Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories

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 rasch!

But I think no more about it ... aber auch gar nicht!"

Kuzma Vassilyevitch looked at Emilie. Her face indeed showed no trace

of care now. Everything was smiling in that pretty little face: the

eyes, fringed with almost white lashes, and the lips and the cheeks

and the chin and the dimples in the chin, and even the tip of her

turned-up nose. She went up to the little looking glass beside the

cupboard and, screwing up her eyes and humming through her teeth,

began tidying her hair. Kuzma Vassilyevitch followed her movements

intently.... He found her very charming.

VIII

"You must excuse me," she began again, turning from side to side

before the looking glass, "for having so ... brought you home with me.

Perhaps you dislike it?"

"Oh, not at all!"

"As I have told you already, I am so quick. I act first and think

afterwards, though sometimes I don't think at all.... What is your

name, Mr. Officer? May I ask you?" she added going up to him and

folding her arms.

"My name is Kuzma Vassilyevitch Yergunov."

"Yergu.... Oh, it's not a nice name! I mean it's difficult for me. I

shall call you Mr. Florestan. At Riga we had a Mr. Florestan. He sold

capital gros-de-Naples in his shop and was a handsome man, as

good-looking as you. But how broad-shouldered you are! A regular

sturdy Russian! I like the Russians.... I am a Russian myself ... my

papa was an officer. But my hands are whiter than yours!" She raised

them above her head, waved them several times in the air, so as to

drive the blood from them, and at once dropped them. "Do you see? I

wash them with Greek scented soap.... Sniff! Oh, but don't kiss

them.... I did not do it for that.... Where are you serving?"

"In the fleet, in the nineteenth Black Sea company."

"Oh, you are a sailor! Well, do you get a good salary?"

"No ... not very."

"You must be very brave. One can see it at once from your eyes. What

thick eyebrows you've got! They say you ought to grease them with lard

overnight to make them grow. But why have you no moustache?"

"It's against the regulations."

"Oh, that's not right! What's that you've got, a dagger?"

"It's a cutlass; a cutlass, so to say, is the sailor's weapon."

"Ah, a cutlass! Is it sharp? May I look?" With an effort, biting her

lip and screwing up her eyes, she drew the blade out of the scabbard

and put it to her nose.

"Oh, how blunt! I can kill you with it in a minute!"

She waved it at Kuzma Vassilyevitch. He pretended to be frightened and

laughed. She laughed too.

"Ihr habt pardon, you are pardoned," she pronounced, throwing

herself into a majestic attitude. "There, take your weapon! And how

old are you?" she asked suddenly.

"Twenty-five."

"And I am nineteen! How funny that is! Ach!" And Emilie went off into

such a ringing laugh that she threw herself back in her chair. Kuzma

Vassilyevitch did not get up from his chair and looked still more

intently at her rosy face which was quivering with laughter and he

felt more and more attracted by her.

All at once Emilie was silent and humming through her teeth, as her

habit was, went back to the looking glass.

"Can you sing, Mr. Florestan?"

"No, I have never been taught."

"Do you play on the guitar? Not that either? I can. I have a guitar

set with perlenmutter but the strings are broken. I must buy

some new ones. You will give me the money, won't you, Mr. Officer?

I'll sing you a lovely German song." She heaved a sigh and shut her

eyes. "Ah, such a lovely one! But you can dance? Not that, either?

Unmöglich! I'll teach you. The schottische and the

valse-cosaque. Tra-la-la, tra-la-la," Emilie pirouetted once or

twice. "Look at my shoes! From Warsaw. Oh, we will have some dancing,

Mr. Florestan! But what are you going to call me?"

Kuzma Vassilyevitch grinned and blushed to his ears.

"I shall call you: lovely Emilie!"

"No, no! You must call me: Mein Schätzchen, mein Zuckerpüppchen!

Repeat it after me."

"With the greatest pleasure, but I am afraid I shall find it

difficult...."

"Never mind, never mind. Say: Mein."

"Me-in."

"Zucker."

"Tsook-ker."

"Püppchen! Püppchen! Püppchen!"

"Poop ... poop.... That I can't manage. It doesn't sound nice."

"No! You must ... you must! Do you know what it means? That's the very

nicest word for a young lady in German. I'll explain it to you

afterwards. But here is auntie bringing us the samovar. Bravo! Bravo!

auntie, I will have cream with my tea.... Is there any cream?"

"So schweige doch," answered the aunt.

IX

Kuzma Vassilyevitch stayed at Madame Fritsche's till midnight. He had

not spent such a pleasant evening since his arrival at Nikolaev. It is

true that it occurred to him that it was not seemly for an officer and

a gentleman to be associating with such persons as this native of Riga

and her auntie, but Emilie was so pretty, babbled so amusingly and

bestowed such friendly looks upon him, that he dismissed his rank and

family and made up his mind for once to enjoy himself. Only one

circumstance disturbed him and left an impression that was not quite

agreeable. When his conversation with Emilie and Madame Fritsche was

in full swing, the door from the lobby opened a crack and a man's hand

in a dark cuff with three tiny silver buttons on it was stealthily

thrust in and stealthily laid a big bundle on the chair near the door.

Both ladies instantly darted to the chair and began examining the

bundle. "But these are the wrong spoons!" cried Emilie, but her aunt

nudged her with her elbow and carried away the bundle without tying up

the ends. It seemed to Kuzma Vassilyevitch that one end was spattered

with something red, like blood.

"What is it?" he asked Emilie. "Is it some more stolen things returned

to you?"

"Yes," answered Emilie, as it were, reluctantly. "Some more."

"Was it your servant found them?"

Emilie frowned.

"What servant? We haven't any servant."

"Some other man, then?"

"No men come to see us."

"But excuse me, excuse me.... I saw the cuff of a man's coat or

jacket. And, besides, this cap...."

"Men never, never come to see us," Emilie repeated emphatically. "What

did you see? You saw nothing! And that cap is mine."

"How is that?"

"Why, just that. I wear it for dressing up.... Yes, it is mine, und

Punctum."

"Who brought you the bundle, then?"

Emilie made no answer and, pouting, followed Madame Fritsche out of

the room. Ten minutes later she came back alone, without her aunt and

when Kuzma Vassilyevitch tried to question her again, she gazed at his

forehead, said that it was disgraceful for a gentleman to be so

inquisitive (as she said this, her face changed a little, as it were,

darkened), and taking a pack of old cards from the card table drawer,

asked him to tell fortunes for her and the king of hearts.

Kuzma Vassilyevitch laughed, took the cards, and all evil thoughts

immediately slipped out of his mind.

But they came back to him that very day. When he had got out of the

gate into the street, had said good-bye to Emilie, shouted to her for

the last time, "Adieu, Zuckerpüppchen!" a short man darted by

him and turning for a minute in his direction (it was past midnight

but the moon was shining rather brightly), displayed a lean gipsy face

with thick black eyebrows and moustache, black eyes and a hooked nose.

The man at once rushed round the corner and it struck Kuzma

Vassilyevitch that he recognised--not his face, for he had never seen

it before--but the cuff of his sleeve. Three silver buttons gleamed

distinctly in the moonlight. There was a stir of uneasy perplexity in

the soul of the prudent lieutenant; when he got home he did not light

as usual his meerschaum pipe. Though, indeed, his sudden acquaintance

with charming Emilie and the agreeable hours spent in her company

would alone have induced his agitation.

X

Whatever Kuzma Vassilyevitch's apprehensions may have been, they were

quickly dissipated and left no trace. He took to visiting the two

ladies from Riga frequently. The susceptible lieutenant was soon on

friendly terms with Emilie. At first he was ashamed of the

acquaintance and concealed his visits; later on he got over being

ashamed and no longer concealed his visits; it ended by his being more

eager to spend his time with his new friends than with anyone and

greatly preferring their society to the cheerless solitude of his own

four walls. Madame Fritsche herself no longer made the same unpleasant

impression upon him, though she still treated him morosely and

ungraciously. Persons in straitened circumstances like Madame Fritsche

particularly appreciate a liberal expenditure in their visitors, and

Kuzma Vassilyevitch was a little stingy and his presents for the most

part took the shape of raisins, walnuts, cakes.... Only once he let

himself go and presented Emilie with a light pink fichu of real French

material, and that very day she had burnt a hole in his gift with a

candle. He began to upbraid her; she fixed the fichu to the cat's

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 züsse Fräulein!"

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.

"It's ... it's a pair of scissors?" muttered Kuzma Vassilyevitch.

"Why, of course. What did you think it was ... a pistol? Oh, how funny

you look! You're as rumpled as a pillow and your hair is all standing

up at the back.... And he doesn't laugh.... Oh, oh! And his eyes are

puffy.... Oh!"

Emilie went off into a giggle.

"Come, that's enough," muttered Kuzma Vassilyevitch, and he got up

from the sofa. "That's enough giggling about nothing. If you can't

think of anything more sensible, I'll go home.... I'll go home," he

repeated, seeing that she was still laughing.

Emilie subsided.

"Come, stay; I won't.... Only you must brush your hair."

"No, never mind.... Don't trouble. I'd better go," said Kuzma

Vassilyevitch, and he took up his cap.

Emilie pouted.

"Fie, how cross he is! A regular Russian! All Russians are cross. Now

he is going. Fie! Yesterday he promised me five roubles and today he

gives me nothing and goes away."

"I haven't any money on me," Kuzma Vassilyevitch muttered grumpily in

the doorway. "Good-bye."

Emilie looked after him and shook her finger.

"No money! Do you hear, do you hear what he says? Oh, what deceivers

these Russians are! But wait a bit, you pug.... Auntie, come here, I

have something to tell you."

That evening as Kuzma Vassilyevitch was undressing to go to bed, he

noticed that the upper edge of his leather belt had come unsewn for

about three inches. Like a careful man he at once procured a needle

and thread, waxed the thread and stitched up the hole himself. He

paid, however, no attention to this apparently trivial circumstance.

XIII

The whole of the next day Kuzma Vassilyevitch devoted to his official

duties; he did not leave the house even after dinner and right into

the night was scribbling and copying out his report to his superior

officer, mercilessly disregarding the rules of spelling, always

putting an exclamation mark after the word but and a semi-colon

after however. Next morning a barefoot Jewish boy in a tattered

gown brought him a letter from Emilie--the first letter that Kuzma

Vassilyevitch had received from her.

"Mein allerliebstep Florestan," she wrote to him, "can you really so

cross with your Zuckerpüppchen be that you came not yesterday? Please

be not cross if you wish not your merry Emilie to weep very bitterly

and come, be sure, at 5 o'clock to-day." (The figure 5 was surrounded

with two wreaths.) "I will be very, very glad. Your amiable Emilie."

Kuzma Vassilyevitch was inwardly surprised at the accomplishments of

his charmer, gave the Jew boy a copper coin and told him to say, "Very

well, I will come."

XIV

Kuzma Vassilyevitch kept his word: five o'clock had not struck when he

was standing before Madame Fritsche's gate. But to his surprise he did

not find Emilie at home; he was met by the lady of the house herself

who--wonder of wonders!--dropping a preliminary curtsey, informed him

that Emilie had been obliged by unforeseen circumstances to go out but

she would soon be back and begged him to wait. Madame Fritsche had on

a neat white cap; she smiled, spoke in an ingratiating voice and

evidently tried to give an affable expression to her morose

countenance, which was, however, none the more prepossessing for that,

but on the contrary acquired a positively sinister aspect.

"Sit down, sit down, sir," she said, putting an easy chair for him,

"and we will offer you some refreshment if you will permit it."

Madame Fritsche made another curtsey, went out of the room and

returned shortly afterwards with a cup of chocolate on a small iron

tray. The chocolate turned out to be of dubious quality; Kuzma

Vassilyevitch drank the whole cup with relish, however, though he was

at a loss to explain why Madame Fritsche was suddenly so affable and

what it all meant. For all that Emilie did not come back and he was

beginning to lose patience and feel bored when all at once he heard

through the wall the sounds of a guitar. First there was the sound of

one chord, then a second and a third and a fourth--the sound

continually growing louder and fuller. Kuzma Vassilyevitch was

surprised: Emilie certainly had a guitar but it only had three

strings: he had not yet bought her any new ones; besides, Emilie was

not at home. Who could it be? Again a chord was struck and so loudly

that it seemed as though it were in the room.... Kuzma Vassilyevitch

turned round and almost cried out in a fright. Before him, in a low

doorway which he had not till then noticed--a big cupboard screened

it--stood a strange figure ... neither a child nor a grown-up girl.

She was wearing a white dress with a bright-coloured pattern on it and

red shoes with high heels; her thick black hair, held together by a

gold fillet, fell like a cloak from her little head over her slender

body. Her big eyes shone with sombre brilliance under the soft mass of

hair; her bare, dark-skinned arms were loaded with bracelets and her

hands covered with rings, held a guitar. Her face was scarcely

visible, it looked so small and dark; all that was seen was the

crimson of her lips and the outline of a straight and narrow nose.

Kuzma Vassilyevitch stood for some time petrified and stared at the

strange creature without blinking; and she, too, gazed at him without

stirring an eyelid. At last he recovered himself and moved with small

steps towards her.

The dark face began gradually smiling. There was a sudden gleam of

white teeth, the little head was raised, and lightly flinging back the

curls, displayed itself in all its startling and delicate beauty.

"What little imp is this?" thought Kuzma Vassilyevitch, and, advancing

still closer, he brought out in a low voice:

"Hey, little image! Who are you?"

"Come here, come here," the "little image" responded in a rather husky

voice, with a halting un-Russian intonation and incorrect accent, and

she stepped back two paces.

Kuzma Vassilyevitch followed her through the doorway and found himself

in a tiny room without windows, the walls and floor of which were

covered with thick camel's-hair rugs. He was overwhelmed by a strong

smell of musk. Two yellow wax candles were burning on a round table in

front of a low sofa. In the corner stood a bedstead under a muslin

canopy with silk stripes and a long amber rosary with a red tassle at

the end hung by the pillow.

"But excuse me, who are you?" repeated Kuzma Vassilyevitch.

"Sister ... sister of Emilie."

"You are her sister? And you live here?"

"Yes ... yes."

Kuzma Vassilyevitch wanted to touch "the image." She drew back.

"How is it she has never spoken of you?"

"Could not ... could not."

"You are in concealment then ... in hiding?"

"Yes."

"Are there reasons?"

"Reasons ... reasons."

"Hm!" Again Kuzma Vassilyevitch would have touched the figure, again

she stepped back. "So that's why I never saw you. I must own I never

suspected your existence. And the old lady, Madame Fritsche, is your

aunt, too?"

"Yes ... aunt."

"Hm! You don't seem to understand Russian very well. What's your name,

allow me to ask?"

"Colibri."

"What?"

"Colibri."

"Colibri! That's an out-of-the-way name! There are insects like that

in Africa, if I remember right?"

XV

Colibri gave a short, queer laugh ... like a clink of glass in her

throat. She shook her head, looked round, laid her guitar on the table

and going quickly to the door, abruptly shut it. She moved briskly and

nimbly with a rapid, hardly audible sound like a lizard; at the back

her hair fell below her knees.

"Why have you shut the door?" asked Kuzma Vassilyevitch.

Colibri put her fingers to her lips.

"Emilie ... not want ... not want her."

Kuzma Vassilyevitch grinned.

"I say, you are not jealous, are you?"

Colibri raised her eyebrows.

"What?"

"Jealous ... angry," Kuzma Vassilyevitch explained.

"Oh, yes!"

"Really! Much obliged.... I say, how old are you?"

"Seventen."

"Seventeen, you mean?"

"Yes."

Kuzma Vassilyevitch scrutinised his fantastic companion closely.

"What a beautiful creature you are!" he said, emphatically.

"Marvellous! Really marvellous! What hair! What eyes! And your

eyebrows ... ough!"

Colibri laughed again and again looked round with her magnificent

eyes.

"Yes, I am a beauty! Sit down, and I'll sit down ... beside."

"By all means! But say what you like, you are a strange sister for

Emilie! You are not in the least like her."

"Yes, I am sister ... cousin. Here ... take ... a flower. A nice

flower. It smells." She took out of her girdle a sprig of white lilac,

sniffed it, bit off a petal and gave him the whole sprig. "Will you

have jam? Nice jam ... from Constantinople ... sorbet?" Colibri took

from the small chest of drawers a gilt jar wrapped in a piece of

crimson silk with steel spangles on it, a silver spoon, a cut glass

decanter and a tumbler like it. "Eat some sorbet, sir; it is fine. 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!" She flung back her mane of hair, put her head on one side

and struck several chords, looking carefully at the tips of her

fingers and at the top of the guitar ... then suddenly began singing

in a voice unexpectedly strong and agreeable, but guttural and to the

ears of Kuzma Vassilyevitch rather savage. "Oh, you pretty kitten," he

thought. She sang a mournful song, utterly un-Russian and in a

language quite unknown to Kuzma Vassilyevitch. He used to declare that

the sounds "Kha, gha" kept recurring in it and at the end she repeated

a long drawn-out "sintamar" or "sintsimar," or something of the sort,

leaned her head on her hand, heaved a sigh and let the guitar drop on

her knee. "Good?" she asked, "want more?"

"I should be delighted," answered Kuzma Vassilyevitch. "But why do you

look like that, as though you were grieving? You'd better have some

sorbet."

"No ... you. And I will again.... It will be more merry." She sang

another song, that sounded like a dance, in the same unknown language.

Again Kuzma Vassilyevitch distinguished the same guttural sounds. Her

swarthy fingers fairly raced over the strings, "like little spiders,"

and she ended up this time with a jaunty shout of "Ganda" or "Gassa,"

and with flashing eyes banged on the table with her little fist.

XVI

Kuzma Vassilyevitch sat as though he were in a dream. His head was

going round. It was all so unexpected.... And the scent, the

singing ... the candles in the daytime ... the sorbet flavoured with

vanilla. And Colibri kept coming closer to him, too; her hair shone and

rustled, and there was a glow of warmth from her--and that melancholy

face.... "A russalka!" thought Kuzma Vassilyevitch. He felt somewhat

awkward.

"Tell me, my pretty, what put it into your head to invite me to-day?"