“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.