And why shouldn’t Chertopkhanov have treasured his horse? Wasn’t it on his account that he’d once again acquired an undoubted and ultimate superiority over his neighbours?
VI
Meanwhile time passed and the date for payment approached, but Chertopkhanov not only didn’t have 250 roubles, he didn’t even have fifty. He wondered what to do and how he could help himself. ‘Well,’ he decided finally, ‘if the Jew won’t be merciful and doesn’t want to wait, I’ll give him my house and land and I’ll jump on my horse and simply follow my nose! Even if I die of hunger, I’ll never give up Malek Adel!’
He grew very worried and even thoughtful, but at this point fate – for the first and last time – took pity on him and smiled on him. Some distant aunt, whose very name was unknown to Chertopkhanov, left him in her will a sum that was enormous in his eyes – a whole 2,000 roubles! And he received the money just in time, a day before the Jew’s arrival. Chertopkhanov was out of his mind with joy – but he never gave a thought to vodka. From the very day that Malek Adel had arrived he’d never taken a drop into his mouth. He dashed to the stables and gave his friend several kisses on either side of his mouth above the nostrils where a horse’s skin is particularly tender. ‘Now we’ll never be parted!’ he exclaimed, slapping Malek Adel on the shoulder below his well-combed mane. On going back into the house he counted out 250 roubles and sealed them in a packet. Then he started dreaming, lying on his back and smoking his pipe, contemplating how he’d dispose of the rest of the money and, more especially, what kind of hounds he’d get – proper Kostroma hounds, for sure, and with red and white spots! He even had a chat with Perfishka, to whom he’d promised a new knee-length caftan with yellow braid at the seams, and then went to sleep in the most blessed contentment of spirit.
He had a bad dream. He’d gone hunting, only not on Malek Adel but on some strange animal like a camel. A white vixen, white as snow, ran towards him and he tried to wave his whip to encourage the hounds to go after her, but instead of a whip he found a washing-up mop in his hand and the vixen ran right in front of him sticking out her tongue. He jumped down from his camel, stumbled and fell – fell right into the arms of a gendarme who took him off to the Governor-General in whom he recognized Jaffe…
Chertopkhanov woke up. It was dark in the room and already time for second cockcrow.
Somewhere very far off a horse neighed.
Chertopkhanov raised his head. Once more he heard that very faint neighing.
‘It’s Malek Adel,’ he thought. ‘It’s his neighing! But why so far away? Oh, my God, it can’t be…’
Chertopkhanov suddenly went all cold, jumped instantly from his bed, felt around for his boots and clothes, dressed, and, having taken the stable key from under his pillow, rushed out into the yard.
VII
The stables were at the far end of the yard with one wall facing on to the fields. Chertopkhanov took his time to insert the key into the lock, because his hands were shaking so much, and didn’t immediately turn the key. He stood there motionless, holding his breath in the hope that there might be some kind of movement on the other side of the door.
‘Malek, my dear! Malek!’ he cried in a soft voice. There was dead silence!
Chertopkhanov jerked the key despite himself and the door creaked and opened. It turned out it wasn’t locked. He stepped across the doorstep and again called out to his horse, this time using the full name:
‘Malek Adel!’
But his friend didn’t answer. Only a mouse rustled in the straw. Then Chertopkhanov flung himself towards the one of the three stalls in which Malek Adel was usually kept. He lighted on it at once even though all around was so dark you couldn’t see a thing… It was empty! Chertopkhanov’s head began to spin just as if a bell had begun to toll in his skull. He tried to speak but could do no more than hiss and, running his hands up and down and along the sides, gasping as his knees began to give way under him, he felt his way from one stall to another until, in the third, almost filled to the top with hay, he struck against one wall, then another, fell, turned head over heels, lifted himself up and suddenly dashed headlong through the half-open door into the yard…
‘He’s been stolen! Perfishka! Perfishka! He’s been stolen!’ he yelled at the top of his voice.
The servant-boy Perfishka came flying like a top out of the cupboard in which he slept, in nothing but his shirt. Just as if they were both drunk the two of them – the master and his only servant – collided in the middle of the yard. Like mad things they spun round each other. Neither the master nor the servant had the faintest idea what was going on.
‘It’s a catastrophe! Catastrophe!’ muttered Chertopkhanov.
‘Catastrophe! Catastrophe!’ repeated the servant-boy.
‘Get a lantern! Go and light a lantern! Light! Light!’ were the cries finally torn from Chertopkhanov’s constricted chest. Perfishka dashed into the house.
But it was no easy matter to light the lantern and create light. Sulphur matches were considered a rarity in Russia at that time and the last coals in the kitchen had died long ago. The tinder and flint took a long time to find and didn’t work well. Grinding his teeth, Chertopkhanov seized the tinder from the hands of the amazed Perfishka and started trying to strike a light himself. Sparks flew about abundantly and even more abundantly oaths and even groans, but the tinder either didn’t catch or simply smouldered despite the joint efforts of four puffed-out cheeks and both their lips! At last, after five minutes and no sooner, the tallow candle-end at the bottom of the broken lantern was kindled into life and Chertopkhanov, in the company of Perfishka, burst into the stable, raised the lantern above his head and looked round…
Everything was empty!
He jumped out into the yard, dashed round it in all directions and could find no horse anywhere. The wattle fencing surrounding Panteley Yeremeich’s estate had long since fallen into decay and in many places was leaning over or flat on the ground. Next to the stables it was completely down for about three feet or so. Perfishka pointed this out to Chertopkhanov.
‘Master, sir, look! It wasn’t like this yesterday! Look, there are stakes sticking up! Someone must’ve pulled ’em up!’
Chertopkhanov rushed up with the lantern and moved it around over the ground.
‘Hoofmarks, hoofmarks, traces of horseshoe, fresh traces!’ he cried all in a rush. ‘That’s where they led him through! There, right there!’
He instantly jumped over the fence and with a cry of ‘Malek Adel! Malek Adel!’ ran straight out into the fields.
Perfishka remained standing in bewilderment by the fence. The bright circle of light from the lantern quickly vanished before his eyes, swallowed up in the dense darkness of the starless and moonless night.
Ever weaker and weaker grew Chertopkhanov’s desperate shouts.
VIII
Dawn had already broken when he returned home. He’d lost all human semblance and there was mud all over his clothing, his face had acquired a wild and terrible appearance and his eyes looked morose and dismal. In a husky whisper he drove Perfishka from him and locked himself in his own room. He could scarcely keep on his feet from tiredness but he didn’t go back to bed, he sat in a chair by the door and clutched hold of his head.
‘Stolen! Stolen!’
But how could a thief have contrived to steal Malek Adel at night from a locked stable? Malek Adel, who wouldn’t let anyone strange near him even in broad daylight – so how could he be stolen without a single sound, just like that? And how could one explain that none of the yard dogs barked? True, there were only two of them, two young puppies, and they’d burrowed in the earth from hunger and cold – still!
‘And what on earth will I do,’ thought Chertopkhanov, ‘without Malek Adel? I’ve been deprived of my last joy, so it’s time I died. Why should I buy another horse, even though I’ve got the money? And where’d I find another horse like him?’
‘Panteley Yeremeich! Panteley Yeremeich!’ came
a timid cry from the other side of the door.
Chertopkhanov jumped to his feet.
‘Who is it?’ he shouted in a voice that wasn’t his own.
‘It’s me, your servant, Perfishka.’
‘Whaddya want? Or has he been found, has he come home?’
‘Not at all, sir, Panteley Yeremeich, but that Jew, what sold ’im…’
‘Well?’
‘’E’s come.’
‘Ho-ho-ho-ho-ho!’ roared Chertopkhanov and instantly flung open the door. ‘Bring him here! Bring him! Bring him!’
At the sight of the dishevelled, wild-eyed figure of his ‘saviour’ who had put in such a sudden appearance the Jew, standing behind Perfishka’s back, was on the point of making a dash for it when Chertopkhanov sprang at him with a couple of leaps and, like a tiger, had him fast by the neck.
‘Ah! So you’ve come for the money! It’s the money you’re after!’ he cried hoarsely, as if it wasn’t he doing the strangling but someone strangling him. ‘You steal him at night and then in the daylight you come for the money? Eh? Eh?’
‘Ple-e-eze, yo-o-our ’onour, sir,’ groaned the Jew.
‘Tell me where my horse is, eh? Where’ve you taken him, eh? Who’s got him now? Go on, tell, tell, tell me!’
The Jew wasn’t even capable of groaning. Even a look of fear had vanished from his face as it turned blue. His arms had dropped and hung loose. His whole body, in Chertopkhanov’s fierce shaking of it, swayed backwards and forwards like a reed.
‘I’ll pay you your money, I’ll pay you in full, down to the last copeck!’ screamed Chertopkhanov. ‘But I’ll simply wring your neck like the merest chick if you don’t tell me here and now…’
‘But, sir, you’ve already throttled him,’ remarked Perfishka the servant-boy calmly.
At that point Chertopkhanov realized what he’d done. He released the Jew’s neck and the man instantly collapsed on the ground. Chertopkhanov lifted him up, sat him down on a bench, poured a glass of vodka into his mouth and brought him to his senses. And, having brought him to his senses, began discussing things with him.
It turned out that the Jew didn’t know a thing about the theft of Malek Adel. And what would be the point of his stealing the horse which he had himself obtained for ‘your most ’onoured self, Panteley Yeremeich’?
Then Chertopkhanov led him into the stables. The two of them scrutinized the stalls, troughs and doorlock, rooted about in the hay and straw and then came out into the yard. Chertopkhanov pointed out to the Jew the hoofmarks by the wattle fence. Suddenly he struck himself on his thighs.
‘Stop!’ he exclaimed. ‘Where’d you buy the horse?’
‘In Maloarkhangelsk county, at the Verkhosensk fair,’ the Jew answered.
‘From whom?’
‘From a Cossack.’
‘One moment! Was he young or old, this Cossack?’
‘Middle-aged, well set-up…’
‘But what sort was he? What did he look like? Was he a right crook?’
‘Likely ’e was a crook, your ’onour!’
‘And what did he say to you, this crook – did he say he’d had the horse a long time?’
‘I remember he said he’d had it a long time.’
‘Well, then, if it’s anyone stolen it, it’s him! Judge for yourself! Listen, come here… What’s your name?’
The Jew quivered and fluttered his black little eyes at Chertopkhanov.
‘What’s my name?’
‘Yes, what d’they call you?’
‘Moshel Leiba.’
‘Well, judge for yourself, Leiba, my friend, you’re an intelligent man – to whom if not to his old master would Malek Adel have surrendered? After all, he’d have saddled him and put on the bridle and taken off his cloth – there it is, lying in the hay!… He’d have gone about things just as if he were at home! Anyone else apart from his master Malek Adel would have trampled under his hoofs! He’d have set up such a racket he’d have woken up the whole village! D’you agree with me?’
‘Agree, I do agree, your ’onour, sir!’
‘Well, it means the first thing we must do is seek out that Cossack!’
‘But how can we seek ’im out, your ’onour? I only saw ’im that one time, sir, an’ where he is now and what ’is name is, oy vay, oy vay!’ added the Jew, miserably shaking his short locks.
‘Leiba!’ screamed Chertcpkhanov suddenly. ‘Leiba, look at me! Look, I’ve lost my reason, I’m not myself! I’ll lay hands on myself if you don’t help me!’
‘But how can I?’
‘Come with me and we’ll start looking for that thief!’
‘But where’ll we go?’
‘To fairs, along roads big and small, to known horse thieves, to the towns, the villages, to the farms – everywhere! And as for money, don’t you worry – I’ve come into an inheritance, my dear fellow! I’ll spend every last penny of it until I get my friend back! And our Cossack what done us wrong, he won’t get away! Wherever he goes we’ll go too! If he goes into the ground, we’ll go there too! If he goes to the devil, we’ll go to Satan himself!’
‘Why be goin’ to Satan?’ remarked the Jew. ‘Him we can be doing without!’
‘Leiba!’ broke in Chertopkhanov. ‘Leiba, you may be a Jew and have a heathen religion, but your soul’s better than any Christian’s! You’ve taken pity on me! There’s no point in my going by myself, I couldn’t do it all by myself. I’m a hothead, but your head’s good as gold! Your people’re like that – you know it all without having to learn it! Maybe you’re doubtful where I got that money from? Let’s go into my room and I’ll show you all the money. Take it, take the very cross from round my neck, only give me back Malek Adel, give him back!’
Chertopkhanov was shivering as if in a fever and the sweat poured down his face in torrents and, mixing with his tears, got lost in his whiskers. He was continuously pumping Leiba’s hands, beseeching him, nearly kissing him. He was in a frenzy. The Jew made every effort to object and assure him that there was no way he could absent himself, that he had business matters to attend to… So what! Chertopkhanov didn’t want to hear anything about it! There was no way out: poor Leiba had to acquiesce.
The next day Chertopkhanov and Leiba rode out of Unsleepy Hollow on a peasant cart. The Jew had a somewhat confused look and held on to the side of the cart with one hand while his whole frail body jumped up and down on the shaking seat. His other hand was pressed to his stomach where the wad of banknotes lay wrapped in newspaper. Chertopkhanov sat still as a statue, only his eyes roving about and breath being drawn fully into his lungs. There was a dagger sticking out of his belt.
‘Well, you thieving bastard, just you watch out now!’ he muttered as they drove out on to the high road.
He’d entrusted his house to the servant-boy Perfishka and the cook, an old, deaf woman whom he’d taken in out of compassion.
‘I’ll return to you on Malek Adel,’ he’d shouted to them in farewell, ‘or I won’t return at all!’
‘You’d be better off getting married to me!’ joked Perfishka, sticking his elbow in the old woman’s ribs. ‘There’ll be no point hanging around just for the master, otherwise we’ll die of boredom!’
IX
A year passed – a whole year, and no news came of Panteley Yeremeich. The old woman cook died. Perfishka himself was on the point of giving up the house and going into the town, to which his cousin, who lived as an assistant at a hairdresser’s, was enticing him, when suddenly news spread that the master was returning! The parish deacon received a letter from Panteley Yeremeich himself in which he informed him of his intention to return to Unsleepy Hollow and asking him to inform his servants, so that appropriate arrangements could be made for his arrival. Perfishka interpreted these words to mean that he ought to try and get rid of some of the dust, although he placed no great faith in the correctness of the information. However, he was forced to accept that the deacon had been speaking the truth when, a few days later, Pant
eley Yeremeich himself, as ever was, appeared in the yard of his estate seated on Malek Adel.
Perfishka dashed to his master and, holding on to the stirrup, was about to help him alight from the horse, but he jumped down himself and, glancing round triumphantly, declared loudly: ‘I said I’d find Malek Adel and I found him in spite of enemies and Fate itself!’
Perfishka tried to kiss his hand, but Chertopkhanov paid no attention to his servant’s zeal. Leading Malek Adel behind him by the rein, he strode towards the stables. Perfishka looked more intently at his master and quailed at the way he’d grown thinner and older in the course of the year – ‘and how stern and severe his face is!’ And Panteley Yeremeich should’ve been overjoyed that he’d achieved what he set out for, and he was overjoyed, true… Still, Perfishka quailed at what he saw, and he even began to feel frightened.
Chertopkhanov placed the horse in his old stall, lightly slapped him on the hindquarters and muttered: ‘Well, you’re home again now! Just you watch out!’
That very day he hired a reliable watchguard from among the untaxed, homeless peasantry, settled once again into his rooms and started living as before…
Not, however, exactly as before… But about that later.
On the day after his return Panteley Yeremeich summoned Perfishka to him and for want of another person to talk to set about telling him – without losing, of course, his sense of personal dignity and in a deep voice – how he had succeeded in finding Malek Adel. In the course of his tale Chertopkhanov sat facing the window smoking his long-stemmed pipe. Perfishka stood behind him in the doorway, his arms behind his back, and, gazing respectfully at the nape of his master’s neck, listened to the story of how, after many false trails and unnecessary journeys, Panteley Yeremeich finally landed up at the horse-fair in Romny, now by himself, without the Jew Leiba, who, out of weakness of character, hadn’t been able to endure it and had run away; how on the fifth day, already on the point of leaving, he’d made a last tour of the lines of carts and suddenly seen, between three other horses and tied to a feeding-bag, none other than Malek Adel! He’d recognized him at once and Malek Adel had recognized him and begun neighing and trying to break free and scoring the earth with his hoof.
Sketches From a Hunter's Album Page 40