Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories

tail; he was angry; she laughed in his face. Kuzma Vassilyevitch was

forced at last to admit to himself that he had not only failed to win

the respect of the ladies from Riga, but had even failed to gain their

confidence: he was never admitted at once, without preliminary

scrutinising; he was often kept waiting; sometimes he was sent away

without the slightest ceremony and when they wanted to conceal

something from him they would converse in German in his presence.

Emilie gave him no account of her doings and replied to his questions

in an offhand way as though she had not heard them; and, worst of all,

some of the rooms in Madame Fritsche's house, which was a fairly large

one, though it looked like a hovel from the street, were never opened

to him. For all that, Kuzma Vassilyevitch did not give up his visits;

on the contrary, he paid them more and more frequently: he was seeing

living people, anyway. His vanity was gratified by Emilie's continuing

to call him Florestan, considering him exceptionally handsome and

declaring that he had eyes like a bird of paradise, 'wie die Augen

eines Paradiesvogels!'

XI

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!'

XII

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.