"Very well!" I said at last: "It is a good move if there is no other
issue. But why dost thou smell of liquor?"

"Old habit," replied Mísha, and suddenly burst out laughing, but
immediately caught himself up, and making a straight, low, monastic
obeisance, he added:--"Will not you contribute something for the
journey? For I am going to the monastery on foot...."

"When?"

"To-day ... at once."

"Why art thou in such a hurry?"

"Uncle! my motto has always been 'Hurry! Hurry!'"

"But what is thy motto now?"

"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. And note this peculiarity: I have rarely
beheld a neater, more legible handwriting than was possessed by this
unmethodical man. The style of his letters also was very regular, and
slightly florid. The invariable appeals for assistance alternated with
promises of amendment, with honourable words and with oaths.... All this