hunter notes

Chapter 57 The end of Qiertophanov (5)
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Now the truth is clear: this useless rogue is not Malek Adel, and there is no resemblance between him and Malek Adel, as anyone with any sense can easily see.And he, Ponteley Chertopkhanov, was deceived in the meanest way—no!This is him deluding himself.Tsartopkhanov paced up and down the room, turning his heels in the same way against each wall, like a wild animal in a cage.His pride made him miserable; but it was not only his wounded pride that hurt him, he was filled with despair, righteous indignation, and the desire for revenge burned in him.But against whom?Revenge who?To the Jews, to Alfred, to Masha, to the deacon, to the horse-stealing Cossack, to all his neighbors, to the whole world, to himself?He lost his mind.The last card is lost! (He liked the analogy.) He was again the most insignificant man, the meanest man, the butt of everybody, the clown, the ultimate fool, the deacon! ! ... he was imagining, he was clearly imagining: what that damned pig's tail would tell about the gray horse, about his foolish master... Oh, damn it! ! ... In vain Tsartopkhanov suppressed the excitement in his heart, vainly tried to convince himself that this ... horse was not Malek Adel, but it was ... a good horse that would serve him for many years .He immediately dismissed the thought angrily, as if it contained a new insult to that Malek Adel, and he had long since been ashamed of that... Malek Adel... needless to say !He was blind, completely bewildered, to think of this old, lean ruffian on the same level as it—Malek Adel!Speaking of this poor horse, can he still serve him... Is there a day when he will be willing to ride it?Never!never! ! . . . Give it to the Tartars, throw it to the dogs, that's all it can be used for... Yes!This is the best way!

For more than two hours Tchertopkhanov walked up and down in his own room.

"Perfischka!" suddenly he ordered, "go to the tavern at once and get the half-widlow! Do you hear me? Half-widlow, hurry up! Get the half-widlow and put it on my table at once."

In a short time the schnapps was placed on Bontely Yeremych's table, and he drank it.

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Had anyone seen then, had anyone witnessed his insidious rage as he drank the cup dry, one would have felt involuntarily terrified.It was already dark, and a dim candle was burning on the table.Tsartopkhanov stopped wandering from one corner to the other, sat flushed, eyes dimmed, sometimes looking at the ground, sometimes stubbornly gazing into the dark window; he got up, He poured a glass of soju, drank it up, sat down again, and kept his eyes fixed on one place again.It's just that his breathing gradually became more rapid, and his face blushed even more.A determination seemed to mature in him, a determination that frightened himself, but gradually got used to it.The same thought became more definite, and the same image became more and more distinct before the eyes.And in his heart, under the strong influence of intoxication, the anger of hatred had turned into cruel emotion, and a terrible sneer appeared on his lips... "Well, it's time!" He said in a sophisticated, almost impatient way. Said in a tone of voice, "It's not too late!"

He drank his last glass of brandy, took the pistol out of the bed--the one that hit Masha, loaded it, and put some cartridge caps in his pocket, "just in case," and went on Go to the stables.

Just as he was about to open the door, the watchman ran towards him, but he yelled at him, "It's me! Don't you recognize it? Get out!" The watchman stepped back a little. "Go to bed!" Tsartopkhanov yelled at him again. "You don't need to guard here! Guard this rare treasure!" He went into the stable.Malek Ajel... Fake Malek Ajel lying on the mat.Tshertopkhanov kicked it, said: "Get up, stupid thing!" Then he took off the bridle from the manger, took off his clothes, threw it on the ground, and roughly pulled the tame horse into the manger. Turning around the house, leading it to the yard and then to the field, the watchman was so surprised that he couldn't figure it out anyway: where would the master go without harnessing the horse in the middle of the night?Of course he didn't dare to ask him, but just watched him until he was out of sight around the corner of the road leading into the nearby woods.

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Tsartopkhanov strode on without looking back; Malek Adel—we shall call him by that name to the end—obediently followed him.The night was quite bright, and Tsartopkhanov could make out the toothed outlines of the dark forest ahead.He was attacked by Ye Han, if it wasn't...if it was because of another stronger intoxication dominating him, he would definitely be very drunk from the soju he drank.He was beginning to feel dizzy, with blood pounding in his throat and ears, but he walked steadily forward and knew where to go.

He's made up his mind to kill Malek Ajel, he's been thinking about it all day...and now he's made up his mind!
He does this not only with equanimity, but with assurance and firmness, as if submitting to the course of a responsible man.He thinks this "thing" is very "simple": destroy this counterfeit, and he will liquidate "everything" at once. The whole world (and Ertopkhanov is very concerned about "the whole world") proves that he is serious... But more importantly, he will die with this impostor, because what is the point of him living any longer?How it all happened in his head, how it seemed easy to him—not easy to explain, but not impossible.He is wronged, lonely, has no friends, relatives, no money, and he is bleeding from drinking, he is already close to insanity; and the most absurd behavior of insane people, he can now understand-this is undoubtedly a thing .Tsartopkhanov was completely convinced of his reasons, he did not hesitate, he was in a hurry to deal with the criminal, but he did not clearly understand who he was calling the criminal? . . . In truth, he gave little thought to what he was about to do. "It must be solved, it must be resolved." He just repeated this sentence to himself in a rigid and stern manner: "It must be ended!"

The wronged grudge followed him obediently... But Chertopkhanov had no pity in his heart.

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He took his horse to a place not far from the edge of the woods, where a small valley was halfway in which young oaks grew thickly.Tshertopkhanov went down the ravine... Malek Adel stumbled and almost fell on top of him.

"You're trying to crush me, you bastard!" cried Tsartopkhanov, drawing a pistol from his pocket as if in self-defense.What he felt now was not cruelty, but a special kind of emotional paralysis--the kind of paralysis that is said to dominate the man who is about to commit a crime.He was frightened by his own voice, which resounded so eerily under the cover of dark boughs, in the stuffy, suffocating moisture of the wooded valley!And in answer to his cry a sudden flap of the wings of a large bird in the treetops above him... Tszrtopkhanov shuddered.He seemed to have awakened a witness to his deed—but where?This is a remote place where no living thing should touch... "Go, beast, go wherever you want!" he murmured through his teeth, releasing Malek Adel's hand. Rein, hit it hard on the shoulder.Malek Ajie immediately turned back, crawled out of the ravine... and ran away.Its hoofbeats ceased to be heard after a while.A gust of wind blew through, mixing and drowning out all sounds.

Tsartopkhanov himself crawled slowly out of the ravine, went to the edge of the wood, and walked slowly along the road home.He was very dissatisfied with himself; the heaviness in his head and heart spread to his limbs; he walked, full of anger, hungry and hungry, as if insulted, robbed His prey and food... A suicide attempter who has been prevented from planning will know what it is like.

Suddenly he was touched by something.He looked back: Malek Ajel was standing in the middle of the road.It followed its master, nudged him...to signal its coming... "Ah!" cried Tshertopkhanov, "you've killed yourself! Well, come on!"

In an instant, he had drawn his pistol, pulled the trigger, put the muzzle of the gun on Malek Adel's forehead, and fired... The poor horse suddenly stepped aside, reared up, and jumped away. At a distance of ten steps, he suddenly fell heavily, rolled convulsively on the ground, and let out a hoarse cry... Tsartopkhanov blocked his ears with his hands and fled.His legs were weak.His drunkenness, his hatred, his dull self-confidence—all at once were gone.All that was left was a feeling of shame and ugliness—and a thought, a clear thought, that this time he himself was dead.

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At the end of about six weeks, Pilfischka, the boy, considered it his duty to stop a district police chief who was passing through the Bessonovo estate.

"What's the matter with you?" asked the person who supervised the order. "Your Excellency, please come to our house," replied the boy, bowing deeply. "Pontely Yeremitch seems to be dying, so I am very worried."

"What? Dying soon?" asked the police chief. "Yes, at first he drank schnapps every day, and now he's lying on the bed, and he's so skinny. I think he's completely out of his mind now, and he can't speak a word."

The Chief of Police stepped down from the carriage. "Then you have at least called for the priest? Has your master confessed? Has communion been celebrated?" "No." The prefect frowned.

"How did this happen, brother? How could it be like this, huh? Maybe you don't understand, this matter...a heavy responsibility, huh?"

"I asked him the day before yesterday," continued the timid boy, "and I said: 'Pontely Yeremitch, do you want me to run and fetch a priest?' And he said: 'Shut up, fool. Leave it alone.’ But today I spoke to him and he just looked at me and moved his beard a little.”

"Did he drink a lot of schnapps?" asked the police chief. "That's a lot! Your Excellency, if you please, go and see him in the room." "Well, lead the way!" said the police chief in a low voice, and followed Perfishka.

He has little time left.In a damp and dark back room, on a rough bed covered with a horse coat, Tsartopkhanov lay on his pillow, not pale, but dead. Green-yellow eyes, sunken deeply under glossy lids, and a pointed, yet slightly reddish nose above a shaggy mustache.He lay on his back in the jacket with the ammunition pouch on the breast that he always wore, and the blue Circassian knickerbockers.A tall, dark red fur hat covered his forehead to the brow.Tsartopkhanov held in one hand a hunting whip, and in the other an embroidered pouch, the last present he received from Masha.There was an empty wine bottle on the table beside the bed, and two watercolors were nailed to the wall by the bed: on one of them, as recognizable as possible, was a fat man with a banjo in his hand—probably It was Niedaubyskin; the other was of a galloping rider... The horse was like the mythical animals that children draw on the walls, but with carefully painted round spots on the horse's hair, the rider's chest The ammunition pouch on the front, his pointed boots and bushy mustache, there was nothing suspicious about it, suggesting that the picture must be of Bontely Yeremych riding Malek Adel.

The startled police chief didn't know what to do.The room was filled with dead silence. "He's dead," he thought, and raised his voice, calling out: "Pontely Eremitch! Hello, Pontely Eremitch!"

Then an accident happened.Chertopkhanov's eyes opened slowly, the dim pupils first turned from right to left, then from left to right again, stopped on the visitor, and saw him... There was something flickering in the dark white eyes, as if there were rays of light; the blue lips gradually parted, and a low, lifeless voice came out:

"Bonteley Chertopkhanov, a nobleman from generation to generation, is dying. No one can save him? He owes no one, asks nothing... Leave him alone, you bastards! Go away!"

The hand with the whip tried to raise it... but it was useless!The lips were drawn together again, and the eyes were closed.Tsartopkhanov straightened himself up, moved the soles of his feet closer, and remained on his hard bed.

"Tell me after death," said the police chief in a low voice to Perfishka, as he went out of the room. "As for the priest, I think I can call for it now. Be sure to anoint him according to the rules. "

Perfishka sent for the priest that very day; the next morning he went to inform the prefect of police that Pontely Yeremitch had died the night before.

At the burial his coffin was escorted by two men: Perfishika the boy and Mocher Leiba.The news of Tsartopkhanov's death reached the Jew somehow, and he did not forget to pay his last favor to his benefactor.

(End of this chapter)