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The Death of the Dirigible
- Northwestern University Press
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The Death of the Dirigible Sing and sigh, obedient sail! Ripple beneath me, gloomy ocean. . . . —Pushkin WHEN OVER THE haze of deserted autumn fields the first caravans of wild geese float by in the distant deep-blue heights, and their voices reach the hearing of people on the ground, every person who owns a gun inevitably thinks: “Hey! If only I could bag just one!” That is how people with guns think. But the geese know it . . . Yes, they know well the thoughts of the people in whose hands are the strange sticks that hurl thunder and lightning; that is why it can be so hard to bag a wild goose during the autumn migrations. From under the ancient dike of our old town pond flows the shallow little stream Uperta. The little Uperta humbly flows over tiny pebbles past our steppe settlements and villages. Only in the village of Ivlevo, where once upon a time some clever miller barricaded the humble stream with a stubborn dam, the stream thought for a moment and finally flowed out into a whole lake in the middle of the village itself. It was here that the wild geese came to settle after completing their spring and autumn migrations. Semion Semionych and I had long been aware of this, and when in September we heard the first geese setting out for the south, we conceived a burning desire—and we decided to bag some of these beautiful, unapproachable birds at any price. It was not the first year that Semion Semionych and I had been trying to succeed at this, but up to now we had had no success—those gray birds were very cautious and unapproachable. We would crawl up to them right on the field when they were feeding on stubble. We would watch for them by the water, where they usually flew by in order to alight on the lake. By moonlight we tried to sail up to the geese in a boat; we would hoist a dark-colored sail and approach them in complete silence . . . No! the geese were unattainable. But meanwhile Semion Semionych possessed his monstrous puntgun, famous for its long range, which the local hunters had nicknamed “the dirigible.” Wild geese are intelligent birds: sometimes you’ll see a shepherd in the field, walking right by some feeding geese, and they let him pass because 36 they’re assured of his peaceableness: the shepherd has no gun. But just try to approach them with a shotgun—you won’t get anywhere near them! At that time it happened that Semion Semionych and I had exhausted all our stores of shot, and since things like that were not sold in our little town, we naturally started trying to dream something up. My wife gave us an idea. On the other side of the town pond rose an enormous old building—a crumbling palace in which landowner-Counts once lived. The Counts had disappeared , but in the attic of the old house remained all kinds of trash no one was interested in. According to my wife, in that attic there was an old broken hanging lamp, and in the lamp—there was some shot. Our inspection of the attic offered brilliant results: we counted up no less than twelve pounds of excellent large shot. But when we were getting ready to leave the gloomy attic, Semion Semionych called to me: “Vladimir Sergev! Look over there—what a pan!” By the wall stood a strange object: a washtub but not a washtub . . . a pan but not a pan . . . a washbasin? Yes, something like a washbasin, but of enormous size and without handles. The strange thing was about three feet in diameter and was painted bright green. “Did the Counts really boil their jam in this vat?” my friend asked in amazement. “No, that couldn’t be . . . it’s made of tin . . . and it’s painted . . .” “So what’s it for? Did they maybe wash their clothes in it?” “No, that can’t be either . . . They bathed the Counts’ children in it!” I guessed. “No, come on—children! What all didn’t the bourgeoisie dream up . . . Bathing children in a pan! Would some kid really allow himself to be crammed into such a piece of junk? Just think!” “Why not? First nanny puts a piece of candy in his mouth, and then she bathes him in a little warm water. It’s pure pleasure . . . Oh yes, I remember now. My wife told...