‘And he wasn’t with any Cossack,’ Chertopkhanov continued, still not turning his head and in the same deep voice, ‘but 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 – and I’m going to enjoy my peace of mind. And I’ve got one instruction for you, Porfiry – 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!
x
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 lived…
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 – except he’d now and then thought to himself: ‘We 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 ‘broken 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 ‘happy find’ from the few people he happened to meet, but he did not solicit congratulations and avoided meeting people even more than before – 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: ‘Are 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: ‘Yes, 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 – 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 – 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 ‘clashed’ 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 – 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 was…
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 – 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! ‘At 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 – and where he’d actually jumped it a year and a half before – 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 – the members of the hunt were all going at a gallop but not taking their eyes off the daredevil rider – 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 A
del galloped home and Chertopkhanov immediately shut himself up in his room.
‘No, it’s not him, it’s not my friend! He’d’ve risked his neck, but he wouldn’t have let me down!’
XI
The following circumstance was, as they say, ‘the 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 ‘patch’ 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 about…
‘What a most sumptuous horse you have!’ the deacon added in a hurry. ‘It 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. ‘One animal, through the design of wicked men, you’ve been deprived of,’ the deacon went on, ‘and, 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… so…’
‘What’re you blathering about?’ Chertopkhanov interrupted him morosely. ‘What other horse? It’s the very same one, it’s Malek Adel… I sought him out, I did! It’s nonsense, your talk…’
‘Aye-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. ‘How 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.’
‘Well, so what of it?’
The deacon went on fingering his beard.
‘It 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?
‘You bloody bundle of lies! Out of my way!’ he shrieked suddenly, his eyes glittering wildly, and instantly vanished from the astonished deacon’s sight.
‘Well, 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 ‘get 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.
XII
That this wretched animal wasn’t Malek Adel, that there wasn’t the least resemblance between it and Malek Adel, that anyone with the least know-how should’ve seen it at the first glance and that he, Panteley Chertopkhanov, had been deceived in the grossest possible way – no! he’d deliberately, intentionally fooled himself and let such confusion come upon him – about all of this now there couldn’t be the slightest doubt! Chertopkhanov walked to and fro in his room, turning on his heels at each wall in exactly the same way like an animal in a cage. His self-esteem suffered unendurably. But it wasn’t only the pain of wounded pride that tore at him, a kind of desperation possessed him, malice choked him and a thirst for vengeance sprang up within him. But against whom? Who should be avenged? The Jew, Jaffe, Masha, the deacon, the thieving Cossack, all his neighbours, the entire world, finally himself? He was out of his mind. His final card had lost! (He liked that comparison.) And he was once again the most worthless, the most despised of men, a general laughing-stock, a right hayseed, an out-and-out fool and an object of derision – and of all people for that deacon! He imagined, he clearly imagined to himself how that bloody bundle of lies’d start telling stories about how there was this grey horse and this silly old landowner… Oh, hell and damnation! Vainly Chertopkhanov tried to staunch his outflow of bitter anger. He tried vainly to assure himself that this so-called horse, even though it wasn’t Malek Adel, was anyhow not too bad and could go on serving him for many years yet… He then and there rejected such a thought ferociously, as if it contained yet a further slight to that Malek Adel before which, in any case, he felt guilty… And with good reason! Like a blind fool, like a real oaf, he’d compared this shitty creature, this wretched horse of his to him, to Malek Adel! And as for the service this wretched animal might still give him, would he ever deign to ride it again? No way! Never! Fit for a Tartar, for dog food – that’s all it was worth! Yes, that’d be the best thing!
Chertopkhanov tramped to and fro in his room for a couple of hours and more.
‘Perfishka!’ he commanded suddenly. ‘In here this minute! Bring me half a bucket of vodka! D’you hear? Half a bucket and quick about it! I want the vodka standing here on my table this minute.’
The vodka wasn’t long in appearing on Panteley Yeremeich’s table, and he began drinking.
XIII
Had someone seen Chertopkhanov then, had someone been witness to the gloomy moroseness with which he emptied glass after glass, that person would certainly have felt fear despite himself. Night came on. A small tallow candle burned faintly on the table. Chertopkhanov stopped scuttling from corner to corner and sat all red in the face with glazed eyes which he would continually lower to the floor or raise in stubborn stares at the dark window. He’d get up, pour himself more vodka, drink it, again sit down, again fix his eyes on one point and not move an inch, except that his breathing became more frequent and his face got even redder. It was as if he were gradually reaching a decision which appalled even him, but to which he was gradually growing used. One and the same thought inevitably and remorselessly grew closer and closer, one and the same image appeared ever clearer and clearer ahead, while in his heart, under the molten pressure of heavy drunkenness, the aggravation produced by anger was already yielding to a feeling of cruelty and an evil grin played on his lips…
‘Well, the time’s come!’ he declared in a kind of business-like, almost bored tone of voice. ‘I must cool it now!’
He drank back a last glass of vodka, got a pistol out from under his bed (the very pistol with which he’d shot at Masha), loaded it, placed several caps in his pocket ‘just in case’ and set off for the stables.
The nightwatchman was just about to rush at him when he started opening the door, but he shouted at him: ‘It’s me! Can’t you see? Be off!’ The man retreated a little to one side. ‘Go back to sleep!’ Chertopkhanov shouted at him again. ‘There’s nothing here for you to guard! Such a wonderful sight, such a treasure indeed!’ He went into the stables. Malek Adel, the false Malek Adel, was lying in the straw. Chertopkhanov nudged him with his foot, announcing: ‘Get up, you old crow, you!’ Then he untied the halter from the manger, took off the blanket and threw it on the ground and, rudely turning the obedient horse in its stall, led it out into the yard and from the yard into the field, to the extreme astonishment of the nightwatchman who couldn’t fo
r the life of him understand where the master was setting off for at night with an unbridled horse. It goes without saying that he was too frightened to ask him and simply followed him with his eyes until he disappeared beyond a turn in the road leading to a neighbouring forest.
XIV
Chertopkhanov strode along with big steps without stopping and without looking round. Malek Adel (we’ll call him that right to the end) followed obediently behind him. The night was fairly bright. Chertopkhanov could make out the jagged outline of the forest which was as black ahead of him as a solid splodge. In the grip of the night’s chill he’d certainly have grown drunker as a result of all the vodka if it hadn’t been for a different and much stronger intoxication that had possession of him. His head was heavy and the blood boomed loudly in his throat and ears, but he strode on firmly and knew where he was going.
He’d decided to kill Malek Adel. All day he’d spent thinking about that and nothing else. Now he’d decided!
He strode on this business not so much calmly as with self-assurance, irreversibly, like a man submitting to a sense of duty. To him this ‘matter’ seemed extremely ‘simple’: in destroying the imposter he’d at one stroke be calling it quits with ‘the lot’ – he’d be punishing himself for his stupidity and justifying himself before his real friend and demonstrating to the whole world (Chertopkhanov was very much concerned about ‘the whole world’) that you couldn’t play jokes on him. But chiefly: he’d destroy himself along with this imposter, because what would there be left to live for? How all this came to be in his head and why it seemed to him so simple would be hard to explain, although not completely impossible: humiliated, alone, without any human soul close to him, without a brass farthing, and, what’s more, with his blood ignited by drink, he was in a state close to madness, and there’s no doubt that in the silliest acts of deranged people there is, in their eyes, their own kind of logic and even authority. Of his own authority Chertopkhanov was in any case completely certain. He did not waver but hurried to carry out the sentence on the guilty party without having any clear idea who he was calling guilty. Truth to tell, he gave little thought to what he was intending to do. ‘I’ve got to finish it, got to,’ he repeated to himself, bluntly and sternly, ‘I’ve just got to finish it!’