Gerasim walked without haste, still holding Mumu by a string.  When he got to the corner of the street, he stood still as though reflecting, and suddenly set off with rapid steps to the Crimean Ford.  On the way he went into the yard of a house, where a lodge was being built, and carried away two bricks under his arm.  At the Crimean Ford, he turned along the bank, went to a place where there were two little rowing-boats fastened to stakes (he had noticed them there before), and jumped into one of them with Mumu.  A lame old man came out of a shed in the corner of a kitchen-garden and shouted after him; but Gerasim only nodded, and began rowing so vigorously, though against stream, that in an instant he had darted two hundred yards way.  The old man stood for a while, scratched his back first with the left and then with the right hand, and went back hobbling to the shed.

Gerasim rowed on and on.  Moscow was soon left behind.  Meadows stretched each side of the bank, market gardens, fields, and copses; peasants’ huts began to make their appearance.  There was the fragrance of the country.  He threw down his oars, bent his head down to Mumu, who was sitting facing him on a dry cross seat—­the bottom of the boat was full of water—­and stayed motionless, his mighty hands clasped upon her back, while the boat was gradually carried back by the current towards the town.  At last Gerasim drew himself up hurriedly, with a sort of sick anger in his face, he tied up the bricks he had taken with string, made a running noose, put it round Mumu’s neck, lifted her up over the river, and for the last time looked at her. . . .  She watched him confidingly and without any fear, faintly wagging her tail.  He turned away, frowned, and wrung his hands. . . .  Gerasim heard nothing, neither the quick shrill whine of Mumu as she fell, nor the heavy splash of the water; for him the noisiest day was soundless and silent as even the stillest night is not silent to us.  When he opened his eyes again, little wavelets were hurrying over the river, chasing one another; as before they broke against the boat’s side, and only far away behind wide circles moved widening to the bank.

Directly Gerasim had vanished from Eroshka’s sight, the latter returned home and reported what he had seen.

“Well, then,” observed Stepan, “he’ll drown her.  Now we can feel easy about it.  If he once promises a thing . . .”

No one saw Gerasim during the day.  He did not have dinner at home.  Evening came on; they were all gathered together to supper, except him.

“What a strange creature that Gerasim is!” piped a fat laundrymaid; “fancy, upsetting himself like that over a dog. . . .  Upon my word!”

“But Gerasim has been here,” Stepan cried all at once, scraping up his porridge with a spoon.

“How? when?”