THE SUMMER OF THE

BEAUTIFUL WHITE HORSE®

BY WILLIAM SAROYAN

NE DAY back there in the good old days when I was nine
and the world was full of every imaginable kind of mag-
nificence, and life was still a delightful and mysterious dream,
my cousin Mourad, who was considered crazy by everybody
who knew him except me, came to my house at four in the morn-
ing and woke me up by tapping on the window of my room.
Aram, he said.
I jumped out of bed and looked out the window.
I couldn't believe what saw.
It wasn't morning yet, but it was summer and with daybreak
not many minutes around the corner of the world it was light
enough for me to know I wasn't dreaming.
My cousin Mourad was sitting on a beautiful white horse.
stuck my head out of the window and rubbed my eyes.
Yes, he said in Armenian. It's a horse. not dreaming.
You're
Make it quick if you want ride.
knew my cousin Mourad enjoyed being alive more than
anybody else who had ever fallen into the world by mistake,
but this was more than even I could believe.
In the first place, my earliest memories had been memories
of horses and my first longings had been longings to ride.
This was the wonderful part.
In the second place, we were poor.
This was the part that wouldn't
permit me to believe what I
saw.

from My Name Is Aram

 SUMMER OF THE BEAUTIFUL WHITE HORSE 195
THE

We were poor. We had no money. Our whole tribe was

noverty-stricken. Every branch of the Garoghlanian family was
living in themost amazing and comical poverty in the world.
Nicely nuldundeniandyhere money enough
we ever
got to
with food inbellies,
our not even the old men of the
keep

inrocten otrlil, hi e nphe te were Pemons

ands, we been famous for our honesty for something
had
of thre
honesty.
like eleven
centuries, even when we had been the wealthiest

family in what we liked to think was the world. We were proud

first, honest next, and after that we believed in right and wrong.
None of us
would take advantage of anybody in the world, let
alone steal.
Consequently, even though I could see the horse, so magnif-
icent; even though could smell it, so lovely; even though I
could hear it breathing, so exciting; I couldn't believe the horse
had anything to do with my cousin Mourad or with me or with
any of the other members of our family, asleep or awake, be-
cause knew my cousin Mourad couldn't have bought the
horse, and if he couldn't have bought it he must have stolen it,
and I refused to believe he had stolen it.
No member of the Garoghlanian family could be a thief.
I stared first at mycousin and then at the horse. There was a
pious stillness and humor in each of them which on the one
hand delighted me and on the other frightened me.
Mourad, I said, where did you steal this horse?
Leap out of the window, he said, if you want a ride.
Itwas true, then. He had stolen the horse. There was no
question about it. He had come to invite me to ride or not, as
chose.

Well, it seemed to me stealing a horse for a ride was not the

same thing as stealing something else, such as money. For all
knew, maybe it wasn't stealing at all. If you were crazy about
horses the way my cousin Mourad and I were, it wasn't steal-
ing. It wouldn't become stealing until we offered to sell the
horse, which of course I knew we would never do.
Let me
put on some clothes, said.
All right, he said, but hurry.
I leaped into my clothes.
 196
@MOHATIBW JUTITORARWILLIAM
SAROYAN
jumped down to the yardfrom the window and
I
onto the horse behind my cousin Mourad. leaped up
That year we lived at the edge of
town, on Walnut Avenue.
Behind our house was thecountry:
tion vineyards,
orchards,irriga-
ditches, and country roads. In lessthan three
were on OliveAvenue, and then the minutes we
horse began to
air was newand lovely to breathe. Thefeel of the trot. The
horse run-
ning was wonderful. Mycousin Mouradwho was
one of the craziest members of our family considered
mean, he began to roar. ailed sw 11
began to sing. 1
t Every family has a crazy streak in
cousin Mourad
it somewhere, and my
was considered the natural descendant of the
crazy streak in our tribe. Before him
an
enormous man with a powerful head of black
was our uncle Khosrove,
hair and the
largest mustache in the San Joaquin Valley, a man
so furious in
temper, irritable, impatient that
so sO
he stopped anyone from
talking by roaring, It is no harm; pay no attention to it.
. That was all, no
matter what anybody happened to be talk-
ing about. Once it
was his own son Arak running eight blocks
to
the barber shop where his father was having his mustache
trimmed to
tell him their house was on fire. The man Khosrove
sat up in the chair and roared, It is no harm; pay no attention to
it.
The barber said, But the boy says your house is on fire. So
roared, Enough, it is no harm, I say.
My cousin Mourad was considered the natural descendant
of this
man, although Mourad's father was Zorab, who was
practical and nothing else. That's how it was in our tribe. A man
could be the father of his son's flesh, but that did not
mean that
he was also the father of his spirit. The distribution of the vari-
ous kinds of
spirit of our tribe had been
from the beginning
capricious and vagrant. 5elo gnidlismor
We
910
rode and my cousin Mourad sang. For all anybody knew
we were still in
the old country where, at least according to our
neighbors, we belonged. We let the horse run as long as it felt
like running.
At last my cousin Mourad said, Get down. I want to ride
alone.
Will you let me ride alone? I said.
THE
SUMMER OF THE BEAUTIFUL WHITE HORSE 197

That is up to the horse, my cousin said. Get down.

The horse will let me ride, I said.
We shall see, he said. Don't forget that I have a
way with a
horse.
Well, said, any way you have with a horse, have also.
For the sake of your safety, he said, let us hope so. Get down.
All right, I said, but remember you've got to let me try to
ride alone.
I got down and my cousin Mourad kicked his heels into the
horse and shouted, Vazire, run. The
horse stood on its hind legs,
snorted, and burst into a fury of speed that was the loveliest
thing I had ever seen. My cousin Mourad raced the horse across
field of dry grass to an irrigation ditch, crossed the ditch on
the horse, and five minutes later returned, dripping wet.
The sun was coming up.
Now it's my turn to ride, I said.
My cousin Mourad got off the horse.
Ride, he said.
I leaped to the back of the horse and for a moment knew the
awfulest fear imaginable. The horse did not move.
Kick into his muscles, my cousin Mourad
said. What are
you waiting for? We've
got to take him back before everybody
in the world is up and about.
I kicked into the muscles of the
horse. Once again it reared
and snorted. Then it began to [Link]'t know what to do.
Instead of running across the field to the irrigation ditch the
horse ran down the road to the vineyard of Dikran Halabian
where it began to leap over
vines. The horse leaped over seven
vines before
fell. Then it continued running.
My cousin Mourad came running down the road.
I'm not worried about you, he shouted. We've got to get that
horse. You
go this way and I'll go this way.
If you come upon
him, be kindly. I'll be near.
I
continued down the road and my cousin Mourad went
across the field toward the irrigation ditch.
It took him half an hour to find the horse and bring him
back.

Allright, he said, jump on. The whole world is awake now.

198 WILLIAM SAROYAN
What will we do? said.
Well, he said, we'll either takehimback or hide him
morrow morning.
until to-
He didn't sound worried and I knew he'dhide him
and not
take him back. Not for a while, at any rate.
Where will you hide him? I said.
I know a place, he said.
How long ago did you steal this horse? I said.
It suddenly dawned on me that he had
been taking
early morning rides for some time and had come for methese
this
morning only because he knew how much I longed to ride.
Who said anything about stealing a horse? he said.
Anyhow, I said, how long ago did you begin riding every
morning?
Not until thismorning, he said.
Are you telling the truth? I said.
Of course not, he said, but if we are found out, that's what
you're to say. I don't want both of us to be liars. All
you know
is that we started riding this morning.
All right, I said.
He walked the horse quietly to the barn of a
deserted vine-
yard which at one time had been the pride of a farmer named
Fetvajian. There were some oats and dry alfalfa in the barn.
We began walking home.
It wasn't easy, he said, to get the horse to behave so
nicely.
At first it wanted to run wild, but as I've told you, have a way
with a horse. can get it to want to do anything / want it to do.
Horses understand me.
How do you do it? said.

I have an understanding with a horse, he said.

Yes, but what sort of an understanding? I said.
A simple and honest one, he said.

Well, I said, I wish I knew how to reach an understanding

like that with a horse.
You're still a small boy, he said. When you get to be thirteen
you'll know how to do it.
I went home and ate hearty breakfast.
That afternoon my uncle Khosrove came to our house for
THE
SUMMER OF THE BEAUTIFUL WHITE HORSE 199

coffee and cigarettes. He sat in the parlor, sipping and smoking

and remembering the old country. Then another visitor arrived,
a farmer named John Byro,an Assyrian who, out of loneliness,
had learned to speak Armenian. My mother brought the lonely
visitor coffee
and tobacco
and he rolled a cigarette and sipped
and smoked, and then at last, sighing sadly, he said,My white
horse which was stolen last month is still gone. I cannot under-
stand it.
Khosrove became
My uncle very irritated and shouted, It's
no harm.
What is the loss of a horse? Haven't we all lost the
this crying over a horse?
homeland? What is
That may be all right for you, a city dweller, to say, John
Byro said, but what of my surrey? What good is a surrey with-
out a horse?

Pay no attention to it, my uncle Khosrove roared.

I walked ten miles to get here, John Byro said.
You have legs, my uncle Khosrove shouted.
My left leg pains me, the farmer said.
Pay no attention to it, my uncle Khosrove roared.
That horse cost me sixty dollars, the farmer said.
I spit on money, my uncle Khosrove said.
He got up and stalked out of the house, slamming the screen
door.
My mother explained.
He has a gentle heart, she said. It is simply that he is home-
sick and such a large man.
The farmer went away and I ran over to my cousin Mourad's
house.

He was sitting under a peach tree, trying to repair the hurt

wing of a young robin which could not fly. He was talking to
the bird.
What is it? he said.
The farmer, John Byro, I said. He visited our house. He
wants his horse. You've had it a month. I to promise
want you
not to take it back until I learn to ride.
It will take you a year to learn to ride, my cousin Mourad
said.

We could keep the horse a year, I said.

200
WILLIAM SAROYAN
My cousin Mourad leaped to his feet.
What? he roared. Are you inviting a
member of the
Garoghlanian family to steal? The horse mustgo
true owner.
back to its
When? I said.
In six months at the latest, he said.
He threw the bird into the air.
The bird tried hard, almost fell
twice, but at last flew away, high and straight.
Early every morning for two weeks mycousin
I took the horse out of
Mourad and
hiding it and
the barn of the deserted vineyard wher
rode
we were
it, and every morningthe
when it horse,
was my turn to ride alone, leaped over grape vines and
small trees and threw me and ran
away. Nevertheless, I hoped
in time to learn to ride the way my cousin Mourad rode. of
One morning on the way to Fetvajian's deserted vineyard we
ran into the farmer John Byro who was on his way to town.
Let me do the talking, my
with farmers.
cousin Mourad said. I have a way
Good morning, John Byro, my cousin Mourad said to the
farmer.
The farmer studied the horse eagerly.
Good morning, sons of my friends, he said. What is the
name of your horse?

My Heart, my cousin Mourad said in Armenian.

A lovely name, John Byro said, for lovely horse. I could
swear it is the horse that was stolen from me many weeks ago.
May I look into its mouth?
Of course, Mourad said.
The farmer looked into the mouth of the horse.
Tooth for tooth, he said. I would swear it is my horse if I
didn't know your parents. The fame of your family for honesty
is well known to me. Yet the horse is the twin of my horse.1A

suspicious man would believe his eyes instead of his heart.

Good day, my young friends..

Good day, John Byro, my cousin Mourad said.
Early the following morning we took the horse to John
Byro's vineyard and put it in the barn. The dogs followed
uS

around without making a sound.

 OTHER TWO
THE
201

The dogs, whispered to my cousin Mourad.

thought they
would bark.
They would at somebody else, he said. bee have
a way with
dogs.
My cousin Mourad put his arms around the horse, pressed
his nose into the horse's nose, patted it, and then we went away.
That afternoon John Byro came to
our house in his surrey
and showed my mother the horse that had been stolen and re-
turned.
do not know what to think, he said. The horse is stronger
than ever. Better-tempered, too. I thank God.
My uncle Khosrove, who was in the parlor, became irritated
and shouted, Quiet, man, quiet. Your horse has been returned.
it.
Pay no attention to

THE OTHER TWO

BY EDITH WHARTON

WAYTHOEN ON the drewing-soom hearth, waited for

It was their first night under his own roof, and he was sur-
prised at his thrill of boyish agitation. He was not so old, to be
sure his glass gave him little more than the five-and-thirty
years to which his wife confessed but he had fancied himself
already in the temperate zone; yet here he was listening for her
step with tender sense of all it symbolized, with some old trail
of verse about the garlanded nuptial door-posts floating
through his enjoyment of the pleasant room and the good din-
ner just beyond it.
They had been hastily recalled from their honeymoon by the
illness of Lily Haskett, the child of Mrs. Waythorn's first mar-

from The Descent of Man