"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."