Read Ebook: A Reckless Character and Other Stories by Turgenev Ivan Sergeevich Hapgood Isabel Florence Translator

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 1128 lines and 80201 words, and 23 pages

: A RECKLESS CHARACTER THE DREAM FATHER ALEXY?I'S STORY OLD PORTRAITS THE SONG OF LOVE TRIUMPHANT CLARA M?LITCH POEMS IN PROSE ENDNOTES

A RECKLESS CHARACTER

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 Y?zykoff, 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, M?sha P?lteff. It may serve as a sample of the recklessness of those days."

He made his appearance in God'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 M?sha's father, Andr?i Nikol?evitch P?lteff. 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, Andr?i Nikol?evitch'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 Mikha?l Fe?dorovitch as just that sort of a man.

Andr?i Nikol?evitch'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 even smoked his pipe, he even played cards , 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 noble mien and brawny; he had a quiet and rather hoarse 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 noble blood made itself manifest notwithstanding; no one would have taken him for a priest's son or a merchant! Andr?i Nikol?evitch always knew, in all possible circumstances 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 God'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, with an odour of incense and fasting-viands, which almost never left them!

Andr?i Nikol?evitch had married, when he was no longer in his first youth, a poor young noblewoman of the neighbourhood, a very nervous and sickly person, who had been reared in one of the government institutes 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 superstitious terror; and, in conclusion, over her only son, M?sha, whom she reared herself with great zeal. Andr?i Nikol?evitch did not prevent his wife's busying herself with M?sha--but on one condition: she was never, under any circumstances, 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 Vas?ly's evening preceding the New Year, M?sha was not only permitted to dress up in costume along with the other "lads,"--doing so was even imposed upon him as an obligation.... On the other hand, God forbid that he should do it at any other time! And so forth, and so forth.

I remember this M?sha at the age of thirteen. He was a very comely lad with rosy little cheeks and soft little lips , 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, Andr?i Nikol?evitch, was wont to say of him:--"but, on the other hand, he likes to go to God's church.... And that delights me."

Only one old neighbour, a former commissary of the rural police, once said in my presence concerning M?sha:--"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.

On catching sight of me , 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.

"M?sha! Mikha?l Andr?evitch!" I was beginning ... "is it you?"

"Call me 'thou' and 'M?sha,'" 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 M?sha 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...."

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

"Good mercy, M?sha!"--I shouted: "Have the fear of God 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 God and remember him," he caught me up.--"And he 's good--God, 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! M?sha, how old art thou? Thou shouldst not be occupying thyself with horses, or with gambling ... thou shouldst enter the university or the service."

M?sha 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 Sok?lniki 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 Polt?va 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, M?sha darted out into the court to his calash, waving his cap over his head, and uttering a yell; the monstrous coachman 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 Sok?lniki, 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, M?sha 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 Kock!"--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!

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 cassock and a leather girdle.... Can it be M?sha? 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," M?sha answers me, with a deep sigh;--"but as I have squandered all my property to the last kop?k, and as a mighty repentance has seized upon me, I have made up my mind to betake myself to the Tr?itzko-S?rgieva L?vra, 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 M?sha. His face was the same as ever, fresh and rosy , and his eyes were humid and caressing and languishing, and his hands were small and white.... But he reeked of liquor.

"Very well!" I said at last: "It is a good move if there is no other issue. But why dost thou smell of liquor?"

"Old habit," replied M?sha, and suddenly burst out laughing, but immediately caught himself up, and making a straight, low, monastic obeisance, he added:--"Will not you contribute something for the journey? For I am going to the monastery on foot...."

"When?"

"To-day ... at once."

"Why art thou in such a hurry?"

"Uncle! my motto has always been 'Hurry! Hurry!'"

"But what is thy motto now?"

So M?sha went away, leaving me to meditate over the mutability of human destinies.

"But why hast thou spleen?"

"Just because I have, good gracious! One comes to himself, recovers his senses, and begins to meditate about poverty, about injustice, about Russia.... Well, and that settles it! Immediately one feels such spleen that he is ready to send a bullet into his forehead! One goes on a carouse instinctively."

"But why hast thou mixed up Russia with this?"

"What else could I do? Nothing!--That's why I am afraid to think."

"All that--that spleen--comes of thy idleness."

"But I don't know how to do anything, uncle! My dear relative! Here now, if it were a question of taking and staking my life on a card,--losing my all and shooting myself, bang! in the neck!--I can do that!--Here now, tell me what to do, what to risk my life for.--I'll do it this very minute!..."

"But do thou simply live.... Why risk thy life?"

"I can't!--You will tell me that I behave recklessly. What else can I do?... One begins to think--and, O Lord, what comes into his head! 'T is only the Germans who think!..."

What was the use of arguing with him? He was a reckless man--and that is all there is to say!

I will repeat to you two or three of the Caucasian legends to which I have alluded. One day, in the company of the officers, M?sha began to brag of a Circassian sabre which he had obtained in barter.--"A genuine Persian blade!"--The officers expressed doubt as to whether it were really genuine. M?sha began to dispute.--"See here," he exclaimed at last,--"they say that the finest judge of Circassian sabres is one-eyed Abdulka. I will go to him and ask."--The officers were dumbfounded.

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet