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.