“Some years ago [c. 1870], at the time of all those fruitless hopes
for unity and cohesion, an institution appeared here, ‘The Lancepupov
Club.’ ”^8
“What kind of club was it, and what were its goals?”
“Goals? Why, to combat the fragmentation and alienation in our
society, and to gather its members for conversation and the exchange
of ideas. But it wasn’t long before the Lancepupov Club degenerated
into something absurd, something that is shameful to remember.”
My companion was quiet for a time, and then, hesitantly, he
continued: “For example, how do you suppose you would like to play a
game called ‘Tiger Hunting’?”
“Tiger Hunting? I didn’t know such a game existed.”
“I didn’t either, but after I lived here for a while, I found out about
it. I remember that game very well, especially when it rains or
snows ...”
The narrator rolled up the sleeve of his frock-coat and bared his
arm. I looked at it and noticed traces of a large wound above the
elbow. The wound had obviously been inflicted by a firearm and, for
the first time, I noticed that my companion could not move his arm
very well. “Listen,” I said to him, “so far, all this doesn’t explain
anything. And what do tigers have to do with it?”
“You don’t understand? Of course,” he muttered in embarrassment,
“how can you ... games like this don’t exist elsewhere. I was the
Tiger!” he exclaimed suddenly, and a broad smile lit his sincere face.
“You?!”
“Yes. You seem surprised, but it’s all very simple: first, we would
appoint someone—let’s say me—to be the ‘Tiger.’ Then, we would
take all the furniture out of the room, cover the windows with mats,
and turn out the lights. The other club members would be the
‘Hunters,’ and they would sit in the middle of the room (facing
outward), armed with revolvers. Thus arranged, they would shoot in
any direction where they heard the Tiger (that is, me). Obviously, I’d
taken my shoes off and emptied my pockets of anything that might