with an instinct of coming trouble in his heart, put Mumu under his
arm, ran into his garret, and locked himself in. A few minutes later
five men were banging at his door, but feeling the resistance of the
bolt, they stopped. Gavrila ran up in a fearful state of mind, and
ordered them all to wait there and watch till morning. Then he flew
off himself to the maids' quarter, and through an old companion, Liubov
Liubimovna, with whose assistance he used to steal tea, sugar, and
other groceries and to falsify the accounts, sent word to the mistress
that the dog had unhappily run back from somewhere, but that to-morrow
she should be killed, and would the mistress be so gracious as not to
be angry and to overlook it. The old lady would probably not have been
so soon appeased, but the doctor had in his haste given her fully forty
drops instead of twelve. The strong dose of narcotic acted; in a
quarter of an hour the old lady was in a sound and peaceful sleep;
while Gerasim was lying with a white face on his bed, holding Mumu's
mouth tightly shut.
Next morning the lady woke up rather late. Gavrila was waiting till
she should be awake, to give the order for a final assault on Gerasim's
stronghold, while he prepared himself to face a fearful storm. But the
storm did not come off. The old lady lay in bed and sent for the
eldest of her dependent companions.
"Liubov Liubimovna," she began in a subdued weak voice--she was fond of
playing the part of an oppressed and forsaken victim; needless to say,
every one in the house was made extremely uncomfortable at such
times--"Liubov Liubimovna, you see my position; go, my love, to Gavrila
Andreitch, and talk to him a little. Can he really prize some wretched
cur above the repose--the very life--of his mistress? I could not bear
to think so," she added, with an expression of deep feeling. "Go, my
love; be so good as to go to Gavrila Andreitch for me."
Liubov Liubimovna went to Gavrila's room. What conversation passed
between them is not known, but a short time after, a whole crowd of
people was moving across the yard in the direction of Gerasim's garret.
Gavrila walked in front, holding his cap on with his hand, though there
was no wind. The footmen and cooks were close behind him; Uncle Tail
was looking out of a window, giving instructions, that is to say,
simply waving his hands. At the rear there was a crowd of small boys
skipping and hopping along; half of them were outsiders who had run up.
On the narrow staircase leading to the garret sat one guard; at the
door were standing two more with sticks. They began to mount the
stairs, which they entirely blocked up. Gavrila went up to the door,
knocked with his fist, shouting, "Open the door!"
A stifled bark was audible, but there was no answer.
"Open the door, I tell you," he repeated.
"But, Gavrila Andreitch," Stepan observed from below, "he's deaf, you
know--he doesn't hear."
They all laughed.
"What are we to do?" Gavrila rejoined from above.
"Why, there's a hole there in the door," answered Stepan, "so you shake
the stick in there."
Gavrila bent down.
"He's stuffed it up with a coat or something."
"Well, you just push the coat in."
At this moment a smothered bark was heard again.
"See, see--she speaks for herself," was remarked in the crowd, and
again they laughed.
Gavrila scratched his ear.
"No, mate," he responded at last, "you can poke the coat in yourself,
if you like."
"All right, let me."
And Stepan scrambled up, took the stick, pushed in the coat, and began
waving the stick about in the opening, saying, "Come out, come out!" as
he did so. He was still waving the stick, when suddenly the door of
the garret was flung open; all the crowd flew pell-mell down the stairs
instantly, Gavrila first of all. Uncle Tail locked the window.
"Come, come, come," shouted Gavrila from the yard, "mind what you're
about."
Gerasim stood without stirring in his doorway. The crowd gathered at
the foot of the stairs. Gerasim, with his arms akimbo, looked down at
all these poor creatures in German coats; in his red peasant's shirt he
looked like a giant before them. Gavrila took a step forward.
"Mind, mate," said he, "don't be insolent."
And he began to explain to him by signs that the mistress insists on
having his dog; that he must hand it over at once, or it would be the
worse for him.
Gerasim looked at him, pointed to the dog, made a motion with his hand
round his neck, as though he were pulling a noose tight, and glanced
with a face of inquiry at the steward.
"Yes, yes," the latter assented, nodding; "yes, just so."
Gerasim dropped his eyes, then all of a sudden roused himself and
pointed to Mumu, who was all the while standing beside him, innocently
wagging her tail and pricking up her ears inquisitively. Then he
repeated the strangling action round his neck and significantly struck
himself on the breast, as though announcing he would take upon himself
the task of killing Mumu.
"But you'll deceive us," Gavrila waved back in response.
Gerasim looked at him, smiled scornfully, struck himself again on the
breast, and slammed to the door.
They all looked at one another in silence.
"What does that mean?" Gavrila began. "He's locked himself in."
"Let him be, Gavrila Andreitch," Stepan advised; "he'll do it if he's
promised. He's like that, you know. . . . If he makes a promise, it's
a certain thing. He's not like us others in that. The truth's the
truth with him. Yes, indeed."
"Yes," they all repeated, nodding their heads, "yes--that's so--yes."
Uncle Tail opened his window, and he too said, "Yes."
"Well, may be, we shall see," responded Gavrila; "any way, we won't
take off the guard. Here you, Eroshka!" he added, addressing a poor
fellow in a yellow nankeen coat, who considered himself to be a
gardener, "what have you to do? Take a stick and sit here, and if
anything happens, run to me at once!"
Eroshka took a stick, and sat down on the bottom stair. The crowd
dispersed, all except a few inquisitive small boys, while Gavrila went
home and sent word through Liubov Liubimovna to the mistress that
everything had been done, while he sent a postilion for a policeman in
case of need. The old lady tied a knot in her handkerchief, sprinkled
some eau-de-Cologne on it, sniffed at it, and rubbed her temples with
it, drank some tea, and, being still under the influence of the
cherrybay drops, fell asleep again.
An hour after all this hubbub the garret door opened, and Gerasim
showed himself. He had on his best coat; he was leading Mumu by a
string. Eroshka moved aside and let him pass. Gerasim went to the
gates. All the small boys in the yard stared at him in silence. He
did not even turn round; he only put his cap on in the street. Gavrila
sent the same Eroshka to follow him and keep watch on him as a spy.
Eroshka, seeing from a distance that he had gone into a cookshop with
his dog, waited for him to come out again.
Gerasim was well known at the cookshop, and his signs were understood.
He asked for cabbage soup with meat in it, and sat down with his arms
on the table. Mumu stood beside his chair, looking calmly at him with
her intelligent eyes. Her coat was glossy; one could see she had just
been combed down. They brought Gerasim the soup. He crumbled some
bread into it, cut the meat up small, and put the plate on the ground.
Mumu began eating in her usual refined way, her little muzzle daintily
held so as scarcely to touch her food. Gerasim gazed a long while at
her; two big tears suddenly rolled from his eyes; one fell on the dog's
brow, the other into the soup. He shaded his face with his hand. Mumu
ate up half the plateful, and came away from it, licking her lips.
Gerasim got up, paid for the soup, and went out, followed by the rather
perplexed glances of the waiter. Eroshka, seeing Gerasim, hid round a
corner, and letting him get in front, followed him again.
Gerasim walked without haste, still holding Mumu by a string. When he
got to the corner of the street, he stood still as though reflecting,
and suddenly set off with rapid steps to the Crimean Ford. On the way
he went into the yard of a house, where a lodge was being built, and
carried away two bricks under his arm. At the Crimean Ford, he turned
along the bank, went to a place where there were two little
rowing-boats fastened to stakes (he had noticed them there before), and
jumped into one of them with Mumu. A lame old man came out of a shed
in the corner of a kitchen-garden and shouted after him; but Gerasim
only nodded, and began rowing so vigorously, though against stream,
that in an instant he had darted two hundred yards way. The old man
stood for a while, scratched his back first with the left and then with
the right hand, and went back hobbling to the shed.
Gerasim rowed on and on. Moscow was soon left behind. Meadows
stretched each side of the bank, market gardens, fields, and copses;
peasants' huts began to make their appearance. There was the fragrance
of the country. He threw down his oars, bent his head down to Mumu,
who was sitting facing him on a dry cross seat--the bottom of the boat
was full of water--and stayed motionless, his mighty hands clasped upon
her back, while the boat was gradually carried back by the current
towards the town. At last Gerasim drew himself up hurriedly, with a
sort of sick anger in his face, he tied up the bricks he had taken with
string, made a running noose, put it round Mumu's neck, lifted her up
over the river, and for the last time looked at her. . . . She watched
him confidingly and without any fear, faintly wagging her tail. He
turned away, frowned, and wrung his hands. . . . Gerasim heard
nothing, neither the quick shrill whine of Mumu as she fell, nor the
heavy splash of the water; for him the noisiest day was soundless and
silent as even the stillest night is not silent to us. When he opened
his eyes again, little wavelets were hurrying over the river, chasing
one another; as before they broke against the boat's side, and only far
away behind wide circles moved widening to the bank.
Directly Gerasim had vanished from Eroshka's sight, the latter returned
home and reported what he had seen.
"Well, then," observed Stepan, "he'll drown her. Now we can feel easy
about it. If he once promises a thing . . ."
No one saw Gerasim during the day. He did not have dinner at home.
Evening came on; they were all gathered together to supper, except him.
"What a strange creature that Gerasim is!" piped a fat laundrymaid;
"fancy, upsetting himself like that over a dog. . . . Upon my word!"
"But Gerasim has been here," Stepan cried all at once, scraping up his
porridge with a spoon.
"How? when?"
"Why, a couple of hours ago. Yes, indeed! I ran against him at the
gate; he was going out again from here; he was coming out of the yard.
I tried to ask him about his dog, but he wasn't in the best of humors,
I could see. Well, he gave me a shove; I suppose he only meant to put
me out of his way, as if he'd say, 'Let me go, do!' but he fetched me
such a crack on my neck, so seriously, that--oh! oh!" And Stepan, who
could not help laughing, shrugged up and rubbed the back of his head.
"Yes," he added; "he has got a fist; it's something like a fist,
there's no denying that!"
They all laughed at Stepan, and after supper they separated to go to
bed.
Meanwhile, at that very time, a gigantic figure with a bag on his
shoulders and a stick in his hand, was eagerly and persistently
stepping out along the T--- high-road. It was Gerasim. He was
hurrying on without looking round; hurrying homewards, to his own
village, to his own country. After drowning poor Mumu, he had run back
to his garret, hurriedly packed a few things together in an old
horsecloth, tied it up in a bundle, tossed it on his shoulder, and so
was ready. He had noticed the road carefully when he was brought to
Moscow; the village his mistress had taken him from lay only about
twenty miles off the high-road. He walked along it with a sort of
invincible purpose, a desperate and at the same time joyous
determination. He walked, his shoulders thrown back and his chest
expanded; his eyes were fixed greedily straight before him. He
hastened as though his old mother were waiting for him at home, as
though she were calling him to her after long wanderings in strange
parts, among strangers. The summer night, that was just drawing in,
was still and warm; on one side, where the sun had set, the horizon was
still light and faintly flushed with the last glow of the vanished day;
on the other side a blue-gray twilight had already risen up. The night
was coming up from that quarter. Quails were in hundreds around;
corncrakes were calling to one another in the thickets. . . . Gerasim
could not hear them; he could not hear the delicate night-whispering of
the trees, by which his strong legs carried him, but he smelt the
familiar scent of the ripening rye, which was wafted from the dark
fields; he felt the wind, flying to meet him--the wind from home--beat
caressingly upon his face, and play with his hair and his beard. He
saw before him the whitening road homewards, straight as an arrow. He
saw in the sky stars innumerable, lighting up his way, and stepped out,
strong and bold as a lion, so that when the rising sun shed its moist
rosy light upon the still fresh and unwearied traveller, already thirty
miles lay between him and Moscow.
In a couple of days he was at home, in his little hut, to the great
astonishment of the soldier's wife who had been put in there. After
praying before the holy pictures, he set off at once to the village
elder. The village elder was at first surprised; but the hay-cutting
had just begun; Gerasim was a first-rate mower, and they put a scythe
into his hand on the spot, and he went to mow in his old way, mowing so
that the peasants were fairly astounded as they watched his wide
sweeping strokes and the heaps he raked together. . . .
In Moscow the day after Gerasim's flight they missed him. They went to
his garret, rummaged about in it, and spoke to Gavrila. He came,
looked, shrugged his shoulders, and decided that the dumb man had
either run away or had drowned himself with his stupid dog. They gave
information to the police, and informed the lady. The old lady was
furious, burst into tears, gave orders that he was to be found whatever
happened, declared she had never ordered the dog to be destroyed, and,
in fact, gave Gavrila such a rating that he could do nothing all day
but shake his head and murmur, "Well!" until Uncle Tail checked him at
last, sympathetically echoing "We-ell!" At last the news came from the
country of Gerasim's being there. The old lady was somewhat pacified;
at first she issued a mandate for him to be brought back without delay
to Moscow; afterwards, however, she declared that such an ungrateful
creature was absolutely of no use to her. Soon after this she died
herself; and her heirs had no thought to spare for Gerasim; they let
their mother's other servants redeem their freedom on payment of an
annual rent.
And Gerasim is living still, a lonely man in his lonely hut; he is
strong and healthy as before, and does the work of four men as before,
and as before is serious and steady. But his neighbors have observed
that ever since his return from Moscow he has quite given up the
society of women; he will not even look at them, and does not keep even
a single dog.
"It's his good luck, though," the peasants reason, "that he can get on
without female folk; and as for a dog--what need has he of a dog? you
wouldn't get a thief to go into his yard for any money!" Such is the
fame of the dumb man's Titanic strength.
THE SHOT
BY
ALEXANDER POUSHKIN
From "Poushkin's Prose Tales." Translated by T. Keane.
CHAPTER I.
We were stationed in the little town of N--. The life of an officer in
the army is well known. In the morning, drill and the riding-school;
dinner with the Colonel or at a Jewish restaurant; in the evening,
punch and cards. In N--- there was not one open house, not a single
marriageable girl. We used to meet in each other's rooms, where,
except our uniforms, we never saw anything.
One civilian only was admitted into our society. He was about
thirty-five years of age, and therefore we looked upon him as an old
fellow. His experience gave him great advantage over us, and his
habitual taciturnity, stern disposition, and caustic tongue produced a
deep impression upon our young minds. Some mystery surrounded his
existence; he had the appearance of a Russian, although his name was a
foreign one. He had formerly served in the Hussars, and with
distinction. Nobody knew the cause that had induced him to retire from
the service and settle in a wretched little village, where he lived
poorly and, at the same time, extravagantly. He always went on foot,
and constantly wore a shabby black overcoat, but the officers of our
regiment were ever welcome at his table. His dinners, it is true,
never consisted of more than two or three dishes, prepared by a retired
soldier, but the champagne flowed like water. Nobody knew what his
circumstances were, or what his income was, and nobody dared to
question him about them. He had a collection of books, consisting
chiefly of works on military matters and a few novels. He willingly
lent them to us to read, and never asked for them back; on the other
hand, he never returned to the owner the books that were lent to him.
His principal amusement was shooting with a pistol. The walls of his
room were riddled with bullets, and were as full of holes as a
honeycomb. A rich collection of pistols was the only luxury in the
humble cottage where he lived. The skill which he had acquired with
his favorite weapon was simply incredible: and if he had offered to
shoot a pear off somebody's forage-cap, not a man in our regiment would
have hesitated to place the object upon his head.
Our conversation often turned upon duels. Silvio--so I will call
him--never joined in it. When asked if he had ever fought, he dryly
replied that he had; but he entered into no particulars, and it was
evident that such questions were not to his liking. We came to the
conclusion that he had upon his conscience the memory of some unhappy
victim of his terrible skill. Moreover, it never entered into the head
of any of us to suspect him of anything like cowardice. There are
persons whose mere look is sufficient to repel such a suspicion. But
an unexpected incident occurred which astounded us all.
One day, about ten of our officers dined with Silvio. They drank as
usual, that is to say, a great deal. After dinner we asked our host to
hold the bank for a game at faro. For a long time he refused, for he
hardly ever played, but at last he ordered cards to be brought, placed
half a hundred ducats upon the table, and sat down to deal. We took
our places round him, and the play began. It was Silvio's custom to
preserve a complete silence when playing. He never disputed, and never
entered into explanations. If the punter made a mistake in
calculating, he immediately paid him the difference or noted down the
surplus. We were acquainted with this habit of his, and we always
allowed him to have his own way; but among us on this occasion was an
officer who had only recently been transferred to our regiment. During
the course of the game, this officer absently scored one point too
many. Silvio took the chalk and noted down the correct account
according to his usual custom. The officer, thinking that he had made a
mistake, began to enter into explanations. Silvio continued dealing in
silence. The officer, losing patience, took the brush and rubbed out
what he considered was wrong. Silvio took the chalk and corrected the
score again. The officer, heated with wine, play, and the laughter of
his comrades, considered himself grossly insulted, and in his rage he
seized a brass candlestick from the table, and hurled it at Silvio, who
barely succeeded in avoiding the missile. We were filled with
consternation. Silvio rose, white with rage, and with gleaming eyes,
said:
"My dear sir, have the goodness to withdraw, and thank God that this
has happened in my house."
None of us entertained the slightest doubt as to what the result would
be, and we already looked upon our new comrade as a dead man. The
officer withdrew, saying that he was ready to answer for his offence in
whatever way the banker liked. The play went on for a few minutes
longer, but feeling that our host was no longer interested in the game,
we withdrew one after the other, and repaired to our respective
quarters, after having exchanged a few words upon the probability of
there soon being a vacancy in the regiment.
The next day, at the riding-school, we were already asking each other
if the poor lieutenant was still alive, when he himself appeared among
us. We put the same question to him, and he replied that he had not yet
heard from Silvio. This astonished us. We went to Silvio's house and
found him in the courtyard shooting bullet after bullet into an ace
pasted upon the gate. He received us as usual, but did not utter a
word about the event of the previous evening. Three days passed, and
the lieutenant was still alive. We asked each other in astonishment:
"Can it be possible that Silvio is not going to fight?"
Silvio did not fight. He was satisfied with a very lame explanation,
and became reconciled to his assailant.
This lowered him very much in the opinion of all our young fellows.
Want of courage is the last thing to be pardoned by young men, who
usually look upon bravery as the chief of all human virtues, and the
excuse for every possible fault. But, by degrees, everything became
forgotten, and Silvio regained his former influence.
I alone could not approach him on the old footing. Being endowed by
nature with a romantic imagination, I had become attached more than all
the others to the man whose life was an enigma, and who seemed to me
the hero of some mysterious drama. He was fond of me; at least, with
me alone did he drop his customary sarcastic tone, and converse on
different subjects in a simple and unusually agreeable manner. But
after this unlucky evening, the thought that his honor had been
tarnished, and that the stain had been allowed to remain upon it in
accordance with his own wish, was ever present in my mind, and
prevented me treating him as before. I was ashamed to look at him.
Silvio was too intelligent and experienced not to observe this and
guess the cause of it. This seemed to vex him; at least I observed
once or twice a desire on his part to enter into an explanation with
me, but I avoided such opportunities, and Silvio gave up the attempt.
From that time forward I saw him only in the presence of my comrades,
and our confidential conversations came to an end.
The inhabitants of the capital, with minds occupied by so many matters
of business and pleasure, have no idea of the many sensations so
familiar to the inhabitants of villages and small towns, as, for
instance, the awaiting the arrival of the post. On Tuesdays and
Fridays our regimental bureau used to be filled with officers: some
expecting money, some letters, and others newspapers. The packets were
usually opened on the spot, items of news were communicated from one to
another, and the bureau used to present a very animated picture.
Silvio used to have his letters addressed to our regiment, and he was
generally there to receive them.
One day he received a letter, the seal of which he broke with a look of
great impatience. As he read the contents, his eyes sparkled. The
officers, each occupied with his own letters, did not observe anything.
"Gentlemen," said Silvio, "circumstances demand my immediate departure;
I leave to-night. I hope that you will not refuse to dine with me for
the last time. I shall expect you, too," he added, turning towards me.
"I shall expect you without fail."
With these words he hastily departed, and we, after agreeing to meet at
Silvio's, dispersed to our various quarters.
I arrived at Silvio's house at the appointed time, and found nearly the
whole regiment there. All his things were already packed; nothing
remained but the bare, bullet-riddled walls. We sat down to table.
Our host was in an excellent humor, and his gayety was quickly
communicated to the rest. Corks popped every moment, glasses foamed
incessantly, and, with the utmost warmth, we wished our departing
friend a pleasant journey and every happiness. When we rose from the
table it was already late in the evening. After having wished
everybody good-bye, Silvio took me by the hand and detained me just at
the moment when I was preparing to depart.
"I want to speak to you," he said in a low voice.
I stopped behind.
The guests had departed, and we two were left alone. Sitting down
opposite each other, we silently lit our pipes. Silvio seemed greatly
troubled; not a trace remained of his former convulsive gayety. The
intense pallor of his face, his sparkling eyes, and the thick smoke
issuing from his mouth, gave him a truly diabolical appearance.
Several minutes elapsed, and then Silvio broke the silence.