Book: Stories by Foreign Authors: Russian

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"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.

"Perhaps we shall never see each other again," said he; "before we part,
I should like to have an explanation with you. You may have observed
that I care very little for the opinion of other people, but I like you,
and I feel that it would be painful to me to leave you with a wrong
impression upon your mind."

He paused, and began to knock the ashes out of his pipe. I sat gazing
silently at the ground.

"You thought it strange," he continued, "that I did not demand
satisfaction from that drunken idiot R---. You will admit, however, that
having the choice of weapons, his life was in my hands, while my own was
in no great danger. I could ascribe my forbearance to generosity alone,
but I will not tell a lie. If I could have chastised R--- without the
least risk to my own life, I should never have pardoned him."

I looked at Silvio with astonishment. Such a confession completely
astounded me. Silvio continued:

"Exactly so: I have no right to expose myself to death. Six years ago I
received a slap in the face, and my enemy still lives."

My curiosity was greatly excited.

"Did you not fight with him?" I asked. "Circumstances probably separated
you."

"I did fight with him," replied Silvio; "and here is a souvenir of our
duel."

Silvio rose and took from a cardboard box a red cap with a gold tassel
and embroidery (what the French call a bonnet de police); he put it on--
a bullet had passed through it about an inch above the forehead.

"You know," continued Silvio, "that I served in one of the Hussar
regiments. My character is well known to you: I am accustomed to taking
the lead. From my youth this has been my passion. In our time
dissoluteness was the fashion, and I was the most outrageous man in the
army. We used to boast of our drunkenness; I beat in a drinking bout the
famous Bourtsoff [Footnote: A cavalry officer, notorious for his drunken
escapades], of whom Denis Davidoff [Footnote: A military poet who
flourished in the reign of Alexander I] has sung. Duels in our regiment
were constantly taking place, and in all of them I was either second or
principal. My comrades adored me, while the regimental commanders, who
were constantly being changed, looked upon me as a necessary evil.

"I was calmly enjoying my reputation, when a young man belonging to a
wealthy and distinguished family--I will not mention his name--joined
our regiment. Never in my life have I met with such a fortunate fellow!
Imagine to yourself youth, wit, beauty, unbounded gayety, the most
reckless bravery, a famous name, untold wealth--imagine all these, and
you can form some idea of the effect that he would be sure to produce
among us. My supremacy was shaken. Dazzled by my reputation, he began to
seek my friendship, but I received him coldly, and without the least
regret he held aloof from me. I took a hatred to him. His success in the
regiment and in the society of ladies brought me to the verge of
despair. I began to seek a quarrel with him; to my epigrams he replied
with epigrams which always seemed to me more spontaneous and more
cutting than mine, and which were decidedly more amusing, for he joked
while I fumed. At last, at a ball given by a Polish landed proprietor,
seeing him the object of the attention of all the ladies, and especially
of the mistress of the house, with whom I was upon very good terms, I
whispered some grossly insulting remark in his ear. He flamed up and
gave me a slap in the face. We grasped our swords; the ladies fainted;
we were separated; and that same night we set out to fight.

"The dawn was just breaking. I was standing at the appointed place with
my three seconds. With inexplicable impatience I awaited my opponent.
The spring sun rose, and it was already growing hot. I saw him coming in
the distance. He was walking on foot, accompanied by one second. We
advanced to meet him. He approached, holding his cap filled with black
cherries. The seconds measured twelve paces for us. I had to fire first,
but my agitation was so great, that I could not depend upon the
steadiness of my hand; and in order to give myself time to become calm,
I ceded to him the first shot. My adversary would not agree to this. It
was decided that we should cast lots. The first number fell to him, the
constant favorite of fortune. He took aim, and his bullet went through
my cap. It was now my turn. His life at last was in my hands; I looked
at him eagerly, endeavoring to detect if only the faintest shadow of
uneasiness. But he stood in front of my pistol, picking out the ripest
cherries from his cap and spitting out the stones, which flew almost as
far as my feet. His indifference annoyed me beyond measure. 'What is the
use,' thought I, 'of depriving him of life, when he attaches no value
whatever to it?' A malicious thought flashed through my mind. I lowered
my pistol.

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