cleft, dark--so dark you couldn't see the bottom. 'Look,' said one of
the officers, 'Misha may be a desperate fellow, but he wouldn't leap
into that ravine.' 'Yes, I'd leap in!' 'No, you wouldn't, for I dare say
it's seventy feet deep, and you might break your neck.' His friend knew
his weak point--vanity.... There was a great deal of it in Misha. 'But
I'll leap in anyway! Would you like to bet on it? Ten roubles.' 'Good!'
And the officer had hardly uttered the word, when Misha and his horse
were off--into the ravine--and crashing down over the stones. All were
simply petrified.... A full minute passed, and they heard Misha's voice,
dimly, as it were rising up out of the bowels of the earth: 'All right!
fell on the sand ... but it was a long flight! Ten roubles you've lost!'

'Climb out!' shouted his comrades. 'Climb out, I dare say!' echoed
Misha. 'A likely story! I should like to see you climb out. You'll have
to go for torches and ropes now. And, meanwhile, to keep up my spirits
while I wait, fling down a flask....'

And so Misha had to stay five hours at the bottom of the ravine; and
when they dragged him out, it turned out that his shoulder was
dislocated. But that in no way troubled him. The next day a bone-setter,
one of the black-smiths, set his shoulder, and he used it as though
nothing had been the matter.

His health in general was marvellous, incredible. I have already
mentioned that up to the time of his death he kept his almost childishly
fresh complexion. Illness was a thing unknown to him, in spite of his
excesses; the strength of his constitution never once showed signs of
giving way. When any other man would infallibly have been seriously ill,
or even have died, he merely shook himself, like a duck in the water,
and was more blooming than ever. Once, also in the Caucasus ... _this_