A Sportsman's Notebook

by Ivan Turgenev

  I wanted to buy three passable horses for my britzka: my own were getting past their work. I found two, but couldn’t see a third to match them. After a dinner which I will not undertake to describe (did not Æneas know how disagreeable it is to recall past griefs?), I made my way into the so-called coffee-house, which was a meeting-place every evening for remount officers, horse-breeders and other visitors. In the billiard-room, flooded with leaden waves of tobacco smoke, were a score or so of people. There were dandified young landowners in Hungarian jackets and gray trousers, with long side-whiskers and oiled moustaches, looking proudly and gallantly around them; other gentlemen in frock-coats, with extremely short necks and eyes sunk in fat, wheezed painfully; merchants sat about in corners, so to say, on edge; officers conversed easily among themselves. At the billiard-table was Prince N——, a young man of about twenty-two, with a gay, somewhat contemptuous face, wearing his coat unbuttoned, a red silk shirt, and baggy velvet trousers. He was playing with Ensign (retired) Viktor Khlopakov.

  Viktor Khlopakov, a lean, swarthy little fellow of about thirty, with black hair, brown eyes and blunt, upturned nose, is an untiring visitor to elections and fairs. He walks with a hop, throws his elbows out in a swaggering gesture, wears his hat at an angle and turns up the sleeves of his military coat, which is lined with dove-colored calico. Mr. Khlopakov has a talent for making up to well-to-do young bucks from Petersburg, smokes, drinks and plays cards with them, and addresses them in the second person singular. Why they accept him is hard enough to understand. He is not clever, he is not funny: even his jokes are no good. True, they treat him with friendly indifference, like a good-hearted but insignificant fellow; they hobnob with him for two or three weeks, then suddenly cut him, and he starts cutting them, too. Ensign Khlopakov specializes in employing continuously for a whole year, sometimes for two, a single expression, which is not always to the point, and is in no way amusing, but which, goodness knows why, makes everyone laugh. Eight years ago, he used to say at every step: “My respects to you and humblest thanks”—and every time his current protectors died of laughter and made him repeat “my respects.” Then he began to use a tolerably complicated expression: “Cross my heart, kess-kersay, that’s a bit of all right”—and with the same brilliant success. Two years later he thought out a new pleasantry: “Ne voo fuss-ay pas, you jolly good chap, in your sheepskin wrap”—and so forth. Well, these phrases, simple though they may be, are his meat, drink, and raiment. (He long ago ran through his own fortune and lives entirely at his friends’ expense.) Observe that he has absolutely no other agreeable qualities; true, he smokes a hundred pipes of Beetle mixture a day, lifts his right foot above his head at the billiard-table, and, when taking aim, rubs his cue furiously with his hand—but it is not everybody who appreciates these accomplishments. He is a fair drinker, too . . . but in Mother Russia it is hard to achieve distinction on that score. . . . In short, I find his success a complete enigma. . . . There is one thing about him, though: he is cautious, never lets a quarrel go further, or says a bad word about anyone.

  Well, I thought when I saw Khlopakov, what is his present catchword?

  The prince hit the white.

  “Thirty-love,” sang out the marker, a consumptive-looking fellow with a dark face and leaden rings below the eyes.

  The prince put the yellow ball into the end pocket with a bang.

  “Ho!” came an approving, full-bellied wheeze from a fat merchant sitting in a corner at a rickety one-legged table—a wheeze that dwindled into a fit of shyness. But luckily no one had noticed him. He sighed and stroked his beard.

  “Thirty-six to a duck’s egg!” called the marker through his nose.

  “Well, what about it, my friend?” the prince asked Khlopakov.

  “What about it? Why, it is a rrrrapssscallion, of course, a real rrrrapsscallion.”

  The prince burst out laughing.

  “What, what? Say it again?”

  “A rrapssscallion!” repeated the retired ensign complacently.

  So that’s the new slogan, I thought.

  The prince put the red into the pocket.

  “Hey! don’t do that, prince, don’t do that,” came a sudden murmur from a little blond officer with bloodshot eyes, a tiny nose and the face of a sleepy child. “Don’t play it like that . . . you ought to have . . . not like that!”

  “How then?” asked the prince over his shoulder.

  “You ought to have . . . gone for a triplet.”

  “Indeed?” muttered the prince through his teeth.

  “I say, prince, are you going to the gypsies this evening?” continued the young man hastily, in some embarrassment. “Steshka is going to sing . . . and Ilyushka.”

  The prince didn’t even answer him.

  “Rrrrapscallion, old boy,” said Khlopakov, with a sly wink of his left eye.

  The prince burst out laughing.

  “Thirty-nine love,” intoned the marker.

  “Love, love . . . just look what I’m going to do to the yellow . . .”

  Khlopakov jiggled the cue on his hand, took aim, and missed.

  “Oh, rrapscallion,” he exclaimed in disgust.

  The prince laughed again.

  “What? What?”

  But Khlopakov refused to repeat his slogan; a little coquetry never does any harm.

  “You missed it, sir,” observed the marker. “Kindly put some chalk on. . . . Forty to a duck’s egg!”

  “Gentlemen,” began the prince, turning to the company in general, but looking at no one in particular, “you know, in the theater this evening we must call for Verzhembitskaya.”

  “Certainly, certainly, of course,” shouted several gentlemen in emulation, remarkably flattered by this opportunity of answering the princely remark: “Verzhembitskaya.”

  “Verzhembitskaya is a first-rate actress, much better than Sopnyakova,” squeaked from the corner a seedy little fellow with side-whiskers and glasses. Poor wretch! he was secretly head-over-heels in love with Sopnyakova, but the prince didn’t think him worth so much as a glance.

  “Waiter, hey, get me a pipe!” shouted, through his cravat, a tall gentleman with regular features and a noble bearing—and all the characteristics of a sharper.

  The waiter ran for a pipe and, returning, announced to his Highness that the coachman Baklaga was asking for him.

  “Oh! tell, tell him to wait, and give him some vodka.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Baklaga, as I learned afterwards, was a young, good-looking, extremely spoilt coachman; the prince loved him, gave him horses, rushed round with him, spent whole nights in his company . . . To-day you would never recognize this same prince for the gay spendthrift that he was. . . . What scented, corseted haughtiness! What preoccupation with official duties—and, above all, what sagacity!

  The tobacco smoke was beginning to eat my eyes out. After listening once more to Khlopakov’s exclamation and the prince’s laugh, I went to my room, where my man had already made my bed on the narrow broken-down horsehair sofa with its tall, curving back.

  The following day I went to look at the horses in the various yards and began with the well-known dealer Sitnikov. I passed through the gate into the sand-sprinkled yard. In front of the wide-open door of the stable stood the master himself, a tall, stout, middle-aged man in a hareskin coat with its collar turned up and tucked inwards. When he saw me, he moved slowly over to meet me, held his cap above his head in both hands and said in a sing-song voice: “My compliments to you. Would you like to see some horses?”

  “Yes, that’s what I have come for.”

  “What sort exactly, if I may ask?”

  “Show me what you’ve got.”

  “With pleasure.”

  We went into the stable. Several white mongrels rose from the straw and ran up to us, wagging their tails; an old goat with a long beard went away to one side in displeasure; three grooms in stout but greasy sheepskins bowed to us in silence. To right and left, in
specially constructed stalls, stood some thirty horses, groomed and combed to perfection. Above the joists, pigeons fluttered and cooed.

  “What d’you want the horse for: driving, or stud?” Sitnikov asked me.

  “Both.”

  “I see, sir, I see,” pronounced the dealer with deliberation. “Petya, show the gentleman Ermine.”

  We went out into the yard.

  “Wouldn’t you like a seat brought out from inside? . . . No? . . . As you please.”

  There was a clatter of hooves on boards, the crack of a whip, and Petya, a fellow of about forty, pockmarked and swarthy, sprang out from the stable with a gray, rather imposing stallion, made him rear, ran with him twice round the yard and mounted him neatly at the best place for showing him off. Ermine stretched himself, gave a whistling snort, threw up his tail, tossed his head, and squinted at us.

  You’re a wily bird! I thought.

  “Give him his head, give him his head,” said Sitnikov and stared at me. “What d’you think of him, sir?” he asked at length.

  “Not a bad horse; the fore-legs aren’t all one could wish.”

  “They’re capital legs!” rejoined Sitnikov with conviction. “But his quarters . . . have a look, sir . . . they are broad as a stove, you could fairly sleep on them.”

  “He’s long in the pasterns.”

  “Long, indeed—have a heart! Run him round, Petya, let him trot, let him trot . . . don’t let him gallop.”

  Petya went round the yard again on Ermine. We were all silent.

  “Well, take him back,” said Sitnikov, “and let’s see Falcon.”

  Falcon, a lean, beetle-black, Dutch-bred stallion with drooping quarters, proved rather better than Ermine. He was the type of horse known to the fancier as “bumpers and borers,” that is, with an action which throws the fore-legs out in all directions, but does not make much direct headway. Middle-aged merchants have a weakness for horses of this type: their action resembles the swaggering gait of a smart waiter; they are all right on their own, for an after-dinner drive: prancing and caracoling, they will eagerly pull a lumbering drozhky, loaded high with a coachman who has gorged himself stupid, an over-fed merchant who is having twinges of heartburn, and his puffy wife in a blue silk mantle with a lilac kerchief over her head. I turned Falcon down too. Sitnikov showed me several more horses. . . . One, at last, a gray roan stallion of military antecedents, took my fancy. I could not refrain from giving him an appreciative pat on the withers. Sitnikov at once feigned indifference.

  “Well, does he go all right?” I asked. (You say “go” when speaking of a trotter.)

  “He does,” answered the dealer calmly.

  “Can I see? . . .”

  “Of course you can, sir. Hey, Kuzya, harness Dogonyai to the drozhky.”

  Kuzya, the jockey, who was a master of his craft, drove past us three times along the road. The horse went well, without stumbling, or throwing up his quarters; he had a free action, carried his tail well up.

  “What are you asking for him?”

  Sitnikov opened with an unheard-of price. We were starting to bargain where we stood in the road, when suddenly, from around the corner, thundered a team of three magnificently matched horses which halted smartly in front of the gates of Sitnikov’s house. In this rakish, fancier’s equipage sat Prince N——, with Khlopakov beside him. Baklaga was driving, and how he drove! The rascal could have driven through an earring. The side-horses were lively little bays with black eyes and black legs, keen as mustard; you had only to whistle and they were gone. The shaft-horse, a dark bay, stood throwing his neck back, like a swan, chest well forward, legs like arrows, head tossing, eyes arrogantly narrowed. . . . Fine! A turn-out fit for Tsar Ivan on Easter Day!

  “Your Highness! Welcome!” shouted Sitnikov.

  The prince jumped down. Khlopakov climbed slowly out on the other side.

  “Good day to you, my friend. Got any horses?”

  “I have always got horses for your Highness. Please come in . . . Petya, let’s see Peacock! and tell them to get Superb ready. As for you, sir,” he continued, turning to me, “we will finish our business another time. . . . Fomka, bring a seat for his Highness.”

  They brought Peacock out from a separate stable which I had not noticed at first. The powerful dark bay flew right up into the air with all his legs. Sitnikov looked away and screwed up his eyes.

  “Ooh rrrrapscallion!” pronounced Khlopakov. “Zhemsa!”

  The prince burst out laughing.

  They had some difficulty in holding Peacock; he fairly pulled the groom around the yard; finally they got him up against the wall. He snorted, shivered, collected himself, and Sitnikov teased him with a wave of his whip.

  “What are you gaping at? Wait till I show you! ooh!” said the dealer, with fond menace, admiring the horse in spite of himself.

  “How much?” asked the prince.

  “For your Highness, five thousand.”

  “Three.”

  “Impossible, your Highness, upon my word! . . .”

  “Three, did you hear? Rrrrapscallion,” repeated Khlopakov.

  I went off without awaiting the end of the deal. At the furthest corner of the road I noticed a big sheet of paper stuck to the gates of a little gray house. At the head of it was an ink drawing of a horse with a trumpet-shaped tail and an interminable neck, and under the horse’s hooves were the following words, written in an old-fashioned hand:

  “For sale, horses of various breeds, brought to Lebedyan fair from the well-known steppe-country stud of Anastasei Ivanich Chornobai, landowner of Tambov. Horses of excellent antecedents, fully broken, and nice-mannered. Purchasers kindly ask for Anastasei Ivanich himself, or, in his absence, for his coachman Nazar Kubyshkin. Gentlemen customers, pray do an old man the honor of a visit!”

  I halted. I thought I would have a look at the horses of the well-known steppe-country breeder, Mr. Chornobai. I tried to go through the gate, but, contrary to usual practice, found it locked. I knocked.

  “Who’s there? . . . A customer?” squealed a woman’s voice.

  “Yes.”

  “Coming, sir, coming.”

  The gate opened. I saw a peasant woman of about fifty, bareheaded, in shoes and with a sheepskin thrown loosely on.

  “Please, kind sir, come in, and I’ll go and tell Anastasei Ivanich at once. . . . Nazar, hey, Nazar.”

  “What?” muttered a septuagenarian voice from the stable.

  “Get the horses ready; a customer has come.”

  The old woman ran into the house.

  “A customer, a customer,” muttered Nazar, by way of answer to her. “I haven’t washed all their tails yet.”

  Oh, Arcadia! I thought.

  “Good day, sir, and welcome,” said a pleasant, slow, fruity voice behind my back. I looked round; in front of me, in a long-skirted blue overcoat, stood an old man of middle height, with white hair, a friendly smile, and beautiful blue eyes.

  ‘Horses? Please, sir, please . . . But wouldn’t you like to come and take tea with me first?”

  I thanked him and declined.

  “Well, as you please. You must forgive me, sir: you see, I am old-fashioned.” Mr. Chornobai spoke unhurriedly and with a broad country accent. “Everything is simple and straightforward with me. Nazar, hey, Nazar,” he added, drawlingly, and without raising his voice.

  Nazar, a little, wrinkled old chap with the nose of a hawk and a triangular beard, appeared on the stable threshold.

  “What sort of horses do you want, sir?” continued Mr. Chornobai.

  “Not too dear, well-broken, for carriage-work.”

  “Certainly, I have some like that, certainly . . . Nazar, show the gentleman the gray gelding, you know, the one at the end, and the bay with the bald spot—no, the other bay, the one by Krasotka, you know?”

  Nazar returned into the stable.

  “Just bring them out on the halter,” Mr. Chernobai shouted after him. “My ways, sir,” he continue
d, looking straight at me with his clear, mild eyes, “are not those of the dealers—devil take them! They go in for all sorts of ginger, salt, bran.* God forgive them, anyway! . . . But with me, be pleased to note, everything is open-handed and above board.”

  The horses were brought out. I didn’t like them.

  “Well, take them back,” said Anastasei Ivanich. “Show us some more.”

  They showed us some more. Eventually I chose one of the cheaper ones. We began to bargain. Mr. Chornobai remained cool, spoke so judiciously, with such dignity, that I could not fail to “honor the old man”: I paid a deposit.

  “Well now,” said Anastasei Ivanich, “allow me, in the old-fashioned way, to hand the horse over to you from coat-tail to coat-tail. . . . You’ll be grateful to me. . . . He’s as fresh as a nut . . . unspoiled. Straight from the steppes! He’ll go in every kind of harness.”

  He crossed himself, took his coat-skirt in his hand, grasped the halter, and handed the horse over to me.

  “He’s yours now, and good luck to you. You still won’t take tea?”

  “No, thank you very much indeed: I must go home.”

  “As you please. . . . Shall my coachman lead the horse after you now?”

  “Yes, now, if he will.”

  “Certainly, my dear sir, certainly. . . . Vasily, hey, Vasily, go with the gentleman; lead the horse and take the money. Well, good-bye, sir, and God bless you.”

  “Good-bye, Anastasei Ivanich.”

  The horse was led home for me. The very next day he proved broken-winded and lame. I tried putting him in harness: he backed away, and when I struck him with the whip, he balked, bucked, and lay down. I at once set off to see Mr. Chornobai. I asked if he was at home.