On one of Moscow’s outlying streets, in a grey house with white columns, a mansard frontage and a crooked balcony, there once lived a landowning widow surrounded by a whole crowd of domestics. Her sons worked as civil servants in St Petersburg, her daughters were married off, and she rarely went out visiting. She was living out the last solitary years of her miserly and tiresome old age. Her day, joyless and foul, had passed long ago, and now the evening of her life was blacker than night.
Among her domestic staff one person stood out, a yard-keeper by the name of Gerasim, a man of six foot six, built like a giant, deaf and mute from birth. The mistress had brought him in from the country where he used to live on his own in a small shack away from his brothers; he was famous among the peasants for being first with the payment of his taxes. Endowed with phenomenal strength, he could do the work of four men, and anything he undertook was done well. It was a pleasure to watch him, whether he was out in the field, with his huge hands bearing down on the plough and cutting through the spongy bosom of the soil as if he was doing it all by himself without any help from his scraggy little horse; or when he laid about himself with his scythe to such devastating effect that, come St Peter’s Day, you would swear he was stripping out a whole new birch wood, roots and all; or when he was threshing away with a seven-foot flail, flat-out, non-stop, and his solid-flexed shoulder muscles pounded up and down like pistons. His perpetual silence invested his unflagging work with a special gravity. He was a fine upstanding peasant, and but for his affliction any young girl would willingly have had him for a husband. Anyway, Gerasim was brought into Moscow; they fitted him out with boots and a specially made summer smock and winter coat, handed him a shovel and broom, and set him up as yard-keeper.
At first, he didn’t take to this new way of living at all. Man and boy he had been used to country life and working in the fields. Isolated by his affliction from other people’s company he grew up strong and silent, like a tree in good soil. Resettled in the city, he hadn’t the slightest idea what was going on – he was homesick and stunned, like a strapping young bullock hustled in from the meadow where he has been belly-deep in lush grass, and shoved into a railway wagon with smoke and sparks or gushing steam swirling around his well-fed body while he hurtles along – to God knows where – with a lot of banging and screeching.
Gerasim’s duties in his new job seemed like a joke after all that hard work as a peasant; he got everything done in half an hour, and he would either come to a halt half-way across the yard, goggling at the people who went by as if he might learn from them how to solve the mystery of his new situation, or take himself off into a corner, where he would hurl away his broom or shovel, throw himself down on the ground and lie there without moving for hours on end, face-down, like a wild beast in captivity. But a man can get used to anything, and eventually Gerasim did get used to living in the city. There wasn’t much for him to do; his work consisted of keeping the yard clean, fetching a barrel of water two or three times a day, bringing logs and chopping them to size for the kitchen or the main house, as well as keeping people out and guarding the place at night. And it must be said that he carried out his duties to the letter; you would never see as much as a sliver of wood in the yard, or any litter, and if the clapped-out old mare entrusted to him happened to get stuck in the mud while she was hauling a barrel in the rainy season, one shove with his shoulder would get it moving again, not just the barrel on the cart but the horse too. Once he had started chopping wood, the axe rang like glass in his hands, and splinters and sticks would fly about all over the place; and when it came to dealing with intruders, well, after that time when he caught a couple of thieves one night and banged their heads together with such a whack there was no point in handing them over to the police, everybody in the vicinity treated him with the greatest respect, and even when people walked past during the day, not criminals but unknown passers-by, they would take one look at the terrifying yard-man and wave him away, shouting across as if he could hear them. With the rest of the servants Gerasim was on not what you would call friendly terms – they were too scared of him – but they were close: he thought of them as ‘our people’. They communicated with him by gesturing; he could understand them, and he did everything they told him to do, though he also knew his own rights, and none of them dared sit in his place at the table. In a word or two, Gerasim was a stern and serious character, a stickler for good order. Even the cockerels didn’t dare have a scrap when he was around; they knew what was coming to them – the moment he saw them he would grab them by the feet, swing them round and round a dozen times and hurl them away in different directions. The mistress also kept geese in the yard, and everybody knows that your goose is a bird of quality who knows what he’s about. Gerasim paid them proper respect; he looked after them, and fed them, rather fancying himself as a sedate-looking gander. He had been given a little room over the kitchen; he fitted it out himself the way he liked things, knocking up a bed of oak planks on four blocks – a bed for Hercules! – you could have put a ton weight on it and it wouldn’t bend. There was a strongbox underneath it, and in one corner stood a small table as solid as the bed, with a three-legged stool so chunky and squat that Gerasim would pick it up and clump it down with a smug grin on his face. His little room was locked with a padlock the size of a loaf, only it was black, and Gerasim always kept the key on his belt. He didn’t like people coming up to see him.
A year went by like this, at the end of which Gerasim was involved in a little incident.
The old mistress whose yard he was keeping belonged to the old school in every way, which meant she had lots of servants: her household included not only laundry-maids and seamstresses, tailors and dressmakers, there was even a saddler who also served as a vet, though it was her own household doctor who took care of the staff, and finally there was a cobbler by the name of Kapiton Klimov, a terrible boozer. Klimov felt done down and undervalued; here he was, a man brought up in St Petersburg, the capital; Moscow was beneath him, he had no proper job, he was stuck in a backwater, and if he did take a drink, he drank only because of the grief he had to bear – he said it himself, slurring his speech and beating his breast. Then, one day, his name came up in a discussion between the mistress and her chief steward, Gavrilo, a man who, if his beady yellow eyes and his beaky nose were anything to go by, seemed to have been picked out by destiny itself to serve as a figure of authority. The mistress was sorry to hear about Kapiton’s depravity – he had been picked up out on the streets only the day before.
‘What about it, Gavrilo?’ she broke out suddenly. ‘Do you think we ought to get him married? It might bring him to his senses.’
‘Well, why not, ma’am? It might work,’ answered Gavrilo, ‘Do him a power of good, ma’am.’
‘Yes, but who would have him?’
‘There is that, ma’am. Still, it’s what you want that matters, ma’am. Anyway, he must be good for something. There are plenty worse.’
‘Do you think he might fancy Tatyana?’
Gavrilo was about to raise an objection, but he bit his lip.
‘Yes! Let him get married to Tatyana,’ the mistress decided, taking a most agreeable pinch of snuff. ‘Do you hear what I say?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Gavrilo stiffly, and he withdrew.
The first thing Gavrilo did when he was back in his room (which was in one of the outbuildings, crammed with iron-bound boxes), was to send his wife away; he then sat down by the window with a lot on his mind. The arrangement suddenly proposed by the mistress had clearly put him on the spot. After some time he got to his feet and sent for Kapiton. Kapiton arrived… But, before we tell our readers how their conversation went, we think it will not be out of place to say a word or two about who she was, this Tatyana, the marriage prospect set up for Kapiton, and why the mistress’ injunction had given the steward pause for thought.
Tatyana was one of the laundry-maids mentioned above (though she had had proper training in laundry-work so she was entrusted with the finest linen); a woman in her late twenties, small, thin and fair-haired, she had moles on her left cheek. Moles on the left cheek were considered a bad omen in good old Russia – the sign of an unhappy life. Tatyana had little to boast about. She had been badly treated since she was a young girl, having to do the work of two women and never being shown any affection; she was kept poorly dressed, and paid a pittance. She had no family to speak of, just an uncle who had once been in service but was now useless and left behind in the country, and one or two other uncles, common peasants, that was all. She had once been considered beautiful, but her good looks had soon slipped away. She was a submissive creature, you might say brow-beaten; she took no interest in herself and was mortally scared of everybody else. The only thing she thought about was how to get her work done in time; she never spoke, and she was reduced to a dithering wreck at the mere mention of the mistress’s name, though the old lady scarcely knew her by sight.
When Gerasim had been brought in from the countryside, Tatyana had almost died of shock at the sight of his enormous figure; she gave him a wide berth, and she winced whenever she had to nip past him on her way from the house to the laundry. At first Gerasim ignored her, then he found it amusing when their paths crossed, then he started to look more closely, liking what he saw, and he ended up by not being able to take his eyes off her. He had fallen for her – it was either the meek look on her face that did it, or her timorous movements – heaven knows what. One day she was making her way across the yard, gingerly carrying her mistress’ starched jacket on outstretched fingers when, suddenly, someone grabbed her by the elbow; she turned round and gave a yelp – there behind her stood Gerasim. With a stupid laugh and a tender grunt he was offering her a gingerbread cockerel with gold tinsel on its tail and wings. She wanted to refuse it, but he forced it on her, gave her a nod, walked away and then turned round to treat her to another very affectionate grunt. From that day on he never left her alone; wherever she went, he was there, coming towards her, smiling, grunting, waving his hands, magicking a ribbon from his smock and foisting it on her, and sweeping the ground where she walked. The poor girl hadn’t the slightest idea how to respond or what to do. It wasn’t long before the whole house knew what the dumb yard-man was up to; jokey remarks, silly sayings and caustic comments rained down on Tatyana. But there were some who held back from mocking Gerasim – he wasn’t fond of jokes – and when he was around they left her alone. Like it or not, the girl was under his care. Like all deaf-mutes he was very sensitive, and he could tell immediately when people were laughing at him or her. One day over dinner the maid in charge of linen started getting at Tatyana, as people say, and soon got her into such a state that she didn’t know where to look, until she was on the verge of tears from all the upset. Suddenly Gerasim was on his feet reaching out with his massive hand, bringing it down on the maid’s head and glaring at her with such grim ferocity that she flopped down onto the table. Nobody said a word. Gerasim picked up his spoon and went on slurping his cabbage soup.
‘See that? Dumb devil. He’s a gremlin!’ they were all saying under their breath, as the victim got up from the table and went off to the maids’ room.
Then there was another occasion, when Gerasim, noticed that the same Kapiton of whom we have been speaking was getting too familiar with Tatyana. He beckoned him over with one finger, led him out into the coach-house, where he seized the end of a shaft that happened to be standing in a corner, and threatened him with it, gently but unmistakably. After that nobody dared try any fine words on Tatyana. And he got away with it all. True enough, when the linen-woman got to the maids’ room she swooned away and acted up to such good effect that the mistress was informed about Gerasim’s rough behaviour the same day; however, the capricious old woman did nothing but laugh, much to the consternation of the linen-woman, who was made to repeat what she had said about having her head shoved down by a heavy hand, and the next day the old lady sent Gerasim a one-rouble coin. She let him off on the grounds that he was such a good, strong guard. Gerasim was running scared of her, but he knew he was dependent on her kindness, and he was working himself up to requesting her permission to marry Tatyana. All he was waiting for was a new kaftan that the steward had promised him – he did want to be decently turned out when he appeared before the mistress – when suddenly it had occurred to this same mistress to marry Tatyana off to Kapiton.
The reader will now easily understand the reason behind Gavrilo’s misgivings following his conversation with the mistress.
‘The mistress,’ he thought to himself as he sat by the window, ‘is soft on Gerasim…’ (Gavrilo was well aware of this, which is why he treated him so well), ‘but when all’s said and done he can’t put any words together. Ought I to let the mistress know that Gerasim has his own designs on Tatyana? Not really, it’s the right thing to do, isn’t it? What kind of a husband would he make? Then again, the moment that gremlin (God forgive me) finds out that Tatyana is getting married to Kapiton, he’ll wreck the place. That’s for sure. There’s no talking to him. You can’t get round a devil like him (Lord have mercy on me, a sinner), really.’
The arrival of Kapiton broke the thread of Gavrilo’s reflections. The feckless cobbler came in, put his hands behind his back, leant nonchalantly against the protruding angle of a wall near the door, placed his right foot across the front of his left foot, and tossed his head, as if to say, ‘Here I am. What do you need me for?’
Gavrilo studied Kapiton, drumming his fingers on the window-jamb. All Kapiton did was to narrow his leaden eyes, without looking down; he then went so far as to give a little smile and run his hand through his whitening hair, which was left sticking out all over the place. Again the implication was, ‘Yes, it’s me. What do you think you’re looking at?’
‘Fine figure of a man,’ said Gavrilo, pausing for a while. ‘I don’t think.’
All Kapiton did was to give a slight shrug of his skinny shoulders. ‘You any better?’ he thought to himself.
‘Take a look at yourself. Just look,’ said Gavrilo in a tone of reproach. ‘Who are you supposed to look like?’
Kapiton looked down serenely at his torn coat and patched trousers, and scrutinised his worn-out shoes with particular care, especially the toe of the shoe that his right foot was so ostentatiously leaning against, then looked back at the steward.
‘What about it?’
‘What about it?’ Gavrilo repeated. ‘What do you mean, “What about it?” You look like the devil himself. (God forgive me.) That’s who you look like!’
Kapiton blinked his beady eyes several times quickly.
‘That’s all right, Mr Gavrilo, names can’t hurt me,’ he thought to himself.
‘I hear you’ve been drunk again,’ said Gavrilo, launching forth. ‘Drunk again… Well, say something.’
‘I may have taken a drop of drink for medicinal purposes,’ said Kapiton by way of objection.
‘Medicinal purposes! They’re too soft on you, that’s what’s wrong. And you’ve been in Petersburg studying. Fat lot of studying you did there. All you’re good for is getting your daily bread for nothing.’
‘As far as that’s concerned, Mr Gavrilo, the Lord God alone is my judge – and nobody else. He alone knows what kind of man I am, living on this earth, and whether I’m getting my bread for nothing. And this drinking business, it’s not my fault, it’s one of my mates what done it, led me astray and got me all confused, then he went off, I mean, and I was…’
‘And you were left there in the street, like an idiot. You’re hopeless! Anyway, never mind that,’ went on the steward, ‘What I wanted to see you about was this. The mistress…’ he paused, ‘The mistress thinks it would be a good idea for you to get married. Do you hear that? She’s got it into her head that being married would settle you down. Do you follow me?’
‘Course I follows you, sir.’
‘Well, that’s how it is. In my opinion, what you need is a strong hand looking after you. Still, it’s her business not mine… Well, what do you say?’
Kapiton grinned. ‘Marriage is a fine thing for a man, Mr Gavrilo, and as far as I’m concerned – I’d be delighted to have the pleasure.’
‘Very well,’ said Gavrilo, with some reservations, though he thought to himself, ‘Enough said. He knows how to string his words together.’
‘There is one thing,’ he added aloud, ‘The girl they’ve picked out for you to marry isn’t – quite right.’
‘May I be asking who it is?’
‘Tatyana.’
‘Tatyana?’ Kapiton goggled as he came away from the wall. ‘What do you mean she isn’t right, Mr Gavrilo? She’s not a bad-looking girl, she knows how to work, she’s nice and quiet… But listen, Mr Gavrilo, you knows yourself – that gremlin, that hobgoblin from the back of beyond, he’s sweet on her…’
‘All right, my friend, I know all about that,’ said the steward, cutting across him with some irritation, ‘but, er…’
‘Oh please, Mr Gavrilo! He’ll kill me, God knows he will. He’ll squash me like a fly. He’s got a hand like… sir, you knows what his hand’s like… He’s got a hand like Minin and Pozharsky’s.1 Besides, he’s deaf… can’t hear you when he’s beating you up. Swinging his damn great fists like that – it’s a nightmare. And you can’t stop him. Why not? I’ll tell you why not. You knows yourself, Mr Gavrilo, he’s deaf, and more than that he’s dead stupid, no more brains than the heel of my shoe. He’s some sort of wild animal, a big stone statue, Mr Gavrilo, no – worse than that, he’s like a great big tree. Why should I have to go through it with him? I know it doesn’t make any difference, I’ve been worn down and I’ve got used to it, and I’m all greasy like a cheap old pot – but when all’s said and done I’m still a man, I’m not really just a useless old piece of pottery.’
‘I know. I know. Don’t make it sound worse…’
‘God in heaven!’ the cobbler went on, warming to his theme, ‘When will it ever end? When, for God’s sake? I’m just a miserable wretch, down on my luck. I’m a no-hoper! What’s fate ever done for me? Just think! When I was little I got beaten by a master who was German. In the première of me life I got bashed up by my brother, and now look, when I’ve reached a nice ripe age, look what things have come to…’
‘Hey, that’ll do, I’ve heard enough whingeing for today,’ said Gavrilo, ‘Going on and on like that, huh!’
‘Like what, sir? I’m not scared of being beaten! I don’t mind the master punishing me inside four walls as long as he says hello to me in public, then I belongs to yumankind. Now look who I’m going to have to…’
‘Oh, get out of here,’ said Gavrilo, impatiently cutting him short. Kapiton turned and went.
‘Hey, what if he wasn’t here?’ the steward shouted after him. ‘You wouldn’t refuse, would you?’
‘I would give my consent,’ Kapiton shouted back, and he was gone, eloquence not having deserted him even in extreme circumstances.
The steward walked up and down the room a couple of times.
‘Right. Let’s send for Tatyana,’ he said at last.
A few moments later Tatyana came in almost without being heard, and stopped in the doorway.
‘What do you want me for, sir?’ she said in a low voice.
The steward looked at her closely.
‘Well then,’ he said, ‘Our little Tanya, how would you like to get married? The mistress has found you a bridegroom.’
‘Yes, sir. Who’ve I got as a bridegroom?’ she said with no confidence.
‘Kapiton. The cobbler.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘He’s a bit flighty, I’ll give you that. But that’s where the mistress is depending on you.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘There’s just one thing. That, er, deaf chap, Gerasim. He seems to be rather sweet on you. How did you manage to charm a great big bear like that? Anyway, he’s likely to kill you, big bear like that.’
‘Oh yes, he will, sir. He’ll kill me all right.’
‘Kill you, will he? Well, we’ll see about that. How can you say he’ll kill you? Do you think he has any right to kill you? Just think about it.’
‘I don’t know, sir. Whether he does or he doesn’t.’
‘Funny girl. By the way, you haven’t, er, promised him anything, have you?’
‘Beg pardon, sir?’
The steward did not reply. He was thinking, ‘Can’t get anything out of you, can I?’
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘We’ll have another little chat later on. Off you go now, little Tanya. I can see you’re a nice quiet girl.’
Tatyana turned to go, brushed against the door-frame, and walked out.
‘Oh well, maybe tomorrow the mistress will have forgotten all about this marriage,’ thought the steward. ‘Why have I got so worked up about it? That trouble-maker – we’ll tie him up and maybe hand him over to the police… Ustinya!’ he roared across to his wife. ‘Put the samovar on the table, my treasure!’
Almost all day long Tatyana stayed inside the laundry. At first she burst into tears, but then she wiped them away and went back to keeping busy with her work.
Kapiton sat in the pub until last thing at night with some sort of gloomy-looking friend, telling him in great detail how he had lived with one master in Petersburg who would have been fine and dandy if he hadn’t been too finicky about things, and he was a great tippler and when it came to the fair sex he wasn’t at all choosy… His gloomy friend never stopped nodding, but when Kapiton finally announced that he had a good reason to lay hands on himself tomorrow morning, the same gloomy friend suddenly noticed it was time for bed. Their parting was gruff and silent.
In the event, the steward’s hopes were not to be realised. The mistress was so taken with the idea of Kapiton’s marriage that she stayed up that night talking about nothing else to a lady companion who was kept on simply to be there and help out with insomnia – like a cab-driver on nights, she slept during the day. When Gavrilo reported in after morning tea her first question was, ‘And how is our wedding coming along?’ Naturally enough, he said things couldn’t be better; Kapiton would be coming in that very day to pay his respects. The mistress had something wrong with her, so she wasn’t spending a long time over business matters.
The steward went back to his room and called a meeting. This question needed a lot of discussion. Tatyana was not going back on her word, of course, but Kapiton informed the world at large that he only had one head, not two, not three… Gerasim kept glancing at them all with a quick scowl, and he wouldn’t budge from the maids’ building; it seemed to be dawning on him that something bad was being hatched up against him. Those present (including an old footman nicknamed Uncle Tail, to whom they all turned for advice even though the only thing they ever heard him say was, ‘There we have it then. Yes, yes, yes…’) began by taking one precaution: for safety’s sake Kapiton was locked up in the little storeroom with the water-filtering machinery. Then they got down to some serious thinking. It would be easy enough to use force, of course, but God forbid it should come to that, with all the noise upsetting the mistress – that would be catastrophic. What could they do? They thought and thought, and finally came up with an idea. It had often been noticed that Gerasim had no time for people who got drunk. As he sat at the gate he would turn away in disgust whenever a man who had been at the bottle came staggering past with the peak of his cap over one ear. It was decided that Tatyana must be taught to look as if she had been drinking and walk past Gerasim, rocking and reeling. For a long time the poor girl refused to do it, but they talked her round, and in any case she came to see that there was no other way of getting rid of her admirer. She went ahead and did it. Kapiton was let out of the storeroom – after all, he was involved in this. Gerasim was sitting at the gate on a low round stone scratching the ground with his shovel. From round every corner, from behind every blind, eyes were on him.
The trick paid off better than anyone could have expected. When he caught sight of Tatyana, at first he started nodding towards her and making his soft mooing noises, then he looked more closely, dropped his shovel, got to his feet and walked over to her, bringing his face close up to hers… She was so scared she swayed more than ever and shut her eyes… He took her by the hand, rushed her straight across the yard, went into the room where the meeting was being held and shoved her straight at Kapiton. Tatyana nearly fainted. Gerasim stood there looking at her, gave a twisted grin, and stomped off with a wave of his hand back to his room.
He didn’t come out for twenty-four hours. Antipka, the postboy, told them later on that when he looked in through a crack he could see Gerasim sitting on his bed with one hand against his cheek, now and then making soft, rhythmic mooing sounds to himself; he was singing, which meant rocking backwards and forwards with his eyes closed and shaking his head about like a driver or a barge-hauler when they let go with their sad songs and the long, drawn-out melodies. Antipka found it too scary, and he came away from the crack. But when Gerasim came out of his little room the next day, there was no noticeable change in him. Maybe he looked a mite gloomier, and he completely ignored Kapiton and Tatyana.
That evening they went together to see the mistress, with geese under their arms by way of a present, and one week later they were married. On the day of the wedding Gerasim didn’t change his routine one iota, though he did come back from the river without any water, having somehow smashed his barrel on the way, and at night-time in the stables he scrubbed and rubbed his horse so vigorously that it swayed like a blade of grass in the wind, rocking from one leg to another under his iron fists.
All of this had been happening in springtime. Another year went by, which saw Kapiton become a slave to the bottle, and being a completely useless individual he was dispatched by cart-train to a remote village, along with his wife. On the day of their departure he put a brave face on it at first, insisting that, wherever he was sent, even to a place where women ‘wash the shirts beneath the sky, but hang the washboard up to dry’, he wouldn’t let them grind him down. But then his spirits fell, and he started moaning about being sent away to mix with ignorant people, and finally he was reduced to such a state that he couldn’t put his cap on straight; it took a compassionate soul to pull it round over his forehead, straighten the peak and tap it down. When everything was ready, and the peasants were holding the reins while they waited for the words, ‘Off we go, and God go with us!’ Gerasim came out of his room, went up to Tatyana and gave her a souvenir; it was a red cotton scarf he had bought for her a year or so ago. Tatyana, who until this moment had borne all the setbacks of her life with perfect indifference, broke down at last, burst into tears, and before getting up onto the cart exchanged three kisses with Gerasim like a true Christian. He intended to see her off as far as the toll-gate, and at first he walked along with the cart, but suddenly at the Crimean Ford he stopped, gave a dismissive wave of the hand and walked off along the riverbank.
It happened as evening was coming on. He was walking quietly along, staring at the water. Suddenly he thought he saw something floundering in the mud near the bank. Bending down, he saw a little black-and-white puppy struggling like mad and unable get out of the water. It was flapping about, slipping all over the place and shivering all along its sopping, thin little body. Gerasim took one look at the miserable little dog, pulled it out with one hand, shoved it under his coat and set off home, striding out. He came into his little room, put the dog he had just saved down on the bed, covered him with a heavy coat, nipped across to the stable to get some straw and then round to the kitchen for a little bowl of milk. Delicately pulling back the coat, he spread out the straw and put the milk down on the bed. The poor little thing was barely three weeks old, its eyes had only just opened, and one of them actually looked a bit bigger than the other one. She didn’t yet know how to drink from a bowl; all she did was shiver and screw her eyes up tight. (She had turned out to be a bitch.) Gerasim picked her up by the neck, gently between finger and thumb, and bent her little snout down to the milk. Suddenly the little dog started slurping greedily, snorting, shivering and choking as she did so. Gerasim watched and watched, and then burst out with a sudden laugh. All night long he fussed over her, putting her to bed and wiping her dry, and when at last he dozed off he was lying next to her, and his sleep was restful and happy.
No mother could have looked after her baby better than Gerasim looked after his new charge. At first she was a feeble, sickly and ugly little thing, but as time went by she pulled herself together and straightened out so that when eight months or so had gone by, thanks to the untiring efforts of her saviour, she had grown into a nice spaniel with long ears, a fluffy tail shaped like a trumpet, and big eyes full of feeling. She had become passionately devoted to Gerasim, sticking to his heels, and walking behind him everywhere with her tail gently wagging. He gave her a name; mutes are aware that their mooing noises attract attention, and he called her Mumu. All the household servants fell in love with her, and they called her by her pet-name, Mumúnya. She was very intelligent, she wanted to be petted by everybody, but Gerasim was the only one she loved. And Gerasim loved her to distraction; he didn’t like other people stroking her. Heaven knows whether he was afraid for her or just jealous. She woke him up in the morning by tugging at the hem of his coat, and she would bring up the old horse who pulled the water barrels, leading him by his reins (they were good friends); she would also go down to the river with him wearing an expression of great self-importance; she guarded his brooms and spades, and she wouldn’t let anyone near his room. He cut a hole in his door especially for her, and she seemed to think that Gerasim’s room was the one place where she was in complete control, which meant that when she came in she jumped straight onto the bed, looking pleased with herself. At night she never slept, nor did she set off barking for no good reason like a stupid mongrel sitting back with its snout in the air, narrowing its eyes and barking from having nothing better to do, barking at the stars or nothing in particular, usually three times in succession – no! Mumu’s soft voice was never put to use without good reason – if, for instance, an outsider came near to the fence, or there was a suspicious noise or a sound of something rustling. In a nutshell, she was an excellent guard dog. Actually, there was another dog in the yard besides her, an old yellow-and-brown hound called Volchok, but he was never let off his chain, not even at night, and he himself, feeble as he was, never wanted to be set free – he just lay there curled up in his kennel, now and again producing a hoarse kind of bark, nearly inaudible, which he cut short straight away as if he knew how completely useless it was. Mumu never went into the big house, and when Gerasim was carrying firewood into the rooms, she would always stay outside and stand impatiently by the steps waiting for him to come back, with her ears pricked and her head moving right and then sharply left whenever she heard the slightest noise from inside.
In this way another year went by. Gerasim went about his yard-keeping duties, and he was very happy with the way things had worked out, until one day an unexpected event suddenly occurred.
What happened was this: one fine day in the summertime, the mistress was walking round the drawing room accompanied by her lady companions, the usual hangers-on. She was in a good mood, laughing and joking, and the ladies were playing along, also laughing and joking, but without much enthusiasm. The household didn’t enjoy it when the mistress had one of her happy hours because, firstly, she instantly demanded a totally sympathetic response, and she would fly into a rage if she saw anybody with a face that wasn’t beaming with pleasure, and, secondly, these outbursts of hers never lasted long and they were usually followed by a mood of nasty bitterness. That morning she had got up with a lucky feeling. At cards she had been dealt four knaves, a sign that her wishes would come true (she always liked a bit of fortune-telling in the morning), and she had particularly enjoyed her tea, for which the maid got a compliment (words), and a tip (money). She had a sweet smile on her wrinkled lips as she strolled round the room, ending up at the window. There was a small flower garden just under the window and there, under a little rosebush right in the middle, lay Mumu, busily gnawing at a bone. The mistress spotted her.
‘Good heavens!’ she suddenly exclaimed, ‘Whose dog is that?’
The lady to whom the mistress had turned panicked, the poor little creature, filled with the kind of miserable anxiety that usually overtakes a person subject to another’s will when it is not quite clear what kind of response is required to an exclamation from the master.
‘I… er, I’m n-n-not too sure,’ she mumbled. ‘I think it might belong to the dumb man.’
‘Good heavens!’ said the mistress, interrupting her. ‘Isn’t she a sweet little dog? Have her brought in. How long has he had her? How can it be that I haven’t seen her before? Do have her brought in.’
The lady rushed out into the hall.
‘You there!’ she called out, ‘Go and get Mumu, now. She’s in the flower-bed.’
‘Oh, she’s called Mumu,’ said the mistress. ‘What a nice name.’
‘Yes, very nice, madam!’ put in the lady companion. ‘Do get a move on, Stepan!’
Stepan, a burly youth serving as a footman, rushed out headlong into the garden and made a grab for Mumu, but she slipped through his fingers, lifted her tail and ran flat-out back to Gerasim, who was busy bashing a barrel and scraping it clean outside the kitchen; it was rolling through his hands like a toy drum. Stepan rushed after her, and got a bit of a hold on her close to her master’s legs, but the nippy little dog was jumping and wriggling, determined not to fall into somebody else’s hands. Gerasim watched this scuffle with amusement. Eventually Stepan got up with some irritation and lost no time in signalling to him by gesture that the mistress wanted his dog taken inside. Gerasim was somewhat taken aback, but he called Mumu, lifted her up and handed her over to Stepan. Stepan took her into the drawing room and put her down on the parquet floor. The mistress put on a simpering voice and called her over. Mumu was scared – she had never in her life been inside rooms as grand as these – and she dived for the door, only to be shoved back in by the obliging Stepan. She ended up hugging the wall and shivering.
‘Mumu. Mumu, come here, come to the mistress,’ said the grand lady. ‘Come on, you silly little thing. Don’t be afraid.’
But Mumu was looking around gloomily, and didn’t move a muscle.
‘Get her something to eat,’ said the mistress. ‘What a silly thing she is! Not coming to the mistress. What can she be afraid of?’
‘She’s not quite used to you yet,’ said one of the companions in a timid, soppy voice.
Stepan fetched a saucer of milk and put it down in front of Mumu, but Mumu wouldn’t even give it a sniff; she was still shivering and looking around.
‘Now, what’s this all about?’ said the mistress, walking over to her. She bent down, wanting to stroke her, but Mumu jerked her head away, and snarled. The mistress snatched her hand away.
There was a moment’s silence. Mumu gave a feeble whine, as if she wanted to complain or apologise. The mistress walked away scowling. The dog’s sudden movement had frightened her.
‘Oh dear!’ exclaimed all the lady companions at once. ‘I hope she hasn’t bitten you. God forbid!’ (Mumu had never bitten anybody in her life.) ‘Oh dear! Oh dear!’
‘Get her out of here,’ said the mistress in a changed tone of voice. ‘Nasty little thing! What a savage!’
And, turning slowly away, the mistress made her way through to her boudoir. The companions looked nervously at each other and followed on quickly, but she stopped, gave them a cold glance, and said, ‘What’s all this about? I haven’t called you.’ And off she went.
The companion ladies waved desperately at Stepan; he picked Mumu up and threw her outside in short order, right at the feet of Gerasim – and within half-an-hour a profound silence reigned over the whole house. The old mistress sat on her sofa with a face darker than thunder.
To think what stupid little things can upset some people!
All afternoon the mistress was out of spirits; she spoke to nobody, didn’t play at cards, and went on to have a bad night. She got hold of the idea that the eau de cologne she had been given wasn’t the same as the eau de cologne she usually received, and that her pillow had a soapy smell, so the linen-woman had to come in and sniff all the bedclothes. All in all, she was deeply upset and she ‘flew off the handle’ rather a lot. Next morning she had Gavrilo summoned an hour earlier than usual.
‘Just tell me this,’ she began the moment he had crossed her threshold in some trepidation. ‘Whose dog was that barking all night long in our yard? I never got a wink of sleep.’
‘Dog, madam? What dog would that be, madam? Ah, perhaps you mean the dumb man’s dog, madam.’ He spoke in a less than confident tone.
‘I don’t know whether it’s his dog or somebody else’s. All I know is it wouldn’t let me sleep. In any case, I’m surprised we have such an abundance of dogs. Tell me something. Do we or do we not have a yard dog?’
‘Er, yes, madam. We do, madam. Volchok, madam.’
‘Well, why do we need any more? Why should we need another dog? It’s just looking for trouble. There’s no discipline in this house – that’s what’s wrong. And why does the dumb man need a dog? Who gave him permission to keep dogs in my yard? I went to the window yesterday, and there it was in the flower-garden with some ghastly thing it had brought in, chewing at it – just where I’ve had roses planted.’
The mistress paused.
‘I want it out of here – today… Do you hear what I say?’
‘Yes, madam.’
‘I mean today. Off you go. I’ll hear your report later on.’
Gavrilo walked out.
As he passed through the drawing room the steward transferred a little bell from one table to another, to keep things tidy, and quietly cleared his beaky nose in the ballroom before going through into the hall. In the hall there was Stepan fast asleep on a chest, looking like a slain warrior in a battle scene, with his bare legs thrust out from under his coat, which was being used as a blanket. The steward shook him awake, and gave him some instructions in a low voice, to which Stepan responded with something that was half-yawn, half-guffaw. The steward then went away, and Stepan hopped down from his chest, pulled on his kaftan and boots, and went outside by the front steps. Barely five minutes had passed when along came Gerasim carrying a big load of firewood on his back, accompanied by the inseparable Mumu. (The mistress required her bedroom and boudoir to be heated even in summertime.) Gerasim turned side-on to the door, shoved it open with his shoulder and flopped forward into the house carrying his load. As usual Mumu sat outside waiting for him to come back. Stepan, seizing his chance, flung himself down on her like a hawk on a chicken, pressed her chest down to the ground, snatched her up under one arm, and rushed out of the yard without bothering to put his cap on; outside, he hailed the first cab that came along, and it took him down to Hunter’s Row. Here he soon found a purchaser, giving him a half-rouble discount on condition that he kept her tied up for at least a week; then he set off back, but he got out of his cab well short of home, and walked right round the outside of the yard and down a backstreet, where he got in by climbing the fence because he was scared of running into Gerasim if he went in through the front gate.
As it happened, he needn’t have worried. Gerasim wasn’t there. The moment he left the house he missed his Mumu, and, since he couldn’t remember her ever having given up waiting for him, he rushed about all over the place looking for her, calling her as best he could. Dashing back to his room, then to the hayloft, and outside onto the street – here, there and everywhere. She had gone! He turned to the servants, asking after her with the wildest despairing gestures, pointing one-foot-high and shaping her with his hands. Some of them, who simply didn’t know where Mumu had gone, just shook their heads; others knew about it and they chuckled up their sleeves by way of an answer. And as for the steward, he took on an air of great importance, and went round shouting at the coachmen. At this point Gerasim ran out of the yard and away.
It was getting dark when he came back. If his tired look, unsteady walk and dusty clothing were anything to go by, it seemed as if he had been chasing half-way around Moscow. He stopped by the windows of the big house, looked at the front steps, where half-a-dozen servants had gathered, turned away and gave one last call of ‘Mumu!’ But there was no answer from Mumu, and he walked away. They all watched him as he went, but no one smiled and not a word was spoken. The next morning the post-boy Antipka, ever curious, told them in the kitchen that the deaf-mute had been moaning and groaning all night long.
The next day Gerasim didn’t put in an appearance, which meant that the water had to be fetched by a coachman called Potap, and coachman Potap wasn’t too pleased about this. The mistress asked Gavrilo whether her instructions had been carried out. Gavrilo said yes, they had.
On the following morning Gerasim left his room and came out to work. He dropped in for his dinner, ate it and went off again without giving anybody the time of day. His face, lifeless enough anyway (as with all deaf-and-dumb people), seemed to have turned to stone. After dinner he left the yard again, but not for long; he soon came back and headed for the hayloft. Night came on, moonlit and clear. Sighing deeply as he tossed and turned, Gerasim lay there until all of a sudden he seemed to feel something pulling at the hem of his coat; he shivered all over, but instead of looking up he screwed his eyes up tight – then came another tug, stronger than before. He sat up, and there in front of him was Mumu, circling with a bit of torn-off rope round her neck. A long, long moan of delight came from his unspeaking breast; he grabbed at Mumu, holding her close in his arms, and in a second she had licked him all over his nose, eyes, moustache and beard.
He stood there for a moment, thinking things over, before climbing down carefully from the hayloft. Then, with a cautious look around to make sure he wasn’t being watched, he found his way safely back to his room. Gerasim had already worked out that his dog had not gone missing all by herself. No, she must have been spirited away to please the mistress – the other servants had signalled to him that she had snapped at her – and he knew what he had to do. The first thing was to feed Mumu, so he gave her some bread. Then he gave her a cuddle and put her to bed, and spent the whole night worrying about how best to hide her. Eventually he worked it out: he would leave her in his room all day and come to visit her only now and then, and he would take her out at night. He stuffed up the hole in the door with an old coat, and at first light he was out in the yard as if nothing had happened, making sure (with the subtlety of an innocent!) that his former misery still showed on his face.
Poor deaf man that he was, it never occurred to Gerasim that Mumu would give herself away by yelping. Everybody in the house, in fact, soon knew that the deaf man’s dog had come back, and was locked up in his room, though out of pity for him and his dog, and partly perhaps because they were scared of him, no one let on that they knew his secret. The steward was the only one who scratched his head and gave a hopeless wave of his hand, saying, ‘Good luck to him. Maybe the mistress won’t get to know.’
The dumb man, though, had never worked as hard as he did that day. He washed the yard and scraped it clean, weeding every last corner; he pulled out all the posts in the fence round the flower-garden with brute force, checked them for strength, and banged them back in again; he – well, he fussed about and took so much trouble over everything that even the mistress noticed how keen he was. During the day Gerasim popped in a couple of times on the quiet to see his little prisoner, and when night came on he went to bed with her in his room rather than in the hayloft; it was past one o’clock when he took her out for a walk in the fresh air. After quite a long turn about the yard he was just about to take her in again when suddenly there was a shuffling sound from the back street on the other side of the fence. Mumu pricked up her ears and growled, walking over to the fence, where she first sniffed around and then launched into a loud, ear-splitting bark. Some drunk had seen fit to settle down there for the night.
At that moment the mistress was just nodding off after a long bout of ‘the nerves’: those fits that always came upon her when she had overeaten at the dinner table. The sudden barking woke her up; her heart leapt and fell.
‘Girls, girls!’ she moaned. ‘Girls!’ Terrified maids rushed into her bedroom. ‘Oh dear, I’m dying!’ she managed to say, with a weary spread of her hands. ‘It’s that dog again. Oh dear, get me the doctor! They’re trying to kill me. That dog. It’s that dog again! Oh dear!’ and she threw her head back in a gesture of fainting. The doctor was sent for, or rather the household medical helper, Khariton. This medicine man – whose expertise comprised nothing more than an ability to go around in soft-soled shoes, to take a pulse with a delicate touch, to sleep away fourteen hours of the twenty-four, and to spend the rest of his time regaling the mistress with laurel drops – this quack came running in, wafted her with some singed feathers, and was standing by when the mistress opened her eyes, with a glass of the sacred drops on a little silver tray. The mistress took them, and lost no time in raising her tearful voice again to complain about the dog, Gavrilo, and her hard lot in life – what a poor old woman she was, abandoned by everybody, nobody had any time for her, they all wanted her dead. And all this time the luckless Mumu went on barking while Gerasim made vain attempts to call her back from the fence.
‘Listen… There it is again…’ the mistress murmured, rolling her eyes upwards. The doctor whispered to a maid, who rushed into the hall and shook Stepan awake; he shot off to rouse Gavrilo, and a bad-tempered Gavrilo ordered everybody up.
Gerasim turned round and caught sight of lights flashing against shadows in the house; sensing disaster in his heart, he snatched up Mumu and stuffed her under his arm, ran back to his room and locked himself in. Gavrilo came running up, panting for all he was worth, and told them all to stay where they were and keep watch till morning; he himself raced off to the maids’ quarters, where he used an intermediary, Lyubov Lyubimovna, the senior lady companion with whom he raided the tea and doctored the accounts, to inform the mistress that unfortunately somehow the dog had found its way back, but tomorrow it would no longer be alive, and would she graciously refrain from being too angry with them, and remain calm. The mistress would probably not have remained at all calm but for the medicine man who, in his hurry, had given her not twelve drops but no fewer than forty; the strength of the laurel water took effect, and within a quarter of an hour the mistress was fast asleep and breathing easily. Meanwhile Gerasim lay on his bed white-faced and holding Mumu’s mouth tight shut.
The next morning the mistress awoke rather late. Gavrilo had been waiting for her to come round before ordering them to close in once and for all on Gerasim’s sanctuary, and he himself was getting ready to withstand a violent storm. But no storm came.
Lying in bed, the mistress sent for the eldest lady companion.
‘Lyubov,’ she began in a soft and feeble voice (she sometimes liked to play the part of a downtrodden, suffering orphan-girl, and, needless to say, when she did so all the household servants felt distinctly uneasy). ‘Lyubov, you can see what a state I’m in. Would you mind having a word with Gavrilo, my dear? Ask him whether he considers some stupid little dog more important than his mistress’ peace of mind, even her life? I wouldn’t like to think so,’ she added, with a look of deep feeling. ‘Go now, darling. Please. Go and see Gavrilo.’
Lyubov set off for Gavrilo’s room. It is not known what transpired between them, but soon afterwards a whole crowd of servants could be seen making their way across the yard, heading for Gerasim’s little room. Gavrilo strode out in front, clutching his cap even though there wasn’t any wind, and the footmen and the cooks came too. Uncle Tail was watching through the window, telling them what to do by waving his arms about, and at the back some rough lads, half of them outsiders, were jumping about and showing off. A guard sat on the narrow stairs leading up to Gerasim’s little room; by the door there were two more, holding sticks. They all ended up spread out all over the staircase, occupying it from bottom to top. Gavrilo went up to the door, banged on it with his fist, and called out, ‘Open up!’
There came a stifled yap, but no reply.
‘I’m telling you to open up!’ he repeated.
‘Gavrilo,’ said Stepan from down below. ‘Don’t forget, he’s deaf. He won’t hear you.’
They all laughed at this.
‘What shall we do then?’ Gavrilo responded from the top.
‘Look, there’s a kind of opening there,’ said Stepan. ‘Shove your stick through and shake it about.’
Gavrilo bent down.
‘Yes, it’s a hole, but he’s stuffed it up with a coat or something.’
‘Why not shove it in?’
Another muffled yap came through the door.
‘Listen. She wants you to know she’s there,’ came a voice from the crowd, and they all laughed again.
Gavrilo scratched behind his ear.
‘No, my friend,’ he said at last. ‘You come and shove it through, if that’s what you want.’
‘All right. Let me come past.’
Stepan made his way to the top of the stairs, took one of the sticks, pushed the coat through to the inside, banged about with the stick and said, ‘Come on! Come on out!’ He was still banging away when the door was flung wide open, and all the servants barrelled down the stairs, with Gavrilo in the lead. Uncle Tail closed his window.
‘Hey, you up there!’ Gavrilo shouted from down in the yard. ‘I’m telling you. Watch what you’re doing!’
Gerasim stood there in the doorway without moving. A crowd had gathered at the foot of the stairs. Gerasim looked down on these tiny people dressed like Germans, with his hands gently resting on his hips; in his red peasant’s shirt he looked like a giant towering above them. Gavrilo stepped forward.
‘Look here, my friend,’ he said. ‘Don’t you play around with me.’ And he set about explaining in sign language: the mistress wants your dog, no two ways about it, and you’d better hand her over or you’ll live to regret it.
Gerasim looked at him, pointed at Mumu and then at his own neck, pretending to tighten a noose round it, and then he looked quizzically at the steward.
‘Yes, that’s it,’ said Gavrilo, nodding his head. ‘Definitely.’
Gerasim looked down, then suddenly he shook himself and pointed at Mumu again – she was standing at his side innocently wagging her tail and waggling her ears as if puzzled. He mimed the strangling again round his own neck, and then thumped himself on the chest meaningfully – a clear indication that it was his job to destroy Mumu.
‘I can’t trust you,’ said Gavrilo with a dismissive wave.
Gerasim glanced at him, gave a twisted smile, thumped himself on the chest again, and banged the door shut.
They all looked at each other in silence.
‘What was all that about?’ began Gavrilo. ‘Has he locked himself in?’
‘Let him be, Mr Gavrilo,’ said Stepan. ‘He’ll do it, if he promised. That’s what he’s like. He’ll definitely do anything he’s promised to do. He’s not like us, you know. What’s right is right. Oh yes.’
‘Yes,’ came from all sides, and heads were nodding. ‘That’s how it is. Oh yes.’
Uncle Tail opened his window, and said yes too.
‘Oh, all right. We’ll see what happens,’ said Gavrilo, ‘But keep guarding him. Hey you, Yeroshka,’ he added, turning to a rather pale-faced man dressed in a cotton Cossack coat who passed himself off as a gardener. ‘Not too busy, are you? Get yourself a stick and sit here. Anything happens, you come and let me know. At the double!’
Yeroshka got himself a stick and sat down on the bottom step. The crowd dispersed, apart from one or two nosey-parkers and some young lads, and Gavrilo went back to his place, where he sent Lyubov to let the mistress know that her wishes had been carried out to the letter, and that he had sent the post-boy to get the policeman just in case. The mistress tied a knot in her handkerchief, sprinkled it with eau de cologne, took a sniff at it, dabbing herself on the temples, had a good drink of tea and went back to sleep, still lulled by the laurel drops.
An hour after all this bother the door to the little room was flung open, and there stood Gerasim. He was wearing his best long-coat; he had Mumu on a string lead. Yeroshka edged away and let him through. Gerasim walked to the gate. The young lads and all the people in the yard watched him go without saying a word. He didn’t even turn round, and he didn’t put his cap on until he was out on the street. Gavrilo sent Yeroshka after him as an observer. From a long way off Yeroshka saw him go into the tavern with his dog, and he settled, waiting for him to come out again.
Gerasim was well-known in the tavern, and they could read his signals. He ordered some meat and cabbage soup for himself, with both hands resting on the table. Mumu stood by his chair, watching him calmly with her sharp little eyes. Her coat was glossy; she had obviously just been combed. They brought Gerasim’s soup. He crumbled some of the bread into the soup, cut the meat up into little pieces and put the plate down on the floor. Mumu began to eat in her usual fastidious way, with her little muzzle scarcely touching the food. Gerasim watched her for some time; suddenly two tears rolled down from his eyes, one falling onto the little dog’s flat brow, the other into the soup. He covered his face with one hand. Mumu ate her way through half a plateful, and then walked away licking her chops. Gerasim got up, paid for the soup and walked out, accompanied by a rather puzzled look from the waiter. Yeroshka saw Gerasim come out, nipped round a corner to let him go past, and then followed on behind.
Gerasim was walking steadily down the street, keeping Mumu on the lead. When he got to the corner he stopped and seemed to think things over, but then suddenly he set off at a fast pace, heading straight for the Crimean Ford. Along the way he slipped into the yard of a house where an extension was being built and came out carrying two building blocks under his arm. At the ford he walked along the riverbank until he came to a place where two rowing-boats with shipped oars were moored, tied to pegs. He had noticed these previously, and now jumped into one with Mumu. An old chap hobbled out of a hut in one corner of a kitchen garden, and shouted at him. But Gerasim just nodded and set off rowing, upstream, so powerfully that in no time he had covered nearly two hundred yards. The old man stood there for quite a while, scratching his back, first with his left hand and then with his right, and then hobbled back into his hut.
Meanwhile, Gerasim was rowing steadily on. Before long Moscow had been left behind. A bit further on, meadows, gardens, fields and woodland lay along the riverbank, and peasant shacks began to appear. There was a breath of country air. Gerasim shipped the oars with a thump, bent down close to Mumu, who was sitting in front of him on the dry seat – the bottom of the boat being awash – and stayed there in one position without moving, with his big strong hands crossed over her back, while a wave started to carry the boat little by little back towards the city.
Eventually Gerasim sat up straight, and acted quickly with a painful bitterness written on his face, tying string round the bricks that he had brought with him, making a noose to put round Mumu’s neck, lifting her out over the river, and taking one last look at her… She looked at him in complete trust and without fear, gently wagging her little tail. He looked away, screwed up his eyes and unclenched his hands… Gerasim heard nothing, neither the little squeal that Mumu gave as she fell, nor the big splash; for him the noisiest day was more silent and soundless than the softest night could be for us, and when he opened his eyes wide the wavelets still seemed to be chasing each other downstream, still lapping against the sides of the boat – the only difference was way behind, where wide circles were rippling out speedily towards the riverbank.
Yeroshka had watched Gerasim row out of sight, and now he set off immediately back home to report all that he had seen.
‘Oh yes,’ said Stepan, ‘He was going to drown her all right. You could be sure of that. As long as he had promised…’
No one saw Gerasim again that day. He didn’t have his lunch with them. Evening came on, and everyone turned up for supper, except him.
‘Funny chap, that Gerasim!’ a fat laundrywoman said in a squeaky voice. ‘Fancy getting all worked up like that over a dog… I don’t know!’
‘He’s been back here, Gerasim.’ Stepan spoke out suddenly, spooning up his gruel.
‘You what? When was he here?’
‘Oh, a couple of hours ago. Oh yes, it was him all right. I ran into him by the gate. He was on his way out, leaving the yard. I, er, wanted to ask how things were with the dog, but he didn’t seem in the mood somehow. Actually he banged into me. I’m sure he was only shoving me away, telling me to keep clear, but he caught me one round the back of me neck, and I’m tellin’ you it didn’t half hurt!’ Stepan couldn’t help smiling as he hunched his shoulders and rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Oh yes,’ he added. ‘He has a delicate touch, he does. You can’t deny that.’
They all laughed at Stepan, and when supper was over everyone went off to bed.
Meanwhile, at that very time, a gigantic figure was striding out purposefully along the road to T–, carrying a sack over his shoulders and a big stick. He wasn’t stopping. It was Gerasim. He was hurrying along without a backward glance, hurrying back home, back to the countryside where he had been born. After drowning poor Mumu he had run back to his room, thrown a few things together and bundled them up in an old horse-cloth; then he was off. He had taken careful note of the way they were going when they had brought him into Moscow; the village from which the mistress had taken him was a good bit less than twenty miles off the high road. He walked along in a spirit of unstoppable boldness, a mixture of despondency and jubilant determination. As he walked his chest swelled; his eager eyes looked steadily ahead. He was flying along as if his old mother was waiting for him at home, as if she was calling him back after a long spell of wandering in foreign parts among foreign people…
The summer night had just drawn in, mild and warm; in one direction, where the sun had gone down, the skyline still shone white, with a light touch of pink from the last flush of the declining day, and in the opposite direction a grey-blue twilight was coming up. That was where night was coming from. Quails screamed in hundreds on every side; corncrakes called across to each other one by one. Gerasim couldn’t hear them any more than he could hear the gentle night-time rustling in the trees that his strong legs were taking him past, but he could appreciate the familiar smell of ripening rye wafting across from the dark fields, and feel the wind – a wind that came from home – blowing gently into his face and playing with his hair and his beard, and he could see the road shining white ahead of him, the road home, running as straight as an arrow, and the infinite number of stars lighting his way, and he strode out like a lion, so manfully and in such good heart that by the time the rising sun cast its first moist-pink rays on the strong young figure now nicely into his stride, he had put twenty miles between him and Moscow.
It took him two days to get home and back to his small hut – which came as a shock to the soldier’s wife who had been billeted there. After mouthing a prayer before the icons he set off straight away to see the headman of the village. The headman reacted at first with some surprise, but, with haymaking just under way and Gerasim known as an excellent workman, they shoved a scythe into his hands; off he went to do some haymaking just as he had done before, and his mowing left the other peasants open-mouthed at the sight of huge amounts piling up from his swinging and raking.
Meanwhile, back in Moscow Gerasim was missed the day after he absconded. They went into his little room, ransacked it and went to tell Gavrilo. He came along, took a look at things, and decided with a shrug that either the deaf-mute had run away or he had drowned himself along with his silly dog. They informed the police and told the mistress. The mistress was furious; she burst into tears, told them to find him, whatever it took, made it clear that she had never ordered the dog to be put down, and gave Gavrilo such an earful that he went about for a whole day shaking his head and saying, ‘Oh my…’ until Uncle Tail brought him to his senses by saying, ‘All your what?’ Eventually news came through from the village that Gerasim was back home. The mistress calmed down a little. At first she ordered him to be brought back to Moscow immediately, but then she announced that she had no need whatsoever for such an ungrateful person. In the event, she died soon afterwards, and her heirs had no time to bother with Gerasim. They freed the rest of the mistress’ serfs in exchange for payment of an annual tax.
And Gerasim still lives there, a lonely figure in his little shack, as strong and fit as ever. As before, he does the work of four men, and, also as before, he values his dignity and keeps things in good order. But his neighbours have noticed that since his return he has kept away from the company of women, not even looking at them, and he won’t keep a dog.
‘Oh well,’ say the peasants. ‘He’s a lucky man doin’ without women. And dogs? Why would he need a dog? Wild horses and strong men wouldn’t bring a thief on to his bit of land.’ That’s what the world says about the dumb man and his colossal strength.
1852