A Desperate Character Page #5

"A Desperate Character" is a short story by Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev that explores themes of love, longing, and the complexity of human emotions. The narrative centers around a young woman named Zinaida, who finds herself trapped in a tumultuous relationship with a man entangled in despair and existential angst. The story delves into the inner turmoil of its characters, capturing the essence of unfulfilled desires and the contradictions of the human condition. Turgenev's poignant prose and keen psychological insight invite readers to reflect on the intricacies of love and the depths of desperation.

• Novel

								

the churchyard to pay his devotions at the grave of his parents. So in
fact he did.

In the churchyard he was joined by an old house-serf, who had once been
his nurse. The money-lender had deprived this old man of his monthly
allowance, and driven him off the estate; since then his refuge had been
a corner in a peasant's hut. Misha had been too short a time in
possession of his estate to have left behind him a particularly
favourable memory; still the old servant could not resist running to the
churchyard as soon as he heard of his young master's being there. He
found Misha sitting on the ground between the tombstones, asked for his
hand to kiss, as in old times, and even shed tears on seeing the rags
which clothed the limbs of his once pampered young charge.

Misha gazed long and silently at the old man. 'Timofay!' he said at
last; Timofay started.

'What do you desire?'

'Have you a spade?'

'I can get one.... But what do you want with a spade, Mihailo
Andreitch, sir?'

'I want to dig myself a grave, Timofay, and to lie here for time
everlasting between my father and mother. There's only this spot left me
in the world. Get a spade!'

'Yes, sir,' said Timofay; he went and got it. And Misha began at once
digging in the ground, while Timofay stood by, his chin propped in his
hand, repeating: 'It's all that's left for you and me, master!'

Misha dug and dug, from time to time observing: 'Life's not worth
living, is it, Timofay?'

'It's not indeed, master.'

The hole was already of a good depth. People saw what Misha was about,
and ran to tell the new owner about it. The money-lender was at first
very angry, wanted to send for the police: 'This is sacrilege,' said he.
But afterwards, probably reflecting that it was inconvenient anyway to
have to do with such a madman, and that it might lead to a scandal,--he
went in his own person to the churchyard, and approaching Misha, still
toiling, made him a polite bow. He went on with his digging as though he
had not noticed his successor. 'Mihail Andreitch,' began the
money-lender, 'allow me to ask what you are doing here?'

'You can see--I am digging myself a grave.'

'Why are you doing so?'

'Because I don't want to live any longer.'

The money-lender fairly threw up his hands in amazement. 'You don't
want to live?'

Misha glanced menacingly at the money-lender. 'That surprises you?
Aren't you the cause of it all? ... You? ... You? ... Wasn't it you,
Judas, who robbed me, taking advantage of my childishness? Aren't you
flaying the peasants' skins off their backs? Haven't you taken from
this poor old man his crust of dry bread? Wasn't it you? ... O God!
everywhere nothing but injustice, and oppression, and evil-doing....
Everything must go to ruin then, and me too! I don't care for life, I
don't care for life in Russia!' And the spade moved faster than ever in
Misha's hands.

'Here's a devil of a business!' thought the money-lender; 'he's
positively burying himself alive.' 'Mihail Andreevitch,' he began
again: 'listen. I've been behaving badly to you, indeed; they told me
falsely of you.'

Misha went on digging.

'But why be desperate?'

Misha still went on digging, and kept throwing the earth at the
money-lender's feet, as though to say, 'Here you are, land-grabber.'

'Really, you 're wrong in this. Won't you be pleased to come in to have
some lunch, and rest a bit?'

Misha raised his head. 'So that's it now! And anything to drink?'

The money-lender was delighted. 'Why, of course ... I should think so.'

'You invite Timofay too?'

'Well, ... yes, him too.'

Misha pondered. 'Only, mind ... you made me a beggar, you know.... Don't
think you can get off with one bottle!'

'Set your mind at rest ... there shall be all you can want.'

Misha got up and flung down the spade.... 'Well, Timosha,' said he to
his old nurse; 'let's do honour to our host.... Come along.'

'Yes, sir,' answered the old man.

And all three started off to the house together. The money-lender knew
the man he had to deal with. At the first start Misha, it is true,
exacted a promise from him to 'grant all sorts of immunities' to the
peasants; but an hour later, this same Misha, together with Timofay,
both drunk, were dancing a galop in the big apartments, which still
seemed pervaded by the God-fearing shade of Andrei Nikolaevitch; and an
hour later still, Misha in a dead sleep (he had a very weak head for
spirits), laid in a cart with his high cap and dagger, was being driven
off to the town, more than twenty miles away, and there was flung under
a hedge.... As for Timofay, who could still keep on his legs, and only
hiccupped--him, of course, they kicked out of the house; since they
couldn't get at the master, they had to be content with the old servant.

VI

Some time passed again, and I heard nothing of Misha.... God knows what
he was doing. But one day, as I sat over the samovar at a
posting-station on the T---- highroad, waiting for horses, I suddenly
heard under the open window of the station room a hoarse voice, uttering
in French the words: 'Monsieur ... monsieur ... prenez pitié d'un pauvre
gentil-homme ruiné.' ... I lifted my head, glanced.... The
mangy-looking fur cap, the broken ornaments on the ragged Circassian
dress, the dagger in the cracked sheath, the swollen, but still rosy
face, the dishevelled, but still thick crop of hair.... Mercy on us!
Misha! He had come then to begging alms on the high-roads. I could not
help crying out. He recognised me, started, turned away, and was about
to move away from the window. I stopped him ... but what could I say to
him? Give him a lecture? ... In silence I held out a five-rouble note;
he, also in silence, took it in his still white and plump, though
shaking and dirty hand, and vanished round the corner of the house.

It was a good while before they gave me horses, and I had time to give
myself up to gloomy reflections on my unexpected meeting with Misha; I
felt ashamed of having let him go so unsympathetically.

At last I set off on my way, and half a mile from the station I observed
ahead of me, in the road, a crowd of people moving along with a curious,
as it seemed rhythmic, step. I overtook this crowd--and what did I see?

Some dozen or so beggars, with sacks over their shoulders, were walking
two by two, singing and leaping about, while in front of them danced
Misha, stamping time with his feet, and shouting, 'Natchiki-tchikaldy,
tchuk, tchuk, tchuk! ... Natchiki-tchikaldy, tchuk, tchuk, tchuk!'
Directly my carriage caught them up, and he saw me, he began at once
shouting, 'Hurrah! Stand in position! right about face, guard of the
roadside!'

The beggars took up his shout, and halted; while he, with his peculiar
laugh, jumped on to the carriage step, and again yelled: Hurrah!

'What's the meaning of this?' I asked with involuntary astonishment.

'This? This is my company, my army--all beggars, God's people, friends
of my heart. Every one of them, thanks to you, has had a glass; and
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