On the loss of his faithful friend, Tchertop-hanov 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. Panteley Eremyitch'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 Don 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, Tchertop-hanov
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? Vassya, come to your mammy, sir; sh, sh, nasty brute!'
The old woman drove away the chicken, while Vassya 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!'
Tchertop-hanov uttered a whoop, gave his horse a lash on the neck with
the 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, and not pri-vate per-sons!
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 a nankin long coat, dishevelled and
mangled... a pale face, rolling eyes, open mouth.... What was it?...
deadly terror, or death itself?
'Why have you killed this Jew?' Tchertop-hanov 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
Tchertop-hanov.
But, at this point, the creature lying on the ground hurriedly jumped on
to its feet, and, running up to Tchertop-hanov, convulsively seized hold
of the edge of the saddle.
'Alive!' was heard in the background.
'He's a regular cat!'
'Your ex-shelency, defend me, save me!' the unhappy Jew was faltering
meanwhile, his whole body squeezed up against Tchertop-hanov's foot; 'or
they will murder me, they will murder me, your ex-shelency!'
'What have they against you?' asked Tchertop-hanov.
'I can't tell, so help me God! Some cow hereabouts died... so they
suspect me... but I...' 'Well, that we'll go into later!'
Tchertop-hanov interrupted; 'but now, you hold on to the saddle and
follow me. And you!' he added, turning to the crowd,' do you know
me?--I'm the landowner Panteley Tchertop-hanov. I live at
Bezsonovo,--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 grey-bearded, decent-looking peasant,
bowing low, the very picture of an ancient patriarch. (He had been no
whit behind the others in belabouring the Jew, however). 'We know your
honour, Panteley Eremyitch, well; we thank your honour humbly for
teaching us better!'
'Why take proceedings?' chimed in the others.
'As to the Jew, we'll take it out of him another day! He won't escape
us! We shall be on the look-out for him.'
Tchertop-hanov pulled his moustaches, 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 Tihon Nedopyuskin.