The Enchanted Wanderer and Other Stories

“Ah, drat, my twenty kopecks are lost: Chepkun will beat Bakshey.”

And I say:

“How do you know? Nothing’s sure yet: they’re sitting the same way.”

And the man replies:

“They’re sitting the same way, but they lash differently.”

“Well,” I say, “in my opinion, Bakshey lashes more fiercely.”

“And that,” he replies, “is what’s wrong. No, my twenty kopecks are lost: Chepkun will finish him off.”

“What a remarkable thing,” I think. “How can my acquaintance reason so incomprehensibly? And yet,” I reflect, “he must understand this practice rather well, since he placed a bet!”

And, you know, I got very curious, and I started badgering my acquaintance.

“Tell me, my dear man,” I say, “what makes you fear for Bakshey now?”

And he says:

“What a stupid bumpkin you are! Look at the back on Bakshey.”

I look: all right, it’s a good enough back, manly, big and plump as a pillow.

“And do you see how he hits?”

I look and see that he beats fiercely, his eyes are even popping out, and with each stroke he draws blood.

“Well, and now consider, what is he doing to his insides?”

“Who knows about his insides? I see one thing, that he’s sitting up straight, and his mouth is wide open, and he’s quickly taking in air.”

And my acquaintance says:

“That’s the bad thing: his back is big, there’s lots of room for lashing; he beats quickly, huffing and puffing, and breathing through his open mouth, he’ll burn up all his insides with air.”

“So,” I ask, “that means Chepkun is surer?”

“Certainly he’s surer,” he says. “See, he’s all dry, nothing but skin and bones, and his back’s as warped as a shovel, the blows don’t land full on it, but only in places, and see how he pours it out on Bakshey measuredly, not rapidly, but with little pauses, and doesn’t pull the lash away at once, but lets the skin swell under it. That’s why Bakshey’s back is all swollen and blue as a stew pot, but there’s no blood, and all the pain stays in his body now, but on Chepkun’s lean back the skin crackles and tears, like on a roast pig, and his pain will all come out in blood, and he’ll finish Bakshey off. Do you understand now?”

“Now,” I say, “I understand.” And, in fact, here I understood this whole Asiatic practice all at once and became extremely interested in it: what in that case was the most useful way to act?

“And another most important thing,” my acquaintance points out. “Notice how well this cursed Chepkun keeps the rhythm with his mug. See, he strikes and suffers the reply and blinks his eyes correspondingly—it’s easier than just staring the way Bakshey stares, and Chepkun clenches his teeth and bites his lips, and that’s also easier, because owing to that reticence there’s no unnecessary burning inside him.”

I bore in mind all these curious examples and looked closely at Chepkun and Bakshey myself, and it became clear to me, too, that Bakshey was bound to collapse, because his eyes already looked quite stupefied, and his lips were drawn thin and revealed his bare teeth … And, in fact, we look: Bakshey gives Chepkun some twenty more lashes, weaker and weaker each time, and suddenly flops backwards, letting go of Chepkun’s left hand, but still moving his right as if lashing, only unconsciously now, completely passed out. Well, here my acquaintance said: “That’s it: my twenty kopecks are gone.” Here all the Tartars started talking, congratulating Chepkun, shouting:

“Ai, clever Chepkun Emgurcheev, ai, clever head—completely outwhipped Bakshey. Mount up—the mare is yours now.”

And Khan Dzhangar himself got up from the rug and strode about, and smacked his lips, and also said:

“Yours, Chepkun, the mare is yours: mount up, ride, you can rest on her.”

And Chepkun got up: blood streamed down his back, but he didn’t show any pain; he put his robe and beshmet on the mare’s back, threw himself on his belly over her, and rode off that way, and I again felt bored.

“There,” I think, “it’s over now, and thoughts about my situation will start coming into my head again”—and Lord knows I didn’t want to think about that.

But, thanks be, this acquaintance of mine says to me:

“Wait, don’t leave, there’s sure to be something more here.”

I say:

“What more can there be? It’s all over.”

“No,” he says, “it’s not over. Look how Khan Dzhangar’s pipe is burning. See, it’s smoking away: he’s sure to be thinking something over to himself, something most Asiatic.”

And I thought to myself: “Ah, if there’s going to be more of the same sort, then just let somebody wager on me and see if I back down.”

VI