|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 13
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.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|