Short stories, Russian -- Translations into English
soon aware that the dumb man's dog had come back, and was locked up in
his garret, but from sympathy with him and with her, and partly,
perhaps, from dread of him, they did not let him know that they had
found out his secret. The steward scratched his head, and gave a
despairing wave of his head, as much as to say, "Well, well, God have
mercy on him! If only it doesn't come to the mistress's ears!"
But the dumb man had never shown such energy as on that day; he cleaned
and scraped the whole courtyard, pulled up every single weed with his
own hand, tugged up every stake in the fence of the flower-garden, to
satisfy himself that they were strong enough, and unaided drove them in
again; in fact, he toiled and labored so that even the old lady noticed
his zeal. Twice in the course of the day Gerasim went stealthily in to
see his prisoner; when night came on, he lay down to sleep with her in
the garret, not in the hay-loft, and only at two o'clock in the night
he went out to take her a turn in the fresh air.
After walking about the courtyard a good while with her, he was just
turning back, when suddenly a rustle was heard behind the fence on the
side of the back street. Mumu pricked up her ears, growled--went up to
the fence, sniffed, and gave vent to a loud shrill bark. Some drunkard
had thought fit to take refuge under the fence for the night. At that
very time the old lady had just fallen asleep after a prolonged fit of
"nervous agitation"; these fits of agitation always overtook her after
too hearty a supper. The sudden bark waked her up: her heart
palpitated, and she felt faint. "Girls, girls!" she moaned. "Girls!"
The terrified maids ran into her bedroom. "Oh, oh, I am dying!" she
said, flinging her arms about in her agitation. "Again, that dog,
again! . . . Oh, send for the doctor. They mean to be the death of
me. . . . The dog, the dog again! Oh!" And she let her head fall
back, which always signified a swoon. They rushed for the doctor, that
is, for the household physician, Hariton. This doctor, whose whole
qualification consisted in wearing soft-soled boots, knew how to feel
the pulse delicately. He used to sleep fourteen hours out of the
twenty-four, but the rest of the time he was always sighing, and
continually dosing the old lady with cherrybay drops. This doctor ran
up at once, fumigated the room with burnt feathers, and when the old
lady opened her eyes, promptly offered her a wineglass of the hallowed
drops on a silver tray. The old lady took them, but began again at
once in a tearful voice complaining of the dog, of Gavrila, and of her
fate, declaring that she was a poor old woman, and that every one had
forsaken her, no one pitied her, every one wished her dead. Meanwhile
the luckless Mumu had gone on barking, while Gerasim tried in vain to
call her away, from the fence. "There . . . there . . . again,"
groaned the old lady, and once more she turned up the whites of her
eyes.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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