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!
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!”’