The Torrents of Spring
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 humours,
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—— highroad. 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
highroad. 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-grey 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 haycutting 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 neighbours 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.