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.
11
