In Moscow the day after Gerasim’s flight they missed him.  They went to his garret, rummaged about in it, and spoke to Gavrila.  He came, looked, shrugged his shoulders, and decided that the dumb man had either run away or had drowned himself with his stupid dog.  They gave information to the police, and informed the lady.  The old lady was furious, burst into tears, gave orders that he was to be found whatever happened, declared she had never ordered the dog to be destroyed, and, in fact, gave Gavrila such a rating that he could do nothing all day but shake his head and murmur, “Well!” until Uncle Tail checked him at last, sympathetically echoing “We-ell!” At last the news came from the country of Gerasim’s being there.  The old lady was somewhat pacified; at first she issued a mandate for him to be brought back without delay to Moscow; afterwards, however, she declared that such an ungrateful creature was absolutely of no use to her.  Soon after this she died herself; and her heirs had no thought to spare for Gerasim; they let their mother’s other servants redeem their freedom on payment of an annual rent.

And Gerasim is living still, a lonely man in his lonely hut; he is strong and healthy as before, and does the work of four men as before, and as before is serious and steady.  But his neighbors have observed that ever since his return from Moscow he has quite given up the society of women; he will not even look at them, and does not keep even a single dog.

“It’s his good luck, though,” the peasants reason, “that he can get on without female folk; and as for a dog—­what need has he of a dog? you wouldn’t get a thief to go into his yard for any money!” Such is the fame of the dumb man’s Titanic strength.

THE SHOT

BY

ALEXANDER POUSHKIN

From “Poushkin’s Prose Tales.”  Translated by T. Keane.

CHAPTER I.

We were stationed in the little town of N—.  The life of an officer in the army is well known.  In the morning, drill and the riding-school; dinner with the Colonel or at a Jewish restaurant; in the evening, punch and cards.  In N—–­ there was not one open house, not a single marriageable girl.  We used to meet in each other’s rooms, where, except our uniforms, we never saw anything.

One civilian only was admitted into our society.  He was about thirty-five years of age, and therefore we looked upon him as an old fellow.  His experience gave him great advantage over us, and his habitual taciturnity, stern disposition, and caustic tongue produced a deep impression upon our young minds.  Some mystery surrounded his existence; he had the appearance of a Russian, although his name was a foreign one.  He had formerly served in the Hussars, and with distinction.  Nobody knew the cause that