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 added, 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

floor, he began to speak about the theft. But Emilie at once

interrupted him.

«Don’t trouble yourself, it’s all right. Auntie has just told me that

the principal things have been found.» (Madame Fritsche mumbled

something to herself and went out of the room.) «And there was no need

to go to the police at all; but I can’t control myself because I am

so … You don’t understand German? … So quick, immer so