A Sportsman's Notebook

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A Sportsman's Notebook Page 37

by Ivan Turgenev


  “I loved you, Masha,” mumbled Chertopkhanov into his fingers, with which he was clutching his face.

  “And I loved you, Pantelei Eremeich, my friend.”

  “I loved you, I still love you to distraction—and when I think now that here you are, for nothing at all, without rhyme or reason, chucking me, and starting to wander about the world—well, it strikes me that if I wasn’t a poor wretch of a beggar you wouldn’t leave me.”

  At these words Masha simply chuckled.

  “And you used to tell me I had no thought for silver,” she said, and with a sweep of her arm she hit Chertopkhanov on the shoulder.

  He jumped to his feet.

  “Well, at any rate take some money from me—otherwise how will you manage, without a farthing? But, best of all: kill me! I tell you plainly, kill me once and for all!”

  Masha again shook her head. “Kill you? What do they send people to Siberia for, my dear?”

  Chertopkhanov shuddered. “So it’s just because of this, for fear of punishment that you . . .”

  He collapsed again on the grass. Masha stood over him in silence. “I’m sorry for you, Pantelei Eremeich,” she said with a sigh; “you’re a good man . . . but there’s nothing for it. Goodbye!”

  She turned away and took two steps. Darkness had fallen and the shadows of night were welling up on every side. Chertopkhanov got up nimbly and seized Masha from behind by both elbows.

  “So you’re off, you snake? To Yaff’s!”

  “Good-bye!” repeated Masha sharply and with emphasis, and she broke loose and went on her way.

  Chertopkhanov looked after her, ran over to the spot where the pistol lay, picked it up, aimed, fired . . . but, before pressing the trigger, he raised his hand: the bullet hummed over Masha’s head. She looked at him over her shoulder as she went, and continued on her way with a waddling motion, as if to mock him.

  He covered his face—and set off at a run . . .

  But he had not run as much as fifty paces, when suddenly he stopped as if rooted to the spot. A familiar, a too familiar voice floated to his ears. Masha was singing. “Days of youth so charming,” she sang; and every note was magnified in the evening air, in a plaintive, sultry way. Chertopkhanov listened with his head on one side. The voice went farther and farther into the distance; now it faded, now it came floating back again, hardly perceptible, but still burning . . .

  She’s doing it to spite me, thought Chertopkhanov; but the same moment he groaned: “Oh, no! She’s saying good-bye to me for ever”—and he burst into floods of tears.

  The following day he turned up at the residence of Mr. Yaff, who, like a true man of the world, disliked country solitude, and had settled in the nearest town, “nearer to the ladies,” as he expressed it. Chertopkhanov did not find Yaff at home: the footman said that he had left the day before for Moscow.

  “That’s it!” exclaimed Chertopkhanov furiously. “They had a plot; she’s run off with him . . . but just wait!”

  He forced his way into the young captain’s study, despite the opposition of the footman. In the study, over the sofa, hung an oil portrait of the master in Lancer uniform. “So that’s where you are, you monkey without a tail!” thundered Chertopkhanov, jumping on to the sofa—and he struck his fist against the stretched canvas and burst a great hole in it.

  “Tell your good-for-nothing master,” he said to the footman, “that, failing his own odious face, Mr. Chertopkhanov, gentleman, has disfigured the painted version of it; and that if he desires satisfaction from me, he knows where to find Mr. Chertopkhanov, gentleman! Otherwise I’ll find him myself! I’ll find the dirty monkey if I have to go to the bottom of the sea!”

  With these words, Chertopkhanov jumped off the sofa and solemnly took his departure.

  But Captain Yaff demanded no satisfaction from him—he never even met him—and Chertopkhanov didn’t think it worth searching for his enemy, so nothing happened between them. Soon afterwards Masha herself vanished without trace. Chertopkhanov started drinking; but in time he “came round again.”

  Here, however, his second disaster overtook him.

  II

  That is to say, his bosom friend Tikhon Ivanich Nedopyuskin died. Some two years before his death, his health had started to fail; he began suffering from asthma, kept dropping off to sleep and, on waking up, couldn’t at once recover his senses. The local doctor asserted that these attacks of his were “little strokes.” During the three days preceding Masha’s departure, the three days in which she got “bored,” Nedopyuskin had been lying at home at Besselendeyevka: he had caught a bad chill. The effect on him of Masha’s action was all the more unexpected: it was almost more profound than on Chertopkhanov himself. In keeping with his gentle, timid disposition, he showed nothing except the tenderest sympathy with his friend and a certain painful incomprehension, but something had burst and sagged inside him. “She has stolen my soul away,” he whispered to himself, as he sat on his favorite oilskin sofa and twined his fingers round each other. Even when Chertopkhanov recovered, Nedopyuskin didn’t—and went on feeling that he was “empty inside.” “Just here,” he would say, pointing at the middle of his chest, above the stomach.

  In this way he dragged on until winter. At the first frosts, his asthma got better, but, against this, he had what was no longer a little stroke, but a real proper one. He did not lose consciousness at once; he could still recognize Chertopkhanov, and even, in answer to the despairing exclamation of his friend: “How is this, Tisha, that you’re leaving me, without my permission, just as bad as Masha?” he stammered: “But, Pa . . . lei E . . . E . . . ich, I’ve al . . . ays o . . . eyed you.” Yet this did not prevent him from dying the same day, without waiting for the local doctor, who, at the sight of his cold corpse, had nothing left to do but sadly admit the transitoriness of earthly things and ask for “a drop of vodka with a piece of smoked sturgeon.” Tikhon Ivanich left his property, as was only to be expected, to his revered benefactor and magnanimous protector, Pantelei Eremeich Chertopkhanov. But his revered benefactor did not derive much advantage from this, since it was quickly sold by auction—chiefly to cover the expenses of his funerary monument, a statue which Chertopkhanov (his father’s strain coming out in him!) had the idea of erecting over his friend’s ashes. This statue, which was supposed to represent an angel in prayer, he had ordered from Moscow, but the contractor who had been recommended to him, calculating that but few experts on sculpture are to be met in the provinces, sent him, instead of an angel, a goddess Flora which had for many years adorned one of those neglected parks in the neighborhood of Moscow which date back to the time of Catherine the Great—this statue, which incidentally was very elegant, in the rococo manner, with chubby hands, fluffy curls, a garland of roses hung round its bare breast, and a curved waist, having come into the contractor’s possession free of charge. So over Tikhon’s grave there stands to this day a mythological goddess, with one foot graciously raised, gazing with a truly Pompadour-like grimace at the calves and sheep which wander around it—those unfailing visitors of our village graveyards.

  III

  After the loss of his faithful friend, Chertopkhanov began drinking again, this time much more seriously. His affairs went straight downhill. There was nothing to shoot, the last money was spent, the last servants departed. Pantelei Eremeich was left completely alone; there was no one to speak a word to, no one to confide in. Only his pride remained undiminished. Indeed, the worse his affairs became, the more arrogant and overbearing and inaccessible he grew. Finally he went completely wild. One consolation, one joy remained to him: a remarkable saddle-horse, a gray, bred by the Don, named by him Malek Adel, an extraordinary animal indeed.

  He had acquired this horse in the following manner.

  Riding one day through a neighboring village, Chertopkhanov heard a babble of peasant voices and the roar of a crowd from the direction of the pot-house. In the middle of this crowd, at one particular spot, sturdy hands were steadily risi
ng and falling.

  “What’s going on here?” he asked, in the tone of command which was peculiar to him, addressing an old peasant-woman who was standing in the doorway of her cabin.

  Leaning against the lintel, as if in a dream, the old woman was looking towards the pot-house. A small white-headed boy in a cotton shirt, with a little crucifix of cypress-wood on his bare chest, was sitting, with spread-out legs and clenched fists, between her bast-shoes; close by a chick was picking at a crust of rye bread which had gone as hard as wood.

  “The Lord knows, sir,” answered the old woman, and, leaning forward, she put her dark wrinkled hand on the boy’s head. “I heard that our lads are beating a Jew.”

  “A Jew? What Jew?”

  “The Lord knows, sir. A Jew of sorts turned up here, and as for where he came from—who can tell? Vasya, sir, come to mother: tch-tch, you rascal.” She drove off the chick, and Vasya grasped her skirts.

  “So now they’re beating him, sir.”

  “Why? What for?”

  “I don’t know, sir. It must be for something he has done. Anyway, what should they do but beat him? Wasn’t it he that crucified Christ!”

  Chertopkhanov gave a whoop, put his horse into a gallop with a blow of the whip, rode straight at the crowd—and, tearing his way into it, began indiscriminately whacking the peasants to right and left with the said whip, saying in a staccato voice: “Taking . . . the law . . . into . . . your own hands! Punishment is for the law to give—not for pri . . . vate per . . . sons! The law! The law!! The LAW!!”

  Inside of two minutes the whole mob had retreated in various directions—and on the ground, in front of the door of the pothouse, appeared a small, thinnish, darkish creature, wearing a nankeen coat, tousled and tattered . . . A pale face, eyes rolled up, mouth open . . . What was it? A terror-stricken faint, or death itself?

  “Why have you killed the Jew?” exclaimed Chertopkhanov in a voice of thunder, with a threatening wave of the whip.

  There was a faint buzz from the crowd in answer. One peasant was holding his shoulder, a second his side, a third his nose.

  “He’s asking for a fight!” came a voice from the back rows.

  “With his whip! Anyone could do that!” said a second voice.

  “Why have you killed the Jew? I’m asking you, you pack of Tartars!” repeated Chertopkhanov.

  But the creature who had been lying on the ground now jumped nimbly to his feet and, running up behind Chertopkhanov, took hold convulsively of the edge of his saddle.

  There was a general roar of laughter from the crowd.

  “He’s got nine lives!” came a voice, again from the back rows. “Just like a cat!”

  “Your worship, protect me, save me!” lisped the unhappy Jew meanwhile, pressing his whole chest against Chertopkhanov’s leg, “or they’ll kill me, so they will, your worship!”

  “Why did they do it to you?” asked Chertopkhanov.

  “I swear I don’t know! You see, their cattle began to die . . . so they suspected . . . and I . . .”

  “Well! We’ll go into that later!” interrupted Chertopkhanov. “But now you hang on to my saddle and follow me. And as for you!” he added, turning to the crowd. “Do you know me? I am Pantelei Chertopkhanov, landowner, I live in the village of Bessonovo—and, well, I mean, you can put in a complaint against me whenever you like, and against the Jew, too!”

  “Why should we complain?” said a staid, gray-bearded peasant, a regular ancient patriarch, bowing low. (Incidentally he had pommelled the Jew as soundly as the best of them.) “We know your kind heart well, Pantelei Eremeich, sir; we’re very grateful to your good self for giving us a lesson!”

  “Why should we complain?” repeated the others. “But as for that infidel, we’ll get our way with him! He won’t escape us! We’ll run him down like a hare in a field . . .”

  Chertopkhanov fidgeted his brows, snorted, and set off at a walk to his own village, accompanied by the Jew whom he had delivered from his persecutors in exactly the same way as he had once delivered Tikhon Nedopyuskin.

  IV

  A few days later, Chertopkhanov’s only surviving boy-servant announced to him that a man on horseback had arrived and wished to speak to him. Chertopkhanov went out into the porch and saw his acquaintance, the Jew, mounted on a magnificent Don horse, which was standing proud and immobile in the middle of the yard. The Jew wore no cap: he was holding it under his arm, his feet were not in the stirrups, but resting against the stirrup-leathers, and his tattered coat-tails hung down on both sides of the saddle. Seeing Chertopkhanov, he smacked his lips, twitched his elbows, and swung his legs. But Chertopkhanov, far from acknowledging his greeting, grew furious and suddenly exploded. A dirty Jew, daring to sit on such a splendid horse . . . it was quite shocking!

  “Hey, you black devil!” he shouted. “Get off at once, if you don’t want to be pulled off into the mud!”

  The Jew at once obeyed, fell out of the saddle like a sack, and, holding the reins in one hand, smiling and bowing, came towards Chertopkhanov.

  “What d’you want?” asked Pantelei Eremeich with dignity.

  “Your honor, can you see what sort of horse it is?” said the Jew, without ceasing to bow.

  “Well . . . yes . . . he’s a good horse. Where did you get him? Stole him, I suppose?”

  “Whatever next, your honor! I’m an honest Jew. I didn’t steal him, I got him specially for your honor! I tried and tried! and here he is. On the whole of the Don you won’t find another horse like him.—Look, your honor, there’s a horse for you! Just come over here!—Go on . . . go on . . . turn around, stand sideways on!—We’ll just take the saddle off. Do you see what sort of horse he is, your worship?”

  “He’s a good horse,” repeated Chertopkhanov with feigned indifference, though his heart was fairly hammering away in his breast. He was a passionate fancier of horse-flesh and knew what was what.

  “Just stroke him, your worship! Stroke his neck, hee-hee-hee, like this.”

  As if against his will, Chertopkhanov put his hand on the horse’s neck, patted it twice, then drew his fingers from the withers along the back, and, when he came to the well-known spot above the kidneys, pressed the spot gently like a connoisseur. The horse arched his back, and, giving Chertopkhanov a sidelong look with his insolent black eye, snorted and fidgeted his four legs.

  The Jew laughed and gently clapped his hands.

  “He knows his master, your worship, so he does.”

  “Don’t talk nonsense,” Chertopkhanov interrupted angrily. “I have not the means to buy horses from you, and as for accepting a present, I’ve never accepted a present from the Lord God himself, let alone from a Jew!”

  “And how should I dare to give you a present, for mercy’s sake!” exclaimed the Jew. “Buy him, your worship . . . and as for the money—I’ll wait for it.”

  Chertopkhanov reflected.

  “What will you take for him?” he said at length, through his teeth.

  The Jew shrugged his shoulders.

  “What I paid for him myself. Two hundred rubles.”

  The horse was worth twice—perhaps even three times—that sum.

  Chertopkhanov turned away to one side and yawned nervously.

  “But when . . . for the money?” he asked, scowling unnaturally and not looking at the Jew.

  “When it suits your honor.”

  Chertopkhanov threw his head back, but without raising his eyes.

  “That’s nonsense. Talk sense, you spawn of Herod!—D’you want to put me under an obligation to you, or what?”

  “Well, let’s say,” replied the Jew hurriedly, “in six months’ time . . . Agreed?”

  Chertopkhanov answered nothing.

  The Jew made an effort to look him in the eye. “Agreed? Shall I put him in the stable?”

  “I don’t want the saddle,” pronounced Chertopkhanov abruptly. “Take the saddle—d’you hear?”

  “Of course, of course, certainly, ce
rtainly,” murmured the delighted Jew, and he humped the saddle on his shoulder.

  “And the money,” Chertopkhanov went on, “in six months’ time. And not two hundred, but two hundred and fifty. Silence. Two hundred and fifty, I tell you! To my account.”

  Chertopkhanov could still not make up his mind to raise his eyes. Never had his pride suffered so severely. It’s an obvious present, he was thinking. The wretched fellow’s brought it by way of gratitude! He could have embraced the Jew, he could have struck him . . .

  “Your honor,” began the Jew, who had grown bolder, and put on a smirk, “we ought to hand him over in the Russian way, from coat-tail to coat-tail . . .”

  “Whatever next? A Jew . . . in the Russian way!—Hey! Who’s there? Take the horse and put him in the stable. And give him some oats. I’ll come along myself in a moment and have a look. And listen: his name is Malek Adel!”

  Chertopkhanov was about to go up to the porch, but he turned sharply on his heels, ran up to the Jew, and squeezed his hand hard. The Jew bowed and was already offering his lips, but Chertopkhanov recoiled with a bound and, saying in a low voice, “Don’t tell a soul!”, vanished behind the door.

  V

  From that day forward, the main business, the main preoccupation and delight in Chertopkhanov’s life, was Malek Adel. He loved him even more than Masha, grew more attached to him even than to Nedopyuskin. And what a horse he was! All fire and gunpowder—and yet with the gravity of a Boyar! Untirable, a stayer, ready to go anywhere, mild as a lamb; costing nothing to feed: if he couldn’t get anything else, he would eat the ground under his feet.

  He walks, and it’s as if he’s carrying you in his arms; he trots, and it’s as if he is rocking you in a cradle; but when he gallops, not even the wind can catch him! He never loses his breath—his windpipe’s too sound for that. His hooves are of steel; as for stumbling—there’s never been the slightest question of it! Jumping a ditch or a fence means nothing to him; and what a brain he’s got! You call him, and he’ll come running up, head thrown back; you tell him to stop, and you leave him—he won’t stir; as soon as you start coming back he’ll whinny faintly: “Here I am.” He fears nothing: in the darkest night or a snow-storm he’ll find the way; and he’ll never let a stranger take hold of him, he would tear him with his teeth! And woe betide any dog that bothers him: he’ll get a forehoof to his skull at once—ponk! and the dog will have had its day. He’s a horse with ambitions: you can wave the whip over him, just for show—but God help you if you touch him! Anyway, why make a long story of it: he’s not a horse, he’s a treasure!

 

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