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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? Unmoglich! 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.