Sketches from a Hunter's Album (42 page)
Read Sketches from a Hunter's Album Online
Authors: Ivan Turgenev
A year passed â 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, Panteley 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: âI 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 â âand 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: âWell, 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 beforeâ¦
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 â without losing, of course, his sense of personal dignity and in a deep voice â 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.
âAnd he wasn't with any Cossack,' Chertopkhanov continued, still not turning his head and in the same deep voice, âbut with a gypsy horse-dealer. I naturally set about getting hold of my horse at once and wanted to take him back by force, but that beast of a gypsy started yelling his head off like he'd been scalded, yelling all over the place and swearing to God he'd bought the horse off another gypsy
and wanting to call on witnesses⦠I spat at that, but I paid up, devil take him and all his works! For me the chief thing was that I'd found my friend and achieved peace of mind. Otherwise it'd be like when I was in Karachevsky County and, on the word of the Jew Leiba, got my hands on a Cossack whom I took to be the thief and beat his face to a pulp. But he turned out to be the son of a priest and skinned me of 120 roubles for the dishonour I'd done him. Well, money's all to do with profit, but the main thing is that Malek Adel's back with me! Now I'm happy â and I'm going to enjoy my peace of mind. And I've got one instruction for you, Porfiry â the moment, which God defend us may not be, the moment you see a Cossack anywhere near us, that very second, without saying a word, run and bring me my gun and I'll know then what I've got to do!'
That is what Panteley Yeremeich told Perfishka. That's what his lips said. But in his heart he was not as calm as he claimed.
Alas, in the depths of his heart he was not entirely sure that the horse he'd brought with him was really Malek Adel!
For Panteley Yeremeich hard times began. It was precisely peace of mind that he enjoyed least of all. True, there were good days when the doubt aroused in him seemed so much nonsense. He drove away the foolish thought like a persistent fly and even laughed at himself. But there were also bad days when the irrepressible thought once again started covertly gnawing and scratching at his heart like a mouse under the floorboards and he was tormented bitterly and secretly. In the course of the memorable day when he'd found Malek Adel Chertopkhanov had felt nothing save a blissful joy, but the next day when, under the low overhanging roof of the little wayside inn, he'd begun saddling his find, close to whom he'd spent the whole night, he was first riven by doubt. He merely gave a shake of the head, but the seed had been implanted. During the journey home (it lasted a week) doubts were rarely stirred in him. They became stronger and more open as soon as he'd returned to his Unsleepy Hollow and found himself in the very place where the former, undoubted Malek Adel had livedâ¦
On the journey he'd ridden mostly at a walk, jogging along, and
gazed about him and smoked tobacco in a short-stemmed pipe and not given a thought to anything in particular â except he'd now and then thought to himself: âWe Chertopkhanovs, when we want something, we get it! You won't fool us!' and grinned to himself at that. Well, now he was home the situation was different. Of course, he kept all his doubts to himself. Sheer pride prevented him from displaying any of his inner turmoil. He'd have âbroken in half' anyone who so much as intimated that the new Malek Adel didn't seem to be quite like the old one. He accepted congratulations on his âhappy find' from the few people he happened to meet, but he did not solicit congratulations and avoided meeting people even more than before â which was a bad sign! He almost constantly, if one may put it this way, subjected Malek Adel to examination, riding off a great distance and then testing him, or, creeping into the stable, locking the door behind him and standing right in front of the horse's head, he'd start looking him in the eyes and asking in a whisper: âAre you he? Is it you? Is it you?' and then he'd either study him, intently, hour after hour, or, in an access of joy, he'd mutter: âYes, it's him! Of course it's him!' or then again he'd be doubtful and even be covered in confusion.
And it wasn't so much that Chertopkhanov was confused by the physical differences between
this
Malek Adel and
that
one â besides, there weren't so many of them:
that
one's tail and mane had been more paltry, the ears sharper, the pasterns shorter and the eyes brighter, but all these could only have seemed so â no, it was that Chertopkhanov was confused by the moral differences, so to speak.
That
one's habits had been different, his whole behaviour hadn't been the same. For example,
that
Malek Adel had always looked round and neighed slightly each time Chertopkhanov had entered the stables, but
this
one always went on munching his hay as if nothing'd happened or went on snoozing with his head lowered. Both of them used to stand still when he jumped out of the saddle, but
that
would come the instant he called him while
this
one would remain standing there like a stump.
That
one galloped just as quickly but jumped higher and further;
this
one had an easier way of going at a walking pace but was much rougher at a trot and sometimes âclashed' his hoofs, meaning he struck his back hoofs against his front ones, something
that
one would've been ashamed to do, God
preserve us!
This
one, so Chertopkhanov thought, was forever twitching his ears and looking foolish, while
that
one, by contrast, always had one ear laid back and kept it there â so as to keep an eye on his master!
That
one, as soon as he saw there was mess around him, would instantly kick a hind hoof against the wall of his stall, but
this
one couldn't care less if he was up to his belly in horse shit.
That
one, if he'd been facing into the wind, for instance, would immediately fill his lungs with air and give himself a shake, but
this
one'd simply snort;
that
one'd be disturbed by the smell of rain damp,
this
one couldn't care less⦠This one was cruder, much cruder! And he didn't have any of the other's niceness and would tug at the reins⦠No use going on and on! That horse was nice, whereas this wasâ¦
Such were the thoughts that sometimes occurred to Chertopkhanov, and these thoughts were resonant with bitterness for him. Despite them at other times he'd set his horse going at full tilt across recently ploughed land or make him jump down into the very bottom of a dried-out ravine and jump out again by the steepest part and his heart'd literally stop within him from excitement, a loud halloo-ing would burst from his lips and he'd know, know for certain, that beneath him was the real, the undoubted, Malek Adel, because what other horse would be capable of doing what he did?
However, even here things were not without sin and misery. The prolonged search for Malek Adel had cost Chertopkhanov a lot of money and he no longer had plans for Kostroma hounds, and rode about the neighbourhood on his own as he'd done before. One fine morning Chertopkhanov was some three or so miles from Unsleepy Hollow when he chanced upon the very same princely hunt before whom he'd pranced about and shown off only eighteen months before. And the very same thing was just bound to happen â on that day as on this a hare came and jumped out of a boundary fence on some sloping ground right in front of the hounds! âAt him! At him!' The whole hunt literally took off and Chertopkhanov as well, save that he didn't go with them but some two hundred paces to one side, just as he'd done the first time. A large water-course wound its way down the slope and, in the course of the ascent, growing progressively narrower, cut across Chertopkhanov's path. At the point where he had to jump it â and where he'd actually jumped it a year and a half before â it was about eight paces wide and more than twelve feet
deep. In anticipation of a triumph, such a wondrously repeated triumph, Chertopkhanov started yelling victoriously and waving his whip â the members of the hunt were all going at a gallop but not taking their eyes off the daredevil rider â his horse flew like an arrow, and the water-course was there right in front of him, and in a moment, well, it'd be just as it was then!
But Malek Adel dug his hoofs in sharply, veered to the left and galloped
along
the gully no matter how strongly Chertopkhanov pulled his head to the side, towards the water-course.
It meant he'd lost his nerve, he didn't trust himself!
Then Chertopkhanov, burning with shame and fury, almost in tears, let go of the reins and drove the horse straight uphill right away from the hunters so that he couldn't hear how they made fun of him and to get away as fast as possible from their accursed eyes!
With weals on his flanks and all covered in soapy lather Malek Adel galloped home and Chertopkhanov immediately shut himself up in his room.
âNo, it's not him, it's not my friend! He'd've risked his neck, but he wouldn't have let me down!'
The following circumstance was, as they say, âthe last straw' for Chertopkhanov. One day while out on Malek Adel he rode through the back gardens of the priest's holding surrounding the church, in the parish of which the little village of Unsleepy Hollow resided. His fur cap pulled down over his eyes, crouched down, with both hands resting on the pommel of his saddle, he was going slowly along, his heart and soul joyless and full of worries. Suddenly someone called to him.
He brought his horse to a halt, raised his head and saw it was his correspondent, the deacon. In a brown cap with ear flaps and a back flap which was set on brown hair plaited into a pigtail, clad in a yellowish nankeen caftan tied below the waist with some bluish material, this altar server had come out to take a look at his âpatch' and, having set eyes on Panteley Yeremeich, considered it a duty to convey him his respects and, besides, to see if he could drum up any offerings from him. Without hindsight of that kind, as is well
known, gentlemen of the cloth do not engage in conversation with the laity.
But Chertopkhanov was in no mood for the deacon. He'd scarcely responded to his bow and, muttering something through his teeth, already had his whip waving aboutâ¦
âWhat a most sumptuous horse you have!' the deacon added in a hurry. âIt can be said in all truth it does you credit! Verily you are a man of wondrous mind, like unto a very lion!' Father deacon was renowned for his eloquence, which was a source of great annoyance to his reverence, the priest, who had no gift of speech and even vodka couldn't loosen his tongue. âOne animal, through the design of wicked men, you've been deprived of,' the deacon went on, âand, in no way despairing, but, on the contrary, nay, more, trusting in divine providence, you've acquired another, in no way worse, and one might even say better⦠soâ¦'
âWhat're you blathering about?' Chertopkhanov interrupted him morosely. âWhat other horse? It's the very same one, it's Malek Adel⦠I sought him out, I did! It's nonsense, your talkâ¦'
âAye-aye-aye-aye!' exclaimed the deacon, pausing between each sigh almost deliberately as he fingered his beard and studied Chertopkhanov with his bright, greedy eyes. âHow can that be so, my dear sir? Your very horse, if memory serves me right, was stolen last year two short weeks after the Feast of the Protection, while right now we're almost through November.'
âWell, so what of it?'
The deacon went on fingering his beard.
âIt means a year and a bit's flowed by since then, but your horse, which was then a dappled grey, is like he is now. He's even got darker still. How's that come about? Grey horses usually get much lighter in the space of a year.'
Chertopkhanov shuddered. It was as if someone had literally speared him in the heart. And in fact the grey coats of horses do change! How was it that such a simple thought hadn't entered his head until this moment?
âYou bloody bundle of lies! Out of my way!' he shrieked suddenly, his eyes glittering wildly, and instantly vanished from the astonished deacon's sight.
âWell, now! It's all over!'
That's when it really was all over, the bubble was burst and his final card had lost! Everything had come tumbling down as a result of âget much lighter'!
Grey horses get much lighter!
Gallop, gallop, you wretch! You'll never gallop away from that!
Chertopkhanov rushed home and again locked himself in.