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Well, good-bye, my good sir; God bless you. 'Good-bye, Anastasei Ivanitch. They led the horse home for me. The next day he turned out to be broken-winded and lame. I tried having him put in harness; the horse backed, and if one gave him a flick with the whip he jibbed, kicked, and positively lay down. I set off at once to Mr. Tchornobai's. I inquired: 'At home? 'Yes.
'Well, now, observed Anastasei Ivanitch, 'allow me to give over the horse to you from hand to hand, after the old fashion.... You will thank me for him ... as sound as a nut, see ... fresh ... a true child of the steppes! Goes well in any harness. He crossed himself, laid the skirt of his coat over his hand, took the halter, and handed me the horse.
At the top there was a pen-and-ink sketch of a horse with a tail of the shape of a pipe and an endless neck, and below his hoofs were the following words, written in an old- fashioned hand: 'Here are for sale horses of various colours, brought to the Lebedyan fair from the celebrated steppes stud of Anastasei Ivanitch Tchornobai, landowner of Tambov.
These horses are of excellent sort; broken in to perfection, and free from vice. Purchasers will kindly ask for Anastasei Ivanitch himself: should Anastasei Ivanitch be absent, then ask for Nazar Kubishkin, the coachman. Gentlemen about to purchase, kindly honour an old man. I stopped. 'Come, I thought, 'let's have a look at the horses of the celebrated steppes breeder, Mr. Tchornobai.
'Well, well, take them back, in God's name, said Anastasei Ivanitch. 'Show us the others. Others were shown. At last I picked out one, rather a cheap one. We began to haggle over the price. Mr. Tchornobai did not get excited; he spoke so reasonably, with such dignity, that I could not help 'honouring' the old man; I gave him the earnest-money.
'What's the meaning of this? said I; 'here you've sold me a broken- winded horse. 'Broken-winded?... God forbid! 'Yes, and he's lame too, and vicious besides. 'Lame! I know nothing about it: your coachman must have ill-treated him somehow.... But before God, I 'Look here, Anastasei Ivanitch, as things stand, you ought to take him back.
I was about to go in at the gate, but found that, contrary to the common usage, it was locked. I knocked. 'Who's there?... A customer? whined a woman's voice. 'Yes. 'Coming, sir, coming. The gate was opened. I beheld a peasant-woman of fifty, bareheaded, in boots, and a sheepskin worn open. 'Please to come in, kind sir, and I'll go at once, and tell Anastasei Ivanitch ... Nazar, hey, Nazar!
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