A Desperate Character and Other Stories eBook

I was about to remind him of his sworn promises, but Misha’s frenzied look, his breaking voice, the convulsive tremor in his limbs,—­it was all so awful, that I made haste to get rid of him; I said that his clothes should be given him at once, and a cart got ready; and taking a note for twenty-five roubles out of a drawer, I laid it on the table.  Misha had begun to advance in a menacing way towards me,—­but on this, suddenly he stopped, his face worked, flushed, he struck himself on the breast, the tears rushed from his eyes, and muttering, ‘Uncle! angel!  I know I’m a ruined man! thanks! thanks!’ he snatched up the note and ran away.

An hour later he was sitting in the cart dressed once more in his Circassian costume, again rosy and cheerful; and when the horses started, he yelled, tore off the peaked cap, and, waving it over his head, made bow after bow.  Just as he was going off, he had given me a long and warm embrace, and whispered, ’Benefactor, benefactor ... there’s no saving me!’ He even ran to the ladies and kissed their hands, fell on his knees, called upon God, and begged their forgiveness!  Katia I found afterwards in tears.

The coachman, with whom Misha had set off, on coming home informed me that he had driven him to the first tavern on the highroad—­and that there ‘his honour had stuck,’ had begun treating every one indiscriminately—­and had quickly sunk into unconsciousness.  From that day I never came across Misha again, but his ultimate fate I learned in the following manner.

VIII

Three years later, I was again at home in the country; all of a sudden a servant came in and announced that Madame Poltyev was asking to see me.  I knew no Madame Poltyev, and the servant, who made this announcement, for some unknown reason smiled sarcastically.  To my glance of inquiry, he responded that the lady asking for me was young, poorly dressed, and had come in a peasant’s cart with one horse, which she was driving herself!  I told him to ask Madame Poltyev up to my room.

I saw a woman of five-and-twenty, in the dress of the small tradesman class, with a large kerchief on her head.  Her face was simple, roundish, not without charm; she looked dejected and gloomy, and was shy and awkward in her movements.

‘You are Madame Poltyev?’ I inquired, and I asked her to sit down.

‘Yes,’ she answered in a subdued voice, and she did not sit down.  ’I am the widow of your nephew, Mihail Andreevitch Poltyev.’

’Is Mihail Andreevitch dead?  Has he been dead long?  But sit down, I beg.’

She sank into a chair.

‘It’s two months.’

‘And had you been married to him long?’

‘I had been a year with him.’

‘Where have you come from now?’

’From out Tula way....  There’s a village there, Znamenskoe-Glushkovo—­perhaps you may know it.  I am the daughter of the deacon there.  Mihail Andreitch and I lived there....  He lived in my father’s house.  We were a whole year together.’