‘A clever beast,’ I thought.
‘Give him his head, give him his head,’ said Sitniker, and he stared at me.
‘What may you think of him?’ he inquired at last.
‘The horse’s not bad — the hind legs aren’t quite sound.’
‘His legs are first - rate!’ Sitnikov rejoined, with an air of conviction;’ and his hind - quarters … just look, sir … broad as an oven — you could sleep up there.’ ‘His pasterns are long.’
‘Long! mercy on us! Start him, Petya, start him, but at a trot, a trot … don’t let him gallop.’
Again Petya ran round the yard with Ermine. None of us spoke for a little.
‘There, lead him back,’ said Sitnikov,’ and show us Falcon.’
Falcon, a gaunt beast of Dutch extraction with sloping hind - quarters, as black as a beetle, turned out to be little better than Ermine. He was one of those beasts of whom fanciers will tell you that ‘they go chopping and mincing and dancing about,’ meaning thereby that they prance and throw out their fore - legs to right and to left without making much headway. Middle - aged merchants have a great fancy for such horses; their action recalls the swaggering gait of a smart waiter; they do well in single harness for an after - dinner drive; with mincing paces and curved neck they zealously draw a clumsy droshky laden with an overfed coachman, a depressed, dyspeptic merchant, and his lymphatic wife, in a blue silk mantle, with a lilac handkerchief over her head. Falcon too I declined. Sitnikov showed me several horses…. One at last, a dapple - grey beast of Voyakov breed, took my fancy. I could not restrain my satisfaction, and patted him on the withers. Sitnikov at once feigned absolute indifference.
“Well, does he go well in harness?” I inquired. (They never speak of a trotting horse as “being driven.”)
“Oh, yes,” answered the horsedealer carelessly.
“Can I see him?”
“If you like, certainly. Hi, Kuzya, put Pursuer into the droshky!”
Kuzya, the jockey, a real master of horsemanship, drove three times past us up and down the street. The horse went well, without changing its pace, nor shambling; it had a free action, held its tail high, and covered the ground well.
“And what are you asking for him?”
Sitnikov asked an impossible price. We began bargaining on the spot in the street, when suddenly a splendidly - matched team of three posting - horses flew noisily round the corner and drew up sharply at the gates before Sitnikov’s house. In the smart little sportsman’s trap sat Prince N — — ; beside him Hlopakov. Baklaga was driving … and how he drove! He could have driven them through an earring, the rascal! The bay trace - horses, little, keen, black - eyed, black - legged beasts, were all impatience; they kept rearing — a whistle, and off they would have bolted! The dark - bay shaft - horse stood firmly, its neck arched like a swan’s, its breast forward, its legs like arrows, shaking its head and proudly blinking…. They were splendid! No one could desire a finer turn out for an Easter procession!
‘Your excellency, please to come in!’ cried Sitnikov.
The prince leaped out of the trap. Hlopakov slowly descended on the other side.
‘Good morning, friend … any horses.’
‘You may be sure we’ve horses for your excellency! Pray walk in…. Petya, bring out Peacock! and let them get Favourite ready too. And with you, sir,’ he went on, turning to me, ‘we’ll settle matters another time…. Fomka, a bench for his excellency.’
From a special stable which I had not at first observed they led out Peacock. A powerful dark sorrel horse seemed to fly across the yard with all its legs in the air. Sitnikov even turned away his head and winked.
‘Oh, rrakalion!’ piped Hlopakov; ‘Zhaymsah (j’aime ça.)’
The prince laughed.
Peacock was stopped with difficulty; he dragged the stable - boy about the yard; at last he was pushed against the wall. He snorted, started and reared, while Sitnikov still teased him, brandishing a whip at him.
‘What are you looking at? there! oo!’ said the horsedealer with caressing menace, unable to refrain from admiring his horse himself.
‘How much?’ asked the prince.
‘For your excellency, five thousand.’
‘Three.’
‘Impossible, your excellency, upon my word.’
‘I tell you three, rrakalion,’ put in Hlopakov.
I went away without staying to see the end of the bargaining. At the farthest corner of the street I noticed a large sheet of paper fixed on the gate of a little grey house. At the top there was a pen - and - ink sketch of a horse with a tail of the shape of a pipe and an endless neck, and below his hoofs were the following words, written in an old - fashioned hand:
‘Here are for sale horses of various colours, brought to the Lebedyan fair from the celebrated steppes stud of Anastasei Ivanitch Tchornobai, landowner of Tambov. These horses are of excellent sort; broken in to perfection, and free from vice. Purchasers will kindly ask for Anastasei Ivanitch himself: should Anastasei Ivanitch be absent, then ask for Nazar Kubishkin, the coachman. Gentlemen about to purchase, kindly honour an old man.’
I stopped. ‘Come,’ I thought, ‘let’s have a look at the horses of the celebrated steppes breeder, Mr. Tchornobai.’
I was about to go in at the gate, but found that, contrary to the common usage, it was locked. I knocked.
‘Who’s there?… A customer?’ whined a woman’s voice.
‘Yes.’
‘Coming, sir, coming.’
The gate was opened. I beheld a peasant - woman of fifty, bareheaded, in boots, and a sheepskin worn open.
‘Please to come in, kind sir, and I’ll go at once, and tell Anastasei
Ivanitch … Nazar, hey, Nazar!’
‘What?’ mumbled an old man’s voice from the stable.
‘Get a horse ready; here’s a customer.’
The old woman ran into the house.
‘A customer, a customer,’ Nazar grumbled in response; ‘I’ve not washed all their tails yet.’
‘Oh, Arcadia!’ thought I.
‘Good day, sir, pleased to see you,’ I heard a rich, pleasant voice saying behind my back. I looked round; before me, in a long - skirted blue coat, stood an old man of medium height, with white hair, a friendly smile, and fine blue eyes.
‘You want a little horse? By all means, my dear sir, by all means….
But won’t you step in and drink just a cup of tea with me first?’
I declined and thanked him.
‘Well, well, as you please. You must excuse me, my dear sir; you see I’m old - fashioned.’ (Mr. Tchornobai spoke with deliberation, and in a broad Doric.) ‘Everything with me is done in a plain way, you know…. Nazar, hey, Nazar!’ he added, not raising his voice, but prolonging each syllable. Nazar, a wrinkled old man with a little hawk nose and a wedge - shaped beard, showed himself at the stable door.
‘What sort of horses is it you’re wanting, my dear sir?’ resumed Mr.
Tchornobai.
‘Not too expensive; for driving in my covered gig.’
‘To be sure … we have got them to suit you, to be sure…. Nazar, Nazar, show the gentleman the grey gelding, you know, that stands at the farthest corner, and the sorrel with the star, or else the other sorrel — foal of Beauty, you know.’
Nazar went back to the stable.
‘And bring them out by their halters just as they are,’ Mr. Tchornobai shouted after him. ‘You won’t find things with me, my good sir,’ he went on, with a clear mild gaze into my face, ‘as they are with the horse - dealers; confound their tricks! There are drugs of all sorts go in there, salt and malted grains; God forgive them! But with me, you will see, sir, everything’s above - board; no underhandedness.’
The horses were led in; I did not care for them.
‘Well, well, take them back, in God’s name,’ said Anastasei Ivanitch.
‘Show us the others.’
Others were shown. At last I picked
out one, rather a cheap one. We began to haggle over the price. Mr. Tchornobai did not get excited; he spoke so reasonably, with such dignity, that I could not help ‘honouring’ the old man; I gave him the earnest - money.
‘Well, now,’ observed Anastasei Ivanitch, ‘allow me to give over the horse to you from hand to hand, after the old fashion…. You will thank me for him … as sound as a nut, see … fresh … a true child of the steppes! Goes well in any harness.’
He crossed himself, laid the skirt of his coat over his hand, took the halter, and handed me the horse.
‘You’re his master now, with God’s blessing…. And you still won’t take a cup of tea?’
‘No, I thank you heartily; it’s time I was going home.’
‘That’s as you think best…. And shall my coachman lead the horse after you?’
‘Yes, now, if you please.’
‘By all means, my dear sir, by all means…. Vassily, hey, Vassily! step along with the gentleman, lead the horse, and take the money for him. Well, good - bye, my good sir; God bless you.’
‘Good - bye, Anastasei Ivanitch.’
They led the horse home for me. The next day he turned out to be broken - winded and lame. I tried having him put in harness; the horse backed, and if one gave him a flick with the whip he jibbed, kicked, and positively lay down. I set off at once to Mr. Tchornobai’s. I inquired: ‘At home?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s the meaning of this?’ said I; ‘here you’ve sold me a broken - winded horse.’
‘Broken - winded?… God forbid!’
‘Yes, and he’s lame too, and vicious besides.’
‘Lame! I know nothing about it: your coachman must have ill - treated him somehow…. But before God, I — ’
‘Look here, Anastasei Ivanitch, as things stand, you ought to take him back.’
‘No, my good sir, don’t put yourself in a passion; once gone out of the yard, is done with. You should have looked before, sir.’
I understood what that meant, accepted my fate, laughed, and walked off. Luckily, I had not paid very dear for the lesson.
Two days later I left, and in a week I was again at Lebedyan on my way home again. In the café I found almost the same persons, and again I came upon Prince N — — at billiards. But the usual change in the fortunes of Mr. Hlopakov had taken place in this interval: the fair - haired young officer had supplanted him in the prince’s favours. The poor ex - lieutenant once more tried letting off his catchword in my presence, on the chance it might succeed as before; but, far from smiling, the prince positively scowled and shrugged his shoulders. Mr. Hlopakov looked downcast, shrank into a corner, and began furtively filling himself a pipe….
XV
TATYANA BORISSOVNA AND HER NEPHEW
Give me your hand, gentle reader, and come along with me. It is glorious weather; there is a tender blue in the May sky; the smooth young leaves of the willows glisten as though they had been polished; the wide even road is all covered with that delicate grass with the little reddish stalk that the sheep are so fond of nibbling; to right and to left, over the long sloping hillsides, the green rye is softly waving; the shadows of small clouds glide in thin long streaks over it. In the distance is the dark mass of forests, the glitter of ponds, yellow patches of village; larks in hundreds are soaring, singing, falling headlong with outstretched necks, hopping about the clods; the crows on the highroad stand still, look at you, peck at the earth, let you drive close up, and with two hops lazily move aside. On a hill beyond a ravine a peasant is ploughing; a piebald colt, with a cropped tail and ruffled mane, is running on unsteady legs after its mother; its shrill whinnying reaches us. We drive on into the birch wood, and drink in the strong, sweet, fresh fragrance. Here we are at the boundaries. The coachman gets down; the horses snort; the trace - horses look round; the centre horse in the shafts switches his tail, and turns his head up towards the wooden yoke above it... the great gate opens creaking; the coachman seats himself.... Drive on! the village is before us. Passing five homesteads, and turning off to the right, we drop down into a hollow and drive along a dyke, the farther side of a small pond; behind the round tops of the lilacs and apple - trees a wooden roof, once red, with two chimneys, comes into sight; the coachman keeps along the hedge to the left, and to the spasmodic and drowsy baying of three pug dogs he drives through the wide open gates, whisks smartly round the broad courtyard past the stable and the barn, gallantly salutes the old housekeeper, who is stepping sideways over the high lintel in the open doorway of the storehouse, and pulls up at last before the steps of a dark house with light windows.... We are at Tatyana Borissovna’s. And here she is herself opening the window and nodding at us.... ‘Good day, ma’am!’
Tatyana Borissovna is a woman of fifty, with large, prominent grey eyes, a rather broad nose, rosy cheeks and a double chin. Her face is brimming over with friendliness and kindness. She was once married, but was soon left a widow. Tatyana Borissovna is a very remarkable woman. She lives on her little property, never leaving it, mixes very little with her neighbours, sees and likes none but young people. She was the daughter of very poor landowners, and received no education; in other words, she does not know French; she has never been in Moscow — and in spite of all these defects, she is so good and simple in her manners, so broad in her sympathies and ideas, so little infected with the ordinary prejudices of country ladies of small means, that one positively cannot help marvelling at her.... Indeed, a woman who lives all the year round in the country and does not talk scandal, nor whine, nor curtsey, is never flurried, nor depressed, nor in a flutter of curiosity, is a real marvel! She usually wears a grey taffetas gown and a white cap with lilac streamers; she is fond of good cheer, but not to excess; all the preserving, pickling, and salting she leaves to her housekeeper. ‘What does she do all day long?’ you will ask.... ‘Does she read?’ No, she doesn’t read, and, to tell the truth, books are not written for her.... If there are no visitors with her, Tatyana Borissovna sits by herself at the window knitting a stocking in winter; in summer time she is in the garden, planting and watering her flowers, playing for hours together with her cats, or feeding her doves.... She does not take much part in the management of her estate. But if a visitor pays her a call — some young neighbour whom she likes — Tatyana Borissovna is all life directly; she makes him sit down, pours him out some tea, listens to his chat, laughs, sometimes pats his cheek, but says little herself; in trouble or sorrow she comforts and gives good advice. How many people have confided their family secrets and the griefs of their hearts to her, and have wept over her hands! At times she sits opposite her visitor, leaning lightly on her elbow, and looks with such sympathy into his face, smiles so affectionately, that he cannot help feeling: ‘What a dear, good woman you are, Tatyana Borissovna! Let me tell you what is in my heart.’ One feels happy and warm in her small, snug rooms; in her house it is always, so to speak, fine weather. Tatyana Borissovna is a wonderful woman, but no one wonders at her; her sound good sense, her breadth and firmness, her warm sympathy in the joys and sorrows of others — in a word, all her qualities are so innate in her; they are no trouble, no effort to her.... One cannot fancy her otherwise, and so one feels no need to thank her. She is particularly fond of watching the pranks and follies of young people; she folds her hands over her bosom, throws back her head, puckers up her eyes, and sits smiling at them, then all of a sudden she heaves a sigh, and says, ‘Ah, my children, my children!’... Sometimes one longs to go up to her, take hold of her hands and say: ‘Let me tell you, Tatyana Borissovna, you don’t know your own value; for all your simplicity and lack of learning, you’re an extraordinary creature!’ Her very name has a sweet familiar ring; one is glad to utter it; it calls up a kindly smile at once. How often, for instance, have I chanced to ask a peasant: ‘Tell me, my friend, how am I to get to Gratchevka?’ let us say. ‘Well, sir, you go on first to Vyazovoe, and from there to Tatyana Borissovna’s, and from Tatyana Borissovna’s any one will show
you the way.’ And at the name of Tatyana Borissovna the peasant wags his head in quite a special way. Her household is small, in accordance with her means. The house, the laundry, the stores and the kitchen, are in the charge of the housekeeper, Agafya, once her nurse, a good - natured, tearful, toothless creature; she has under her two stalwart girls with stout crimson cheeks like Antonovsky apples. The duties of valet, steward, and waiter are filled by Policarp, an extraordinary old man of seventy, a queer fellow, full of erudition, once a violinist and worshipper of Viotti, with a personal hostility to Napoleon, or, as he calls him, Bonaparty, and a passion for nightingales. He always keeps five or six of the latter in his room; in early spring he will sit for whole days together by the cage, waiting for the first trill, and when he hears it, he covers his face with his hands, and moans, ‘Oh, piteous, piteous!’ and sheds tears in floods. Policarp has, to help him, his grandson Vasya, a curly - headed, sharp - eyed boy of twelve; Policarp adores him, and grumbles at him from morning till night. He undertakes his education too. ‘Vasya,’ he says, ‘say Bonaparty was a scoundrel.’ ‘And what’ll you give me, granddad?’ ‘What’ll I give you?... I’ll give you nothing.... Why, what are you? Aren’t you a Russian?’ ‘I’m a Mtchanin, granddad; I was born in Mtchensk.’ ‘Oh, silly dunce! but where is Mtchensk?’ ‘How can I tell?’ ‘Mtchensk’s in Russia, silly!’ ‘Well, what then, if it is in Russia?’ ‘What then? Why, his Highness the late Prince Mihalo Ilarionovitch Golenishtchev - Kutuzov - Smolensky, with God’s aid, graciously drove Bonaparty out of the Russian territories. It’s on that event the song was composed: “Bonaparty’s in no mood to dance, He’s lost the garters he brought from France.”... Do you understand? he liberated your fatherland.’ ‘And what’s that to do with me?’ ‘Ah! you silly boy! Why, if his Highness Prince Mihalo Ilarionovitch hadn’t driven out Bonaparty, some mounseer would have been beating you about the head with a stick this minute. He’d come up to you like this, and say: “Koman voo porty voo?” and then a box on the ear!’ ‘But I’d give him one in the belly with my fist’ ‘But he’d go on: “Bonzhur, bonzhur, veny ici,” and then a cuff on the head.’ ‘And I’d give him one in his legs, his bandy legs.’ ‘You’re quite right, their legs are bandy.... Well, but suppose he tied your hands?’ ‘I wouldn’t let him; I’d call Mihay the coachman to help me.’ ‘But, Vasya, suppose you weren’t a match for the Frenchy even with Mihay?’ ‘Not a match for him! See how strong Mihay is!’ ‘Well, and what would you do with him?’ ‘We’d get him on his back, we would.’ ‘And he’d shout, “Pardon, pardon, seevooplay!”‘ ‘We’d tell him, “None of your seevooplays, you old Frenchy!”‘ ‘Bravo, Vasya!... Well, now then, shout, “Bonaparty’s a scoundrel!”‘ ‘But you must give me some sugar!’ ‘You scamp!’
Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) Page 214