Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories Read online

sudden andviolent change in her life had greatly aged and humbled her: it washard to believe how quickly she lost her looks, how completely she letherself go and lost heart....

  How did it all end? the reader will ask. Why, like this: Naum, afterhaving kept the inn successfully for about fifteen years, sold itadvantageously to another townsman. He would never have parted fromthe inn if it had not been for the following, apparentlyinsignificant, circumstance: for two mornings in succession his dog,sitting before the windows, had kept up a prolonged and doleful howl.He went out into the road the second time, looked attentively at thehowling dog, shook his head, went up to town and the same day agreedon the price with a man who had been for a long time anxious topurchase it. A week later he had moved to a distance--out of theprovince; the new owner settled in and that very evening the inn wasburnt to ashes; not a single outbuilding was left and Naum's successorwas left a beggar. The reader can easily imagine the rumours that thisfire gave rise to in the neighbourhood.... Evidently he carried his"luck" away with him, everyone repeated. Of Naum it is said that hehas gone into the corn trade and has made a great fortune. But will itlast long? Stronger pillars have fallen and evil deeds end badlysooner or later. There is not much to say about Lizaveta Prohorovna.She is still living and, as is often the case with people of her sort,is not much changed, she has not even grown much older--she only seemsto have dried up a little; on the other hand, her stinginess hasgreatly increased though it is difficult to say for whose benefit sheis saving as she has no children and no attachments. In conversationshe often speaks of Akim and declares that since she has understoodhis good qualities she has begun to feel great respect for the Russianpeasant. Kirillovna bought her freedom for a considerable sum andmarried for love a fair-haired young waiter who leads her a dreadfullife; Avdotya lives as before among the maids in Lizaveta Prohorovna'shouse, but has sunk to a rather lower position; she is very poorly,almost dirtily dressed, and there is no trace left in her of thetownbred airs and graces of a fashionable maid or of the habits of aprosperous innkeeper's wife.... No one takes any notice of her and sheherself is glad to be unnoticed; old Petrovitch is dead and Akim isstill wandering, a pilgrim, and God only knows how much longer hispilgrimage will last!

  1852.

  * * * * *

  LIEUTENANT YERGUNOV'S STORY

  I

  That evening Kuzma Vassilyevitch Yergunov told us his story again. Heused to repeat it punctually once a month and we heard it every timewith fresh satisfaction though we knew it almost by heart, in all itsdetails. Those details overgrew, if one may so express it, theoriginal trunk of the story itself as fungi grow over the stump of atree. Knowing only too well the character of our companion, we did nottrouble to fill in his gaps and incomplete statements. But now KuzmaVassilyevitch is dead and there will be no one to tell his story andso we venture to bring it before the notice of the public.

  II

  It happened forty years ago when Kuzma Vassilyevitch was young. Hesaid of himself that he was at that time a handsome fellow and a dandywith a complexion of milk and roses, red lips, curly hair, and eyeslike a falcon's. We took his word for it, though we saw nothing ofthat sort in him; in our eyes Kuzma Vassilyevitch was a man of veryordinary exterior, with a simple and sleepy-looking face and a heavy,clumsy figure. But what of that? There is no beauty the years will notmar! The traces of dandyism were more clearly preserved in KuzmaVassilyevitch. He still in his old age wore narrow trousers withstraps, laced in his corpulent figure, cropped the back of his head,curled his hair over his forehead and dyed his moustache with Persiandye, which had, however, a tint rather of purple, and even of green,than of black. With all that Kuzma Vassilyevitch was a very worthygentleman, though at preference he did like to "steal a peep," thatis, look over his neighbour's cards; but this he did not so much fromgreed as carefulness, for he did not like wasting his money. Enough ofthese parentheses, however; let us come to the story itself.

  III

  It happened in the spring at Nikolaev, at that time a new town, towhich Kuzma Vassilyevitch had been sent on a government commission.(He was a lieutenant in the navy.) He had, as a trustworthy andprudent officer, been charged by the authorities with the task oflooking after the construction of ship-yards and from time to timereceived considerable sums of money, which for security he invariablycarried in a leather belt on his person. Kuzma Vassilyevitch certainlywas distinguished by his prudence and, in spite of his youth, hisbehaviour was exemplary; he studiously avoided every impropriety ofconduct, did not touch cards, did not drink and, even fought shy ofsociety so that of his comrades, the quiet ones called him "a regulargirl" and the rowdy ones called him a muff and a noodle. KuzmaVassilyevitch had only one failing, he had a tender heart for the fairsex; but even in that direction he succeeded in restraining hisimpulses and did not allow himself to indulge in any "foolishness." Hegot up and went to bed early, was conscientious in performing hisduties and his only recreation consisted in rather long evening walksabout the outskirts of Nikolaev. He did not read as he thought itwould send the blood to his head; every spring he used to drink aspecial decoction because he was afraid of being too full-blooded.Putting on his uniform and carefully brushing himself KuzmaVassilyevitch strolled with a sedate step alongside the fences oforchards, often stopped, admired the beauties of nature, gatheredflowers as souvenirs and found a certain pleasure in doing so; but hefelt acute pleasure only when he happened to meet "a charmer," thatis, 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 modesttemperament Kuzma Vassilyevitch did not address the "charmer," butsmiled ingratiatingly at her and looked long and attentively afterher.... Then he would heave a deep sigh, go home with the same sedatestep, sit down at the window and dream for half an hour, carefullysmoking strong tobacco out of a meerschaum pipe with an ambermouthpiece given him by his godfather, a police superintendent ofGerman origin. So the days passed neither gaily nor drearily.

  IV

  Well, one day, as he was returning home along an empty side-street atdusk Kuzma Vassilyevitch heard behind him hurried footsteps andincoherent words mingled with sobs. He looked round and saw a girlabout twenty with an extremely pleasing but distressed and tear-stainedface. She seemed to have been overtaken by some great and unexpectedgrief. 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 offher shoulders and was kept on by one pin. The girl was dressed like ayoung lady, not like a workgirl.

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch stepped aside; his feeling of compassionoverpowered his fear of doing something foolish and, when she caughthim up, he politely touched the peak of his shako, and asked her thecause of her tears.

  "For," he added, and he laid his hand on his cutlass, "I, as anofficer, may be able to help you."

  The girl stopped and apparently for the first moment did not clearlyunderstand what he wanted of her; but at once, as though glad of theopportunity of expressing herself, began speaking in slightlyimperfect Russian.

  "Oh, dear, Mr. Officer," she began and tears rained down her charmingcheeks, "it is beyond everything! It's awful, it is beyond words! Wehave 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'sreticule. There was a twenty-five-rouble note and two applique spoonsin it ... and her pelisse, too, and everything.... And I told all thatto the police officer and the police officer said, 'Go away, I don'tbelieve you, I don't believe you. I won't listen to you. You are thesame sort yourselves.' I said, 'Why, but the pelisse ...' and he, 'Iwon'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 distractedle
aned against Kuzma Vassilyevitch's sleeve.... He was overcome withconfusion in his turn and stood rooted to the spot, only repeatingfrom time to time, "There, there!" while he gazed at the delicate napeof the dishevelled damsel's neck, as it shook from her sobs.

  "Will you let me see you home?" he said at last, lightly touching hershoulder with his forefinger, "here in the street, you understand, itis quite impossible. You can explain your trouble to me and of courseI will make every effort ... as an officer."

  The girl raised her head and seemed for the first time to see theyoung man who might be said to be holding her in his arms. She wasdisconcerted, turned away, and still sobbing moved a little aside.Kuzma Vassilyevitch repeated his suggestion. The girl looked at himaskance through her hair which had fallen