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THE HORSE-STEALERS - The Horse-Stealers and Other Stories
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The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Horse-Stealers and Other Stories, by Anton Chekhov
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Produced by James Rusk
THE TALES OF CHEKHOV
VOLUME 10
THE HORSE STEALERS AND OTHER STORIES
BY
ANTON TCHEKHOV
Translated by CONSTANCE GARNETT
CONTENTS
THE HORSE-STEALERS
WARD NO. 6
THE PETCHENYEG
A DEAD BODY
A HAPPY ENDING
THE LOOKING-GLASS
OLD AGE
DARKNESS
THE BEGGAR
A STORY WITHOUT A TITLE
IN TROUBLE
FROST
A SLANDER
MINDS IN FERMENT
GONE ASTRAY
AN AVENGER
THE JEUNE PREMIER
A DEFENCELESS CREATURE
AN ENIGMATIC NATURE
A HAPPY MAN
A TROUBLESOME VISITOR
AN ACTOR'S END
A HOSPITAL assistant, called Yergunov, an empty-headed fellow, known throughout the district as a great braggart and drunkard, was returning one evening in Christmas week from the hamlet of Ryepino, where he had been to make some purchases for the hospital. That he might get home in good time and not be late, the doctor had lent him his very best horse.
At first it had been a still day, but at eight o'clock a violent snow-storm came on, and when he was only about four miles from home Yergunov completely lost his way.
He did not know how to drive, he did not know the road, and he drove on at random, hoping that the horse would find the way of itself. Two hours passed; the horse was exhausted, he himself was chilled, and already began to fancy that he was not going home, but back towards Ryepino. But at last above the uproar of the storm he heard the far-away barking of a dog, and a murky red blur came into sight ahead of him: little by little, the outlines of a high gate could be discerned, then a long fence on which there were nails with their points uppermost, and beyond the fence there stood the slanting crane of a well. The wind drove away the mist of snow from before the eyes, and where there had been a red blur, there sprang up a small, squat little house with a steep thatched roof. Of the three little windows one, covered on the inside with something red, was lighted up.
What sort of place was it? Yergunov remembered that to the right of the road, three and a half or four miles from the hospital, there was Andrey Tchirikov's tavern. He remembered, too, that this Tchirikov, who had been lately killed by some sledge-drivers, had left a wife and a daughter called Lyubka, who had come to the hospital two years before as a patient. The inn had a bad reputation, and to visit it late in the evening, and especially with someone else's horse, was not free from risk. But there was no help for it. Yergunov fumbled in his knapsack for his revolver, and, coughing sternly, tapped at the window-frame with his whip. 
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