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I went to meet him on the steps…. ‘What’s this masquerade for?’ I demanded.

‘It’s not a masquerade, uncle,’ Misha answered with a deep sigh: since all I had I’ve squandered to the last farthing–and a great repentance too has come upon me–so I have resolved to go to the Sergiev monastery of the Holy Trinity to expiate my sins in prayer. For what refuge was left me? … And so I have come to you to say good-bye, uncle, like a prodigal son.’

I looked intently at Misha. His face was just the same, rosy and fresh (indeed it remained almost unchanged to the end), and the eyes, liquid, affectionate, and languishing–and the hands, as small and white…. But he smelt of spirits.

‘Well,’ I pronounced at last, ‘it’s a good thing to do–since there’s nothing else to be done. But why is it you smell of spirits?’

‘A relic of the past,’ answered Misha, and he suddenly laughed, but immediately pulled himself up, and, making a straight, low bow–a monk’s bow–he added: ‘Won’t you help me on my way? I’m going, see, on foot to the monastery….’

‘When?’

‘To-day … at once.’

‘Why be in such a hurry?’

‘Uncle, my motto always was, “Make haste, make haste!”‘

‘But what is your motto now?’

‘It’s the same now…. Only, make haste towards good!’

And so Misha went off, leaving me to ponder on the vicissitudes of human destiny.

But he soon reminded me of his existence. Two months after his visit, I got a letter from him, the first of those letters, of which later on he furnished me with so abundant a supply. And note a peculiar fact: I have seldom seen a neater, more legible handwriting than that unbalanced fellow’s. And the wording of his letters was exceedingly correct, just a little flowery. Invariable entreaties for assistance, always attended with resolutions to reform, vows, and promises on his honour…. All of it seemed–and perhaps was–sincere. Misha’s signature to his letters was always accompanied by peculiar strokes, flourishes, and stops, and he made great use of marks of exclamation. In this first letter Misha informed me of a new ‘turn in his fortune.’ (Later on he used to refer to these turns as plunges, … and frequent were the plunges he took.) He was starting for the Caucasus on active service for his tsar and his country in the capacity of a cadet! And, though a certain benevolent aunt had entered into his impecunious position, and had sent him an inconsiderable sum, still he begged me to assist him in getting his equipment. I did what he asked, and for two years I heard nothing more of him.

I must own I had the gravest doubts as to his having gone to the Caucasus. But it turned out that he really had gone there, had, by favour, got into the T—- regiment as a cadet, and had been serving in it for those two years. A perfect series of legends had sprung up there about him. An officer of his regiment related them to me.

IV

I learned a great deal which I should never have expected of him.–I was, of course, hardly surprised that as a military man, as an officer, he was not a success, that he was in fact worse than useless; but what I had not anticipated was that he was by no means conspicuous for much bravery; that in battle he had a downcast, woebegone air, seemed half-depressed, half-bewildered. Discipline of every sort worried him, and made him miserable; he was daring to the point of insanity when only his own personal safety was in question; no bet was too mad for him to accept; but do harm to others, kill, fight, he could not, possibly because his heart was too good–or possibly because his ‘cottonwool’ education (so he expressed it), had made him too soft. Himself he was quite ready to murder in any way at any moment…. But others–no. ‘There’s no making him out,’ his comrades said of him; ‘he’s a flabby creature, a poor stick–and yet such a desperate fellow–a perfect madman!’ I chanced in later days to ask Misha what evil spirit drove him, forced him, to drink to excess, risk his life, and so on. He always had one answer–‘wretchedness.’