The Diary of a Superfluous Man, and Other Stories

The appearance of Kapíton broke the thread of Gavríla's meditations. The giddy-pated shoemaker entered, threw his hands behind him, and, leaning up against a projecting corner of the wall near the door, in a free-and-easy way he stuck his right leg crosswise in front of the left and shook his head, as much as to say: "Here I am. What 's your will?"

Gavríla looked at Kapíton and began to drum on the jamb of the window with his fingers. Kapíton merely narrowed his leaden eyes a bit, but did not lower them, even smiled slightly and passed his hand over his whitish hair, which stood out in disarray in all directions, as much as to say: "Well, yes, 't is I. What are you staring for?"

"Good," – said Gavríla, and paused for a space.

"Thou 'rt a nice one," – remarked Gavríla, and paused awhile. – "A nice person, there 's no denying that!"

Kapíton merely shrugged his shoulders. "And art thou any better, pray?" he said to himself.

"Come, now, just look at thyself; come, look," – went on Gavríla reprovingly; – "Well, art not thou ashamed of thyself?"

Kapíton surveyed with a calm glance his threadbare and tattered coat and his patched trousers, scanned with particular attention his shoes perforated with holes, especially the one on whose toe his right foot rested in so dandified a manner, and again fixed his eyes on the major-domo.

"What of it, sir?"

"What of it, sir?" – repeated Gavríla. – "What of it, sir? And thou sayest: 'What of it, sir?' to boot! Thou lookest like the devil, – Lord forgive me, sinful man that I am, – that 's what thou lookest like."

Kapíton winked his little eyes briskly.

"Curse away, curse away, Gavríla Andréitch," he thought to himself.

"Thou hast been drunk again, apparently," – began Gavríla; – "drunk again, surely? Hey? Come, answer."

"Owing to the feebleness of my health, I have succumbed to spirituous beverages, in fact," – returned Kapíton.

"Owing to feebleness of health?.. Thou art not whipped enough, that 's what; and thou hast served thine apprenticeship in Peter²⁸ to boot… Much thou didst learn in thine apprenticeship! Thou dost nothing but eat the bread of idleness."

"In that case, Gavríla Andréitch, I have but one judge, – the Lord God Himself, and no one else. He alone knows what sort of a man I am in this world, and whether I really do eat the bread of idleness. And as for thy reflections concerning drunkenness, – in that case also I am not to blame, but rather one of my comrades; for he led me astray, and after he had accomplished his crafty purpose, he went away; that is to say, I …"

"And thou didst remain behind, thou goose, in the street. Akh, thou dissolute man! Well, but that 's not the point," – went on the major-domo, – "but this. The mistress …" here he paused for a moment, – "it is the mistress's pleasure that thou shouldst marry. Hearest thou? She thinks that thou wilt grow steady when thou art married. Dost understand?"

"How can I help understanding, sir?"

"Well, yes. In my opinion, 't would be better to take thee firmly in hand. Well, but that 's her affair. How now? Dost thou consent?"

Kapíton displayed his teeth in a grin.

"Marriage is a good thing for a man, Gavríla Andréitch; and I, on my part, agree with very great pleasure."

"Well, yes," – returned Gavríla, and thought to himself: – "there 's no denying it, the man talks with exactness." – "Only, see here," – he went on, aloud: – "an inconvenient bride has been picked out for thee."

"Who is she, permit me to inquire?"…

"Tatyána."

"Tatyána?"

And Kapíton's eyes fairly popped out of his head, and he started away from the wall.

"Well, what art thou scared at?.. Is n't she to thy taste?"

"To my taste, forsooth, Gavríla Andréitch! The girl herself is all right; she 's a good worker, a meek lass… But you know yourself, Gavríla Andréitch, that that forest fiend, that spectre of the steppes, is courting her, you know …"

"I know, brother, I know all," – the major-domo interrupted him, with vexation: – "but, seest thou …"

"But, good gracious, Gavríla Andréitch! why, he 'll murder me; by Heaven, he 'll murder me, he 'll mash me like a fly! Why, he has a hand – just look for yourself what a hand he has; why, he simply has the hand of Mínin and Pozhársky.²⁹ For he 's deaf, he 'll kill me, and not hear that he is killing! He flourishes his huge fists exactly as though he were asleep. And there 's no possibility of stopping him. Why? Because, you know yourself, Gavríla Andréitch, he 's deaf, and stupid as an owl into the bargain. Why, he 's a sort of wild beast, a heathen idol, Gavríla Andréitch, – worse than an idol … he 's a sort of aspen-block; why should I now suffer from him? Of course nothing matters to me now; I have endured, I have practised patience, I have smeared myself with oil like a glazed Kolómna jug, – all the same, I 'm a man, and not some sort of insignificant jug, as a matter of fact."

"I know, I know; don't give a description…"

"O Lord, my God!" – went on the shoemaker, hotly: – "when will the end come? When, O Lord! I 'm a miserable wretch, a hopeless wretch. 'T is fate, my fate, when you come to think of it! In my younger years I was thrashed by a German master; in the best period of my life I was beaten by my own brother; and at last, in my riper years, to what have I come?.."

"Ekh, limp linden-bast soul!" – said Gavríla. – "Why dost thou dilate on the matter, really, now?"

"What do you mean by 'why,' Gavríla Andréitch? I 'm not afraid of blows, Gavríla Andréitch. Let the master thrash me within doors, but give me a greeting before folks, and still I 'm numbered among men; but in this case, from whom must I …"

"Come, now, begone!" – Gavríla interrupted him, impatiently.

Kapíton turned and took himself off.

"And supposing there were no question of him," – shouted the major-domo after him; – "dost thou consent?"

"I announce my assent," – replied Kapíton, and lurched out of the room.

His eloquence did not abandon him even in extremities.

The major-domo paced the length of the room several times.

"Well, now summon Tatyána," – he said at last.

In a few moments Tatyána entered almost inaudibly, and halted on the threshold.

"What is your command, Gavríla Andréitch?" – she said in a quiet voice.

The major-domo gazed fixedly at her.

"Come," – said he, – "Tániusha, wouldst thou like to marry? The mistress has hunted up a bridegroom for thee."

"I obey, Gavríla Andréitch. But who has been appointed as my bridegroom?" – she added with hesitation.

"Kapíton, the shoemaker."

"I obey, sir."

"He is a reckless man – that 's a fact. But the mistress pins her hopes on thee in that respect."

"I obey, sir."

"It 's a pity about one thing:… there 's that deaf man, Garáska, who 's paying court to thee. And how hast thou bewitched that bear? I do believe he 'll kill thee, the bear that he is…"

"He will, Gavríla Andréitch, he 'll infallibly kill me."

"He will… Well, we 'll see about that. What makes thee say, 'He 'll kill me'? Has he the right to kill thee, pray? Judge for thyself."

"Why, I don't know, Gavríla Andréitch, whether he has a right or not."

"What a girl! I suppose thou hast not made him any promise…"

"What do you mean, sir?"

The major-domo paused for a while, and thought:

"Thou art a meek soul!" – "Well, very good," – he added; "we will have another talk about it, and now, go thy way, Tatyána; I see that thou really art an obedient girl."

Tatyána turned, leaned lightly against the door-jamb, and left the room.

"But perhaps the mistress will have forgotten about this wedding by to-morrow," – meditated the major-domo. "Why have I been alarmed? We 'll pinion that insolent fellow if he makes any trouble – we 'll send word to the police… Ustínya Feódorovna!" – he shouted in a loud voice to his wife, "prepare the samovár, my good woman…"

All that day, Tatyána hardly quitted the laundry. At first she wept, then she wiped away her tears, and set to work as of yore. Kapíton sat until the dead of night in a drinking establishment with a friend of gloomy aspect, and narrated to him in detail how he had lived in Peter with a certain gentleman who had everything that heart could desire, and was a great stickler for order, and withal permitted himself one little delinquency: he was wont to get awfully fuddled, and as for the feminine sex, he simply had all the qualities to attract… His gloomy comrade merely expressed assent; but when Kapíton announced, at last, that, owing to certain circumstances, he must lay violent hands upon himself on the morrow, the gloomy comrade remarked that it was time to go to bed. And they parted churlishly, and in silence.

In the meantime, the major-domo's expectations were not realised. The idea of Kapíton's wedding had so captivated the mistress, that even during the night she had talked of nothing else with one of her companions, whom she kept in the house solely in case of sleeplessness, and who, like night cabmen, slept by day. When Gavríla entered her room after tea with his report, her first question was:

"And how about our wedding?"

He replied, of course, that it was progressing famously, and that Kapíton would present himself to her that same day to thank her.

The mistress was slightly indisposed; she did not occupy herself long with business. The major-domo returned to his own room and called a council. The matter really did require particular consideration. Tatyána did not make any objection, of course; but Kapíton declared, in the hearing of all, that he had but one head, and not two or three heads… Gerásim gazed surlily and swiftly at everybody, never left the maids' porch, and, apparently, divined that something unpleasant for him was brewing. The assembled company (among them was present the old butler, nicknamed Uncle Tail, to whom all respectfully turned for advice, although all they heard from him was "Yes! yes! yes! yes!") began, by way of precaution, for safety, by locking Kapíton up in the lumber-room with the filtering-machine and set to thinking hard. Of course, it was easy to resort to force; but God forbid! there would be a row, the mistress would get uneasy – and a calamity would ensue! What was to be done?

They thought and thought, and eventually they hit upon something. It had been repeatedly noticed that Gerásim could not abide intoxicated persons… As he sat at the gate, he turned away angrily whenever any man with a load of drink aboard passed him with unsteady steps, and the visor of his cap over his ear. They decided to instruct Tatyána to pretend to be intoxicated, and to walk past Gerásim reeling and staggering. The poor girl would not consent for a long time, but they prevailed upon her; moreover, she herself saw that otherwise she would not be able to get rid of her adorer. She did it. Kapíton was released from the lumber-room; the affair concerned him, anyhow. Gerásim was sitting on the guard-stone at the gate and jabbing the ground with his shovel… There were people staring at him from round all the corners, from behind the window-shades…

The ruse was completely successful. When first he caught sight of Tatyána, he nodded his head with an affectionate bellow; then he took a closer look, dropped his shovel, sprang to his feet, stepped up to her, put his face close down to her face… She reeled worse than ever with terror, and closed her eyes… He seized her by the arm, dashed the whole length of the courtyard, and entering the room where the council was in session with her, he thrust her straight at Kapíton. Tatyána was fairly swooning… Gerásim stood there, glared at her, waved his hand, laughed, and departed, clumping heavily to his little den… For four-and-twenty hours he did not emerge thence. Antípka, the postilion, related afterward how, peeping through a crack, he had beheld Gerásim seated on his bed, with his head resting on his hand, quietly, peaceably, and only bellowing from time to time; then he would rock himself to and fro, cover his eyes, and shake his head, as postilions or stevedores do when they strike up their melancholy chanteys. Antípka was frightened, and he retreated from the crack. But when, on the following day, Gerásim emerged from his den, no particular change was noticeable in him. He merely seemed to have become more surly, and paid not the slightest attention to Tatyána and Kapíton. On that same evening, both of them, with geese under their arms, wended their way to the mistress, and a week later they were married. On the wedding-day itself, Gerásim did not alter his demeanour in the slightest degree; only, he returned from the river without water: somehow, he had smashed the cask on the road; and at night, in the stable, he so zealously curried his horse that the animal reeled like a blade of grass in a gale, and shifted from foot to foot under his iron fists.

All this took place in the spring. Another year passed, in the course of which Kapíton finally became a thorough-going drunkard, and as a man utterly unfit for anything, was despatched with the train of freight-sledges to a distant village, together with his wife. On the day of departure he made a great show of courage at first, and declared that, no matter where they might send him, even to the place where the peasant-wives wash shirts and put their clothes-beaters in the sky, he would not come to grief; but afterward he became low-spirited, began to complain that he was being taken to uncivilised people, and finally weakened to such a degree that he was unable even to put his own cap on his head. Some compassionate soul pulled it down on his brow, adjusted the visor, and banged it down on top. And when all was ready, and the peasants were already holding the reins in their hands, and only waiting for the word: "With God's blessing!" Gerásim emerged from his tiny chamber, approached Tatyána, and presented her with a souvenir consisting of a red cotton kerchief, which he had bought expressly for her a year before. Tatyána, who up to that moment had borne all the vicissitudes of her life with great equanimity, could hold out no longer, and then and there burst into tears, and, as she took her seat in the cart, exchanged three kisses with Gerásim, in Christian fashion.³⁰ He wanted to escort her to the town barrier, and at first walked alongside her cart, but suddenly halted at the Crimean Ford, waved his hand and directed his steps along the river.

This happened toward evening. He walked quietly, and stared at the water. Suddenly it seemed to him as though something were floundering in the ooze close to the bank. He bent down, and beheld a small puppy, white with black spots, which, despite all its endeavours, utterly unable to crawl out of the water, was struggling, slipping, and quivering all over its wet, gaunt little body. Gerásim gazed at the unfortunate puppy, picked it up with one hand, thrust it into his breast, and set out with great strides homeward. He entered his little den, laid the rescued puppy on his bed, covered it with his heavy coat, ran first to the stable for straw, then to the kitchen for a cup of milk. Cautiously throwing back the coat and spreading out the straw, he placed the milk on the bed. The poor little dog was only three weeks old; it had only recently got its eyes open, and one eye even appeared to be a little larger than the other; it did not yet know how to drink out of a cup, and merely trembled and blinked. Gerásim grasped it lightly with two fingers by the head, and bent its muzzle down to the milk. The dog suddenly began to drink greedily, snorting, shaking itself and lapping. Gerásim gazed and gazed, and then suddenly began to laugh… All night he fussed over it, put it to bed, wiped it off, and at last fell asleep himself beside it in a joyous, tranquil slumber.

No mother tends her infant as Gerásim tended his nursling. (The dog proved to be a bitch.) In the beginning she was very weak, puny, and ill-favoured, but little by little she improved in health and looks, and at the end of eight months, thanks to the indefatigable care of her rescuer, she had turned into a very fair sort of a dog of Spanish breed, with long ears, a feathery tail in the form of a trumpet, and large, expressive eyes. She attached herself passionately to Gerásim, never left him by a pace, and was always following him, wagging her tail. And he had given her a name, too, – the dumb know that their bellowing attracts other people's attention to them: – he called her Mumú. All the people in the house took a liking to her, and also called her dear little Mumú. She was extremely intelligent, fawned upon every one, but loved Gerásim alone. Gerásim himself loved her madly … and it was disagreeable to him when others stroked her: whether he was afraid for her, or jealous of her – God knows! She waked him up in the morning by tugging at his coat-tails; she led to him by the reins the old water-horse, with whom she dwelt in great amity; with importance depicted on her face, she went with him to the river; she stood guard over the brooms and shovels, and allowed no one to enter his room. He cut out an aperture in his door expressly for her, and she seemed to feel that only in Gerásim's little den was she the full mistress, and therefore, on entering it, with a look of satisfaction, she immediately leaped upon the bed. At night she did not sleep at all, but she did not bark without discernment, like a stupid watch-dog, which, sitting on its haunches and elevating its muzzle, and shutting its eyes, barks simply out of tedium, at the stars, and usually three times in succession; no! Mumú's shrill voice never resounded without cause! Either a stranger was approaching too close to the fence, or some suspicious noise or rustling had arisen somewhere… In a word, she kept capital watch.

Truth to tell, there was, in addition to her, an old dog in the courtyard, yellow in hue speckled with dark brown, Peg-top by name (Voltchók); but that dog was never unchained, even by night, and he himself, owing to his decrepitude, did not demand freedom, but lay there, curled up in his kennel, and only now and then emitted a hoarse, almost soundless bark, which he immediately broke off short, as though himself conscious of its utter futility.

Mumú did not enter the manor-house, and when Gerásim carried wood to the rooms she always remained behind and impatiently awaited him, with ears pricked up, and her head turning now to the right, then suddenly to the left, at the slightest noise indoors…

In this manner still another year passed. Gerásim continued to discharge his avocations as yard-porter and was very well satisfied with his lot, when suddenly an unexpected incident occurred… Namely, one fine summer day the mistress, with her hangers-on, was walking about the drawing-room. She was in good spirits, and was laughing and jesting; the hangers-on were laughing and jesting also, but felt no particular mirth; the people of the household were not very fond of seeing the mistress in merry mood, because, in the first place, at such times she demanded instantaneous and complete sympathy from every one, and flew into a rage if there was a face which did not beam with satisfaction; and, in the second place, these fits did not last very long, and were generally succeeded by a gloomy and cross-grained frame of mind. On that day, she seemed to have got up happily; at cards, she held four knaves: the fulfilment of desire (she always told fortunes with the cards in the morning), – and her tea struck her as particularly delicious, in consequence whereof the maid received praise in words and ten kopéks in money. With a sweet smile on her wrinkled lips, the lady of the house strolled about her drawing-room and approached the window. A flower-garden was laid out in front of the window, and in the very middle of the border, under a rose-bush, lay Mumú assiduously gnawing a bone. The mistress caught sight of her.

"My God!" – she suddenly exclaimed; – "what dog is that?"

The hanger-on whom the mistress addressed floundered, poor creature, with that painful uneasiness which generally takes possession of a dependent person when he does not quite know how he is to understand his superior's exclamation.

"I … d .. do … on't know, ma'am," she stammered; "I think it belongs to the dumb man."

"My God!" – her mistress interrupted her: – "why, it is a very pretty dog! Order it to be brought hither. Has he had it long? How is it that I have not seen it before?.. Order it to be brought hither."

The hanger-on immediately fluttered out into the anteroom.

"Man, man!" – she screamed, – "bring Mumú here at once! She is in the flower-garden."

"And so her name is Mumú," – said the mistress; – "a very nice name."

"Akh, very nice indeed, ma'am!" – replied the dependent. – "Be quick, Stepán!"

Stepán, a sturdy young fellow, who served as footman, rushed headlong to the garden and tried to seize Mumú; but the latter cleverly slipped out of his fingers, and elevating her tail, set off at full gallop to Gerásim, who was in the kitchen beating out and shaking out the water-cask, twirling it about in his hands like a child's drum. Stepán ran after her, and tried to seize her at the very feet of her master; but the agile dog would not surrender herself into the hands of a stranger, and kept leaping and evading him. Gerásim looked on at all this tumult with a grin; at last Stepán rose in wrath, and hastily gave him to understand by signs that the mistress had ordered the dog to be brought to her. Gerásim was somewhat surprised, but he called Mumú, lifted her from the ground, and handed her to Stepán. Stepán carried her into the drawing-room, and placed her on the polished wood floor. The mistress began to call the dog to her in a caressing voice. Mumú, who had never in her life been in such magnificent rooms, was extremely frightened, and tried to dart through the door, but, rebuffed by the obsequious Stepán, fell to trembling, and crouched against the wall.

"Mumú, Mumú, come hither to me," – said the mistress; – "come, thou stupid creature … don't be afraid…"

"Come, Mumú, come to the mistress," – repeated the dependents; – "come!"

But Mumú looked anxiously about and did not stir from the spot.

"Bring her something to eat," – said the mistress. – "What a stupid thing she is! She won't come to the mistress. What is she afraid of?"

"She feels strange still," – remarked one of the dependents, in a timid and imploring voice.

Stepán brought a saucer of milk and set it in front of Mumú, but Mumú did not even smell of the milk, and kept on trembling and gazing about her, as before.

"Akh, who ever saw such a creature!" – said the mistress, as she approached her, bent down and was on the point of stroking her; but Mumú turned her head and displayed her teeth in a snarl. – The mistress hastily drew back her hand.

A momentary silence ensued. Mumú whined faintly, as though complaining and excusing herself… The mistress retreated and frowned. The dog's sudden movement had frightened her.

"Akh!" – cried all the dependents with one accord: – "She didn't bite you, did she? God forbid!" (Mumú had never bitten any one in her life.) "Akh! akh!"

"Take her away," – said the old woman, in an altered voice, – "the horrid little dog! What a vicious beast she is!"

And slowly turning, she went toward her boudoir. The dependents exchanged timorous glances and started to follow her, but she paused, looked coldly at them, said: "Why do you do that? for I have not bidden you," and left the room.

The dependents waved their hands in despair at Stepán; the latter picked up Mumú and flung her out into the yard as speedily as possible, straight at Gerásim's feet; and half an hour later a profound stillness reigned in the house, and the old gentlewoman sat on her divan more lowering than a thunder-cloud.

What trifles, when one comes to think of it, can sometimes put a person out of tune!

The lady was out of sorts until evening, talked with no one, did not play cards, and passed a bad night. She took it into her head that they had not given her the same eau de cologne which they usually gave her, that her pillow smelled of soap, and made the keeper of the linen-closet smell all the bed-linen twice, – in a word, she was upset and extremely incensed. On the following morning she ordered Gavríla to be summoned to her presence an hour earlier than usual.

"Tell me, please," – she began, as soon as the latter, not without some inward quaking, had crossed the threshold of her boudoir, – "why that dog was barking in our courtyard all night long? It prevented my getting to sleep!"

"A dog, ma'am … which one, ma'am?.. Perhaps it was the dumb man's dog," – he uttered in a voice that was not altogether firm.

"I don't know whether it belongs to the dumb man or to some one else, only it interfered with my sleep. And I am amazed that there is such a horde of dogs! I want to know about it. We have a watch-dog, have we not?"

"Yes, ma'am, we have, ma'am, Peg-top, ma'am."

"Well, what need have we for any more dogs? They only create disorder. There 's no head to the house, – that 's what 's the matter. And what does the dumb man want of a dog? Who has given him permission to keep a dog in my courtyard? Yesterday I went to the window, and it was lying in the garden; it had brought some nasty thing there, and was gnawing it, – and I have roses planted there…"

The lady paused for a while.

"See that it is removed this very day … dost hear me?"

"I obey, ma'am."

"This very day. And now, go. I will have thee called for thy report later."

Gavríla left the room.

As he passed through the drawing-room, the major-domo transferred a small bell from one table to another, for show, softly blew his duck's-bill nose in the hall, and went out into the anteroom. In the anteroom, on a locker, Stepán was sleeping in the attitude of a slain warrior in a battalion picture, with his bare legs projecting from his coat, which served him in lieu of a coverlet.

The major-domo nudged him, and imparted to him in an undertone some order, to which Stepán replied with a half-yawn, half-laugh. The major-domo withdrew, and Stepán sprang to his feet, drew on his kaftan and his boots, went out and came to a standstill on the porch. Five minutes had not elapsed before Gerásim made his appearance with a huge fagot of firewood on his back, accompanied by his inseparable Mumú. (The mistress had issued orders that her bedroom and boudoir were to be heated even in summer.) Gerásim stood sideways to the door, gave it a push with his shoulder, and precipitated himself into the house with his burden. Mumú, according to her wont, remained behind to wait for him. Then Stepán, seizing a favourable moment, made a sudden dash at her, like a hawk pouncing on a chicken, crushed her to the ground with his breast, gathered her up in his arms, and without stopping to don so much as his cap, ran out into the street with her, jumped into the first drozhky that came to hand, and galloped off to the Game Market. There he speedily hunted up a purchaser, to whom he sold her for half a ruble, stipulating only that the latter should keep her tied up for at least a week, and immediately returned home; but before he reached the house, he alighted from the drozhky, and making a circuit of the house, he leaped over the fence into the yard from a back alley; he was afraid to enter by the wicket, lest he should encounter Gerásim.

But his anxiety was wasted; Gerásim was no longer in the courtyard. On coming out of the house he had instantly bethought himself of Mumú; he could not remember that she had ever failed to await his return, and he began to run in every direction to hunt for her, to call her after his own fashion … he dashed into his little chamber, to the hay-loft; he darted into the street, – hither and thither… She was gone! He appealed to the domestics, with the most despairing signs inquired about her; pointing fourteen inches from the ground, he drew her form with his hands… Some of them really did not know what had become of Mumú, and only shook their heads; others did know and grinned at him in reply, but the major-domo assumed a very pompous mien and began to shout at the coachmen. Then Gerásim fled far away from the courtyard.

Twilight was already falling when he returned. One was justified in assuming, from his exhausted aspect, from his unsteady gait, from his dusty clothing, that he had wandered over the half of Moscow. He halted in front of the mistress's windows, swept a glance over the porch on which seven house-serfs were gathered, turned away, and bellowed once more: "Mumú!" – Mumú did not respond. He went away. All stared after him, but no one smiled, no one uttered a word … and the curious postilion, Antípka, narrated on the following morning in the kitchen, that the dumb man had moaned all night long.

All the following day Gerásim did not show himself, so that Potáp the coachman was obliged to go for water in his stead, which greatly displeased coachman Potáp. The mistress asked Gavríla whether her command had been executed. Gavríla replied that it had. The next morning Gerásim emerged from his chamber to do his work. He came to dinner, ate and went off again, without having exchanged greetings with any one. His face, which was inanimate at the best of times, as is the case with all deaf and dumb persons, now seemed to have become absolutely petrified. After dinner he again quitted the courtyard, but not for long, returned and immediately directed his steps to the hay-barn. Night came, a clear, moonlight night. Sighing heavily and incessantly tossing from side to side, Gerásim was lying there, when he suddenly felt as though something were tugging at the skirts of his garments; he trembled all over, but did not raise his head, nevertheless, and even screwed his eyes up tight; but the tugging was repeated, more energetically than before; he sprang to his feet … before him, with a fragment of rope about her neck, Mumú was capering about. A prolonged shriek of joy burst from his speechless breast; he seized Mumú and clasped her in a close embrace; in one moment she had licked his nose, his eyes, and his beard… He stood still for a while, pondering, cautiously slipped down from the hay-mow, cast a glance round him, and having made sure that no one was watching him, he safely regained his little chamber.