"But I have not had a ride yet. Just watch me gallop! Please, give me a
good-sized switch! I will heat him up."
Then the valet shook his head, and said:
"Oh, sir, you have no pity; why should you heat him up? He is twenty
years old. The horse is worn out; he can barely breathe, and is old. He
is so very old! Just like Pímen Timoféich. You might just as well sit
down on Timoféich's back and urge him on with a switch. Well, would you
not pity him?"
I thought of Pímen, and listened to the valet's words. I climbed down
from the horse and, when I saw how his sweaty sides hung down, how he
breathed heavily through his nostrils, and how he switched his bald
tail, I understood that it was hard for the horse. Before that I used to
think that it was as much fun for him as for me. I felt so sorry for
Raven that I began to kiss his sweaty neck and to beg his forgiveness
for having beaten him.
Since then I have grown to be a big man, and I always am careful with
the horses, and always think of Raven and of Pímen Timoféitch whenever I
see anybody torture a horse.