Lives and Deaths

by Leo Tolstoy

  At last there’d be a bustle in the doorway and paunchy, grey-headed Tikhon would come out in his tailcoat. “Here!” he’d shout. In those days, there was none of this silly “Forward!” business—as if I don’t know to move forward, not backwards. Feofan would give a click, we’d drive up to the house and then the prince would hurry out, not a care in the world, as if there were nothing at all special about this sledge, this horse or Feofan, who’d be bending his back and stretching out his arms in a posture that looked impossible to hold for long. Yes, the prince would come out wearing a shako and an overcoat with a grey beaver collar that hid his ruddy, black-browed, beautiful face—a face that should never be hidden. He’d come out, stepping briskly across the carpet—his sabre, spurs and copper heels jangling—as if he were in a great hurry, paying no attention to Feofan and me, whom everyone except him was watching and admiring. Feofan would give another click, I’d lean into the reins and, steadily, at a walking pace, we’d drive right up to the prince. I’d cast a glance at him and throw up my thoroughbred head with its fine forelock. The prince, in high spirits, might joke with Feofan, who’d respond, just barely turning his beautiful head, and, without lowering his arms, move the reins with a barely noticeable gesture, which I would fully understand—and clop, clop, clop, with ever-widening strides, with every muscle quivering, kicking back dirty snow at the front of the sledge, I was off. Back then, too, there was none of this foolishness, with the coachman shouting, “Oh!” as if he were in pain. No, Feofan would shout the unintelligible, “Get along! Watch it!” Yes, he’d shout, “Get along! Watch it!” And people would make way, and stop, and crane their necks to get a glimpse at the fine-looking gelding, the fine-looking coachman and the fine-looking gentleman.

  I loved to overtake trotters. I loved it when Feofan and I would spot, from afar, a competitor worthy of our efforts and would fly like the wind, gradually rolling closer and closer—with me kicking dirt all the way to the back of the sledge, drawing level with the passenger and snorting above his head, drawing level with the harness saddle, then with the shaft bow, until I don’t see the horse any more, only hear the sound of him fading far behind. And the prince, Feofan and I, we don’t say a word. We pretend that we’re just going about our business, that we don’t even notice those who happen to cross our path on inferior horses. Yes, I loved to overtake them—but I also loved to meet a good trotter: a moment, a sound, a glance, and we’ve already parted, flying alone again, each in his own direction.

  —

  The horses heard the gate creak and the voices of Nester and Vaska.

  Fifth Night

  The weather had begun to change. Since early morning the sky had been overcast and there was no dew, but it was warm and the mosquitoes were biting. As soon as the horses were driven back into the yard they gathered around the gelding and he finished his story:

  —

  MY HAPPY LIFE soon came to an end. It lasted only two years. The happiest moment came at the end of the second winter, followed by the greatest misfortune. This happened at Shrovetide. I took the prince to the races. Satin and Bull were running. I don’t know what the prince was doing in the pavilion, but I know that he came out and ordered Feofan to drive onto the track. I remember I was placed on the track, with Satin beside me. Satin had an outrider—and me? Still pulling my sledge, I overtook him at the turn. Such laughter, roars of delight…

  When I was cooling down afterwards a crowd walked along behind me. At least five people offered to buy me for thousands of roubles but the prince just laughed, showing off his white teeth.

  “Not a chance,” he said. “This isn’t a horse, it’s a friend. I wouldn’t trade him for a mountain of gold. Farewell, gentlemen.” And he got into the sledge.

  “Ostozhenka!” This was the street where his mistress lived. And we were off. Yes, that was our last happy day.

  We reached her apartment. He called her “his”—but she fell in love with another man and ran away. The prince found out about this at her apartment. It was five o’clock; without unharnessing me, he took off after her. They did something they’d never done before—they whipped me, forcing me to gallop. For the first time in my life I made a false step—I felt so ashamed, wanted to correct it—but suddenly I heard the prince shout in a strange voice: “Faster!” The whip whistled and cut into my back—and I galloped, my back legs beating against the iron front of the sledge. We caught up with her after sixteen miles. I got him where he wanted to go, but all that night I kept shivering and couldn’t eat a thing. The next morning they gave me water. I drank it—and I was never the same horse again. I was ill. They began maiming, torturing me—“treating” me, as people call it. My hoofs fell off, my joints swelled and my legs grew bent; my chest was thin and I grew listless, weak all over. They sold me off to a horse-trader. He fed me on carrots and I don’t know what else, and he turned me into something that was no longer me but that might fool the ignorant. I had no strength left, no speed. What’s more, whenever there was a buyer, the trader would come into my stall and torment me, scaring and lashing me with his whip—which hurt so badly—working me up into a frenzy; then he would rub down my welts and lead me out. An old woman bought me. She would always drive to St Nicholas the Wonderworker and she would have her coachman flogged. He used to cry in my stall. And that’s when I learnt that tears have a pleasant flavour, salty. Then the old woman died. Her steward took me to the countryside and sold me to a pedlar. I ate too much wheat and grew ill again, worse than before. Then I was sold to a peasant. With him I ploughed, and ate almost nothing. A ploughshare cut my leg. Then I grew ill again. The peasant traded me off to a gypsy. The gypsy tortured me terribly, then finally sold me to the steward of this place. So here I am.

  —

  All were silent. A drizzling rain began to fall.

  IX

  Returning home the following evening, the herd happened to see their master, who had a guest. As she approached the house, Zhuldyba glanced sidelong at the two male figures: one was the young master in his straw hat, the other a tall, fat, flabby military man. The old mare glanced sidelong, then veered towards the guest. The younger horses hesitated and grew flustered, especially when the master and his guest began to walk among them, talking and pointing.

  “That one there, the dapple grey, I bought from Voeikov,” said the master.

  “And what about this one here—the young black mare with the white legs? She’s a fine one,” said the guest.

  They examined a great many horses, running after and stopping them, one by one. The chestnut filly drew their attention.

  “That one I kept from the Khrenovoye riding horse breed,” the master said.

  It was impossible to examine all the horses in passing. The master hollered to Nester and the old man trotted over, hurriedly tapping his heels against the gelding’s side. The gelding limped on one foot but he still ran—he ran in such a way that it was clear he would never grumble, even if he were made to run this way to the very ends of the earth, until his strength gave out. He was even ready to gallop, and he gave it a try with his right foot.

  “I can tell you right now that there’s no better horse in all of Russia,” said the master, pointing to one of the mares. The guest offered his praise. The master was excited; he walked around, ran after his horses, showed them off and told the guest about each animal’s history and breed. Although the guest seemed to find all this talk terribly boring, he kept thinking up questions so as to appear interested.

  “Yes, yes,” he kept saying, absently.

  “Take a look,” said the master, responding to nothing the guest had said. “Take a look at those legs… She sure cost me plenty, but she’s given me three trotters already.”

  “Good foals, eh?” asked the guest.

  And so they looked over nearly all the horses, until there was nothing more to show. They fell silent.

  “Well? Shall we go?”

  “Yes, let’s.”

  They went towards th
e gate. The guest was glad that the demonstration was over and that they would now go back to the house, where he could eat, drink, have a smoke; he cheered up visibly. Walking past Nester—who sat on the piebald gelding, awaiting further orders—the guest slapped the gelding on the croup with his big fat hand.

  “This fella’s painted all over!” he said. “Had one just like him—I told you, remember?”

  The master realized that the subject was not one of his own horses and stopped listening; he kept turning his head, admiring his herd.

  All of a sudden, a foolish, feeble, senile neigh sounded at his side, right above his ear. It was the gelding; he had begun to neigh, but then, as if embarrassed, broke off. Neither the guest nor the master paid any attention to the sound and went back towards the house. Pace-setter had recognized that flabby old man: it was his beloved master, the once dazzling, rich and beautiful Serpukhovskoy.

  X

  The drizzle continued. The stable yard was cold and damp, but in the master’s house things were different. There, in the luxurious drawing room, at a table laid for a luxurious evening tea, sat the host, the hostess and their guest.

  The hostess, who sat by the samovar, was pregnant—very noticeably so, thanks to her puffed-out belly, her strained, straight-backed posture, her plumpness and particularly her large eyes, which looked inwards, meekly and significantly.

  The host was holding a box of ten-year-old cigars—very special, of a sort no one else had, he insisted—and was getting ready to boast about them to his guest. He was a handsome man of twenty-five, fresh, sleek and well groomed. At home he wore a new, thick, loose-footing two-piece suit, made in London. Big expensive charms dangled from his watch chain. The cufflinks on his shirt were also massive: gold with turquoise. He had a tuft of beard à la Napoleon III, and his pomaded and pointed moustaches stuck out in a manner that could only have been fashioned in Paris. The hostess wore a silk muslin dress patterned with large, colourful flowers, and large golden pins of some special design adorned the thick, dark-blonde hair on her head—hair that was beautiful, though not entirely her own. On her hands was a multitude of bracelets and rings, all expensive. The samovar was of silver, the service of the finest china. The footman—magnificent in his tailcoat, white vest and tie—stood by the door like a statue, awaiting orders. The bentwood furniture was elaborately curved and brightly upholstered; the dark wallpaper was decorated with large flowers. Around the table, tinkling the little bells on its silver collar, moved an unusually exquisite Italian greyhound, whose unusually difficult English name its owners could never pronounce, as neither spoke English. In the corner, amid plants and flowers, stood an inlaid piano. Everything exuded an air of novelty, luxury and rarity. Everything was fine, very fine, but it all bore a definite stamp of excess, of wealth and of a total absence of intellectual interests.

  The host, a strong, sanguine fellow who loved a trotting race, was of a breed that will never die out—fellows that drive about in sable coats, toss expensive bouquets to actresses, drink the most expensive, most fashionable wines in the most expensive hotels, hand out prizes that bear their own names and keep the most expensive mistresses.

  Their guest, Nikita Serpukhovskoy, was over forty, tall, fat, bald-pated, with bushy moustaches and whiskers. It was clear that he had been handsome in his youth but now he had declined—physically, morally, financially.

  He was so deep in debt that he had to serve the government just to avoid prison, and he was now on his way to a provincial town to become the head of a stud farm—a position secured for him by highly placed relatives. He wore a military tunic and blue trousers. These were of a sort that only a rich man would have made for himself, as were his undergarments. His watch, too, was English. And his boots had wonderful soles, as thick as a finger.

  Nikita Serpukhovskoy had managed to squander two million roubles over the course of his life, and now owed a hundred and twenty thousand. A fortune of that size always gives one a push forward, allowing one to live on credit, almost luxuriously, for a good ten years after it’s gone. Now those ten years were coming to an end, the push was almost spent, and Nikita’s life was turning bitter. He had begun to drink—that is, to get drunk; this was new for him, although, properly speaking, he never actually began or stopped drinking. But the clearest signs of his descent were the restlessness of his glances (his eyes had become shifty) and the unsteadiness of his voice and gestures. This restlessness was so striking because it had obviously taken hold of him quite recently; one could see that he had never, in all his life, been afraid of anything or anyone, and that this new fear, so alien to his nature, had come to him only now, after great suffering. The host and hostess noticed this and exchanged knowing glances that showed they were only postponing a detailed discussion of the subject until bedtime, and were tolerating poor Nikita, even taking care of him. The sight of his young host’s happiness humiliated Nikita, reminding him of his own irrevocable past and inspiring painful envy.

  “Don’t mind my smoking, do you, Marie?” he asked his hostess in that special, subtle tone that comes only with experience—the polite and friendly yet not entirely respectful tone that worldly men take with kept women, as opposed to wives. Not that he meant to insult her; on the contrary, if anything he was eager to win both her and her keeper’s favour, although he would never admit this to himself. But he had grown used to speaking in this way to women of her sort. He knew that she herself would have been surprised, even offended, if he were to treat her like a lady. And besides, he had to reserve a special tone of deference for the actual wife of his equal. He always treated women of her sort with respect, not because he shared the so-called convictions propagated by the intellectual journals (he never read that rubbish) concerning the respect due to every individual, the senselessness of marriage, etc., but simply because this was how decent people behaved, and he was a decent, though fallen, man.

  He took a cigar. But then the host awkwardly picked up a whole handful of cigars and offered them to his guest.

  “They’re very good—you’ll see. Take them.”

  Nikita waved away the offer, and his eyes glimmered with a flash of shame and offence.

  “Thank you.” He took out his own cigar case. “Try one of mine.”

  The sensitive hostess noticed this and hurried to distract his attention.

  “I love cigars, I really do. I would smoke them myself if I weren’t already surrounded by smokers.”

  And she smiled her kind, beautiful smile. He smiled back at her, unsteadily. Two of his teeth were gone.

  “No, take this one,” the insensitive host persisted. “They aren’t as strong. Fritz, bringen Sie noch eine Kasten,” he said, “dedort zwei.”3

  The German footman brought another box.

  “What kind do you like? The strong ones? Here, these are excellent. Take them all.” He kept on shoving cigars at his guest, obviously glad to have someone to boast to of his rare possessions, and oblivious to everything else. Serpukhovskoy lit up and hurried to continue the conversation they had started.

  “So how much did Satin cost you?” he asked.

  “A tidy sum, no less than five thousand. But I’ve already made it back. I tell you, the colts he gave me!”

  “Trotters?” asked Serpukhovskoy.

  “Excellent trotters. His son took three prizes this year—in Tula, in Moscow and in Petersburg—racing against Voeikov’s Raven. His rider, the scoundrel, let him make four false steps, otherwise he would have left Raven behind the flag.”

  “He’s still a little green. And too much Dutch in him, I say,” Serpukhovskoy remarked.

  “Well, that’s what mares are for! I’ll show you tomorrow. Bought Goody for three thousand, Sweety for two.”

  And the host again began to enumerate his wealth. The hostess saw that this was hard for Serpukhovskoy to take, that he was only pretending to listen.

  “Would you like some more tea?” she asked.

  “No,” replied the host, and went
on talking. She rose. He stopped her, embraced her and kissed her.

  Serpukhovskoy smiled an unnatural smile, at them and for them, but when the host rose, embraced the hostess and disappeared behind the door-curtain, his expression suddenly changed. He heaved a heavy sigh and a look of despair settled on his flabby face—a look of despair and even of malice.

  XI

  The host returned and sat down across from Nikita, smiling. For a while neither of them spoke.

  “You were saying… You bought from Voeikov…” said Serpukhovskoy, feigning nonchalance.

  “Yes, yes, Satin. I told you. I wanted to buy some mares from Dubovitsky, but the ones he had left were rubbish.”

  “He’s down and out,” said Serpukhovskoy, and suddenly stopped and glanced around. He remembered that he owed this down-and-outer twenty thousand. And if anyone could be called “down and out”, it was certainly himself. He fell silent.

  Again, for a long time, neither man said a word. The host was searching for something else he could boast about to his guest. Serpukhovskoy was searching for some way to show that he did not consider himself down and out. But their brains worked slowly, despite efforts to enliven them with cigars. Isn’t it time for a drink? thought Serpukhovskoy. I’ve got to have a drink or he’ll bore me to death, thought the host.

  “So, how long are you here for?” asked Serpukhovskoy.