I was still unable to get over my amazement.
’Really, Misha, how old are you? You ought
not to be thinking about horses or cards, ... but going
into the university or the service.’
Misha first laughed again, then gave vent to a prolonged
whistle.
’Well, uncle, I see you’re in a melancholy
humour to-day. I’ll come back another time.
But I tell you what: you come in the evening to
Sokolniki. I’ve a tent pitched there.
The gypsies sing, ... such goings-on.... And
there’s a streamer on the tent, and on the streamer,
written in large letters: “The Troupe of
Poltyev’s Gypsies.” The streamer
coils like a snake, the letters are of gold, attractive
for every one to read. A free entertainment—whoever
likes to come! ... No refusal! I’m
making the dust fly in Moscow ... to my glory! ...
Eh? will you come? Ah, I’ve one girl there
... a serpent! Black as your boot, spiteful as
a dog, and eyes ... like living coals! One can
never tell what she’s going to do—kiss
or bite! ... Will you come, uncle? ... Well,
good-bye, till we meet!’
And with a sudden embrace, and a smacking kiss on
my shoulder, Misha darted away into the courtyard,
and into the carriage, waved his cap over his head,
hallooed,—the monstrous coachman leered
at him over his beard, the greys dashed off, and all
vanished!
The next day I—like a sinner—set
off to Sokolniki, and did actually see the tent with
the streamer and the inscription. The drapery
of the tent was raised; from it came clamour, creaking,
and shouting. Crowds of people were thronging
round it. On a carpet spread on the ground sat
gypsies, men and women, singing and beating drums,
and in the midst of them, in a red silk shirt and
velvet breeches, was Misha, holding a guitar, dancing
a jig. ’Gentlemen! honoured friends! walk
in, please! the performance is just beginning!
Free to all!’ he was shouting in a high, cracked
voice. ’Hey! champagne! pop! a pop on the
head! pop up to the ceiling! Ha! you rogue there,
Paul de Kock!’
Luckily he did not see me, and I hastily made off.
I won’t enlarge on my astonishment at the spectacle
of this transformation. But, how was it actually
possible for that quiet and modest boy to change all
at once into a drunken buffoon? Could it all
have been latent in him from childhood, and have come
to the surface directly the yoke of his parents’
control was removed? But that he had made the
dust fly in Moscow, as he expressed it—of
that, certainly, there could be no doubt. I have
seen something of riotous living in my day; but in
this there was a sort of violence, a sort of frenzy
of self-destruction, a sort of desperation!
For two months these diversions continued....
And once more I was standing at my drawing-room window,
looking into the courtyard.... All of a sudden—what
could it mean? ... there came slowly stepping in at
the gate a pilgrim ... a squash hat pulled down on
his forehead, his hair combed out straight to right
and left below it, a long gown, a leather belt ...
Could it be Misha? He it was!
