‘So there you are, you tail-less monkey!’ thundered Chertopkhanov, jumped up on the divan and, striking at the stretched canvas with his fist, tore a huge hole in it.
‘Tell your layabout master…’ he turned to the footman ‘… that in the absence of his own foul face the honourable nobleman Chertopkhanov has disfigured his painted one. And if he wants satisfaction from me he knows where to find the honourable nobleman Chertopkhanov! Otherwise I’ll find him! I’ll seek out the bloody monkey even if it’s at the bottom of the sea!’
Having said these words, Chertopkhanov jumped off the divan and solemnly departed.
But cavalry captain Jaffe did not demand any satisfaction from him – he didn’t even meet him anywhere – and Chertopkhanov didn’t bother about seeking out his enemy and so nothing came of the matter. Masha herself soon afterwards disappeared without trace. Chertopkhanov took to drink, but then came to his senses. At which point a second misfortune struck.
II
The second misfortune was that his bosom friend Tikhon Ivanovich Nedopyuskin died. A couple of years before his death his health had begun to fail him. He’d begun to suffer from shortness of breath, continuously dropped off to sleep and on waking couldn’t come to himself again quickly. The local doctor assured him that he was suffering a series of small strokes. During the three days preceding Masha’s departure, during the days when she was growing aware of her ‘longing’, Nedopyuskin was lying on his own in Besselendeevka where he’d caught a serious cold. Masha’s behaviour was that much more shocking to him for being so unexpected and it shocked him almost more profoundly than it shocked Chertopkhanov. Due to the gentleness and shyness of his nature, apart from expressing the most sincere regrets to his friend and an anguished bewilderment, he said nothing at all, but inside him everything had burst and collapsed. ‘She’s gone off with my soul,’ he would whisper to himself as he sat on his favourite oilskin-covered divan and twiddled his fingers. Even when Chertopkhanov recovered from the shock, he, Nedopyuskin, didn’t and continued to feel an emptiness inside him. ‘Here,’ he’d say, pointing to the middle of his chest, just above his stomach.
In this state he remained until the beginning of winter. His shortness of breath was improved by the first frosts, but then he suffered not so much one of the small strokes as a real stroke. He didn’t lose consciousness at once. He was still able to recognize Chertopkhanov and in response to the desperate cry of his friend: ‘How can you, Tisha, without my permission, abandon me? You’re no better than Masha…’ answered with a tongue that was already growing stiff: ‘But I P…a…ley Ye…e…eich, I’ve a…ways o…bey…ed you.’ However, that didn’t prevent him from dying the very same day, without even waiting for the arrival of the local doctor who, at the sight of his barely cold corpse, could do no more in tearful acknowledgement of the transitoriness of all earthly things than order himself ‘a glass of vodka and some salted fish’. Tikhon Ivanovich willed his estate, as could have been expected, to his most honoured benefactor and magnanimous patron ‘Pantaley Yeremeich Chertopkhanov’. But it brought no great benefit to the most honoured benefactor because it was quickly sold by public auction – partly in order to cover the costs of a monument over the grave, a statue which Chertopkhanov (evidently his father’s blood still ran in his veins!) wanted to erect over the ashes of his friend. He ordered the statue, which should have been that of an angel in prayer, from Moscow, but the man recommended to him to commission it, aware that in the provinces there are few sculpture experts, sent instead of an angel a goddess Flora which had for many years decorated one of the overgrown suburban parks of Catherine the Great’s time. This statue, exceedingly elegant, certainly, in rococo style, with chubby little hands, fluffy curls, a garland of roses on her naked bosom and a noticeably curved waist, was obtained by the commissioner for nothing. So it is that to this very day there stands above Tikhon Ivanovich’s grave a mythological goddess with one foot graciously raised who looks with truly aristocratic disdain at the calves and sheep strolling round about her, those devoted visitors to our country graveyards.
III
After being deprived of his faithful friend Chertopkhanov again took to drink, but on this occasion much more seriously. His affairs generally went downhill. There was no point in going hunting, his last money had gone and the last of his servants ran away. Complete isolation ensued for Pantaley Yeremeich, leaving him no one to talk to, no one to open his heart to. Only his arrogance remained undiminished. On the contrary, the worse his circumstances became, the more haughty, overbearing and unapproachable he became himself. At last he grew quite wild. One pleasure, one joy only remained to him: an astonishing horse, a grey, of Don breed and named by him Malek Adel,2 a really remarkable animal.
He came by the horse in the following way.
Riding on horseback on one occasion through a neighbouring village, Chertopkhanov heard a noisy hubbub of peasant voices from a crowd round the tavern. In the midst of this crowd, at one point, sturdy hands were constantly being raised and lowered.
‘What’s going on there?’ he asked in his usual commanding tone, addressing an old woman standing by the doorstep of her hut.
Leaning on a lintel and seeming half-asleep, the old woman glanced several times in the direction of the tavern. A fair-haired little boy in a cotton shirt, with a small cypress-wood crucifix on his bare chest was sitting, his feet outspread and his little fists clenched, between her own bast shoes, while a chick pecked at a wood-hard crust of rye bread.
‘The Lord knows, sir,’ the old woman answered and, leaning forward, placed her dark wrinkled hand on the little boy’s head. ‘It sounds like our lads are beatin’ up a Jew.’
‘What d’you mean – a Jew? What Jew?’
‘The Lord knows, sir. Some Jew’s dropped in here. Who knows where he’s come from. Vasya, to Mum now, there’s a good boy. Shoo, shoo, you bad thing!’
The old woman shooed away the chick and Vasya seized hold of her skirt.
‘So there they are beatin’ him up, my good sir.’
‘Why? What for?’
‘I dunno, sir. Probably it’s over some business. An’ why shouldn’t he be beaten? Didn’t he crucify Christ, sir?’
Chertopkhanov emitted a shout, gave his horse a touch of the whip on the neck and dashed straight at the crowd. On bursting into it, he began thrashing about to right and left indiscriminately at the peasants with the same whip, ordering in a breaking voice: ‘Arb-it-ra-ry justice! Arb-it-ra-ry justice! The law must punish, not pri-vate per-sons! The law!! The law!! The la-a-aw!’
Within a couple of minutes the entire crowd had dispersed in various directions, leaving lying on the ground in front of the tavern door a small, emaciated, dark-skinned creature in a nankeen caftan, dishevelled and bleeding. The white face, rolled-up eyes and wide-open mouth – what could it mean? Was it being frightened to death or death itself?
‘Why’ve you killed the Jew?’ cried Chertopkhanov thunderously, threatening them with his whip.
The crowd gave a feeble murmur in response. One peasant held his shoulder, another his side, yet another his nose.
‘ ’E’s one for a fight!’ somebody said from the back.
‘With ’is whip, see! Anyone can!’ said another voice.
‘Why’ve you killed the Jew? I’m asking you, you blasted crowd of Asians!’ repeated Chertopkhanov.
But at that point the creature lying on the ground quickly jumped to his feet and, dashing towards Chertopkhanov, frantically seized hold of the edge of his saddle. Loud laughter broke out among the crowd.
‘’E’s alive!’ voices shouted from the back. ‘A bloody cat, that’s what ’e is!’
‘Your Ever-so-high Highness, help me, save me!’ babbled the unfortunate Jew, pressing his chest hard up against Chertopkhanov’s leg. ‘They’re going to kill me, kill me, your Ever-so-high Highness!’
‘Why?’ asked Chertopkhanov.
‘In God’s name I can’t say! Their cattle’s
begun to die… they think I…’
‘All right, we’ll talk about it afterwards,’ interrupted Chertopkhanov. ‘But now you grab hold of the saddle and come along with me. As for you,’ he added, turning to the crowd, ‘you know me, don’t you? I’m landowner Panteley Chertopkhanov and I live in the little village of Unsleepy Hollow. That means you can lay a complaint against me if you like and the Jew as well!’
‘Why would we do that?’ asked a grey-bearded, dignified peasant who looked exactly like some patriarch of old, bowing low as he spoke. (He’d been beating the Jew in any case with the best of them.) ‘We, Panteley Yeremeich, your honour, know well how kind you are. We’re very grateful to you for teaching us such a lesson!’
‘Why would we do that?’ other voices chimed in. ‘But we’ll get even with that ‘eathen! ’E won’t escape! We’ll be after ’im like a rabbit…’
Chertopkhanov twitched his whiskers, gave a snort and set off at a walking pace towards his village accompanied by the Jew whom he’d liberated from his oppressors much as he’d once liberated Tikhon Nedopyuskin.
IV
A few days later the sole servant-boy remaining with him informed Chertopkhanov that someone had arrived on horseback and wished to talk to him. Chertopkhanov went out on to his porch and saw his friend the little Jew sitting on a beautiful Don horse which stood proud and motionless in the middle of the yard. The little Jew wasn’t wearing his hat. He was holding it under his arm. He’d put his feet not in the stirrups themselves but in the straps. The torn fringes of his caftan hung over both sides of the saddle. On seeing Chertopkhanov, he smacked his lips, jerked his elbows and let his legs hang free. But Chertopkhanov not only didn’t reply to his greeting, he even grew angry and suddenly flew into a temper at the thought that a wretched Jew should dare sit on such a beautiful horse… Completely improper!
‘Hey, you, you blasted Ethiopian!’ he shouted. ‘Get off at once, unless you want to be pulled off into the mud!’
The Jew obeyed instantly, fell out of the saddle like a sack and, still holding a rein in one hand, smiling and bowing, came towards Chertopkhanov.
‘What d’you want?’ asked Panteley Yeremeich with dignity.
‘Your ’onour, sir, be good enough to see what a fine horse, eh?’ said the Jew, continuing to bow.
‘Sure… it’s a good horse. Where’d you get it? Stole it, did you?’
‘O-o-o, your ’onour, how can you! I’m an ’onest Yid, sir, an’ I didn’t steal it, but I got it special for your ’onour, sir, I did! I looked all over for it, all over! An’ ’ere’s the horse at last! You won’t find a finer horse on the whole Don river. Just see, your ’onour, what a horse he is! Come ’ere, sir, please! There, there… turn a bit, stand sideways to ’im! We’ll take the saddle off… There! See, your ’onour?’
‘It’s a good horse,’ Chertopkhanov repeated with feigned indifference while his heart literally started hammering in his breast. He was a passionate devotee of horse-flesh and knew a good horse when he saw one.
‘Go on, your ’onour, stroke ’im! Stroke ’im on ’is neck, hi-hi-hi, like this!’
Chertopkhanov barely willingly placed his hand on the horse’s neck, patted it a couple of times, then ran his fingers from the withers along the back and, on reaching the well-known spot above the kidneys, lightly pressed it in the manner of an expert rider. The horse instantly arched his back and, glancing sideways at Cher-topkhanov with his haughty black eye, snorted and stamped his front hoofs.
The Jew laughed and lightly clapped his hands together.
‘’E recognizes ’is master, your ’onour, ’e really does!’
‘O, don’t talk rubbish!’ Chertopkhanov interrupted in annoyance. ‘I’ve got nothing with which to buy this horse from you, and I’ve never accepted gifts from a Jew, nor from the Lord God either!’
‘An’ I wouldn’t be so bold as to give you anything, for heaven’s sake!’ exclaimed the Jew. ‘You buy it, your ’onour… an’ as for the monies, I’ll wait for ’em.’
Chertopkhanov grew thoughtful.
‘What’ll you take for him?’ he asked finally through his teeth.
‘What I paid. Two hundred roubles.’
The horse actually cost twice and perhaps three times more than this.
Chertopkhanov turned away and yawned feverishly.
‘When would you like it – the money?’ he asked, forcibly knitting his brows and not looking at the Jew.
‘Whenever’s convenient to your ’onour.’
Chertopkhanov threw back his head but didn’t raise his eyes.
‘That’s not an answer. Talk sense, you child of Herod! Shall I owe it you, eh?’
‘Well, let’s say,’ the Jew said hurriedly, ‘in six months… agreed?’
Chertopkhanov didn’t answer.
The Jew tried to glance into his eyes.
‘Agreed? Shall I have him put in the stable?’
‘I don’t need the saddle,’ Chertopkhanov jerked out. ‘Take your saddle, d’you hear?’
‘ ’Course, ’course, I’ll take it,’ babbled the delighted Jew and heaved the saddle on to his shoulder.
‘The money,’ Chertopkhanov went on, ‘it’ll be paid in six months. And not 200 but 250. Don’t say a word! Two hundred and fifty, I tell you! That’s my promise.’
Chertopkhanov still couldn’t make up his mind to raise his eyes.
His pride had never been made to suffer in this way before. ‘It’s obviously a present,’ he thought. ‘He’s brought it out of gratitude, the devil!’ He couldn’t make up his mind whether to embrace the Jew or thrash him.
‘Your ’onour,’ the Jew began, growing bold and grinning, ‘we should do it the Russian way, my palm on your palm…’
‘What’ll you think of next? A Jew talking about the Russian way! Hey, is there anybody there? Take the horse, put him in the stable! And give him some oats. I’ll come and take a look at him in a moment. And know this – his name’s Malek Adel!’
Chertopkhanov was on the point of going back indoors when he turned sharply on his heel and, rushing up to the Jew, seized him firmly by the hand. The other bowed and extended his lips ready to offer a kiss, but Chertopkhanov skipped backwards and with the words: ‘Don’t tell a soul!’ spoken under his breath disappeared through his front door.
v
From that day onwards Malek Adel became the chief concern and joy in Chertopkhanov’s life. He fell in love with him as he’d never fallen in love with Masha and grew more attached to him than he had been to Nedopyuskin. And what a horse he was! As fiery as fire itself and sharp as gunpowder, and yet as stately and lordly as a boyar! Indefatigable, ready to endure anything, turn him where you might, and always compliant, he cost nothing to feed and would eat the soil itself if there was nothing else to be had. Going at a walking pace it was as if he held you in his arms, at a trot it was like being rocked in a cradle and at a gallop he went so fast even the wind couldn’t catch him! He never got winded because he had so many air-vents. He had legs of steel and, as for stumbling, that was unheard of! Jumping a ditch or a fence meant nothing to him. And how intelligent he was! He’d come running at the sound of a voice, craning his neck. If you ordered him to stand still and then went away, he wouldn’t budge; only as soon as you started coming back he’d neigh slightly as if to say: ‘See, here I am.’ And he was never frightened of a thing. In the dark, even in a snowstorm, he’d find his way. And he never let a stranger near him – he’d sink his teeth into him if he did! Should a dog get in his way he’d immediately strike it on the forehead with a front hoof – crack! and that’d be the dog done for. He was a horse with ambitions of his own – you could flourish a whip over him, but God help you if you touched him! Still, there’s no point in going on about him. He was a treasure, not a horse!
When Chertopkhanov took it upon himself to describe his Malek Adel, it was amazing how eloquent he waxed! And the way he used to groom and look after him! His coat used to fairly glow with silve
r – not old silver, mind you, but new, with that dark gloss to it, and if you smoothed it with the palm of your hand it was like velvet! Saddle, saddle-cloth and bridle, the whole harness was so perfectly fixed and clean as a new pin and in perfect order that it just required an artist to come along with his pencil and draw it! Chertopkhanov himself – who else? – with his own hands plaited his favourite’s forelocks, and washed his mane and tail in beer, and even oiled his hoofs on more than one occasion.
He’d mount Malek Adel and go riding – not on visits to his neighbours, because he still wouldn’t have anything to do with them, but across their fields and past their houses, as if he were saying to them: ‘Just you eat your hearts out, you fools, from a distance!’ Or as soon as he heard that a hunt was in the offing, with some wealthy landowner preparing to set out, he’d be off there at once and prance away in the distance, on the horizon, astonishing all the spectators by the beauty and speed of his horse and never allowing anyone near him. On one occasion a hunter even dashed after him with his entire retinue. Seeing that Chertopkhanov was getting away from him, he started shouting at him with all his strength, going at full tilt:
‘Hey, you there! Listen! Take whatever you like for your horse! I don’t mind if it’s a thousand roubles! I’ll give you my wife and children! Take the last thing I’ve got!’
Chertopkhanov suddenly reined back Malek Adel. The hunter raced up to him.
‘My good sir,’ he shouted, ‘just tell me what it is you want, eh? My father, my own flesh and blood!’
‘Even if you were a king,’ declared Chertopkhanov, pausing between each word (and, mind you, he’d never heard of Shakespeare3 in his life), ‘and you gave me your whole kingdom for my horse, I wouldn’t take it!’
So saying, he gave a roar of laughter, made Malek Adel rear up on his hind legs and spun him round like a top or a child’s plaything on only his hind legs – and then he was off like a flash, literally flashing through the field of stubble. But the hunter (he was rumoured to be a very wealthy prince) flung his hat to the ground and then flung himself face downwards on to his hat! And that’s where he stayed for up to half an hour.