before him and over it a yellow blanket with a brown
edge. The body proved to be his, Kuzma Vassilyevitch’s.
He tried to cry out ... no sound came. He tried
again, did his very utmost ... there was the sound
of a feeble moan quavering under his nose. He
heard heavy footsteps and a sinewy hand parted the
bed curtains. A grey-headed pensioner in a patched
military overcoat stood gazing at him.... And
he gazed at the pensioner. A big tin mug was
put to Kuzma Vassilyevitch’s lips. He greedily
drank some cold water. His tongue was loosened.
“Where am I?” The pensioner glanced at
him once more, went away and came back with another
man in a dark uniform. “Where am I?”
repeated Kuzma Vassilyevitch. “Well, he
will live now,” said the man in the dark uniform.
“You are in the hospital,” he added aloud,
“but you must go to sleep. It is bad for
you to talk.” Kuzma Vassilyevitch began
to feel surprised, but sank into forgetfulness again....
Next morning the doctor appeared. Kuzma Vassilyevitch
came to himself. The doctor congratulated him
on his recovery and ordered the bandages round his
head to be changed.
“What? My head? Why, am I ...”
“You mustn’t talk, you mustn’t excite
yourself,” the doctor interrupted. “Lie
still and thank the Almighty. Where are the compresses,
Poplyovkin?”
“But where is the money ... the government money
...”
“There! He is lightheaded again. Some
more ice, Poplyovkin.”
Another week passed. Kuzma Vassilyevitch was
so much better that the doctors found it possible
to tell him what had happened to him. This is
what he learned.
At seven o’clock in the evening on the 16th
of June he had visited the house of Madame Fritsche
for the last time and on the 17th of June at dinner
time, that is, nearly twenty-four hours later, a shepherd
had found him in a ravine near the Herson high road,
a mile and a half from Nikolaev, with a broken head
and crimson bruises on his neck. His uniform
and waistcoat had been unbuttoned, all his pockets
turned inside out, his cap and cutlass were not to
be found, nor his leather money belt. From the
trampled grass, from the broad track upon the grass
and the clay, it could be inferred that the luckless
lieutenant had been dragged to the bottom of the ravine
and only there had been gashed on his head, not with
an axe but with a sabre—probably his own
cutlass: there were no traces of blood on his
track from the high road while there was a perfect
pool of blood round his head. There could be
no doubt that his assailants had first drugged him,
then tried to strangle him and, taking him out of
the town by night, had dragged him to the ravine and
there given him the final blow. It was only thanks
to his truly iron constitution that Kuzma Vassilyevitch
had not died. He had returned to consciousness
on July 22nd, that is, five weeks later.
