“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.
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?”
“You are young, pretty ... such I like.”
“So that’s it! But what will Emilie
say? She wrote me a letter: she is sure
to be back directly.”
“You not tell her ... nothing! Trouble!
She will kill!”
Kuzma Vassilyevitch laughed.
“As though she were so fierce!”
Colibri gravely shook her head several times.
“And to Madame Fritsche, too, nothing.
No, no, no!” She tapped herself lightly on the
forehead. “Do you understand, officer?”
Kuzma Vassilyevitch frowned.
“It’s a secret, then?”
“Yes ... yes.”
“Very well.... I won’t say a word.
Only you ought to give me a kiss for that.”
“No, afterwards ... when you are gone.”
“That’s a fine idea!” Kuzma Vassilyevitch
was bending down to her but she slowly drew herself
back and stood stiffly erect like a snake startled
in the grass. Kuzma Vassilyevitch stared at her.
“Well!” he said at last, “you are
a spiteful thing! All right, then.”
