A Reckless Character by Ivan Turgenev

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A RECKLESS CHARACTER

And Other Stories

BY

IVAN TURGENIEFF

Translated from the Russian by
ISABEL F. HAPGOOD

NEW YORK, CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, 1907.

CONTENTS:

A RECKLESS CHARACTER
THE DREAM
FATHER ALEXYEI'S STORY
OLD PORTRAITS
THE SONG OF LOVE TRIUMPHANT
CLARA MILITCH
POEMS IN PROSE
ENDNOTES

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 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 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 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! Andrei Nikolaevitch 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,[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 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, 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 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 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, God 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 God'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 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! 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 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!

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 cassock 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.

"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 Misha, 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?"

"It is the same now.... Only '_Hurry_--to good!'"

So Misha went away, leaving me to meditate over the mutability of human
destinies.

But he speedily reminded me of his existence. A couple of months after
his visit I received a letter from him,--the first of those letters with
which he afterward favoured me. And note this peculiarity: I have rarely
beheld a neater, more legible handwriting than was possessed by this
unmethodical man. The style of his letters also was very regular, and
slightly florid. The invariable appeals for assistance alternated with
promises of amendment, with honourable words and with oaths.... All this
appeared to be--and perhaps was--sincere. Misha's signature at the end
of his letters was always accompanied by peculiar flourishes, lines and
dots, and he used a great many exclamation-points. In that first letter
Misha informed me of a new "turn in his fortune." (Later on he called
these turns "dives" ... and he dived frequently.) He had gone off to the
Caucasus to serve the Tzar and fatherland "with his breast," in the
capacity of a yunker. And although a certain benevolent aunt had
commiserated his poverty-stricken condition and had sent him an
insignificant sum, nevertheless he asked me to help him to equip
himself. I complied with his request, and for a period of two years
thereafter I heard nothing about him. I must confess that I entertained
strong doubts as to his having gone to the Caucasus. But it turned out
that he really had gone thither, had entered the T---- regiment as
yunker, through influence, and had served in it those two years. Whole
legends were fabricated there about him. One of the officers in his
regiment communicated them to me.

IV

I learned a great deal which I had not expected from him. I was not
surprised, of course, that he had proved to be a poor, even a downright
worthless military man and soldier; but what I had not expected was,
that he had displayed no special bravery; that in battle he wore a
dejected and languid aspect, as though he were partly bored, partly
daunted. All discipline oppressed him, inspired him with sadness; he was
audacious to recklessness when it was a question of himself personally;
there was no wager too crazy for him to accept; but do evil to others,
kill, fight, he could not, perhaps because he had a good heart,--and
perhaps because his "cotton-wool" education (as he expressed it) had
enervated him. He was ready to exterminate himself in any sort of way at
any time.... But others--no. "The devil only can make him out," his
comrades said of him:--"he's puny, a rag---and what a reckless fellow he
is--a regular dare-devil!"--I happened afterward to ask Misha what evil
spirit prompted him, made him indulge in drinking-bouts, risk his life,
and so forth. He always had one answer: "Spleen."

"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, Misha 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. Misha 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.

"What Abdulka? The one who lives in the mountains? The one who is not at
peace with us? Abdul-Khan?"

"The very man."

"But he will take thee for a scout, he will place thee in the
bug-house,--or he will cut off thy head with that same sabre. And how
wilt thou make thy way to him? They will seize thee immediately."

"But I will go to him, nevertheless."

"We bet that thou wilt not go!"

"I take your bet!"

And Misha instantly saddled his horse and rode off to Abdulka. He was
gone for three days. All were convinced that he had come to some
dreadful end. And behold! he came back, somewhat tipsy, and with a
sabre, only not the one which he had carried away with him, but
another. They began to question him.

"It's all right," said he. "Abdulka is a kind man. At first he really
did order fetters to be riveted on my legs, and was even preparing to
impale me on a stake. But I explained to him why I had come. 'Do not
expect any ransom from me,' said I. 'I haven't a farthing to my
name--and I have no relatives.'--Abdulka was amazed; he stared at me
with his solitary eye.-'Well,' says he, 'thou art the chief of heroes,
Russian! Am I to believe thee?'--'Believe me,' said I; 'I never lie'
(and Misha really never did lie).--Abdulka looked at me again.-'And dost
thou know how to drink wine?'-'I do,' said I; 'as much as thou wilt
give, so much will I drink.'--Again Abdulka was astonished, and
mentioned Allah. And then he ordered his daughter, or some pretty
maiden, whoever she was,--anyhow, she had the gaze of a jackal,--to
fetch a leathern bottle of wine.--And I set to work.--'But thy sabre is
spurious,' says he; 'here, take this genuine one. And now thou and I are
friends.'--And you have lost your wager, gentlemen, so pay up."

A second legend concerning Misha runs as follows. He was passionately
fond of cards; but as he had no money and did not pay his gambling debts
(although he was never a sharper), no one would any longer sit down to
play with him. So one day he began to importune a brother officer, and
insisted upon the latter's playing with him.

"But thou wilt be sure to lose, and thou wilt not pay."

"I will not pay in money, that's true--but I will shoot a hole through
my left hand with this pistol here!"

"But what profit is there for me in that?"

"No profit whatever--but it's a curious thing, nevertheless."

This conversation took place after a carouse, in the presence of
witnesses. Whether Misha's proposal really did strike the officer as
curious or not,--at all events, he consented. The cards were brought,
the game began. Misha was lucky; he won one hundred rubles. And
thereupon his opponent smote himself on the forehead.

"What a blockhead I am!" he cried.--"On what a bait was I caught! If
thou hadst lost, much thou wouldst have shot thyself through the
hand!--so it's just an assault on my pocket!"

"That's where thou art mistaken," retorted Misha:--"I have won--but I'll
shoot the hole through my hand."

He seized his pistol, and bang! shot himself through the hand. The
bullet went clear through ... and a week later the wound was completely
healed!

On another occasion still, Misha is riding along the road by night with
his comrades.... And they see yawning, right by the side of the road, a
narrow ravine in the nature of a cleft, dark, very dark, and the bottom
of it not visible.

"Here now," says one comrade, "Misha is reckless enough about some
things, but he will not leap into this ravine."

"Yes, I will!"

"No, thou wilt not, because it is, probably, ten fathoms deep, and thou
mightest break thy neck."

His friend knew how to attack him--through his vanity.... Misha had a
great deal of it.

"But I will leap, nevertheless! Wilt thou bet on it? Ten rubles."

"All right!"

And before his comrade had managed to finish the last word Misha flew
off his horse into the ravine, and crashed down on the stones. They were
all fairly petrified with horror.... A good minute passed, and they
heard Misha's voice proceeding as though from the bowels of the earth,
and very dull:

"I'm whole! I landed on sand.... But the descent was long! Ten rubles on
you!"

"Climb out!" shouted his comrades.

"Yes, climb out!"--returned Misha. "Damn it! One can't climb out of
here! You will have to ride off now for ropes and lanterns. And in the
meanwhile, so that I may not find the waiting tedious, toss me down a
flask...."

And so Misha had to sit for five hours at the bottom of the ravine; and
when they dragged him out, it appeared that he had a dislocated
shoulder. But this did not daunt him in the least. On the following day
a blacksmith bone-setter set his shoulder, and he used it as though
nothing were the matter.

Altogether, his health was remarkable, unprecedented. I have already
told you that until his death he preserved an almost childish freshness
of complexion. He did not know what it was to be ill, in spite of all
his excesses; the vigour of his constitution was not affected in a
single instance. Where any other man would have fallen dangerously ill,
or even have died, he merely shook himself like a duck in the water, and
became more blooming than ever. Once--that also was in the Caucasus....
This legend is improbable, it is true, but from it one can judge what
Misha was regarded as capable of doing.... So then, once, in the
Caucasus, when in a state of intoxication, he fell into a small stream
that covered the lower part of his body; his head and arms remained
exposed on the bank. The affair took place in winter; a rigorous frost
set in; and when he was found on the following morning, his legs and
body were visible beneath a stout crust of ice which had frozen over in
the course of the night--and he never even had a cold in the head in
consequence! On another occasion (this happened in Russia, near
Orel,[10] and also during a severe frost), he chanced to go to a
suburban eating-house in company with seven young theological students.
These theological students were celebrating their graduation
examination, and had invited Misha, as a charming fellow, "a man with a
sigh," as it was called then. They drank a great deal; and when, at
last, the merry crew were preparing to depart, Misha, dead drunk, was
found to be already in a state of unconsciousness. The whole seven
theological students had between them only one troika sledge with a high
back;[11]--where were they to put the helpless body? Then one of the
young men, inspired by classical reminiscences, suggested that Misha be
tied by the feet to the back of the sledge, as Hector was to the chariot
of Achilles! The suggestion was approved ... and bouncing over the
hummocks, sliding sideways down the declivities, with his feet strung up
in the air, and his head dragging through the snow, our Misha traversed
on his back the distance of two versts which separated the restaurant
from the town, and never even so much as coughed or frowned. With such
marvellous health had nature endowed him!

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