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Page 14
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.
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