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
Copyrights
Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
