The Horse-stealers Page #5

"The Horse-Stealers" is a collection of short stories by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov, showcasing the author's keen observations of human nature and societal issues in late 19th-century Russia. Through a variety of characters and settings, Chekhov explores themes of morality, the struggles of everyday life, and the complexities of relationships. The titular story delves into the consequences of crime and the moral dilemmas faced by individuals, while the other pieces reflect Chekhov's signature blend of humor and poignancy, revealing the bittersweet realities of existence. This collection highlights Chekhov's skill in capturing the nuances of human emotion and the intricacies of social dynamics.

								


Yergunov looked into her eyes, hesitated, and put his arms round her;
she did not resist.

"Come, no nonsense; let me go," he begged her. She did not speak.

"I heard you just now," he said, "telling Merik that you love him."

"I dare say. . . . My heart knows who it is I love."

She put her finger on the key again, and said softly: "Give me that."

Yergunov unfastened the key and gave it to her. She suddenly craned her
neck and listened with a grave face, and her expression struck Yergunov
as cold and cunning; he thought of his horse, and now easily pushed her
aside and ran out into the yard. In the shed a sleepy pig was grunting
with lazy regularity and a cow was knocking her horn. Yergunov lighted a
match and saw the pig, and the cow, and the dogs, which rushed at him on
all sides at seeing the light, but there was no trace of the horse.
Shouting and waving his arms at the dogs, stumbling over the drifts and
sticking in the snow, he ran out at the gate and fell to gazing into the
darkness. He strained his eyes to the utmost, and saw only the snow
flying and the snowflakes distinctly forming into all sorts of shapes;
at one moment the white, laughing face of a corpse would peep out of the
darkness, at the next a white horse would gallop by with an Amazon in a
muslin dress upon it, at the next a string of white swans would fly
overhead. . . . Shaking with anger and cold, and not knowing what to do,
Yergunov fired his revolver at the dogs, and did not hit one of them;
then he rushed back to the house.

When he went into the entry he distinctly heard someone scurry out of
the room and bang the door. It was dark in the room. Yergunov pushed
against the door; it was locked. Then, lighting match after match, he
rushed back into the entry, from there into the kitchen, and from the
kitchen into a little room where all the walls were hung with petticoats
and dresses, where there was a smell of cornflowers and fennel, and a
bedstead with a perfect mountain of pillows, standing in the corner by
the stove; this must have been the old mother's room. From there he
passed into another little room, and here he saw Lyubka. She was lying
on a chest, covered with a gay-coloured patchwork cotton quilt,
pretending to be asleep. A little ikon-lamp was burning in the corner
above the pillow.

"Where is my horse?" Yergunov asked.

Lyubka did not stir.

"Where is my horse, I am asking you?" Yergunov repeated still more
sternly, and he tore the quilt off her. "I am asking you, she-devil!" he
shouted.

She jumped up on her knees, and with one hand holding her shift and with
the other trying to clutch the quilt, huddled against the wall . . . .
She looked at Yergunov with repulsion and terror in her eyes, and, like
a wild beast in a trap, kept cunning watch on his faintest movement.

"Tell me where my horse is, or I'll knock the life out of you," shouted
Yergunov.

"Get away, dirty brute!" she said in a hoarse voice.

Yergunov seized her by the shift near the neck and tore it. And then he
could not restrain himself, and with all his might embraced the girl.
But hissing with fury, she slipped out of his arms, and freeing one
hand--the other was tangled in the torn shift--hit him a blow with her
fist on the skull.

His head was dizzy with the pain, there was a ringing and rattling in
his ears, he staggered back, and at that moment received another
blow--this time on the temple. Reeling and clutching at the doorposts,
that he might not fall, he made his way to the room where his things
were, and lay down on the bench; then after lying for a little time,
took the matchbox out of his pocket and began lighting match after match
for no object: he lit it, blew it out, and threw it under the table, and
went on till all the matches were gone.

Meanwhile the air began to turn blue outside, the cocks began to crow,
but his head still ached, and there was an uproar in his ears as though
he were sitting under a railway bridge and hearing the trains passing
over his head. He got, somehow, into his coat and cap; the saddle and
the bundle of his purchases he could not find, his knapsack was empty:
it was not for nothing that someone had scurried out of the room when he
came in from the yard.

He took a poker from the kitchen to keep off the dogs, and went out into
the yard, leaving the door open. The snow-storm had subsided and it was
calm outside. . . . When he went out at the gate, the white plain looked
dead, and there was not a single bird in the morning sky. On both sides
of the road and in the distance there were bluish patches of young
copse.

Yergunov began thinking how he would be greeted at the hospital and what
the doctor would say to him; it was absolutely necessary to think of
that, and to prepare beforehand to answer questions he would be asked,
but this thought grew blurred and slipped away. He walked along thinking
of nothing but Lyubka, of the peasants with whom he had passed the
night; he remembered how, after Lyubka struck him the second time, she
had bent down to the floor for the quilt, and how her loose hair had
fallen on the floor. His mind was in a maze, and he wondered why there
were in the world doctors, hospital assistants, merchants, clerks, and
peasants instead of simple free men? There are, to be sure, free birds,
free beasts, a free Merik, and they are not afraid of anyone, and don't
need anyone! And whose idea was it, who had decreed that one must get up
in the morning, dine at midday, go to bed in the evening; that a doctor
takes precedence of a hospital assistant; that one must live in rooms
and love only one's wife? And why not the contrary--dine at night and
sleep in the day? Ah, to jump on a horse without enquiring whose it is,
to ride races with the wind like a devil, over fields and forests and
ravines, to make love to girls, to mock at everyone . . . .

Yergunov thrust the poker into the snow, pressed his forehead to the
cold white trunk of a birch-tree, and sank into thought; and his grey,
monotonous life, his wages, his subordinate position, the dispensary,
the everlasting to-do with the bottles and blisters, struck him as
contemptible, sickening.

"Who says it's a sin to enjoy oneself?" he asked himself with vexation.
"Those who say that have never lived in freedom like Merik and
Kalashnikov, and have never loved Lyubka; they have been beggars all
their lives, have lived without any pleasure, and have only loved their
wives, who are like frogs."

And he thought about himself that he had not hitherto been a thief, a
swindler, or even a brigand, simply because he could not, or had not yet
met with a suitable opportunity. ----

A year and a half passed. In spring, after Easter, Yergunov, who had
long before been dismissed from the hospital and was hanging about
without a job, came out of the tavern in Ryepino and sauntered aimlessly
along the street.
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