Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories
Page 12
howling dog, shook his head, went up to town and the same day agreed
on the price with a man who had been for a long time anxious to
purchase it. A week later he had moved to a distance--out of the
province; the new owner settled in and that very evening the inn was
burnt to ashes; not a single outbuilding was left and Naum's successor
was left a beggar. The reader can easily imagine the rumours that this
fire gave rise to in the neighbourhood.... Evidently he carried his
"luck" away with him, everyone repeated. Of Naum it is said that he
has gone into the corn trade and has made a great fortune. But will it
last long? Stronger pillars have fallen and evil deeds end badly
sooner or later. There is not much to say about Lizaveta Prohorovna.
She is still living and, as is often the case with people of her sort,
is not much changed, she has not even grown much older--she only seems
to have dried up a little; on the other hand, her stinginess has
greatly increased though it is difficult to say for whose benefit she
is saving as she has no children and no attachments. In conversation
she often speaks of Akim and declares that since she has understood
his good qualities she has begun to feel great respect for the Russian
peasant. Kirillovna bought her freedom for a considerable sum and
married for love a fair-haired young waiter who leads her a dreadful
life; Avdotya lives as before among the maids in Lizaveta Prohorovna's
house, but has sunk to a rather lower position; she is very poorly,
almost dirtily dressed, and there is no trace left in her of the
townbred airs and graces of a fashionable maid or of the habits of a
prosperous innkeeper's wife.... No one takes any notice of her and she
herself is glad to be unnoticed; old Petrovitch is dead and Akim is
still wandering, a pilgrim, and God only knows how much longer his
pilgrimage will last!
1852.
LIEUTENANT YERGUNOV'S STORY
I
That evening Kuzma Vassilyevitch Yergunov told us his story again. He
used to repeat it punctually once a month and we heard it every time
with fresh satisfaction though we knew it almost by heart, in all its
details. Those details overgrew, if one may so express it, the
original trunk of the story itself as fungi grow over the stump of a
tree. Knowing only too well the character of our companion, we did not
trouble to fill in his gaps and incomplete statements. But now Kuzma
Vassilyevitch is dead and there will be no one to tell his story and
so we venture to bring it before the notice of the public.
II
It happened forty years ago when Kuzma Vassilyevitch was young. He
said of himself that he was at that time a handsome fellow and a dandy
with a complexion of milk and roses, red lips, curly hair, and eyes
like a falcon's. We took his word for it, though we saw nothing of
that sort in him; in our eyes Kuzma Vassilyevitch was a man of very
ordinary exterior, with a simple and sleepy-looking face and a heavy,
clumsy figure. But what of that? There is no beauty the years will not
mar! The traces of dandyism were more clearly preserved in Kuzma
Vassilyevitch. He still in his old age wore narrow trousers with
straps, laced in his corpulent figure, cropped the back of his head,
curled his hair over his forehead and dyed his moustache with Persian
dye, which had, however, a tint rather of purple, and even of green,
than of black. With all that Kuzma Vassilyevitch was a very worthy
gentleman, though at preference he did like to "steal a peep," that
is, look over his neighbour's cards; but this he did not so much from
greed as carefulness, for he did not like wasting his money. Enough of
these parentheses, however; let us come to the story itself.
III
It happened in the spring at Nikolaev, at that time a new town, to
which Kuzma Vassilyevitch had been sent on a government commission.
(He was a lieutenant in the navy.) He had, as a trustworthy and
prudent officer, been charged by the authorities with the task of
looking after the construction of ship-yards and from time to time
received considerable sums of money, which for security he invariably
carried in a leather belt on his person. Kuzma Vassilyevitch certainly
was distinguished by his prudence and, in spite of his youth, his
behaviour was exemplary; he studiously avoided every impropriety of
conduct, did not touch cards, did not drink and, even fought shy of
society so that of his comrades, the quiet ones called him "a regular
girl" and the rowdy ones called him a muff and a noodle. Kuzma
Vassilyevitch had only one failing, he had a tender heart for the fair
sex; but even in that direction he succeeded in restraining his
impulses and did not allow himself to indulge in any "foolishness." He
got up and went to bed early, was conscientious in performing his
duties and his only recreation consisted in rather long evening walks
about the outskirts of Nikolaev. He did not read as he thought it
would send the blood to his head; every spring he used to drink a
special decoction because he was afraid of being too full-blooded.
Putting on his uniform and carefully brushing himself Kuzma
Vassilyevitch strolled with a sedate step alongside the fences of
orchards, often stopped, admired the beauties of nature, gathered
flowers as souvenirs and found a certain pleasure in doing so; but he
felt acute pleasure only when he happened to meet "a charmer," that
is, some pretty little workgirl with a shawl flung over her shoulders,
with a parcel in her ungloved hand and a gay kerchief on her head.
Being as he himself expressed it of a susceptible but modest
temperament Kuzma Vassilyevitch did not address the "charmer," but
smiled ingratiatingly at her and looked long and attentively after
her.... Then he would heave a deep sigh, go home with the same sedate
step, sit down at the window and dream for half an hour, carefully
smoking strong tobacco out of a meerschaum pipe with an amber
mouthpiece given him by his godfather, a police superintendent of
German origin. So the days passed neither gaily nor drearily.
IV
Well, one day, as he was returning home along an empty side-street at
dusk Kuzma Vassilyevitch heard behind him hurried footsteps and
incoherent words mingled with sobs. He looked round and saw a girl
about twenty with an extremely pleasing but distressed and tear-stained
face. She seemed to have been overtaken by some great and unexpected
grief. She was running and stumbling as she ran, talking to herself,
exclaiming, gesticulating; her fair hair was in disorder and her shawl
(the burnous and the mantle were unknown in those days) had slipped off
her shoulders and was kept on by one pin. The girl was dressed like a
young lady, not like a workgirl.
Kuzma Vassilyevitch stepped aside; his feeling of compassion
overpowered his fear of doing something foolish and, when she caught
him up, he politely touched the peak of his shako, and asked her the
cause of her tears.
"For," he a
dded, and he laid his hand on his cutlass, "I, as an
officer, may be able to help you."
The girl stopped and apparently for the first moment did not clearly
understand what he wanted of her; but at once, as though glad of the
opportunity of expressing herself, began speaking in slightly
imperfect Russian.
"Oh, dear, Mr. Officer," she began and tears rained down her charming
cheeks, "it is beyond everything! It's awful, it is beyond words! We
have been robbed, the cook has carried off everything, everything,
everything, the dinner service, the lock-up box and our clothes....
Yes, even our clothes, and stockings and linen, yes ... and aunt's
reticule. There was a twenty-five-rouble note and two appliqué spoons
in it ... and her pelisse, too, and everything.... And I told all that
to the police officer and the police officer said, 'Go away, I don't
believe you, I don't believe you. I won't listen to you. You are the
same sort yourselves.' I said, 'Why, but the pelisse ...' and he, 'I
won't listen to you, I won't listen to you.' It was so insulting, Mr.
Officer! 'Go away,' he said, 'get along,' but where am I to go?"
The girl sobbed convulsively, almost wailing, and utterly distracted
leaned against Kuzma Vassilyevitch's sleeve.... He was overcome with
confusion in his turn and stood rooted to the spot, only repeating
from time to time, "There, there!" while he gazed at the delicate nape
of the dishevelled damsel's neck, as it shook from her sobs.
"Will you let me see you home?" he said at last, lightly touching her
shoulder with his forefinger, "here in the street, you understand, it
is quite impossible. You can explain your trouble to me and of course
I will make every effort ... as an officer."
The girl raised her head and seemed for the first time to see the
young man who might be said to be holding her in his arms. She was
disconcerted, turned away, and still sobbing moved a little aside.
Kuzma Vassilyevitch repeated his suggestion. The girl looked at him
askance through her hair which had fallen over her face and was wet
with tears. (At this point Kuzma Vassilyevitch always assured us that
this glance pierced through him "like an awl," and even attempted once
to reproduce this marvellous glance for our benefit) and laying her
hand within the crooked arm of the obliging lieutenant, set off with
him for her lodging.
V
Kuzma Vassilyevitch had had very little to do with ladies and so was
at a loss how to begin the conversation, but his companion chattered
away very fluently, continually drying her eyes and shedding fresh
tears. Within a few minutes Kuzma Vassilyevitch had learnt that her
name was Emilie Karlovna, that she came from Riga and that she had
come to Nikolaev to stay with her aunt who was from Riga, too, that
her papa too had been in the army but had died from "his chest," that
her aunt had a Russian cook, a very good and inexpensive cook but she
had not a passport and that this cook had that very day robbed them
and run away. She had had to go to the police--in die
Polizei.... But here the memories of the police superintendent, of
the insult she had received from him, surged up again ... and sobs
broke out afresh. Kuzma Vassilyevitch was once more at a loss what to
say to comfort her. But the girl, whose impressions seemed to come and
go very rapidly, stopped suddenly and holding out her hand, said
calmly:
"And this is where we live!"
VI
It was a wretched little house that looked as though it had sunk into
the ground, with four little windows looking into the street. The dark
green of geraniums blocked them up within; a candle was burning in one
of them; night was already coming on. A wooden fence with a hardly
visible gate stretched from the house and was almost of the same
height. The girl went up to the gate and finding it locked knocked on
it impatiently with the iron ring of the padlock. Heavy footsteps were
audible behind the fence as though someone in slippers trodden down at
heel were carelessly shuffling towards the gate, and a husky female
voice asked some question in German which Kuzma Vassilyevitch did not
understand: like a regular sailor he knew no language but Russian. The
girl answered in German, too; the gate opened a very little, admitted
the girl and then was slammed almost in the face of Kuzma
Vassilyevitch who had time, however, to make out in the summer
twilight the outline of a stout, elderly woman in a red dress with a
dimly burning lantern in her hand. Struck with amazement Kuzma
Vassilyevitch remained for some time motionless in the street; but at
the thought that he, a naval officer (Kuzma Vassilyevitch had a very
high opinion of his rank) had been so discourteously treated, he was
moved to indignation and turning on his heel he went homewards. He had
not gone ten paces when the gate opened again and the girl, who had
had time to whisper to the old woman, appeared in the gateway and
called 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 a
dark, damp little lobby into a fairly large but low-pitched and untidy
room with a huge cupboard against the further wall and a sofa covered
with American leather; above the doors and between the windows hung
three portraits in oils with the paint peeling off, two representing
bishops in clerical caps and one a Turk in a turban; cardboard boxes
were lying about in the corners; there were chairs of different sorts
and a crooked legged card table on which a man's cap was lying beside
an unfinished glass of kvass. Kuzma Vassilyevitch was followed into
the room by the old woman in the red dress, whom he had noticed at the
gate, and who turned out to be a very unprepossessing Jewess with
sullen 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 to
introduce himself. Madame Fritsche looked at him from under her brows,
made no response, but asked her niece in Russian whether she would
like 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 my
fichu."
When Emilie talked she continually turned her head from one side to
another and jerked her shoulders; birds make similar movements when
they sit on a bare branch with sunshine all round them.
Kuzma Vassilyevitch sank into a chair and assuming a becoming air of
dignity, that is, leaning on his cutlass and fixing his eyes on the