menu_book Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22 PART 1 OF A SPORTSMAN'S SKETCHES A SPORTSMAN'S SKETCHES by Ivan Turgenev Translated by Konstantin Garnet THE END OF CHERTAPHANOV One. It was two years after my visit that Mantyly Yeremeyevich's troubles began, his real troubles.

Disappointments, disasters, even misfortunes he had had before that time, but he had paid no attention to them and had risen superior to them in former days. The first blow that fell upon him was the most heart-rending for him. Marcia left him. What induced her to forsake his roof, where she seemed to be so thoroughly at home, it is hard to say. Chertapanov to the end of his days clung to the conviction that a certain young neighbour, a retired captain of Ulan's, named

Yaf, was at the root of Marcia's desertion. He had taken her fancy, according to Pantelay Yeremeyevich, simply by constantly curling his moustaches, pamading himself to excess and sniggering significantly, but one must suppose that the vagrant gypsy blood in Marcia's veins had more to do with it. However that may have been, one fine summer evening Marcia tied up a few odds and ends in a small bundle and walked out of Chertapanov's house. For three days before this she had sat

crouched up in a corner, huddled against a wall like a wounded fox and had not spoken a word to anyone. She had only turned her eyes about and twitched her eyebrows and faintly gnashed her teeth and moved her arms as though she were wrapping herself up. This mood had come upon her before, but had never lasted long. Chertapanov knew that and so he neither worried himself nor worried her. But when on coming in from the kennels, where in his huntsman's words the last two hounds had

departed, he met a servant girl who, in a trembling voice, informed him that Maria Akifyevna sent him her greetings and left word that she wished him every happiness, but she was not coming back to him anymore. Chertapanov, after reeling round where he stood and uttering a hoarse yell, rushed at once after the runaway, snatching up his pistol as he went. He overtook her a mile and a half from his house near a birchwood on the high road to the district town. The sun was

sinking on the horizon and everything was suddenly suffused with purple glow, trees, plants and earth alike. Tuyaf! Tuyaf! groaned Chertapanov directly, he caught sight of Masha. Going tuyaf! he repeated, running up to her and almost stumbling at every step. Masha stood still and turned round facing him. She stood with her back to the light and looked all black as though she had been carved out of dark wood. Only the whites of her eyes stood out like silvery diamonds, but the eyes

themselves, the pupils, were darker than ever. She flung her bundle aside and folded her arms. You are going to yaf, wretched girl! repeated Chertapanov and he was on the point of seizing her by the shoulder, but meeting her eyes he was abashed and stood uneasily where he was. I am not going to Mr. Yaf, Pantelei Yeremeych, replied Masha in soft even tones. It's only I can't live with you any longer. Can't live with me? Why not? Have I offended you in some way?

Masha shook her head. You've not offended me in any way, Pantelei Yeremeych, only my heart is heavy in your house. Thanks for the past, but I can't stay, no. Chertapanov was amazed. He positively slept his thighs and bounced up and down in his astonishment. How is that? Here she's gone on living with me and no nothing but peace and happiness and all of a sudden her heart's heavy and she flings me over. She goes and puts a kerchief on her head and is gone. She received

every respect like any lady. I don't care for that in the least, Masha interrupted. Don't care for it? From a wandering gypsy to turn into a lady and she doesn't care for it? How don't you care for it, you low-born slave? Do you expect me to believe that? There's treachery hidden in a treachery. He began frowning again. There is no treachery in my thoughts and never has been, said Masha in her distinct resonant voice.

I've told you already my heart was heavy. Masha, cried Chertapanov, striking himself a blow in the chest with his fist. There, stop it. Hush, you have tortured me. Now it's enough. Oh my God, think only what Tisha would say. You might have pity on him at least. Remember me to Tikhon Ivanovich and tell him. Chertapanov wrung his hands. No, you are talking nonsense. You are not going.

Your yaf may wait for you in vain. Mr. Yaf, Masha was beginning. A fine Mr. Yaf, Chertapanov mimicked her. He is an underhand rascal, a low cur. That's what he is and defies apes. For fully half an hour Chertapanov was struggling with Masha. He came close to her, he fell back, he shook his fists at her, he bowed down before her, he wept, he scolded. I can't, repeated Masha. I am so sad at heart, devoured by weariness. Little by little her face

assumed such an indifferent, almost drowsy expression that Chertapanov asked her if they had not drugged her with laudanum. It's weariness, she said for the tenth time. Then what if I kill you? He cried suddenly and he pulled the pistol out of his pocket. Masha smiled, her face brightened. Well, kill me, Pantelei Yeremeych, as you will, but go back, I won't. You won't come back? Chertapanov cocked the pistol. I won't go back, my dearie.

Never in my life will I go back, my word is steadfast. Chertapanov suddenly thrust the pistol into her hand and sat down on the ground. Then you kill me. Without you I don't care to live. I have grown loathsome to you and everything's loathsome for me. Masha bent down, took up her bundle, laid the pistol on the grass its mouth away from Chertapanov and went up to him. Ah, my dearie, why torture yourself? Don't you know what we gypsy girls are?

It's our nature. You must make up your mind to it. When there comes weariness, the divider, and calls the soul away to strange, distant parts, how is one to stay here? Don't forget, your Masha, you won't find such another sweetheart. And I won't forget you, my dearie, but our life together's over. I loved you, Masha, Chertapanov muttered into the fingers in which he had buried his face.

And I loved you, little friend, Pantelier image. I love you. I love you madly, senselessly. And when I think now that you, in your right senses, without rhyme or reason, are leaving me like this and going to wander over the face of the earth, well, it strikes me that if I weren't a poor penniless devil you wouldn't be throwing me over. And these words Masha only laughed. And he used to say I didn't care for money, she commented, and she gave Chertapanov a vigorous thump on the shoulder.

He jumped up onto his feet. Come, at least you must let me give you some money. How can you go like this without a half penny? But best of all, kill me. I tell you, plainly kill me once for all. Masha shook her head again. Kill you? Why get sent to Siberia, my dearie? Chertapanov shuddered. Then it's only from that? From fear of penal servitude?

He rolled on the grass again. Masha stood over him in silence. I am sorry for you, dear, she said with a sigh. You're a good fellow, but there is no help for it. Goodbye. She turned away and took two steps. The night had come on by now and dim shadows were closing in on all sides. Chertapanov jumped up swiftly and seized Masha from behind by her two elbows. You are going away like this, serpent to Yaf? Goodbye. Masha repeated sharply and

significantly. She tore herself away and walked off. Chertapanov looked after her, ran to the place where the pistol was lying, snatched it up, took aim, fired. But before he touched the trigger, his arm twitched upwards, the ball whistled over Masha's head. She looked at him over her shoulder without stopping and went on, swinging as she walked, as though in defiance of him. He hid his face and fell to running. But before he had run fifty paces,

he suddenly stood still as though turned to stone. A well-known, two well-known voice came floating to him. Masha was singing. It was in the sweet days of youth, she sang. Every note seemed to linger, plaintive and ardent in the evening air. Chertapanov listened intently. The voice retreated and retreated. At one moment it died away, the next it floated across, hardly audible, but still in the same passionate glow. She does it to spite me, thought Chertapanov, but at once

he moaned. Oh no, it's your last farewell to me forever. And he burst into floods of tears. The next day he appeared at the lodgings of Mr. Yaf, who, as a true man of the world, not liking the solitude of the country, resided in the district town. To be nearer the young ladies, as he expressed it. Chertapanov did not find Yaf. He had, in the words of his valet, set off to Moscow the evening before. Then it is so, cried Chertapanov furiously.

There was an arrangement between them. She has run away with him, but wait a bit. He broke into the young cavalry captain's room in spite of the resistance of the valet. In the room there was hanging over the sofa a portrait in oils of the master in the ulan uniform. Ah, here you are, you tailless ape, thundered Chertapanov. He jumped onto the sofa and, with a blow of his fist, burst a big hole in the taut canvas. Tell your worthless master, he turned to the valet,

that in the absence of his only filthy fears, the nobleman Chertapanov put a hole through the painted one. And if he cares for satisfaction from me, he knows where to find the nobleman Chertapanov, or else I'll find him out myself. I'll fetch the rascally ape from the bottom of the sea. Saying these words Chertapanov jumped off the sofa and majestically withdrew. But the cavalry captain Yaf did not demand satisfaction from him. Indeed, he never met

him anywhere. And Chertapanov did not think of seeking his enemy out, and no scandal followed. Masha herself soon after this disappeared beyond all trace. Chertapanov took to drink. However, he reformed later. But then a second blow fell upon him. Two. This was the death of his bosom friend Tikhon Ivanovich Nidopiyskin. His health had begun to fail two years before his death. He began to suffer from asthma and was constantly dropping

asleep and on waking up could not at once come to himself. The district doctor maintained that this was the result of something rather like fits. During the three days which preceded Masha's departure, those three days when her heart was heavy, Nidopiyskin had been away at his own place at Bezselendeivka. He had been laid up with a severe cold. Masha's conduct was consequently even more unexpected for him. It made almost a deeper impression on him than on Chertapanov

himself. With his natural sweetness and diffidence, he gave utterance to nothing but the tenderest sympathy with his friend and the most painful perplexity. But it crushed and made havoc of everything in him. She has torn the heart out of me, he would murmur to himself as he sat on his favorite checked sofa and twisted his fingers. Even when Chertapanov had got over it, he, Nidopiyskin, did not recover and still felt that there was a void within him, here, he would say,

pointing to the middle of his breast above his stomach. In that way he lingered on till the winter. When the frosts came, his asthma got better, but he was visited by not something rather like a fit this time, but a real unmistakable fit. He did not lose his memory at once. He still knew Chertapanov and his friend's cry of despair. How can you desert me, Tisha, without my consent, just as Masha did? He even responded with faltering, uncertain tongue.

O, power of each, I will obey you. This did not, however, prevent him from dying the same day without waiting for the district doctor who, on seeing the hardly curved body, found nothing left for him to do, but with a melancholy recognition of the instability of all things mortal, to ask for a drop of vodka and a snack of fish. As might have been anticipated, Tikhon Ivanovich had bequeathed his property to his

revered patron and generous protector, Pantelei Yeremeyevich Chertapanov. But it was of no great benefit to the revered patron, as it was shortly after, sold by public auction, partly in order to recover the expense of a sepulchral monument, a statue, which Chertapanov, and one can see his father's craze coming out in him here, had thought fit to put up over the ashes of his friend. This statue, which was to have represented an angel praying, was ordered by him from Moscow,

but the agent recommended to him, conceiving that connoisseurs in sculpture were not often to be met with in the provinces, sent him, instead of an angel, a goddess Flora, who had for many years adorned one of those neglected gardens near Moscow, laid out in the days of Catherine. He had an excellent reason for doing so, since this statue, though highly artistic in the rococo style, with plump little arms, tossing curls, a wreath of roses round the bare bosom, and a

serpentine figure, was obtained by him the agent for nothing. And so to this day the mythological goddess stands, with one foot elegantly lifted above the tomb of Tikhon Ivanovich, and with a genuinely pompadour simper, gazes at the calves and sheep, those invariable visitors of our village graveyards, as they stray about her. 3. On the loss of his faithful friend, Chertapanov again took to drink, and this time far more seriously. Everything went utterly to the bad

with him. He had no money left for sport, the last of his meagre fortune was spent, the last of his few servants ran away. Pantelier Irimeych's isolation became complete, he had no one to speak a word to even, far less to open his heart to. His pride alone had suffered no diminution. On the contrary, the worse his surroundings became, the more haughty and lofty and inaccessible he was himself. He became a complete misanthrope in the end. One distraction, one delight was left him a

superb grey horse of the dawn breed, named by him Malek Adel, a really wonderful animal. This horse came into his possession in this fashion. As he was riding one day through a neighbouring village, Chertapanov heard a crowd of peasants shouting and hooting before a tavern. In the middle of the crowd, stalwart arms were continually rising and falling in exactly the same place. What is happening there? He asked in the peremptory tone, peculiar to him, of an old peasant

woman who was standing on the threshold of her hut. Leaning against the doorpost, as though dozing, the old woman stared in the direction of the tavern. A white-headed urchin in a print smock with a cypress wood cross on his little bare breast was sitting with little outstretched legs and little clenched fists between her bast slippers. A chicken close by was chipping at a stale crust of rye bread. The Lord knows your honour, answered the old woman. Bending forward

she laid her wrinkled brown hand on the child's head. They say our lads are beating a Jew. A Jew? What Jew? The Lord knows your honour. A Jew came among us and where he's come from who knows. Vasya, come to your mummy, sir. Shhh, nasty brute. The old woman drove away the chicken while Vasya clung to her petticoat. So you see they're beating him, sir? Why beating him? What for? I don't know, your honour. No doubt he deserves it and indeed why not beat him? You know, your honour,

he crucified Christ. Chertapanov uttered a whoop, gave his horse a lash on the neck with a riding whip, flew straight towards the crowd and plunging into it began with the same riding whip thrashing the peasants to left and to right indiscriminately shouting in broken tones, Lawless brutes, lawless brutes, it's for the law to punish not the private persons. The law, the law, the law. Before two minutes had passed the crowd had beaten a retreat in various directions and on

the ground before the tavern door could be seen a small, thin, swarthy creature in an Ankenling code, dishevelled and mangled. A pale face, rolling eyes, open mouth. What was it? Deadly terror? Or death itself? Why have you killed this Jew? Chertapanov shouted at the top of his voice, brandishing his riding whip menacingly. The crowd faintly roared in response. One peasant was rubbing his shoulder, another his side, a third his nose. You're pretty free with your whip,

was heard in the back rows. Why have you killed the Jew, you christened pagans? repeated Chertapanov. But at this point the creature lying on the ground hurriedly jumped onto its feet and running up to Chertapanov convulsively seized hold of the edge of the saddle. Alive! was heard in the background. He is a regular cat. Your Excellency, defend me, save me. The unhappy Jew was faltering meanwhile, his whole body squeezed up against Chertapanov's

foot. Or they will murder me, they will murder me, Your Excellency. What have they against you? Chertapanov asked. I can't tell, so help me God. Some cow hereabouts died, so they suspect me, but I... Well, that will go into later. Chertapanov interrupted. But now you hold onto the saddle and follow me. And you? He added, turning to the crowd. Do you know me? I am the landowner, Pandelay Chertapanov. I live at Bisonova. And so you can take proceedings against me when you think

fit and against the Jew too while you're about it. Why take proceedings? said a gray-bearded decent looking peasant bowing low the very picture of an ancient patriarch. He had been no wit behind the others in belaboring the Jew, however. We know, Your Honor, Pandelay image well. We thank, Your Honor, humbly for teaching us better. Why take proceedings? chimed in the others. As to the Jew, we'll take it out on him another day. He won't escape us. We shall be on the lookout for him.

Chertapanov pulled his mustaches, snorted, and went home at a walking pace accompanied by the Jew, whom he had delivered from his persecutors, just as he had once delivered Tikhon Nidopiuskin. Four. A few days later, the one groom who was left to Chertapanov announced that someone had come on horseback and wanted to speak to him. Chertapanov went out onto the steps and recognized the Jew riding a splendid horse of the dawn breed, which stood proud and motionless in the

middle of the courtyard. The Jew was bareheaded. He held his cap under his arm and had thrust his feet into the stirrup straps, not into the stirrups themselves. The ragged skirts of his long coat hung down on both sides of the saddle. On seeing Chertapanov, he gave a smack with his lips and ducked down with a twitch of the elbows and a bend of the legs. Chertapanov, however, not only failed to respond to his greeting, but was even enraged by it. He was all on fire in a minute. A scurvy

Jew dared to ride a magnificent horse like that? It was positively indecent. Ah, you Ethiopian fright! he shouted. Get off at once, if you don't want to be flung off into the mud. The Jew, promptly obeyed, rolled off the horse like a sack and, keeping hold of the rain, with one hand he approached Chertapanov smiling and bowing. What do you want? Pantyla Yeremeych inquired with dignity. Your Excellency, dain't to look what a horse,

said the Jew, never ceasing to bow for an instant. Er, well, the horse is all right. Where'd you get him from? Stole it, I suppose? How can you say that, Your Excellency? I'm an honest Jew. I didn't steal it, but I obtained it for Your Excellency. Really? And the trouble, the trouble I had to get it? But then, see what a horse it is. There's not another horse like it to be found in all the

Don country. Look, Your Excellency, what a horse it is. Here, kindly step this way. Whoa, whoa, turn round, stand sideways. And we'll take off the saddle. What do you think of him, Your Excellency? The horse is all right. Repeated Chertapanov was affected indifference. Though his heart was beating like a sledgehammer in his breast, he was a passionate lover of horse flesh and knew a good thing when he saw it. Only take a look at him, Your Excellency. Pat him on

the neck. Yes, yes, he he he he. Like this, like this. Chertapanov, with apparent reluctance, laid his hand on the horse's neck, gave it a pat or two, then passed his fingers from the forelock along the spine, and when he had reached a certain spot above the kidneys, like a connoisseur, he lightly pressed that spot. The horse instantly arched its spine, and looking round suspiciously at Chertapanov with its haughty black eye, snorted and moved its hind legs. The Jew laughed and faintly

clapped his hands. He knows his master, Your Excellency, his master. Don't talk nonsense. Chertapanov interrupted with vexation. To buy this horse from you, by heaven the means, and as for presents, I not only wouldn't take them from a Jew, I wouldn't take a present from Almighty God himself. As though I would presume to offer you a present, mercy upon me, cried the Jew. You buy it, Your Excellency, and as to the little sum, I can wait for it. Chertapanov sank into thought.

What will you take for it? He muttered at last between his teeth. The Jew shrugged his shoulders. What I paid for it myself? Two hundred rubles? The horse was well worth twice, perhaps even three times that sum. Chertapanov turned away and yawned feverishly. And the bunny, when? He asked, scowling furiously and not looking at the Jew. When, Your Excellency, things fit? Chertapanov flung his head back, but did not raise his eyes. That's no answer. Speak plainly, son of Herod.

Am I to be under an obligation to you, hey? Well, let's say then, the Jew hastened to add, in six months' time, do you agree? Chertapanov made no reply. The Jew tried to get a look at his face. Do you agree? You permit him to be led to your stable? The saddle I don't want, Chertapanov blurted out abruptly. Take the saddle, do you hear? To be sure, to be sure, I will take it, faltered the delighted Jew, shouldering the saddle. And the money, Chertapanov pursued,

in six months, and not two hundred, but two hundred and fifty. Not a word. Two hundred and fifty, I tell you, to my account. Chertapanov still could not bring himself to raise his eyes. Never had his pride been so cruelly wounded. It's plain, it's a present, was the thought in his mind. He's brought it out of gratitude the devil. And he would have liked to kiss the Jew, and he would have liked to beat him. Your Excellency, began the Jew gaining a little courage and

grinning all over his face. Should, after the Russian fashion, take from hand to hand? What next? What an idea, a Hebrew and Russian customs? Hey, you there, take the horse, lead him to the stable, and give him some oats. I'll come myself and look after him. And his name is to be Malekadel. Chertapanov turned to go up the steps, but turning sharply back and running up to the Jew, he pressed his hand warmly. The latter was bending down to kiss his hand,

but Chertapanov bounded back again and murmuring, Tell no one. He vanished through the door. Five. From that very day, the chief interest, the chief occupation, the chief pleasure in the life of Chertapanov was Malekadel. He loved him as he had not loved even Masha. He became more attached to him than even to Nidapuskin. And what a horse it was! All fire, simply explosive as gunpowder, and stately as a boyar. Untiring, enduring, obedient, whatever you might put him to,

and costing nothing for his keep. He'd be ready to nibble at the ground under his feet if there was nothing else. When he stepped at a walking pace, it was like being lulled to sleep in a nurse's arms. When he trotted, it was like rocking at sea. When he galloped, he outstripped the wind. Never out of breath, perfectly sound in his wind. Seniors of steel. For him to stumble was a thing never recorded. To take a ditch or a fence was

nothing to him, and what a clever beast! At his master's voice he would run with his head in the air. If you told him to stand still and walked away from him, he would not stir. Directly you turn back, a faint neigh to say, here I am. And afraid of nothing, in the pitch dark, in a snowstorm, he would find his way, and he would not let a stranger come near him for anything. He would have had his teeth in him, and a dog dare never approach him. He would have his foreleg in his

head in a minute. And that was the end of the beast. A horse of proper pride. You might flourish a switch over him as an ornament, but God forbid you touched him. But why say more? A perfect treasure, not a horse. If Chertopanov set to describing his malecadel, he could not find words to express himself. And how he petted and pampered him. His coat shone like silver, not old but new silver, with a dark polish on it. If one passed one's hand over it, it was like velvet. His saddle,

his cloth, his bridle, all his trappings, in fact, were so well fitted in such good order, so bright, a perfect picture. Chertopanov himself, what more can we say, with his own hands, plaited his favorite forelocks and mane, and washed his tail with beer, and even more than once rubbed his hooves with polish. Sometimes he would mount malecadeling right out, not to see his neighbors, he avoided them as of old, but across their lands, past their homesteads, for them poor fools to admire him from

a distance. Or he would hear that there was to be a hunt somewhere, that a rich landowner had arranged a meet in some outlying part of his land. He would be off there at once and would canter in the distance on the horizon astounding all spectators by the swiftness and beauty of his horse, and not letting anyone come close to him. Once some hunting landowner even gave chase to him with all his sweet. He saw Chertopanov was getting away and he began shouting after him with all his might as he galloped

at full speed, hey you, here, take what you like for your horse, I wouldn't grudge a thousand, I'd give my wife, my children, take my last farthing. Chertopanov suddenly reigned in malecadel, the hunting gentleman flew up to him, my dear sir, he shouted, tell me what you want, my dear friend, if you were the Tsar, said Chertopanov emphatically and he had never heard of Shakespeare, you might give me all your kingdom for my horse, I wouldn't take it. He uttered these

words chuckled, drew malecadel up onto his haunches, turned him in the air on his hind legs like a top or teatotum and off he went like a flash over the stubble and the hunting man, a rich prince, they said he was, flung his cap on the ground, threw himself down with his face in his cap and lay so for half an hour and how could Chertopanov fail to price his horse? Was it not thanks to him he had again an unmistakable superiority, a last superiority

over all his neighbors? Six. Meanwhile time went by, the day fixed for payment was approaching, while far from having 250 rubles Chertopanov had not even 50. What was to be done, how could it be met? Well, he decided at last, if the Jew is relentless, if he won't wait any longer, I'll give him my house and my land and I'll set off on my horse no matter where, I'll starve before I'll give up, malecadel. He was greatly perturbed and even downcast,

but at this juncture fate, for the first and last time, was pitiful and smiled upon him. Some distant kinswoman, whose very name was unknown to Chertopanov, left him in her will as some immense in his eyes, no less than 2000 rubles, and he received this sum in the very nick, as they say of time, the day before the Jew was to come. Chertopanov almost went out of his mind with joy, but he never even thought of vodka. From the very day malecadel came into his hands

he had not touched a drop. He ran into the stable and kissed his favorite on both sides of his face above the nostrils where the horse's skin is always so soft. Now we shall not be parted, he cried, patting malecadel on the neck under his well-combed mane. When he went back into the house he counted out and sealed up in a packet 250 rubles. Then, as he lay on his back and smoked a pipe, he mused on how he would lay out the rest of the money,

what dogs he would procure, real costumar hounds, spot and tan, and no mistake. He even had a little talk with Pervishka, to whom he promised a new cossack coat with yellow braid on all the seams, and went to bed in a blissful frame of mind. He had a bad dream. He dreamt he was riding out, hunting, not on malecadel, but on some strange beast of the nature of a unicorn. A white fox, white as snow, ran to meet him. He tried to crack his whip, tried to set the

dogs on her, but instead of his riding whip he found he had a wisp of a bast in his hand. And the fox ran in front of him, putting her tongue out at him. He jumped off. His unicorn stumbled, he fell and fell straight into the arms of a police constable, who was taking him before the governor-general and whom he recognized as Yaf. Chertopanov waked up. The room was dark, the cocks were just crowing for the second time, somewhere in the far, far distance a horse-nade.

Chertopanov lifted up his head. Once more a faint, faint neigh was heard. That's malecadel neighing, was his thought. It's his neigh? But why so far away? Bless us and save us. It can't be. Chertopanov suddenly turned chill all over. He instantly leaped out of bed, fumbled after his boots and his clothes, dressed himself and, snatching up the stable door-key from under his pillow, he dashed out into the courtyard.

The stable was at the very end of the courtyard. One wall faced the open country. Chertopanov could not at once fit the key into the lock. His hands were shaking and he did not immediately turn the key. He stood motionless, holding his breath, if only something would stir inside. Malec, malec! He cried in a low voice, the silence of death. Chertopanov unconsciously jogged the key, the door creaked and opened, so it was not locked. He stepped over the threshold and again called his

horse, this time by his full name, malecadel. But no response came from his faithful companion. Only a mouse rustled in the straw. Then Chertopanov rushed into one of the three horse-boxes in the stable in which malecadel was put. He went straight to the horse-box, though it was pitch dark around. Empty! Chertopanov's head went round. It seemed as though a bell was booming in his brain. He tried to say something but only brought out a sort of hiss,

and fumbling with his hands above, below, on all sides, breathless, with shaking knees, he made his way from one horse-box to another. To a third, full almost to the top with hay, stumbled against one wall and then the other, fell down, rolled over on his head, got up, and suddenly ran headlong through the half-open door into the courtyard. Stolen! Perfishka! Perfishka! Stolen! He yelled at the top of his voice.

The groom Perfishka flew head over heels out of the loft where he slept, with only his shirt on. Like drunk men, they ran against one another, the master and his solitary servant, in the middle of the courtyard. Like madmen, they turned round each other. The master could not explain what was the matter, nor could the servant make out what was wanted of him. Whoa! Whoa! wailed Chertopanov. Whoa! Whoa! the groom repeated after him.

A lantern! Here! Light a lantern! Light! Light! broke at last from Chertopanov's fainting lips. Perfishka rushed into the house. But to light the lantern, to get fire, was not easy. Lucifer matches were regarded as a rarity in those days in Russia. The last embers had long ago gone out in the kitchen. Flint and steel were not quickly found, and they did not work well. Gnashing his teeth, Chertopanov snatched them out of the hands of the flustered Perfishka

and began striking a light himself. The sparks fell in abundance, in still greater abundance fell curses and even groans. But the tinder either did not catch or went out again in spite of the united efforts of four swollen cheeks and lips to blow it into a flame. At last, in five minutes, not sooner, a bit of tallow candle was alight at the bottom of the battered lantern, and Chertopanov accompanied by Perfishka dashed into the stable, lifted the lantern above his

head, looked round. All empty. He bounded out into the courtyard, ran up and down it in all directions. No horse anywhere. The hurdle fence enclosing Panteleieri Mech's yard had long been dilapidated and in many places was bent and lying on the ground. Beside the stable it had been completely levelled for a good yard's width. Perfishka pointed the spot out to Chertopanov. Master, look here. This wasn't like this today. And see the ends of the uprights sticking out of

the ground? That means someone has pulled them out. Chertopanov ran up with the lantern, moved it about over the ground. Hoofs, hoofs, prints of horseshoes. Fresh prints. He muttered, speaking hurriedly. They took him through here, through here. He instantly leaped over the fence and with a shout, Malecadel, Malecadel. He ran straight into the open country. Perfishka remained standing bewildered at the fence. The ring of light from the lantern was soon lost to his eyes, swallowed

up in the dense darkness of a starless, moonless night. Fainter and fainter came the sound of the despairing cries of Chertopanov. 8. It was daylight when he came home again. He hardly looked like a human being. His clothes were covered with mud, his face had a wild and ferocious expression, his eyes looked dull and sullen. In a hoarse whisper he drove Perfishka away and locked himself in his room. He could hardly stand with fatigue, but he did not lie on his bed, but sat down on a chair by

the door and clutched at his head. Stolen, stolen. But in what way had the thief contrived by night when the stable was locked to steal Malecadel? Malecadel, who would never let a stranger come near him, even by day, steal him too without noise, without a sound. And how explain that not a yard barked. It was true there were only two left, two young puppies and those two probably burrowing in rubbish from cold and hunger. But still. And what am I to do now without Malecadel? Chertopanov brooded.

I've lost my last pleasure now. It's time to die. Buy another horse seeing the money has come? But where find another horse like that? He heard a timid call at the door. Chertopanov jumped onto his feet. Who is it? He shouted in a voice not his own. What do you want? Is he found? Has he run home?

No, but that Jew chap who sold him. Well, he's come. Yelled Chertopanov and he at once flung open the door. Drag him here. Drag him along. On seeing the sudden apparition of his benefactors, dishevelled wild looking figure, the Jew who was standing behind Perfishka's bag tried to

give them the slip. But Chertopanov in two bounds was upon him and like a tiger flew at his throat. Ah, he's come for the money. For the money. He cried as hoarsely as though he were being strangled himself instead of strangling the Jew. You stole him by night and are come by day for the money. Mercy on us, your excellency. The Jew tried to groan out. Tell me, where is my horse? What have you done with him? Whom have you sold him to? Tell me, tell me, tell me.

The Jew by now could not even groan. His face was rapidly turning livid and even the expression of fear had vanished from it. His hands dropped and lung lifeless. His whole body furiously shaken by Chertopanov waved backwards and forwards like a reed. I'll pay you your money. I'll pay it you in full to the last farthing, roared Chertopanov. But I'll strangle you like any chicken if you don't tell me at once. But you have strangled him already, master, observed the groom Perfishka

humbly. Then only Chertopanov came to his senses. He let go of the Jew's neck. The latter fell heavily to the ground. Chertopanov picked him up, sat him on a bench, poured a glass of vodka down his throat and restored him to consciousness. And having restored him to consciousness, he began to talk to him. It turned out that the Jew had not the slightest idea that Malekadel had been stolen. And indeed what motive could he have to steal the horse which he had himself procured for his

revered Pantelei Yeremeych? Then Chertopanov led him into the stable. Together they scrutinized the horse boxes, the manger and the lock on the door, turned over the hay and the straw, and then went into the courtyard. Chertopanov showed the Jew the hoof prints at the fence, and all at once he slapped his thighs. Stay, he cried. Where did you buy the horse? In the district of Malarkandul at Verkhosensky fair, answered the Jew. Of whom? A cossack.

Stay, this cossack. Was he a young man or old? Middle-aged, a steady man. And what was he like? What did he look like? A cutting rascal, I expect? Sure to have been a rascal, Your Excellency. And I say, what did he say, this rascal? Had he had the horse long? I recollect he said he'd had it a long while.

Well, then no one could have stolen him but he. Consider it yourself. Listen, stand here. What is your name? The Jew started and turned his little black eyes upon Chertopanov. What's my name? Yes, yes. What are you called?

Moshe Leba. Well, judge then, Moshe Leba, my friend, you're a man of sense. Who would Malekadel have allowed to touch him except his old master? You see, he must have saddled him and bridled him and taken off his cloth. There it is lying on the hay and made all his arrangements simply as if he were at home. Why, anyone except his master, Malekadel would have trampled on the foot.

He'd have raised such a din. He'd have roused the whole village. Do you agree with me? I agree, Your Excellency. Well, then it follows that first of all we must find this Cossack. But how are we to find him, Your Excellency? I have only seen him one little time in my life.

And where is he now and what's his name? Alak, Alak. Added the Jew shaking the long curls over his ears sorrowfully. Leba, shouted Chertephanov suddenly. Leba, look at me. You see, I've lost my senses. I'm not myself. I shall lay hands on myself if you don't come to my aid. But how can I?

Come with me and let us find the thief. But where shall we go? We'll go to the fairs, the highways and byways, to the horse-stealers, to towns and villages and hamlets, everywhere, everywhere. And don't trouble about money. I've come into a fortune, brother.

I'll spend my last farthing, but I'll get my darling back. And he shan't escape us, our enemy, the Cossack. Where he goes, we'll go. If he's hidden in the earth, we'll follow him. If he's gone to the devil, we'll follow him to Satan himself. Oh, why to Satan? Observed the Jew. We can do without him.

Leba, Chertephanov went on. Leba, though you're a Jew and your creed's an accursed one, you've a soul better than many a Christian soul. Have pity on me. I can't go alone. Alone I can never carry the thing through. I am a hard-headed fellow, but you've a brain, a brain worth its weight in gold. Your rays are like that. You succeed in everything without being taught.

You're wondering, perhaps, where I could have got the money. Come into my room, I'll show you all the money. You may take it. You may take the cross off my neck. Only give me back my Lekadel. Give him me back again. Chertephanov was shivering as if he were in a fever. The sweat rolled down his face in drops and mingling with his tears was lost in his mustaches.

He pressed Leba's hands, he besought him, he almost kissed him. He was in a sort of delirium. The Jew tried to object, to declare that it was utterly impossible for him to get away, that he had business. It was useless. Chertephanov would not even hear anything. There was no help for it. The poor Jew consented. The next day Chertephanov set out from Bessonova in a peasant cart with Leba.

The Jew wore a somewhat troubled aspect. He held on to the rail with one hand, while all his withered figure bounded up and down on the jolting seat. The other hand he held pressed to his bosom, where lay a packet of notes wrapped up in newspaper. Chertephanov sat like a statue, only moving his eyes about him and drawing in deep breaths. In his sash there was stuck a dagger.

There the misgivings who has parted us must look out for himself now, he muttered as they drove out on the high road. His house he left in the charge of Perfishka and an old cook, a deaf old peasant woman whom he took care of out of compassion. I shall come back to you on Malecadel, he shouted to them at parting.

Or never come back at all. You might as well be married to me at once, jested Perfishka giving the cook a dig in the ribs with his elbow. No fear, the master will never come back to us, and here I shall be bored to death all alone.

End of The End of Chertephanov Part 1