Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories

over her face and was wetwith tears. (At this point Kuzma Vassilyevitch always assured us thatthis glance pierced through him "like an awl," and even attempted onceto reproduce this marvellous glance for our benefit) and laying herhand within the crooked arm of the obliging lieutenant, set off withhim for her lodging.

  V

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch had had very little to do with ladies and so wasat a loss how to begin the conversation, but his companion chatteredaway very fluently, continually drying her eyes and shedding freshtears. Within a few minutes Kuzma Vassilyevitch had learnt that hername was Emilie Karlovna, that she came from Riga and that she hadcome to Nikolaev to stay with her aunt who was from Riga, too, thather papa too had been in the army but had died from "his chest," thather aunt had a Russian cook, a very good and inexpensive cook butshe had not a passport and that this cook had that very day robbedthem and run away. She had had to go to the police--_in diePolizei_.... But here the memories of the police superintendent, ofthe insult she had received from him, surged up again ... and sobsbroke out afresh. Kuzma Vassilyevitch was once more at a loss what tosay to comfort her. But the girl, whose impressions seemed to come andgo very rapidly, stopped suddenly and holding out her hand, saidcalmly:

  "And this is where we live!"

  VI

  It was a wretched little house that looked as though it had sunk intothe ground, with four little windows looking into the street. The darkgreen of geraniums blocked them up within; a candle was burning in oneof them; night was already coming on. A wooden fence with a hardlyvisible gate stretched from the house and was almost of the sameheight. The girl went up to the gate and finding it locked knocked onit impatiently with the iron ring of the padlock. Heavy footsteps wereaudible behind the fence as though someone in slippers trodden down atheel were carelessly shuffling towards the gate, and a husky femalevoice asked some question in German which Kuzma Vassilyevitch did notunderstand: like a regular sailor he knew no language but Russian. Thegirl answered in German, too; the gate opened a very little, admittedthe girl and then was slammed almost in the face of KuzmaVassilyevitch who had time, however, to make out in the summertwilight the outline of a stout, elderly woman in a red dress with adimly burning lantern in her hand. Struck with amazement KuzmaVassilyevitch remained for some time motionless in the street; but atthe thought that he, a naval officer (Kuzma Vassilyevitch had a veryhigh opinion of his rank) had been so discourteously treated, he wasmoved to indignation and turning on his heel he went homewards. He hadnot gone ten paces when the gate opened again and the girl, who hadhad time to whisper to the old woman, appeared in the gateway andcalled out aloud:

  "Where are you going, Mr. Officer! Please come in."

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch hesitated a little; he turned back, however.

  VII

  This new acquaintance, whom we will call Emilie, led him through adark, damp little lobby into a fairly large but low-pitched and untidyroom with a huge cupboard against the further wall and a sofa coveredwith American leather; above the doors and between the windows hungthree portraits in oils with the paint peeling off, two representingbishops in clerical caps and one a Turk in a turban; cardboard boxeswere lying about in the corners; there were chairs of different sortsand a crooked legged card table on which a man's cap was lying besidean unfinished glass of kvass. Kuzma Vassilyevitch was followed intothe room by the old woman in the red dress, whom he had noticed at thegate, and who turned out to be a very unprepossessing Jewess withsullen pig-like eyes and a grey moustache over her puffy upper lip.Emilie indicated her to Kuzma Vassilyevitch and said:

  "This is my aunt, Madame Fritsche."

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch was a little surprised but thought it his duty tointroduce himself. Madame Fritsche looked at him from under her brows,made no response, but asked her niece in Russian whether she wouldlike some tea.

  "Ah, yes, tea!" answered Emilie. "You will have some tea, won't you,Mr. Officer? Yes, auntie, give us some tea! But why are you standing,Mr. Officer? Sit down! Oh, how ceremonious you are! Let me take off myfichu."

  When Emilie talked she continually turned her head from one side toanother and jerked her shoulders; birds make similar movements whenthey sit on a bare branch with sunshine all round them.

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch sank into a chair and assuming a becoming air ofdignity, that is, leaning on his cutlass and fixing his eyes on thefloor, he began to speak about the theft. But Emilie at onceinterrupted him.

  "Don't trouble yourself, it's all right. Auntie has just told me thatthe principal things have been found." (Madame Fritsche mumbledsomething to herself and went out of the room.) "And there was no needto go to the police at all; but I can't control myself because I amso ... You don't understand German? ... So quick, _immer so rasch!_But I think no more about it ... _aber auch gar nicht!_"

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch looked at Emilie. Her face indeed showed no traceof care now. Everything was smiling in that pretty little face: theeyes, fringed with almost white lashes, and the lips and the cheeksand the chin and the dimples in the chin, and even the tip of herturned-up nose. She went up to the little looking glass beside thecupboard and, screwing up her eyes and humming through her teeth,began tidying her hair. Kuzma Vassilyevitch followed her movementsintently.... He found her very charming.

  VIII

  "You must excuse me," she began again, turning from side to sidebefore the looking glass, "for having so ... brought you home with me.Perhaps you dislike it?"

  "Oh, not at all!"

  "As I have told you already, I am so quick. I act first and thinkafterwards, though sometimes I don't think at all.... What is yourname, Mr. Officer? May I ask you?" she added going up to him andfolding her arms.

  "My name is Kuzma Vassilyevitch Yergunov."

  "Yergu.... Oh, it's not a nice name! I mean it's difficult for me. Ishall call you Mr. Florestan. At Riga we had a Mr. Florestan. He soldcapital _gros-de-Naples_ in his shop and was a handsome man, asgood-looking as you. But how broad-shouldered you are! A regularsturdy Russian! I like the Russians.... I am a Russian myself ... mypapa was an officer. But my hands are whiter than yours!" She raisedthem above her head, waved them several times in the air, so as todrive the blood from them, and at once dropped them. "Do you see? Iwash them with Greek scented soap.... Sniff! Oh, but don't kissthem.... I did not do it for that.... Where are you serving?"

  "In the fleet, in the nineteenth Black Sea company."

  "Oh, you are a sailor! Well, do you get a good salary?"

  "No ... not very."

  "You must be very brave. One can see it at once from your eyes. Whatthick eyebrows you've got! They say you ought to grease them with lardovernight to make them grow. But why have you no moustache?"

  "It's against the regulations."

  "Oh, that's not right! What's that you've got, a dagger?"

  "It's a cutlass; a cutlass, so to say, is the sailor's weapon."

  "Ah, a cutlass! Is it sharp? May I look?" With an effort, biting herlip and screwing up her eyes, she drew the blade out of the scabbardand put it to her nose.

  "Oh, how blunt! I can kill you with it in a minute!"

  She waved it at Kuzma Vassilyevitch. He pretended to be frightened andlaughed. She laughed too.

  "_Ihr habt pardon_, you are pardoned," she pronounced, throwingherself into a majestic attitude. "There, take your weapon! And howold are you?" she asked suddenly.

  "Twenty-five."

  "And I am nineteen! How funny that is! Ach!" And Emilie went off intosuch a ringing laugh that she threw herself back in her chair. KuzmaVassilyevitch did not get up from his chair and looked still moreintently at her rosy face which was quivering with laughter and hefelt more and more attracted by her.

  All at once Emilie was silent and humming through her teeth, as herhabit was, went back to the looking glass.

  "Can you sing, Mr. Florestan?"

  "No, I have never been taught."

  "Do you play on the guitar? Not that either? I can. I have a guitarset with _perlenmutter_ but the
strings are broken. I must buysome new ones. You will give me the money, won't you, Mr. Officer?I'll sing you a lovely German song." She heaved a sigh and shut hereyes. "Ah, such a lovely one! But you can dance? Not that,either? _Unmoeglich_! I'll teach you. The _schottische_ and the_valse-cosaque_. Tra-la-la, tra-la-la," Emilie pirouetted once ortwice. "Look at my shoes! From Warsaw. Oh, we will have some dancing,Mr. Florestan! But what are you going to call me?"

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch grinned and blushed to his ears.

  "I shall call you: lovely Emilie!"

  "No, no! You must call me: _Mein Schaetzchen, mein Zuckerpueppchen_!Repeat it after me."

  "With the greatest pleasure, but I am afraid I shall find