One day in the very height of summer, Kuzma Vassilyevitch,
who had spent the whole morning in the sun with contractors
and workmen, dragged himself tired and exhausted to
the little gate that had become so familiar to him.
He knocked and was admitted. He shambled into
the so-called drawing-room and immediately lay down
on the sofa. Emilie went up to him and mopped
his wet brow with a handkerchief.
“How tired he is, poor pet! How hot he
is!” she said commiseratingly. “Good
gracious! You might at least unbutton your collar.
My goodness, how your throat is pulsing!”
“I am done up, my dear,” groaned Kuzma
Vassilyevitch. “I’ve been on my feet
all the morning, in the baking sun. It’s
awful! I meant to go home. But there those
vipers, the contractors, would find me! While
here with you it is cool.... I believe I could
have a nap.”
“Well, why not? Go to sleep, my little
chick; no one will disturb you here.” ...
“But I am really ashamed.”
“What next! Why ashamed? Go to sleep.
And I’ll sing you ... what do you call it? ...
I’ll sing you to bye-bye, ’Schlaf, mein
Kindchen, Schlafe!’” She began singing.
“I should like a drink of water first.”
“Here is a glass of water for you. Fresh
as crystal! Wait, I’ll put a pillow under
your head.... And here is this to keep the flies
off.”
She covered his face with a handkerchief.
“Thank you, my little cupid.... I’ll
just have a tiny doze ... that’s all.”
Kuzma Vassilyevitch closed his eyes and fell asleep
immediately.
“Schlaf, mein Kindchen, schlafe,”
sang Emilie, swaying from side to side and softly
laughing at her song and her movements.
“What a big baby I have got!” she thought.
“A boy!”
An hour and a half later the lieutenant awoke.
He fancied in his sleep that someone touched him,
bent over him, breathed over him. He fumbled,
and pulled off the kerchief. Emilie was on her
knees close beside him; the expression of her face
struck him as queer. She jumped up at once, walked
away to the window and put something away in her pocket.
Kuzma Vassilyevitch stretched.
“I’ve had a good long snooze, it seems!”
he observed, yawning. “Come here, meine
zusse Fraulein!”
Emilie went up to him. He sat up quickly, thrust
his hand into her pocket and took out a small pair
of scissors.
“Ach, Herr Je!” Emilie could not
help exclaiming.
“It’s ... it’s a pair of scissors?”
muttered Kuzma Vassilyevitch.
“Why, of course. What did you think it
was ... a pistol? Oh, how funny you look!
You’re as rumpled as a pillow and your hair is
all standing up at the back.... And he doesn’t
laugh.... Oh, oh! And his eyes are puffy....
Oh!”
