A Sportsman's Sketches / Works of Ivan Turgenev, Volume I

by Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

  'The horse's not bad—the hind legs aren't quite sound.'

  'His legs are first-rate!' Sitnikov rejoined, with an air of conviction;' and his hind-quarters … just look, sir … broad as an oven—you could sleep up there.' 'His pasterns are long.'

  'Long! mercy on us! Start him, Petya, start him, but at a trot, a trot … don't let him gallop.'

  Again Petya ran round the yard with Ermine. None of us spoke for a little.

  'There, lead him back,' said Sitnikov,' and show us Falcon.'

  Falcon, a gaunt beast of Dutch extraction with sloping hind-quarters, as black as a beetle, turned out to be little better than Ermine. He was one of those beasts of whom fanciers will tell you that 'they go chopping and mincing and dancing about,' meaning thereby that they prance and throw out their fore-legs to right and to left without making much headway. Middle-aged merchants have a great fancy for such horses; their action recalls the swaggering gait of a smart waiter; they do well in single harness for an after-dinner drive; with mincing paces and curved neck they zealously draw a clumsy droshky laden with an overfed coachman, a depressed, dyspeptic merchant, and his lymphatic wife, in a blue silk mantle, with a lilac handkerchief over her head. Falcon too I declined. Sitnikov showed me several horses…. One at last, a dapple-grey beast of Voyakov breed, took my fancy. I could not restrain my satisfaction, and patted him on the withers. Sitnikov at once feigned absolute indifference.

  "Well, does he go well in harness?" I inquired. (They never speak of a trotting horse as "being driven.")

  "Oh, yes," answered the horsedealer carelessly.

  "Can I see him?"

  "If you like, certainly. Hi, Kuzya, put Pursuer into the droshky!"

  Kuzya, the jockey, a real master of horsemanship, drove three times past us up and down the street. The horse went well, without changing its pace, nor shambling; it had a free action, held its tail high, and covered the ground well.

  "And what are you asking for him?"

  Sitnikov asked an impossible price. We began bargaining on the spot in the street, when suddenly a splendidly-matched team of three posting- horses flew noisily round the corner and drew up sharply at the gates before Sitnikov's house. In the smart little sportsman's trap sat Prince N——; beside him Hlopakov. Baklaga was driving … and how he drove! He could have driven them through an earring, the rascal! The bay trace-horses, little, keen, black-eyed, black-legged beasts, were all impatience; they kept rearing—a whistle, and off they would have bolted! The dark-bay shaft-horse stood firmly, its neck arched like a swan's, its breast forward, its legs like arrows, shaking its head and proudly blinking…. They were splendid! No one could desire a finer turn out for an Easter procession!

  'Your excellency, please to come in!' cried Sitnikov.

  The prince leaped out of the trap. Hlopakov slowly descended on the other side.

  'Good morning, friend … any horses.'

  'You may be sure we've horses for your excellency! Pray walk in…. Petya, bring out Peacock! and let them get Favourite ready too. And with you, sir,' he went on, turning to me, 'we'll settle matters another time…. Fomka, a bench for his excellency.'

  From a special stable which I had not at first observed they led out Peacock. A powerful dark sorrel horse seemed to fly across the yard with all its legs in the air. Sitnikov even turned away his head and winked.

  'Oh, rrakalion!' piped Hlopakov; 'Zhaymsah (j'aime ça.)'

  The prince laughed.

  Peacock was stopped with difficulty; he dragged the stable-boy about the yard; at last he was pushed against the wall. He snorted, started and reared, while Sitnikov still teased him, brandishing a whip at him.

  'What are you looking at? there! oo!' said the horsedealer with caressing menace, unable to refrain from admiring his horse himself.

  'How much?' asked the prince.

  'For your excellency, five thousand.'

  'Three.'

  'Impossible, your excellency, upon my word.'

  'I tell you three, rrakalion,' put in Hlopakov.

  I went away without staying to see the end of the bargaining. At the farthest corner of the street I noticed a large sheet of paper fixed on the gate of a little grey house. At the top there was a pen-and-ink sketch of a horse with a tail of the shape of a pipe and an endless neck, and below his hoofs were the following words, written in an old- fashioned hand:

  'Here are for sale horses of various colours, brought to the Lebedyan fair from the celebrated steppes stud of Anastasei Ivanitch Tchornobai, landowner of Tambov. These horses are of excellent sort; broken in to perfection, and free from vice. Purchasers will kindly ask for Anastasei Ivanitch himself: should Anastasei Ivanitch be absent, then ask for Nazar Kubishkin, the coachman. Gentlemen about to purchase, kindly honour an old man.'

  I stopped. 'Come,' I thought, 'let's have a look at the horses of the celebrated steppes breeder, Mr. Tchornobai.'

  I was about to go in at the gate, but found that, contrary to the common usage, it was locked. I knocked.

  'Who's there?… A customer?' whined a woman's voice.

  'Yes.'

  'Coming, sir, coming.'

  The gate was opened. I beheld a peasant-woman of fifty, bareheaded, in boots, and a sheepskin worn open.

  'Please to come in, kind sir, and I'll go at once, and tell Anastasei

  Ivanitch … Nazar, hey, Nazar!'

  'What?' mumbled an old man's voice from the stable.

  'Get a horse ready; here's a customer.'

  The old woman ran into the house.

  'A customer, a customer,' Nazar grumbled in response; 'I've not washed all their tails yet.'

  'Oh, Arcadia!' thought I.

  'Good day, sir, pleased to see you,' I heard a rich, pleasant voice saying behind my back. I looked round; before me, in a long-skirted blue coat, stood an old man of medium height, with white hair, a friendly smile, and fine blue eyes.

  'You want a little horse? By all means, my dear sir, by all means….

  But won't you step in and drink just a cup of tea with me first?'

  I declined and thanked him.

  'Well, well, as you please. You must excuse me, my dear sir; you see I'm old-fashioned.' (Mr. Tchornobai spoke with deliberation, and in a broad Doric.) 'Everything with me is done in a plain way, you know…. Nazar, hey, Nazar!' he added, not raising his voice, but prolonging each syllable. Nazar, a wrinkled old man with a little hawk nose and a wedge-shaped beard, showed himself at the stable door.

  'What sort of horses is it you're wanting, my dear sir?' resumed Mr.

  Tchornobai.

  'Not too expensive; for driving in my covered gig.'

  'To be sure … we have got them to suit you, to be sure…. Nazar, Nazar, show the gentleman the grey gelding, you know, that stands at the farthest corner, and the sorrel with the star, or else the other sorrel—foal of Beauty, you know.'

  Nazar went back to the stable.

  'And bring them out by their halters just as they are,' Mr. Tchornobai shouted after him. 'You won't find things with me, my good sir,' he went on, with a clear mild gaze into my face, 'as they are with the horse-dealers; confound their tricks! There are drugs of all sorts go in there, salt and malted grains; God forgive them! But with me, you will see, sir, everything's above-board; no underhandedness.'

  The horses were led in; I did not care for them.

  'Well, well, take them back, in God's name,' said Anastasei Ivanitch.

  'Show us the others.'

  Others were shown. At last I picked out one, rather a cheap one. We began to haggle over the price. Mr. Tchornobai did not get excited; he spoke so reasonably, with such dignity, that I could not help 'honouring' the old man; I gave him the earnest-money.

  'Well, now,' observed Anastasei Ivanitch, 'allow me to give over the horse to you from hand to hand, after the old fashion…. You will thank me for him … as sound as a nut, see … fresh … a true child of the steppes! Goes well in any harness.'

  He crossed himsel
f, laid the skirt of his coat over his hand, took the halter, and handed me the horse.

  'You're his master now, with God's blessing…. And you still won't take a cup of tea?'

  'No, I thank you heartily; it's time I was going home.'

  'That's as you think best…. And shall my coachman lead the horse after you?'

  'Yes, now, if you please.'

  'By all means, my dear sir, by all means…. Vassily, hey, Vassily! step along with the gentleman, lead the horse, and take the money for him. Well, good-bye, my good sir; God bless you.'

  'Good-bye, Anastasei Ivanitch.'

  They led the horse home for me. The next day he turned out to be broken-winded and lame. I tried having him put in harness; the horse backed, and if one gave him a flick with the whip he jibbed, kicked, and positively lay down. I set off at once to Mr. Tchornobai's. I inquired: 'At home?'

  'Yes.'

  'What's the meaning of this?' said I; 'here you've sold me a broken- winded horse.'

  'Broken-winded?… God forbid!'

  'Yes, and he's lame too, and vicious besides.'

  'Lame! I know nothing about it: your coachman must have ill-treated him somehow…. But before God, I—'

  'Look here, Anastasei Ivanitch, as things stand, you ought to take him back.'

  'No, my good sir, don't put yourself in a passion; once gone out of the yard, is done with. You should have looked before, sir.'

  I understood what that meant, accepted my fate, laughed, and walked off. Luckily, I had not paid very dear for the lesson.

  Two days later I left, and in a week I was again at Lebedyan on my way home again. In the café I found almost the same persons, and again I came upon Prince N——at billiards. But the usual change in the fortunes of Mr. Hlopakov had taken place in this interval: the fair- haired young officer had supplanted him in the prince's favours. The poor ex-lieutenant once more tried letting off his catchword in my presence, on the chance it might succeed as before; but, far from smiling, the prince positively scowled and shrugged his shoulders. Mr. Hlopakov looked downcast, shrank into a corner, and began furtively filling himself a pipe….

  END OF VOL. I.

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  Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

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