Again considerable time elapsed and I heard nothing
of Misha.... God knows where he had vanished.—One
day, as I was sitting before the samovar at a posting-station
on the T—— highway, waiting for horses,
I suddenly heard, under the open window of the station-room,
a hoarse voice uttering in French:—“Monsieur
... monsieur ... prenez pitie d’un pauvre gentilhomme
ruine!".... I raised my head and looked....
The kazak cap with the fur peeled off, the broken
cartridge-pouches on the tattered Circassian coat,
the dagger in a cracked sheath, the bloated but still
rosy face, the dishevelled but still thick hair....
My God! It was Misha! He had already come
to begging alms on the highways!—I involuntarily
uttered an exclamation. He recognised me, shuddered,
turned away, and was about to withdraw from the window.
I stopped him ... but what was there that I could
say to him? Certainly I could not read him a
lecture!... In silence I offered him a five-ruble
bank-note. With equal silence he grasped it in
his still white and plump, though trembling and dirty
hand, and disappeared round the corner of the house.
They did not furnish me with horses very promptly,
and I had time to indulge in cheerless meditations
on the subject of my unexpected encounter with Misha.
I felt conscience-stricken that I had let him go in
so unsympathetic a manner.—At last I proceeded
on my journey, and after driving half a verst from
the posting-station I observed, ahead of me on the
road, a crowd of people moving along with a strange
and as it were measured tread. I overtook this
crowd,—and what did I see?—Twelve
beggars, with wallets on their shoulders, were walking
by twos, singing and skipping as they went,—–and
at their head danced Misha, stamping time with his
feet and saying: “Natchiki-tchikaldi, tchuk-tchuk-tchuk!
Natchiki-tchikaldi, tchuk-tchuk-tchuk!”
As soon as my calash came on a level with him, and
he caught sight of me, he immediately began to shout,
“Hurrah! Halt, draw up in line! Eyes
front, my guard of the road!”
The beggars took up his cry and halted,—while
he, with his habitual laugh, sprang upon the carriage-step,
and again yelled: “Hurrah!”
“What is the meaning of this?” I asked,
with involuntary amazement.
“This? This is my squad, my army; all beggars,
God’s people, my friends! Each one of them,
thanks to your kindness, has quaffed a cup of liquor:
and now we are all rejoicing and making merry!...
Uncle! ’Tis only with the beggars and God’s
poor that one can live in the world, you know ...
by God, that’s so!”
I made him no reply ... but this time he seemed to
me such a good-natured soul, his face expressed such
childlike ingenuousness ... a light suddenly seemed
to dawn upon me, and there came a prick at my heart....
“Get into the calash with me,” I said
to him.
He was amazed....
Copyrights
A Reckless Character from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
