost one and the same day. As I resided constantly in Moscow, I heard nothing about my young relative. Some one who came to town from his government did, it is true, inform me that Misha had sold his ancestral estate for a song; but this bit of news seemed to me altogether too incredible!--And lo! suddenly, one autumn morning, into the courtyard of my house dashes a calash drawn by a pair of splendid trotters, with a monstrous coachman on the box; and in the calash, wrapped in a cloak of military cut with a two-arshin[5] beaver collar, and a fatigue-cap over one ear--_a la diable m'emporte_--sits Misha!

On catching sight of me (I was standing at the drawing-room window and staring in amazement at the equipage which had dashed in), he burst into his sharp laugh, and jauntily shaking the lapels of his cloak, he sprang out of the calash and ran into the house.

"Misha! Mikhail Andreevitch!" I was beginning ... "is it you?"

"Call me 'thou' and 'Misha,'" he interrupted me.--"'Tis I ... 'tis I, in person.... I have come to Moscow ... to take a look at people ... and to show myself. So I have dropped in on you.--What do you think of my trotters?... Hey?" Again he laughed loudly.

Although seven years had elapsed since I had seen Misha for the last time, yet I recognised him on the instant.--His face remained thoroughly youthful and as comely as of yore; his moustache had not even sprouted; but under his eyes on his cheeks a puffiness had made its appearance, and an odour of liquor proceeded from his mouth.

"And hast thou been long in Moscow?" I inquired.--"I supposed that thou wert off there in the country, managing thy estate...."

"Eh! I immediately got rid of the village!--As soon as my parents died,--may the kingdom of heaven be theirs,"--(Misha crossed himself with sincerity, without the slightest hypocrisy)--"I instantly, without the slightest delay ... _ein, zwei, drei_! Ha-ha! I let it go cheap, the rascally thing! Such a scoundrel turned up.--Well, never mind! At all events, I shall live at my ease--and amuse others.--But why do you stare at me so?--Do you really think that I ought to have spun the affair out indefinitely?... My dear relative, can't I have a drink?"

Misha talked with frightful rapidity, hurriedly and at the same time as though half asleep.

"Good mercy, Misha!"--I shouted: "Have the fear of G.o.d before thine eyes! How dreadful is thine aspect, in what a condition thou art! And thou wishest another drink! And to sell such a fine estate for a song!..."

"I always fear G.o.d and remember him," he caught me up.--"And he 's good--G.o.d, I mean.... He'll forgive! And I also am good.... I have never injured any one in my life as yet. And a drink is good also; and as for hurting ... it won't hurt anybody, either. And as for my looks, they are all right.... If thou wishest, uncle, I'll walk a line on the floor. Or shall I dance a bit?"

"Akh, please drop that!--What occasion is there for dancing? Thou hadst better sit down."

"I don't mind sitting down.... But why don't you say something about my greys? Just look at them, they're regular lions! I'm hiring them for the time being, but I shall certainly buy them together with the coachman.

It is incomparably cheaper to own one's horses. And I did have the money, but I dropped it last night at faro.--Never mind, I'll retrieve my fortunes to-morrow. Uncle ... how about that drink?"

I still could not collect myself.--"Good gracious! Misha, how old art thou? Thou shouldst not be occupying thyself with horses, or with gambling ... thou shouldst enter the university or the service."

Misha first roared with laughter again, then he emitted a prolonged whistle.

"Well, uncle, I see that thou art in a melancholy frame of mind just now. I'll call another time.--But see here: just look in at Sokolniki[6]

some evening. I have pitched my tent there. The Gipsies sing.... Well, well! One can hardly restrain himself! And on the tent there is a pennant, and on the pennant is written in bi-i-ig letters: 'The Band of Polteva[7] Gipsies.' The pennant undulates like a serpent; the letters are gilded; any one can easily read them. The entertainment is whatever any one likes!... They refuse nothing. It has kicked up a dust all over Moscow ... my respects.... Well? Will you come? I've got a Gipsy there--a regular asp! Black as my boot, fierce as a dog, and eyes ...

regular coals of fire! One can't possibly make out whether she is kissing or biting.... Will you come, uncle?... Well, farewell for the present!"

And abruptly embracing me and kissing me with a smack on my shoulder, Misha darted out into the court to his calash, waving his cap over his head, and uttering a yell; the monstrous coachman[8] bestowed upon him an oblique glance across his beard, the trotters dashed forward, and all disappeared!

On the following day, sinful man that I am, I did go to Sokolniki, and actually did see the tent with the pennant and the inscription. The tent-flaps were raised; an uproar, crashing, squealing, proceeded thence. A crowd of people thronged around it. On the ground, on an outspread rug, sat the Gipsy men and Gipsy women, singing, and thumping tambourines; and in the middle of them, with a guitar in his hands, clad in a red-silk shirt and full trousers of velvet, Misha was gyrating like a whirligig.--"Gentlemen! Respected sirs! Pray enter! The performance is about to begin! Free!"--he was shouting in a cracked voice.--"Hey there!

Champagne! Bang! In the forehead! On the ceiling! Akh, thou rascal, Paul de k.o.c.k!"--Luckily, he did not catch sight of me, and I hastily beat a retreat.

I shall not dilate, gentlemen, on my amazement at the sight of such a change. And, as a matter of fact, how could that peaceable, modest lad suddenly turn into a tipsy good-for-nothing? Was it possible that all this had been concealed within him since his childhood, and had immediately come to the surface as soon as the weight of parental authority had been removed from him?--And that he had kicked up a dust in Moscow, as he had expressed it, there could be no possible doubt, either. I had seen rakes in my day; but here something frantic, some frenzy of self-extermination, some sort of recklessness, had made itself manifest!

III

This diversion lasted for two months.... And lo! again I am standing at the window of the drawing-room and looking out into the courtyard....

Suddenly--what is this?... Through the gate with quiet step enters a novice.... His conical cap is pulled down on his brow, his hair is combed smoothly and flows from under it to right and left ... he wears a long ca.s.sock and a leather girdle.... Can it be Misha? It is!

I go out on the steps to meet him.... "What is the meaning of this masquerade?" I ask.

"It is not a masquerade, uncle," Misha answers me, with a deep sigh;--"but as I have squandered all my property to the last kopek, and as a mighty repentance has seized upon me, I have made up my mind to betake myself to the Troitzko-Sergieva Lavra,[9] to pray away my sins.

For what asylum is now left to me?... And so I have come to bid you farewell, uncle, like the Prodigal Son...."

I gazed intently at Misha. His face was the same as ever, fresh and rosy (by the way, it never changed to the very end), and his eyes were humid and caressing and languishing, and his hands were small and white....

But he reeked of liquor.