LITMIR.BIZ

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risk his life, and so forth. He always had one answer: "Spleen."

      "But why hast thou spleen?"

      "Just because I have, good gracious! One comes to himself, recovers his senses, and begins to meditate about poverty, about injustice, about Russia. … Well, and that settles it! Immediately one feels such spleen that he is ready to send a bullet into his forehead! One goes on a carouse instinctively."

      "But why hast thou mixed up Russia with this?"

      "What else could I do? Nothing!—That's why I am afraid to think."

      "All that—that spleen—comes of thy idleness."

      "But I don't know how to do anything, uncle! My dear relative! Here now, if it were a question of taking and staking my life on a card—losing my all and shooting myself, bang! in the neck!—I can do that!—Here now, tell me what to do, what to risk my life for.—I'll do it this very minute! … "

      "But do thou simply live. … Why risk thy life?"

      "I can't!—You will tell me that I behave recklessly. What else can I do? … One begins to think—and, O Lord, what comes into his head! 'T is only the Germans who think! … "

      What was the use of arguing with him? He was a reckless man—and that is all there is to say!

      I will repeat to you two or three of the Caucasian legends to which I have alluded. One day, in the company of the officers, Mísha began to brag of a Circassian sabre which he had obtained in barter.—"A genuine Persian blade!"—The officers expressed doubt as to whether it were really genuine. Mísha began to dispute.—"See here," he exclaimed at last—"they say that the finest judge of Circassian sabres is one-eyed Abdulka. I will go to him and ask."—The officers were dumbfounded.

      "What Abdulka? The one who lives in the mountains? The one who is not at peace with us? Abdul-Khan?"

      "The very man."

      "But he will take thee for a scout, he will place thee in the bug-house—or he will cut off thy head with that same sabre. And how wilt thou make thy way to him? They will seize thee immediately."

      "But I will go to him, nevertheless."

      "We bet that thou wilt not go!"

      "I take your bet!"

      And Mísha instantly saddled his horse and rode off to Abdulka. He was gone for three days. All were convinced that he had come to some dreadful end. And behold! he came back, somewhat tipsy, and with a sabre, only not the one which he had carried away with him, but another. They began to question him.

      "It's all right," said he. "Abdulka is a kind man. At first he really did order fetters to be riveted on my legs, and was even preparing to impale me on a stake. But I explained to him why I had come. 'Do not expect any ransom from me,' said I. 'I haven't a farthing to my name—and I have no relatives.'—Abdulka was amazed; he stared at me with his solitary eye.-'Well,' says he, 'thou art the chief of heroes, Russian! Am I to believe thee?'—'Believe me,' said I; 'I never lie' (and Mísha really never did lie).—Abdulka looked at me again.-'And dost thou know how to drink wine?'-'I do,' said I; 'as much as thou wilt give, so much will I drink.'—Again Abdulka was astonished, and mentioned Allah. And then he ordered his daughter, or some pretty maiden, whoever she was—anyhow, she had the gaze of a jackal—to fetch a leathern bottle of wine.—And I set to work.—'But thy sabre is spurious,' says he; 'here, take this genuine one. And now thou and I are friends.'—And you have lost your wager, gentlemen, so pay up."

      A second legend concerning Mísha runs as follows. He was passionately fond of cards; but as he had no money and did not pay his gambling debts (although he was never a sharper), no one would any longer sit down to play with him. So one day he began to importune a brother officer, and insisted upon the latter's playing with him.

      "But thou wilt be sure to lose, and thou wilt not pay."

      "I will not pay in money, that's true—but I will shoot a hole through my left hand with this pistol here!"

      "But what profit is there for me in that?"

      "No profit whatever—but it's a curious thing, nevertheless."

      This conversation took place after a carouse, in the presence of witnesses. Whether Mísha's proposal really did strike the officer as curious or not—at all events, he consented. The cards were brought, the game began. Mísha was lucky; he won one hundred rubles. And thereupon his opponent smote himself on the forehead.

      "What a blockhead I am!" he cried.—"On what a bait was I caught! If thou hadst lost, much thou wouldst have shot thyself through the hand!—so it's just an assault on my pocket!"

      "That's where thou art mistaken," retorted Mísha:—"I have won—but I'll shoot the hole through my hand."

      He seized his pistol, and bang! shot himself through the hand. The bullet went clear through … and a week later the wound was completely healed!

      On another occasion still, Mísha is riding along the road by night with his comrades. … And they see yawning, right by the side of the road, a narrow ravine in the nature of a cleft, dark, very dark, and the bottom of it not visible.

      "Here now," says one comrade, "Mísha is reckless enough about some things, but he will not leap into this ravine."

      "Yes, I will!"

      "No, thou wilt not, because it is, probably, ten fathoms deep, and thou mightest break thy neck."

      His friend knew how to attack him—through his vanity. … Mísha had a great deal of it.

      "But I will leap, nevertheless! Wilt thou bet on it? Ten rubles."

      "All right!"

      And before his comrade had managed to finish the last word Mísha flew off his horse into the ravine, and crashed down on the stones. They were all fairly petrified with horror. … A good minute passed, and they heard Mísha's voice proceeding as though from the bowels of the earth, and very dull:

      "I'm whole! I landed on sand. … But the descent was long! Ten rubles on you!"

      "Climb out!" shouted his comrades.

      "Yes, climb out!"—returned Mísha. "Damn it! One can't climb out of here! You will have to ride off now for ropes and lanterns. And in the meanwhile, so that I may not find the waiting tedious, toss me down a flask. … "

      And so Mísha had to sit for five hours at the bottom of the ravine; and when they dragged him out, it appeared that he had a dislocated shoulder. But this did not daunt him in the least. On the following day a blacksmith bone-setter set his shoulder, and he used it as though nothing were the matter.

      Altogether, his health was remarkable, unprecedented. I have already told you that until his death he preserved an almost childish freshness of complexion. He did not know what it was to be ill, in spite of all his excesses; the vigour of his constitution was not affected in a single instance. Where any other man would have fallen dangerously ill, or even have died, he merely shook himself like a duck in the water, and became more blooming than ever. Once—that also was in the Caucasus. … This legend is improbable, it is true, but from it one can judge what Mísha was regarded as capable of doing. … So then, once, in the Caucasus, when in a state of intoxication, he fell into a small stream that covered the lower part of his body; his head and arms remained exposed on the bank. The affair took place in winter; a rigorous frost set in; and when he was found on the following morning, his legs and body were visible beneath a stout crust of ice which had frozen over in the course of the night—and he never even had a cold in the head in consequence! On another occasion (this happened in Russia, near Orél,[10] and also during a severe frost), he chanced to go to a suburban eating-house in company with seven young theological students. These theological students were celebrating their graduation examination, and had invited Mísha, as a charming fellow, "a man with a sigh," as it was called then. They drank a great deal; and when, at last, the merry crew were preparing to depart, Mísha, dead drunk, was

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