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Ivan Petrovitch guffawing loudly, told them an anecdote of Armenian life at the top of his voice, so that all the villas round could hear. It was very gay and Mishutka sat up with them till midnight. "Misha is merry, he is not crying," thought Liza, "so he does not remember his mamma. So he has forgotten me!" And there was a horrible bitter feeling in Liza's soul. She spent the whole night crying.
Another time, Misha was riding with his comrades along a road at night ... and they saw close to the roadside a narrow ravine like a deep cleft, dark so dark you couldn't see the bottom.
I stopped him and asked him to be more explicit, as I could not grasp all of the meaning of his eloquence. Mikhalovsky, who is now taking great care of himself, drinks some waters, takes green pills and goes to bed at nine, became enraged and refused, but Misha said he was an ass, and simply had to dress and go to the headquarters. So the old thing had to dress and appear.
As if you'd have shot your hand if you had lost! a likely story! hold out your purse! 'That's a lie, retorted Misha: 'I've won but I'll shoot my hand. He snatched up his pistol and bang, fired at his own hand. The bullet passed right through it ... and in a week the wound had completely healed.
Cards were brought, the game began. Misha was in luck; he won a hundred roubles. And thereupon his opponent struck his forehead with vexation. 'What an ass I am! he cried, 'to be taken in like this!
'A mother's darling, a milksop, his father, Andrei Nikolaevitch, would call him; 'but he's always ready to go into the house of God.... And that I am glad to see. Only one old neighbour, who had been a police captain, once said before me, speaking of Misha, 'Mark my words, he'll be a rebel. And this saying, I remember, surprised me very much at the time.
'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. 'But why are you wretched? 'Why! how can you ask?
"It is the same now.... Only 'Hurry to good!" So Mísha went away, leaving me to meditate over the mutability of human destinies. But he speedily reminded me of his existence. A couple of months after his visit I received a letter from him, the first of those letters with which he afterward favoured me.
A number of city folk sought coolness on the float, as the buffet at the steamboat-landing was called in Skorodozh. It was less oppressive under the canvas roof of the float, where at intervals gusts of breeze came from the river. Piotr and Misha were in town to do some shopping. They stopped on the float to get a glass of lemonade. A steamboat had just come in below them.
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?
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