“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!