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.
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