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And do you know what that man has been to me? Five years ago, when Kuzma brought me here, I used to shut myself up, that no one might have sight or sound of me. I was a silly slip of a girl; I used to sit here sobbing; I used to lie awake all night, thinking: ‘Where is he now, the man who wronged me? He is laughing at me with another woman, most likely.
On the 7th of May when I asked for horses the driver said the Irtysh had overflowed its banks and flooded the meadows, that Kuzma had set off the day before and had difficulty in getting back, and that I could not go, but must wait.... I asked: "Wait till when?" Answer: "The Lord only knows!" That was vague.
Madame Fritsche greeted him as she had done the day before and as though she had conspired with him in a plan of deception, informed him again that Emilie had gone out for a short time and asked him to wait. Kuzma Vassilyevitch nodded in token of assent and sat down on a chair. Madame Fritsche smiled again, that is, showed her yellow tusks and withdrew without offering him any chocolate.
"In a minute." She bent her head and, still keeping her eyes fixed on Kuzma Vassilyevitch, picked up the guitar. "Only I will sing first." "Yes, yes, only sit down." "And I will dance. Shall I?" "You dance? Well, I should like to see that. But can't that be afterwards?" "No, now.... But I love you very much." "You love? Mind now ... dance away, then, you queer creature."
Without saying anything to his wife, Maxim went into the kitchen, wrapped a piece of cake up in a napkin, together with half a dozen eggs, and went to the labourers in the barn. "Kuzma, put down your concertina," he said to one of them. "Saddle the bay, or Ivantchik, and ride briskly to the Crooked Ravine. There you will see a sick Cossack with a horse, so give him this.
I will sing to you.... Will you?" She took up the guitar. "You sing, then?" asked Kuzma Vassilyevitch, putting a spoonful of really excellent sorbet into his mouth. "Oh, yes!"
I would not have come, indeed, if it had not been as a father. And, indeed, it’s a struggle of three in this business, for it’s fate—that’s a fearful thing, Kuzma Kuzmitch! A tragedy, Kuzma Kuzmitch, a tragedy! And as you’ve dropped out long ago, it’s a tug-of-war between two. I’m expressing it awkwardly, perhaps, but I’m not a literary man.
And there is no money to buy wood to mend it with." "I'll give you the wood, Kuzma Kuzmitch." Zamuhrishen asks for and gets a cow too, a letter of recommendation for his daughter whom he wants to send to a boarding school, and . . . touched by the lady's liberality he whimpers with excess of feeling, twists his mouth, and feels in his pocket for his handkerchief . . . .
"You must not be shy with me," Kuzma Vassilyevitch said in an admonishing tone. "Do you remember your promise yesterday to give me a kiss?" Colibri put her arms round her knees, laid her head on them and looked at him again. "I remember." "I should hope so. And you must keep your word." "Yes ... I must." "In that case," Kuzma Vassilyevitch was beginning, and he moved nearer.
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." But I think no more about it ... aber auch gar nicht!"
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