‘Thirty-six and little chance!’ cried the marker through his nose.
‘What d’you think of that, old chap?’ the prince asked Khlopakov.
‘What do I think? It’s a right old rrrrapscalliooon, a right old rrrrapscalliooon that is!’
The prince exploded with laughter.
‘What? What? Say it again!’
‘Rrrrapscalliooon!’ the retired lieutenant repeated smugly.
‘So that’s the new one!’ I thought.
The prince pocketed a red ball.
‘Hey! Not like that, prince, not like that,’ suddenly babbled a small, fair-haired officer with little bloodshot eyes, tiny nose and a childishly sleepy face. ‘Don’t play like that! You shouldn’t do that!’
‘What’s that?’ the prince asked him over his shoulder.
‘You should’ve played a triplet.’
‘Is that so?’ the prince muttered through his teeth.
‘What about going to the gypsies this evening, prince?’ the young man hurriedly asked in confusion. ‘Styeshka’ll be singing… and Ilyushka…’
The prince didn’t answer him.
‘Rrrrapscalliooon, old chap,’ said Khlopakov, slyly screwing up his left eye.
And the prince burst into torrents of laughter.
‘Thirty-nine, love,’ proclaimed the marker.
‘Love… Just look what I’ll do to that yellow…’
Khlopakov made a great show with using his cue, took aim and missed.
‘Oh, rrrrapscalliooon!’ he cried in annoyance.
The prince again laughed.
‘What? what? what?’
But Khlopakov didn’t want to repeat his special word. He had to be sparing with his party piece.
‘You made a mis-hit,’ remarked the marker. ‘Allow me to offer some chalk… Forty and very little!’
‘Yes, gentlemen,’ the prince began, turning to the entire company and not looking at anyone in particular, ‘you know, today we must ensure an ovation for Verzhembitskaya in the theatre.’
‘Of course, of course, without doubt,’ exclaimed several gentlemen in friendly rivalry, astonishingly flattered by the opportunity to respond to the prince’s words. ‘For Verzhembitskaya…’
‘Verzhembitskaya is an outstanding actress, much better than Sopnyakova,’ squeaked from one corner a shabby man with whiskers and glasses. Poor fellow, he secretly yearned after Sopnyakova, but the prince didn’t deign so much as to give him a glance!
‘I say, a pipe!’ pronounced into his cravat a tall man with regular features and the grandest of bearing, to all appearances a cardsharp.
A waiter dashed off to fetch him a pipe and, on returning, informed His Highness that Baklaga, the driver, had apparently been asking for him.
‘Ah! Well, tell him to wait and fetch him some vodka, there’s a good chap.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Baklaga, as I was told later, was the nickname of a young, handsome and exceedingly spoiled driver. The prince was very fond of him, gave him gifts of horses, went racing with him and spent whole nights with him… This very same prince, former playboy and spendthrift, you wouldn’t recognize now, so perfumed he’s become, so stiff and proud! So busy he is now with his government service, but, chiefly, how extremely circumspect!
However, the tobacco smoke began to hurt my eyes. Having heard for the last time Khlopakov’s exclamation and the prince’s answering laugh, I went to my room where my manservant had made up a bed for me on a narrow, broken-down horsehair divan with a high bent back.
The next day I went to look at the horses in the various yards and began by going to the well-known dealer Sitnikov. By way of a gate I went into a yard spread with sand. Before the wide-open door of the stables stood the proprietor himself, a man no longer young, tall and stout, in a hare-skin jacket with a raised, turned-back collar. Seeing me, he moved slowly in my direction, holding his hat above his head with both hands and pronouncing in a singsong voice:
‘Our respects to you, sir. Is it some horses you’ll be after seein’?’
‘Yes, I’ve come to have a look at horses.’
‘What kind precisely, if I may ask?’
‘Show me what you have.’
‘With our pleasure.’
We went into the stables. Several small white dogs rose from the hay and ran towards us wagging their tails. An old goat with a long beard withdrew to one side in dissatisfaction. Three stable-boys in strong but greasy sheepskin coats bowed to us in silence. To left and right, in artificially raised stalls, stood about thirty horses cleaned and groomed to perfection. Among the rafters pigeons flew to and fro and cooed.
‘For what is it you’ll be wantin’ a horse, for ridin’, is it, or for breedin’?’ Sitnikov asked me.
‘Both for riding and for breeding.’
‘We get your meanin’, sir, we get your meanin’, sir, we do,’ said the dealer, pausing between the words. ‘Petya, show Ermine to the gentleman.’
We went out into the yard.
‘Shall I have a bench brought out? You don’t want it? As you wish…’
Hoofs resounded on the floorboards, there was a whip-crack and Petya, a fellow of about forty, with a pitted, swarthy complexion, jumped out of the stables with a grey, fairly stately stallion, made him rise up on his hind legs, ran him round the yard once or twice and skilfully halted him at a point for showing him off. Ermine stretched his neck, gave a whistling neigh, flourished his tail, moved his mouth and nostrils and gave us a sideways look.
‘He knows a thing or two,’ I thought.
‘Let ’im be, let ’im be,’ said Sitnikov and looked hard at me.
‘How d’you t’ink? Will he do, sir?’ he asked eventually.
‘The horse is not bad, except that his forelegs are not quite right.’
‘’Tis fine legs he has!’ Sitnikov retorted with conviction. ‘Look at his hindquarters, just look at ’em, broad as a stove they are, you could sleep on ’em!’
‘He’s got long pasterns.’
‘Long, indeed – have a care, sir! Run him a bit, Petya, run him, at a trot, a trot, a trot – don’t let ’im gallop!’
Petya again ran round the yard with Ermine. We were all silent.
‘Well, put ’im back now,’ said Sitnikov, ‘and then show us Falcon.’
Falcon, a stallion black as a beetle, of Dutch breed, wiry with drooping hindquarters, was a little better than Ermine. He belonged to that kind of horse of which hunters say that ‘they cut and hew and imprison you’, meaning that when being ridden they thrash about with their forelegs to right and left and make little headway forwards. Middle-aged merchants have a fondness for them. As they run they remind you of the flashy walk of a lively floor-waiter. They are good singly for going out after dinner because, striding out fine and dandy, their necks arched, they can busily pull a gaudily painted droshky loaded with a driver who’s eaten himself paralytic, an overweight merchant suffering from heartburn and his podgy wife in a light-blue silk coat and a small lilac kerchief on her head. I turned down Falcon as well. Sitnikov showed me several more horses. Finally, one, a dappled grey stallion of the famous Voeikovsky breed, appealed to me. I couldn’t restrain myself and patted him approvingly on the withers. Sitnikov immediately pretended to be indifferent.
‘Tell me, does he ride well?’ I asked. (One never says ‘run’ about a trotter.)
‘He rides,’ the dealer answered calmly.
‘Can’t I have a look?’
‘Of course you can, sir. Hey, Kuzya, harness Catch-up to the droshky.’
Kuzya, a master-jockey, drove past us at least three times along the street. The horse ran well, didn’t stray, didn’t throw up its hindquarters, lifted its legs freely, kept its tail high and held itself well – in short, a good trotter.
‘What are you asking for it?’
Sitnikov named an unheard-of price. We began bargaining right there on the street when suddenly there flew thunderously round the corner a splendidly
matched troika which stopped boldly outside the gates of Sitnikov’s house. Prince N. sat in the fancy hunting carriage and Khlopakov next to him. Baklaga was driving the three horses – and how he drove! The villain could’ve driven them through an earring! The bay outrunners were small, lively, black-eyed, black-legged and literally on fire, literally raring to go – one whistle and they’d be off! The dark-bay shaft-horse stood there calmly, his neck thrust back like a swan’s and his chest out, his legs like arrows, shaking his head and proudly closing his eyes. A splendid team! Tsar Ivan Vasilyevich himself could have ridden behind them for his Easter outing!
‘Your Highness! We beg you welcome!’ cried Sitnikov.
The prince jumped down from the carriage. Khlopakov slowly alighted the other side.
‘Hello, my good man… Have you any horses?’
‘For your Highness – of course! Please, come this way… Petya, bring out Peacock! And see that Commendable’s got ready! And with you, sir,’ he went on, turning to me, ‘we’ll finish our business later… Fomka, a seat for his Highness!’
Peacock was led out of a special stables which I’d not noticed at first. The powerful dark-bay horse literally pawed the air with its hoofs. Sitnikov even turned his head away and squeezed up his eyes.
‘Oo, the rrapscallion!’ declared Khlopakov. ‘J’aime ça!’
The prince roared with laughter.
Peacock was stopped with some difficulty. He literally pulled the stable-boy round the yard until they finally pressed him up against a wall. He snorted, quivered and rared to go while Sitnikov went on taunting him by waving a whip at him.
‘Who’re you looking at? Oh, I’ll teach you! Ooo!’ said the dealer in a fondly threatening tone, admiring his horse despite everything.
‘How much?’ asked the prince.
‘To your Highness, five thousand.’
‘Three.’
‘Impossible, your Highness, if you don’t mind…’
‘Three, he says, you rrapscallion!’ chimed in Khlopakov.
I didn’t wait for the conclusion of the deal and left. At the far corner of the street I noticed a large sheet of paper fixed to the gates of a small grey house. At the top was a pen-drawing of a horse with an enormously long neck and a tail looking like a trumpet and under the horse’s hoofs were the following words, written in an old-fashioned hand:
On Sale Here are Horses of Diverse Hues, Conveyed to the Lebedyan Fair from the Famed Steppeland Stud of Anastasey Ivanych Chernobay, Landowner of Tambov. These Horses have Outstanding Points; Trained to Perfection and of Meek Habits. Gentlemen intending to Purchase are Requested to ask for Anastasey Ivanych Himself; in his Absence, ask for the coachman Nazar Kubyshkin. Gentlemen intending to Purchase are Kindly Requested to Spare a Thought for an Old Man!
I stopped. Right, I thought, I’ll have a look at the horses of the famed steppeland stud-owner, Mr Chernobay.
I was about to go in by the gate but, contrary to usual practice, found it shut. I knocked.
‘Who’s there? A buyer?’ squeaked a female voice.
‘A buyer.’
‘At once, sir, at once.’
The gate was opened. I saw a woman of about fifty, her head uncovered, wearing boots and with an open sheepskin jacket.
‘Please come in, good sir. I’ll go and tell Anastasey Ivanych this minute… Nazar, Nazar!’
‘Wha-a-at?’ mumbled the voice of a seventy-year-old from the stables.
‘Get the horses ready. A buyer’s come.’
The old woman ran off into the house.
‘A buyer, a buyer,’ grumbled Nazar in response to her. ‘I ’aven’t yet washed the tails on all of ’em.’
‘O, Arcadia!’ was my thought.
‘Good day, sir, and welcome,’ resounded a slow, fruity and pleasant voice behind me. I glanced round and saw standing there, in a long, blue overcoat, an old man of medium height, with white hair, a charming smile and beautiful sky-blue eyes.
‘Are you looking for horses? Certainly, sir, certainly… Wouldn’t you care to come in and have some tea first?’
I thanked him and refused.
‘Well, it’s as you wish. You must forgive me, sir, but I’m old-fashioned.’ (Mr Chernobay spoke slowly and emphasized his ‘o’s.) ‘I like things to be simple, you know. Nazar! Naza-a-ar!’ he added, elongating the vowel and not raising his voice.
Nazar, a wrinkled old fellow with a small, hawk-like nose and goatee beard, appeared in the stables doorway.
‘What kind of horses would you be wanting, sir?’ Mr Chernobay went on.
‘Not too expensive, well-trained and for harnessing.’
‘Certainly, we have some like that, certainly… Nazar, Nazar, show the gentleman that little grey gelding, you know, the one in the corner, and the bay mare with the bald patch, no, not that one – the other bay, the one out of Little Beauty, d’you know which one?’
Nazar returned to the stables.
‘Oh, and bring them out just as they are!’ Mr Chernobay shouted after him. ‘With me, sir,’ he went on, looking me clear-eyed and calmly in the face, ‘it’s not as it is with the dealers, who don’t feed ’em properly. They use various gingers and salt and malt dregs* and God knows what! But with me, as you can see for yourself, everything’s above-board and no tricks.’
The horses were led out. They didn’t appeal to me.
‘Well, put them back where they came from,’ said Anastasey Ivanych. ‘Show us some others.’
Others were shown. Finally I chose one cheaper than the others. We began to bargain. Mr Chernobay did not get heated, spoke so reasonably and called upon God as his witness with such self-importance that I couldn’t help ‘sparing a thought for an old man’ and put down a deposit.
‘Well, now,’ muttered Anastasey Ivanych, ‘allow me, in the old-fashioned way, to let you have this one under the counter… You’ll be grateful to me, after all it’s fresh as a ripe nut, untouched, just off the steppes! It’ll go into any harness.’
He crossed himself, then crossed his palm with the hem of his overcoat, took the bridle and handed over the horse to me.
‘Keep it in God’s name… Are you sure you don’t want some tea?’
‘No, thank you most humbly. I must be getting home.’
‘As you wish… Shall my coachman bring the horse to you now?’
‘Yes, right away, if you please.’
‘Certainly, my dear chap, certainly… Vasily, hey, Vasily, go with the gentleman. Take the horse and receive the money. Well, goodbye, sir. God be with you.’
‘Goodbye, Anastasey Ivanych.’
The horse was led to where I was staying. The next day it turned out to be broken-winded and lame. I thought of harnessing it but my horse backed away and when the whip was applied it grew stubborn, reared its hindquarters and then lay down. I at once set off to find Mr Chernobay.
‘Is he at home?’ I asked.
‘He’s at home.’
‘What’ve you been up to?’ I asked. ‘You’ve sold me a broken-winded horse.’
‘Broken-winded? God preserve us!’
‘It’s lame as well and it’s temperamental.’
‘Lame? I don’t know anything about that. Evidently your driver’s mishandled it… As for me, as God is my witness…’
‘You really ought to take it back, Anastasey Ivanych.’
‘No, sir, don’t be annoyed, but once it’s out of the yard the matter’s finished. You should’ve seen to all that beforehand.’
I understood what it was all about, accepted my fate, gave vent to laughter and left. Fortunately I’d not paid too highly for my lesson.
A couple of days later I left and a week later again stopped by in Lebedyan on my return journey. In the coffee-house I found almost exactly the same people and once more came across the prince in the billiard-room. But the usual change had occurred in the fortunes of Mr Khlopakov. The little fair-haired officer had taken his place in the prince’s affections. The poor retired lieutenan
t tried once again in my presence to do his party piece, to see whether it’d meet with its former favour, but the prince not only didn’t smile, he even frowned and gave a shrug of the shoulder. Mr Khlopakov was crestfallen, shrank away into a corner and began quietly filling his pipe…
TATYANA BORISOVNA AND HER NEPHEW
GIVE me your hand, dear reader, and come on an outing. The weather is beautiful. The May sky glows a gentle blue. The smooth young leaves of the willow shine as if newly washed. The broad, level road is entirely covered with that short grass with reddish stems which sheep so love to nibble. To left and right, along the long slopes of the low hills green rye quietly ripples. The shadows of small clouds slide across it like globules of moisture. In the distance gleam dark woodlands, ponds glisten and villages shine yellow. Larks rise by the hundreds, sing and fall precipitately and, with small outstretched necks, are seen conspicuously on small outcrops of soil. Rooks stop on the road, look at you, crouch down to let you pass and, giving a couple of jumps, fly off heavily to one side. On an upland beyond a shallow valley a peasant is ploughing. A dappled foal with short little tail and ruffled mane runs on uncertain legs behind its mother and one can hear its high-pitched neighing. We drive into a birch wood and the strong, fresh scent pleasantly takes one’s breath away. We’re on the outskirts of a village. The coachman alights, the horses snort, the trace-horses looking round them and the shaft-horse waving its tail and leaning its head against the shaft… The gate opens with a loud creaking. The coachman takes his seat – and off we go! The village is in front of us. Passing half-a-dozen houses, we turn to the right, descend into a hollow and drive across a dam. Beyond a small pond, from behind the round tops of apple trees and lilacs, can be seen a wooden roof, at one time painted red, and two chimneys. The coachman chooses a way to the left along a fence and to the accompaniment of the hoarse, yelping barks of three exceedingly ancient small dogs drives through wide-open gates, dashes boldly round a wide yard past stables and barn, bows with a flourish to an old housekeeper who has just gone sideways over a high doorstep into an open store-room doorway, and comes to a stop finally in front of the entrance to a dark little house with shining windows… We’ve reached Tatyana Borisovna’s. And there she is herself, opening the little window and nodding to us…