Translated by Mary J. Safford. Copyright, 1902, by The Current
Literature Publishing Company.
It was late in the afternoon of an August day, but the sun was still
pouring its hot slanting rays into Christian’s sitting-room. The flies
were buzzing merrily around the head of the landlord, who sat by the
window, apparently watching the two balsams blooming in broken china
pots on the sill. Christian had been there a long time, staring between
the leaves and flowers of the plants at the little gate of the fence,
as if he was expecting some one.
He had already reached middle life, but looked considerably older. His
eyes were sunk deep in their sockets, and wrinkles seamed his face.
His wife, who was working busily at the loom, did not seem to have her
mind wholly on her task; for, whenever Christian made the slightest
movement, she glanced anxiously toward the door as if she, too, was
expecting somebody.
Suddenly Laurikamen, the assessor of the district court, entered,
greeted the couple, and shook hands ceremoniously with them. This
guest, whose visit seemed to afford neither pleasure nor surprise, sat
down at the table, and, after a short silence, lighted his pipe, and
finally remarked that it really was far too hot for five o’clock in the
afternoon, to which undeniably truthful remark Christian replied that
the heat would at least do the oats good. Gradually the conversation
grew more fluent; they discussed the questions of the day, the fall
of stocks, the price of grain at home and in Russia, and the sessions
of the court. Then the assessor had reached the point at which he was
aiming. Rising deliberately, he went to the hearth, knocked the ashes
from his pipe, and remarked, as if casually:
“By the way, you are summoned there.”
“I? To the court? By whom?”
“By Jegor Timofitsch Ivanov, your neighbor.”
“H’m! What is he after? Is it about the beating I gave him last spring?”
“Not at all; he must put up with that. It’s the affair of Jalo, his
trotter, you know.”
“Well, what’s that to me?”
“I don’t know. Come to-morrow, and you’ll find out.”
The assessor uttered a sigh of relief, rose, took his leave, and went
away.
Christian scratched himself behind the ear, and went out thoughtfully.
Sighing heavily, he wandered restlessly over the pastures and meadows
until late in the evening.
As it was still too warm in the room, he sat down on the steps to
enjoy the cool evening air. It was a damp, hot night; the stars shone
dimly through the air, which lay like a thin veil on the horizon.
The full moon was rising in majesty above the moor, looming in a
large, reddish gold disk through the firwood, which grew sparse and
stunted upon the moss-covered hill. The last birds were twittering
sleepily, and the night-jar flew clumsily, as if drunk, first to the
right, and then to the left, sometimes vanishing in the gloom. Country
folk hate the night-jar, and this aversion probably made Christian’s
whole surroundings suddenly seem unspeakably desolate. His mood was
transmitted to the scene about him. He could not possibly drive that
business of Jalo the trotter out of his head. All the memories of his
life were associated with the name. Everything he had dreamed and
hoped, everything which had disturbed and alarmed him, had revolved
wholly around Jalo. How well he recollected the day Jegor Timofitsch
Ivanov opened his shop in the village of Tervola. Everything that
previously was brought from the city could now be bought at Jegor
Timofitsch’s. How humble and cringing the fellow had been then; how
well he understood how to ingratiate himself with everybody.
At that time Jalo was nearly three years old.
Jegor had been everybody’s most humble servant. Doubling up like a
pocket-knife in his obsequiousness, he had treated his customers to
tobacco and sbitin,[2] promised them unlimited credit, and thereby won
all hearts. “You haven’t any money? Oh, that makes no difference--we’ll
charge it; you can pay another time.” It was all so easy and simple,
but when a year had gone by, Jegor’s account book was full, and all
the insignificant entries were found to amount to an enormous sum.
If anybody needed a loan, who but Jegor had the money? True, he asked
twelve per cent, but then there was no bothering with lawyers, judges,
assessors, and such people. And who did not need money in these times?
Everybody wanted it, and Christian, perhaps, most of all.
But when four years had passed, Jegor Timofitsch from being everybody’s
servant had become everybody’s master. Now he carried his back as stiff
as a ramrod; now he used a very different tone: “Lout, do you mean to
sow rye? No, you must sow oats; I can’t sell rye in these times. You
want money to buy a cow? You have scarcely enough feed for the one you
own. No, that won’t do.”
He sold the peasant’s grain from the fields before it was mowed. He
felled their woods for fuel and lumber, without any further ceremony
than to notify them of his intention. And yet, how the terrible debt
grew! It was as insatiable as the Moloch of the Philistines. Everything
disappeared in its mighty jaws. It was never settled, in spite of all
the sacrifices and payments in the shape of tar, wood, tallow, sheep,
crabs, game-birds, and oats.
If any one had cause to suffer from this neighbor it was Christian.
Their farms adjoined, and he knew better than all the rest what it
means to be a debtor. It seemed as though the flesh was being gnawed
from his body and the marrow sucked out of his bones. He often felt
utterly defenseless against the cruel foe, and thought seriously of
going out to beg his way from door to door, if only he could be a free
man once more.
But in the hour of his sorest need help came. And his deliverer was
Jalo, who had reached his sixth year at Michaelmas.
Oh, what an animal this Jalo was! His black coat shone like silk.
Looking at his side, darker and lighter circles appeared on his back
and thighs. What a tail, and what a mane he had, both so thick and
long! His hoofs were like steel, his broad breast inhaled the air
like bellows. His eyes were those of a sea-eagle. He not only saw at
a distance, but in the mist, in the whirling snow, and in the dark.
But of even greater worth than his strength and his beauty was his
noble nature. He was proud. A blow from a whip was an insult that
drove him nearly frantic. He was docile with all his strength, loving
with all his spirit. And what a grateful heart he had! How he would
rub his velvety muzzle on Christian’s arm when he offered him salt
and bread, oats, or a bit of sugar. This animal was better than many
a human being, certainly better than his disobedient daughter and
his ungrateful son-in-law. Had anybody ever seen Jalo shy? Never--he
would not fear Satan himself. Had he ever stumbled? Never, no matter
how steep might be the descent of the hill. Everybody was obliged
to admit that Jalo was the finest animal in all Finland. His equal
could scarcely be found in Russia. When Christian’s debts weighed
heavily upon him, when Moloch opened his jaws and demanded fresh
sacrifices, Christian went to the stable, curried his Jalo, blackened
his hoofs, braided his mane, and patted his back. And he always felt
lighter-hearted.
When Jegor Timofitsch’s demands had gone far beyond Christian’s
powers to meet, and he saw no way of shaking off this vampire, he
harnessed Jalo into a light sleigh and set off for Wiborg, to consult
a distinguished lawyer. He could not believe that Jegor had written
things down correctly. His poor little purchases, some tobacco and
grain, coffee and sugar, could never amount to so large a sum.
Something was surely wrong, and there was Jegor’s usurious interest
into the bargain!
How vividly he remembered that journey. It was a clear, cold day in
January. The snow lay on the fields and meadows as smooth and level
as the surface of the lake. The shadows of the fences, hayricks, and
rollers lay like blue spots upon the white surface. The snow-birds
hopped across the road, and the magpies chattered joyously as they
ran up and down the fences. Sipi, the bear-dog, with pointed ears and
woolly tail, dashed at full gallop before Jalo, who with a dainty
movement of his hoofs, as if it were mere play, rushed forward at
lightning speed. It was all so cheering that Christian’s depression
began to pass away. He had almost reached the Papula quarter, when
suddenly he heard some one calling and shouting. Taking the pipe from
his mouth, he leaned out of the sleigh and looked behind him. A man in
a little racing sleigh was following at full gallop, waving his hand in
its fur-edged gauntlet glove. Christian stopped, and the traveler, a
short, stout man dressed in furs, driving a mouse-colored horse, soon
reached him.
“Good morning, Landlord. That _is_ a trotter you have!” he said eagerly,
biting his frozen mustache. “To tell the truth, I’ve been driving
behind you at least a quarter of an hour without being able to overtake
you. Where did you get the animal? What is his pedigree? How old is he?
Just look at that chest and those thighs!”
The stranger left his sleigh as he spoke to examine Jalo more closely.
Christian was pleased and proud, answered to the best of his ability,
and praised the horse to the newcomer, who seemed to be perfectly
delighted with him.
“Well, of course, you’ll come to the trotting races day after
to-morrow. As the owner of an animal like yours, it’s your duty to do
it. I am Captain T., one of the judges. Remember the first prize is a
thousand marks.”
Christian had already heard of the races and even thought of them;
but in the country people usually learn facts only after they have
occurred. But now--why not, since he was already in the city?
Christian promised to come, and the men clasped hands on the agreement.
Jalo, who was already impatient to go on, vanished from the Captain’s
admiring gaze beyond the next hill like a streak of lightning.
Christian entered his horse for the races. What glorious days, what
a season of triumph and honor for Jalo and his master! There was not
a newspaper in the whole country which did not mention Jalo and his
owner. Telegrams announcing the horse’s wonderful deeds flew from city
to city. His victory was extraordinary; he carried off the first prize,
outstripping famous old trotters. Even now, as Christian sat depressed
and sorrowful in his entry, a bright smile flitted over his face as he
recalled that glorious time. How distinctly everything rose before his
mind: the golden sunlight, the blue sky, the light snow-flakes carried
by the winter wind, the music and the cheering, the heating drinks, and
Jalo, the hero of the day. It had undoubtedly been the brightest and
happiest of his life. But as the highest surges sink the lowest, and
the tallest pine trees cast the longest shadows, it also happened that
the day when Jalo and his master reached the giddy heights of joy was
followed by very sad consequences.
Nothing favorable was obtained from the lawyer. Instead of encouraging
counsel he informed Christian that Jegor had already obtained the final
judgment from the Governor. Christian’s debt must be paid, principal
and interest. There was no resource except to sell Jalo, and even
that would not completely cover the amount. Christian drank till he
was completely dazed, wept, sobered up again, and, during all these
varying moods, constantly tried to raise the price. At last the bargain
had to be closed. Jalo was sold to a Russian merchant, and Christian
returned home, deeply saddened and frantic with rage, driving a mare
which he detested from the first moment. It was small consolation that
his pocketbook was stuffed with hundred-mark notes, the farewell gift
Jalo’s victory had brought to his master.
Christian was inconsolable, and it seemed downright madness to pay
Jegor so much good money. It was just like throwing it into the sea.
But at last he was obliged to make up his mind to it, and went to
Jegor’s shop at an hour when he was sure of finding him alone, paid
his debt, and received his note and other papers. Jegor was incautious
enough to let some offensive words escape his lips, and nothing more
was required to bring Christian’s repressed fury to utterance. If the
former had never known before what a drubbing means, he understood it
when his neighbor left the shop. From that day there was the bitterest
enmity between the two men.
Christian was free; but though he bragged of it in Jegor’s hearing, his
heart bled. What did he care for liberty without Jalo? True, he had
escaped an impending danger, but in exchange had sacrificed all the
happiness of his life. Existence had lost all charm for him; he had no
more debts to trouble him, but also no Jalo to love. The occasional
notices of the animal which he read in the newspapers were like salt
in an open wound. “The famous trotter Jalo, that won the first prize
at Wiborg, has again covered himself with glory,” or “the well-known
trotter Jalo has again carried off a prize at the races at Savastehus.”
On such days Christian was like a madman. Either he sat sullen and
silent like a chaffinch in the rain, or he was angry and irritable,
blazing out at the least provocation like Juniper in the flames.
Gradually the resolution to get possession of Jalo again at any cost
became fixed in his mind. What was the use of saving and gathering
to spend his life in joyless longing? His daughter and son-in-law
were waiting impatiently for his death, that they might inherit his
property. He had no grandchildren, so, as matters stood, the best thing
he could do would be to try to get possession of Jalo once more.
After much difficulty, he found bondsmen, and pledged his land. Now he
need only secure the money, and then set off to bargain for the horse.
Even in the worst case, it could not be “dearer than gold.”[3] His
present owner in Wiborg had many horses, and would surely be willing
to give up Jalo for a satisfactory price. The day of his departure was
already fixed when one beautiful morning in July, just as Christian was
in the act of removing a few stubbly gray hairs from his chin, he heard
a familiar neigh. There was no mistake; it must be Jalo, that was just
the way he always called his master when he went into his stable late
in the morning. Christian threw down the razor and rushed out. There
behind the corner of his own stable, to which Jegor’s pasture extended,
stood Jalo with dilated nostrils, tossing his head up and down. In
a second he flew over the fence, and stood upon the ground of his
former owner. Christian felt as though he was paralyzed in every limb.
He could only utter a gasp of astonishment. A joyful smile flitted
over his face like sunshine over the moorland, while all the tales of
witchcraft he had overheard flashed through his excited brain. While
he still stood there, rubbing his eyes, to convince himself that he was
not dreaming, Jegor, his enemy, entered the yard, bridle and whip in
hand. “The horse belongs to me,” he said; “beware of luring him here.”
Jegor seized Jalo by the lock of hair on his forehead, put on the
bridle, and, swearing violently, protested that he would cure him of
leaping the fence. Poor Jalo was roughly dragged away to his own barn,
and after a time Christian heard the horse snorting and stamping under
the blows of Jegor’s whip. To beat Jalo, to abuse such an animal--who
ever heard of such a thing?
From that day Christian’s life was a hell. To be compelled to do
without the horse was torture enough, but to know that it was in the
hands of his worst enemy, that he could never own it again, to see it
daily without being able to go near it, was far worse. Everything that
Jegor could think of to do to the horse in Christian’s presence to
torment him he conscientiously did. Every blow he had himself received
he returned to Jalo. And when, as sometimes happened, the horse came
dashing at a gallop to his old master, as if seeking protection,
Christian could be certain that thick wales on Jalo’s sides would show
how Jegor Timofitsch rewarded faithful friendship.
Several weeks passed in this way. It was a hot August day when the
baked clods of earth cracked with the heat, and the air quivered and
shimmered under the burning sunshine. Even the village dogs had stopped
barking and fled to the shade under steps and outbuildings. The cows
stood knee-deep in the water beneath the shelter of the dark alders.
Only the gnats enjoyed the fierce heat of the sun; the dragon-flies
flew through the air in shimmering circles. Christian lay stretched on
the wooden bench in his house watching Jalo with burning eyes as he
stood opposite to him in Jegor’s meadow in the shade of a gnarled old
elm. Christian was dreaming of the happy days when Jalo still belonged
to him. How insignificant appeared the troubles of those times, and
how great their joys. He was just falling into a light slumber when
he was roused by three huntsmen from Wiborg inquiring eagerly for the
landlord. They had been in pursuit of hares when they unexpectedly
encountered a lynx engaged in the same chase. For two days they had
followed the trail of the wild beast, which became greatly exhausted,
when unluckily their dog hurt its paw and had to be left behind. The
hunters now asked where they could borrow one to continue the chase.
Christian owned such a dog. His Sipi could be used to track sea-fowl,
hares, and bears. The gentlemen, accompanied by Christian and Sipi,
hurried back to the moor where they had last seen the trail of the
lynx. Within fifteen minutes Sipi found it and, amid joyous barking and
waving of his bushy tail, ran toward the woods. Soon furious baying
announced that the lynx was either caught or had climbed a tree. When
the hunters reached the spot, Sipi was executing a wild war-dance
around a pine tree, of whose boughs lay the wild beast, gnashing its
teeth at its enemy. With ears laid back smoothly against its head, and
eyes glittering with rage, it seemed on the point of leaping down on
its shaggy foe. But before determining to commence the fray, it fell
under the bullet of the first of the approaching hunters. Its paws
were bound together, a pole thrust through them, and it was carried in
triumph back to Christian’s farm. There the weary men ate a country
luncheon, and celebrated their luck thoroughly by consuming plenty of
brandy and rum. The heating drinks went to their heads, and by twilight
Christian and his guests had become very excited and garrulous.
“Listen to me, Christian,” said his wife, who was made somewhat anxious
by the noisy company, “I won’t have any loaded guns in the house: go
and fire the bullets out of those barrels.”
Christian rose slowly, remarking that women were always great cowards;
took the guns from the bench, and went out. Daylight was failing, but
darkness had not yet closed in; the perfume of new-mown clover drifted
in on the breeze. From the distance echoed the notes of the cowherds’
horns, and the crickets were chirping loudly in the courtyard.
Christian staggered down the steps. Suddenly he stopped. There by
the corner of the stable again stood the dream of his nights and the
longings of his days. Jalo raised his delicately formed head, shook his
floating mane, and uttered a low, mysterious neigh, as if calling his
former master.
Christian went to him and patted his neck. The animal put his velvety
muzzle over the low fence into Christian’s pocket. The latter, deeply
moved, threw his arm over the horse’s neck. It was so long since he
had caressed Jalo, stroked his soft skin, and spoken to him. While
thus passing his hand along the beautiful creature’s back, he suddenly
felt the wales of Jegor’s lashes. The blood surged hotly in his veins.
“Miserable brute,” he muttered, shaking his fist savagely at Jegor’s
house. “My poor friend, I’ll free you forever from his whip, his
cruelty, and tyranny.” Almost before he himself was aware what he was
doing, he had snatched the gun from his shoulder--one shot, and the
noble creature fell moaning; one sorrowful glance from the glazing
eyes, and Jalo lay lifeless behind the fence which separated him from
his former owner. Christian fled into the forest like a murderer. Half
an hour later he returned to his home perfectly sober. The hunters
had gone to look for their dog. He was alone with his wife. Deeply
agitated, he told her what he had done.
“Well, what do you mean to do?” asked Christian’s wife when her
husband returned late in the evening from Laurikamen’s. “There are no
witnesses.”
“No, there are no witnesses; but whatever they may do to me, I will
tell them at any rate the whole story of Jalo.”