“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, Misha 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.  Misha 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 Misha 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