If Chertopkhanov had sat down to describe his Malek Adel—heaven knows where he would have found the words to do so! And how he curried him and cosseted him! Malek Adel’s coat was shot with silver—and not old silver, either, but new silver with a dull polish on it; if you stroked him with the flat of your hand, it was absolute velvet! Saddle, saddle-cloth, bridle—every bit of harness was so well-fitted, well-kept, well-scrubbed—you could just take a pencil and draw! It was Chertopkhanov himself—who else?—who with his own hand plaited his darling’s forelock, washed his mane and tail in beer, and more than once anointed his hooves with oil.
He would mount Malek Adel and ride out, not exactly to visit his neighbors—he had no more connection with them than before—but over their land, and past their seats . . . as if to say: Admire, you fools, from afar! Then he’d hear of hunting in progress somewhere—some rich landowner visiting his outlying properties—and at once he’d be off there, and prance about in the distance, on the horizon, amazing all beholders with the beauty and speed of his horse, but letting no one come near him. On one occasion a huntsman set off after him, with all his suite in attendance, saw that Chertopkhanov was walking away from him, and started shouting after him with all his might, while at full gallop: “Hey, you, listen! Take what you like for your horse! I won’t grudge you a thousand! I’ll give my wife and children for him! Take my last penny!”
Chertopkhanov suddenly halted Malek Adel. The huntsman dashed up to him. “Tell me, sir,” he shouted, “what d’you want? My own father?”
“If you were the Tsar,” said Chertopkhanov deliberately (and in all his born days he had never heard of Shakespeare), “you could give me your whole kingdom for my horse, and even so I wouldn’t take it!” He spoke, he laughed, he made Malek Adel rear up, he spun him round in mid-air, standing on nothing but his hind legs, like a top—and gallop! He fairly streaked off across the stubble. And the huntsman (who, so the story goes, was a prince, a man of enormous wealth) threw his cap on the ground—and buried his face in it. He lay like that for a good half-hour.
It was only natural that Chertopkhanov should treasure his horse. Was it not through him that further proof had been given of his own undoubted and final superiority over all his neighbors?
VI
Meanwhile time passed, the date of payment was approaching—and, so far from having two hundred and fifty rubles, Chertopkhanov had not so much as fifty. What could he do, where could he turn for help? Well, he resolved at last, if the Jew wouldn’t relent and agree to go on waiting, he’d give him his house and land. “I’ll mount the horse,” he said to himself, “and ride off wherever the spirit moves me. I’ll die of hunger rather than sell Malek Adel!” He was greatly disturbed, and was even reduced to reflection; but here, for the first and last time, fate took pity on him and smiled. A distant aunt, whose very name was unknown to Chertopkhanov, left him in her will a sum which in his eyes was enormous, a whole two thousand rubles! And he received this money in the very nick of time, the day before the Jew’s arrival. Chertopkhanov was almost out of his mind with joy. But the thought of vodka never even entered his head: from the day that Malek Adel had come to him, not so much as a drop had passed his lips. He ran to the stable and kissed his friend on both sides of the muzzle, above the nostrils, on the spot where a horse’s skin is so delicate. “No more parting for us now!” he exclaimed, slapping Malek Adel on the neck, below his combed-out mane. Returning to the house, he counted out two hundred and fifty rubles and sealed them up in a packet. Then, lying on his back and smoking his pipe, he dreamt of how he would dispose of the rest of the money—and in particular what hounds he would get: the proper Kostroma strain, and they must have red markings, too! He also spoke to Perfishka, promised him a new coat with yellow galloons at all the seams—and went to sleep in a most peaceful frame of mind.
He had a bad dream: he dreamed he was out hunting, mounted, however, not on Malek Adel, but on some strange animal like a camel. There came running to meet him a fox which was absolutely white like snow. He wanted to wave his whip, to set the hounds on the fox—but instead of a whip he found a wisp of straw in his hand and the fox ran just in front of him and put its tongue out at him. He jumped down from his camel, stumbled, fell . . . and fell straight into the arms of a gendarme, who was summoning him before the Governor-General, and whom he recognized as Yaff . . .
Chertopkhanov woke up. It was dark in the room; just after the second cockcrow . . .
From somewhere far, far away in the distance a horse neighed.
Chertopkhanov lifted his head. Once more came the faint, faint neighing.
That’s Malek Adel’s neigh! he thought. It’s his neigh! But why so far away? My goodness . . . It can’t be . . .
Chertopkhanov suddenly went cold all over, sprang from his bed in the twinkling of an eye, felt for his shoes and clothes, dressed, and, seizing the stable key from under the pillow, dashed out into the yard.
VII
The stable lay at the far end of the yard; one of its walls backed on to the fields. Chertopkhanov did not get the key into the lock at once—his hands were trembling—nor could he turn the key at once . . . He stood motionless, holding his breath: if only something would move behind the door! “Maleshka, Malek!” he called in a low voice: but silence! Without meaning to, Chertopkhanov pulled the key: the door squeaked and opened . . . So it wasn’t locked. He strode across the threshold, and again called his horse, this time by its full name: “Malek Adel!” But there was no answer from his faithful friend, only the rustling of a mouse in the straw. Then Chertopkhanov rushed to the stall—one of three in the stable—in which Malek Adel was kept. He found his way straight to it although the darkness was dense enough to knock your eye out! Empty! Chertopkhanov’s head began to reel; a bell seemed to be droning inside his skull. He wanted to say something—but could only wheeze; and, with hands groping, up, and down, and sideways, panting, with faltering knees, he made his way from one stall to another . . . In the third stall, which was piled almost to the top with hay, he ran into one wall, then into the other: he fell head over heels, got up, and suddenly ran out helter-skelter through the half-open door into the yard . . .
“He’s been stolen! Perfishka! Perfishka! He’s been stolen!” he roared at the top of his voice.
The boy Perfishka, in nothing but his shirt, flew out like a whirlwind from the garret where he slept.
The two of them, the master and his only servant, collided like drunken men in the middle of the yard; as if possessed, they circled round each other. The master could not explain what was the matter; the servant could not understand what he was called on to do. “Oh dear, oh dear,” muttered Chertopkhanov. “Oh dear, oh dear,” repeated the boy after him. “A lantern, come on, light a lantern, lights, lights!” Chertopkhanov brought out at length, in a fainting voice. Perfishka ran into the house. But it was no easy matter to light a lantern or to get a light. At that time wax matches were a rarity in Russia: the last fires in the kitchen had long been out, tinder and flint took time to find and worked badly. Grinding his teeth, Chertopkhanov snatched them from the hands of the dumbfounded Perfishka to strike a light himself, sparks flew in plenty, curses and even groans in greater plenty still—but the wick either wouldn’t catch, or went out, notwithstanding the combined efforts of four concentrated cheeks and lips! At last, after a full five minutes, the greasy candle-end at the bottom of the broken lantern began to glimmer, and Chertopkhanov, accompanied by Perfishka, rushed into the stable, lifted the lantern above his head and looked round . . .
It was absolutely empty!
He darted out into the yard, ran round in all directions—no horse to be found! The fence which had surrounded Pantelei’s seat had long ago become dilapidated and at many places had listed over and touched the ground. . . . Opposite the stable it was completely down to the width of a whole yard. Perfishka showed Chertopkhanov this spot.
“Master, just look here: it wasn’t like this to-day. And here
are the stakes, too, sticking out of the ground—someone must have pulled them up.”
Chertopkhanov ran over with the lantern, and moved it close to the ground . . .
“Hooves, hooves, horse’s shoe-marks, fresh marks!” he muttered quickly. “Here’s where they took him over, here, here!”
In a flash he had jumped over the fence and, shouting, “Malek Adel, Malek Adel,” was running straight out into the field.
Perfishka was left standing dumbfounded beside the fence. The circle of light from the lantern soon vanished from his sight, swallowed up in the dense gloom of the starless, moonless night.
Ever fainter and fainter sounded the despairing cries of Chertopkhanov.
VIII
The day was already dawning when he returned home. He looked like nothing human, his clothes were all covered in mud, his face had taken on a wild, terrifying look, his eyes had a dull, morose stare. He chased Perfishka away in a husky whisper and locked himself in his room. He could hardly stand from exhaustion, but, instead of lying down on his bed, he sat on a chair by the door and put his head in his hands.
“Stolen! Stolen!”
But how had the thief been clever enough to steal Malek Adel by night out of a locked stable? Malek Adel, who even by day would let no stranger approach him—to steal him without a knock, without a sound? And how was it to be explained that not one of the dogs had barked? True, there were only two of them, two young puppies, and they had dug themselves into the ground from cold and hunger: but all the same!
What am I going to do now without Malek Adel? thought Chertopkhanov. I’ve lost my last friend. It’s time for me to die. Buy another horse, since I’ve got the money? But where shall I find another horse like him?
“Pantelei Eremeich! Pantelei Eremeich!” came a timid cry from behind the door.
Chertopkhanov jumped to his feet.
“Who’s there?” he shouted in an unnatural voice.
“It’s me, your boy Perfishka.”
“Who d’you want? Has he been found? Has he come home?”
“No, no, sir; but the Jew-man, who sold him . . .”
“Well?”
“He’s come.”
“Ho, ho, ho.” Chertopkhanov roared with laughter—and at once flung the door open. “Bring him here, come on! Bring him here!”
On the sudden appearance of the tousled, wild-looking figure of his benefactor, the Jew, standing behind Perfishka, tried to slink off, but Chertopkhanov took two bounds forward, caught him, and like a tiger fastened on to him by the throat.
“Ah, come for your money! money!” he wheezed, as if he were being strangled himself, instead of strangling the other. “Stole him by night, and come by day for your money? Eh?”
“Mercy, your ho . . . nor,” the Jew was groaning.
“Tell me, where’s my horse? What have you done with him? Who’ve you sold him to? Tell me, go on, tell me!”
The Jew could no longer even groan; his face had gone blue and had actually lost its expression of terror. His arms hung limply; his whole body, in response to Chertopkhanov’s furious shaking, was swaying backwards and forwards like a reed.
“I’ll pay you your money. I’ll pay you in full, to the last copeck,” shouted Chertopkhanov. “But I’ll wring your neck like a miserable chicken, if you don’t tell me at once . . .”
“But you have wrung his neck, master,” observed the boy Perfishka humbly.
It was only then that Chertopkhanov came to his senses.
He let go of the Jew’s neck; the Jew fairly thumped down on the ground. Chertopkhanov picked him up, sat him on a bench, poured a glass of vodka down his throat, and brought him round. And, having done so, began to talk to him.
It appeared that the Jew had not had the faintest inkling of Malek Adel’s theft. Indeed, what motive could he have had for stealing the horse which he himself had found for “his deeply respected Pantelei Eremeich”?
Then Chertopkhanov led him to the stable. Together they inspected the stalls, the mangers, the lock on the door; they rummaged through the hay and the straw, and then walked round the back-yard; Chertopkhanov showed the Jew the hoof-marks by the fence and suddenly smacked his thighs.
“Wait,” he exclaimed. “Where did you buy the horse?”
“In the district of Little Arkhangel, at Verkhosensk fair,” answered the Jew.
“Who from?”
“A Cossack.”
“Wait! This Cossack, was he young or old?”
“Middle-aged, a steady sort of fellow.”
“But what was he like? What did he look like? A complete rogue, I suppose?”
“Certainly a rogue, your honor!”
“Well, what did he tell you, this rogue-fellow—had he owned the horse for long?”
“Yes, so I seem to remember, for some time.”
“Well, then, he’s the only one that could have stolen the horse! Listen, you, listen here, and tell me what you think . . . what’s your name?”
The Jew started and his little black eyes shot a look at Chertopkhanov.
“What is my name?”
“Yes: what do they call you?”
“Moshel Leiba.”
“Well, tell me what you think, Leiba, my friend—you’re a clever chap. Would Malek Adel have let anyone take him, except his old master? Why, he saddled him, and bridled him, and took the blanket off him—there it is lying on the hay! . . . He simply behaved as if he was at home. Why, if it had been anyone else, who hadn’t been his master, Malek Adel would have crushed him under his hooves. He would have made such a din he would have roused the whole village! Do you agree with me?”
“Certainly, of course, your honor.”
“Well, then, it means we must first of all find that Cossack!”
“But how can we find him, your honor? I only saw him just once—I’ve no idea where he can be now, or what his name is. Ai, vai, vai!” added the Jew, shaking his side-curls sadly.
“Leiba!” shouted Chertopkhanov suddenly, “Leiba, look at me! I’m out of my own mind, I’m not myself! . . . I’ll do myself a mischief, unless you help me!”
“But how can I . . .”
“Let’s go together—and start looking for the thief.”
“But where shall we go?”
“Round the fairs, the highways and by-ways, round the horse-thieves, round towns, villages, and farms—everywhere, everywhere! And don’t worry about money: I’ve had a legacy! I’ll spend my last copeck—but I’ll find my friend! And that Cossack won’t escape us either, the villain—where he is, we’ll be there too! If he’s under the ground, so will we be. If he’s gone to the devil, we’ll go to Satan himself!”
“Oh, why to Satan?” observed the Jew, “we can manage without him.”
“Leiba!” repeated Chertopkhanov, “Leiba, although you’re a Jew and a heathen, you’ve got a better heart than many a Christian! Take pity on me! It’s no good my going alone; I shan’t be able to handle this by myself. I’m too quick-tempered—but you have got a head on your shoulders, a head of gold! Your tribe are all the same; get anything you want, without book-learning! You may be doubtful about my money. Come to my room—I’ll show you the money too. Take it, take the cross from my neck—only give me back Malek Adel, give him back to me!”
Chertopkhanov was trembling as if from fear: a stream of sweat poured down his face and, mingling with his tears, lost itself in his whiskers. He pressed Leiba’s hands, he implored him, he almost kissed him. He began to rave. The Jew tried to raise objections, to assert that it was quite impossible for him to absent himself, that he had business . . . but to no avail! Chertopkhanov would not listen to a word. There was nothing for it; the unhappy Leiba agreed.
The following day Chertopkhanov and Leiba drove away from Bessonovo in a peasant cart. The Jew looked somewhat confused, held on to the rail with one hand, his whole flabby body bouncing about on its shaky perch; he held his other hand pressed to his bosom, where he kept a packet of banknotes wrapped up
in newspaper. Chertopkhanov sat like an idol, motionless, except for his roving eyes and deep-chested breathing. There was a dagger stuck in his belt.
“Well, my wicked rival, look out for yourself now,” he muttered as they drove out on to the high road.
He had left his house in the care of the boy Perfishka and of the deaf old peasant-woman who cooked for him and whom he had taken in out of the kindness of his heart.
“I shall come back to you on Malek Adel,” he called to them by way of farewell, “or not at all!”
“We ought to get married, eh?” laughed Perfishka, digging his elbow into the cook’s ribs. “Why not?—we shall never see the master back, and you’ll die of boredom otherwise!”
IX
A year passed, a whole year. There was not a whisper of news about Pantelei Eremeich. The cook died; even Perfishka was preparing to abandon the house and set off for the town, whither he was beckoned by a cousin, apprenticed to a barber—when suddenly it was rumored abroad that the master was returning. The parish deacon had received a letter from Pantelei Eremeich himself, announcing his intended arrival at Bessonovo, and asking him to warn the servants so that they could make suitable arrangements for his reception. Perfishka understood these words to mean that he must wipe away some of the dust—though he had no great faith in the accuracy of the news; he had, however, to admit that the deacon had spoken the truth, when a few days later Pantelei Eremeich himself, in person, appeared in the courtyard of his house, mounted on Malek Adel.
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