Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories by Ivan Turgenev

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"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 zusse Fraulein_!"

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 Zuckerpuppchen 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?"

"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."

Colibri pondered and turned to the lieutenant.... All at once there
was the muffled sound of tapping repeated three times at even
intervals somewhere in the house. Colibri laughed, almost snorted.

"To-day--no, to-morrow--yes. Come to-morrow."

"At what time?"

"Seven ... in the evening."

"And what about Emilie?"

"Emilie ... no; will not be here."

"You think so? Very well. Only, to-morrow you will tell me?"

"What?" (Colibri's face assumed a childish expression every time she
asked a question.)

"Why you have been hiding away from me all this time?"

"Yes ... yes; everything shall be to-morrow; the end shall be."

"Mind now! And I'll bring you a present."

"No ... no need."

"Why not? I see you like fine clothes."

"No need. This ... this ... this ..." she pointed to her dress, her
rings, her bracelets, and everything about her, "it is all my own. Not
a present. I do not take."

"As you like. And now must I go?"

"Oh, yes."

Kuzma Vassilyevitch got up. Colibri got up, too.

"Good-bye, pretty little doll! And when will you give me a kiss?"

Colibri suddenly gave a little jump and swiftly flinging both arms
round his neck, gave him not precisely a kiss but a peck at his lips.
He tried in his turn to kiss her but she instantly darted back and
stood behind the sofa.

"To-morrow at seven o'clock, then?" he said with some confusion.

She nodded and taking a tress of her long hair with her two fingers,
bit it with her sharp teeth.

Kuzma Vassilyevitch kissed his hand to her, went out and shut the door
after him. He heard Colibri run up to it at once.... The key clicked
in the lock.

XVII

There was no one in Madame Fritsche's drawing-room. Kuzma
Vassilyevitch made his way to the passage at once. He did not want to
meet Emilie. Madame Fritsche met him on the steps.

"Ah, you are going, Mr. Lieutenant?" she said, with the same affected
and sinister smile. "You won't wait for Emilie?"

Kuzma Vassilyevitch put on his cap.

"I haven't time to wait any longer, madam. I may not come to-morrow,
either. Please tell her so."

"Very good, I'll tell her. But I hope you haven't been dull, Mr.
Lieutenant?"

"No, I have not been dull."

"I thought not. Good-bye."

"Good-bye."

Kuzma Vassilyevitch returned home and stretching himself on his bed
sank into meditation. He was unutterably perplexed. "What marvel is
this?" he cried more than once. And why did Emilie write to him? She
had made an appointment and not come! He took out her letter, turned
it over in his hands, sniffed it: it smelt of tobacco and in one place
he noticed a correction. But what could he deduce from that? And was
it possible that Madame Fritsche knew nothing about it? And
_she_.... Who was she? Yes, who was she? The fascinating Colibri,
that "pretty doll," that "little image," was always before him and he
looked forward with impatience to the following evening, though
secretly he was almost afraid of this "pretty doll" and "little
image."

XVIII

Next day Kuzma Vassilyevitch went shopping before dinner, and, after
persistent haggling, bought a tiny gold cross on a little velvet
ribbon. "Though she declares," he thought, "that she never takes
presents, we all know what such sayings mean; and if she really is so
disinterested, Emilie won't be so squeamish." So argued this Don Juan
of Nikolaev, who had probably never heard of the original Don Juan and
knew nothing about him. At six o'clock in the evening Kuzma
Vassilyevitch shaved carefully and sending for a hairdresser he knew,
told him to pomade and curl his topknot, which the latter did with
peculiar zeal, not sparing the government note paper for curlpapers;
then Kuzma Vassilyevitch put on a smart new uniform, took into his
right hand a pair of new wash-leather gloves, and, sprinkling himself
with lavender water, set off. Kuzma Vassilyevitch took a great deal
more trouble over his personal appearance on this occasion than when
he went to see his "Zuckerpuppchen", not because he liked Colibri
better than Emilie but in the "pretty little doll" there was something
enigmatic, something which stirred even the sluggish imagination of
the young lieutenant.

XIX

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.

Kuzma Vassilyevitch instantly fixed his eyes on the mysterious door.
It remained closed. He coughed loudly once or twice so as to make
known his presence.... The door did not stir. He held his breath,
strained his ears.... He heard not the faintest sound or rustle;
everything was still as death. Kuzma Vassilyevitch got up, approached
the door on tiptoe and, fumbling in vain with his fingers, pressed his
knee against it. It was no use. Then he bent down and once or twice
articulated in a loud whisper, "Colibri! Colibri! Little doll!" No one
responded. Kuzma Vassilyevitch drew himself up, straightened his
uniform--and, after standing still a little while, walked with more
resolute steps to the window and began drumming on the pane. He began
to feel vexed, indignant; his dignity as an officer began to assert
itself. "What nonsense is this?" he thought at last; "whom do they
take me for? If they go on like this, I'll knock with my fists. She
will be forced to answer! The old woman will hear.... What of it?
That's not my fault." He turned swiftly on his heel ... the door stood
half open.

XX

Kuzma Vassilyevitch immediately hastened into the secret room again on
tiptoe. Colibri was lying on the sofa in a white dress with a broad
red sash. Covering the lower part of her face with a handkerchief, she
was laughing, a noiseless but genuine laugh. She had done up her hair,
this time plaiting it into two long, thick plaits intertwined with red
ribbon; the same slippers adorned her tiny, crossed feet but the feet
themselves were bare and looking at them one might fancy that she had
on dark, silky stockings. The sofa stood in a different position,
nearer the wall; and on the table he saw on a Chinese tray a
bright-coloured, round-bellied coffee pot beside a cut glass sugar bowl
and two blue China cups. The guitar was lying there, too, and blue-grey
smoke rose in a thin coil from a big, aromatic candle.

Kuzma Vassilyevitch went up to the sofa and bent over Colibri, but
before he had time to utter a word she held out her hand and, still
laughing in her handkerchief, put her little, rough fingers into his
hair and instantly ruffled the well-arranged curls on the top of his
head.

"What next?" exclaimed Kuzma Vassilyevitch, not altogether pleased by
such unceremoniousness. "Oh, you naughty girl!"

Colibri took the handkerchief from her face.

"Not nice so; better now." She moved away
to the further end of the sofa and drew her feet
up under her. "Sit down ... there."

Kuzma Vassilyevitch sat down on the spot indicated.

"Why do you move away?" he said, after a brief silence. "Surely you
are not afraid of me?"

Colibri curled herself up and looked at him sideways.

"I am not afraid ... no."

"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.

Colibri freed her plaits which she was holding tight with her knees
and with one of them gave him a flick on his hand.

"Not so fast, sir!"

Kuzma Vassilyevitch was embarrassed.

"What eyes she has, the rogue!" he muttered, as though to himself.
"But," he went on, raising his voice, "why did you call me ... if that
is how it is?"

Colibri craned her neck like a bird ... she listened. Kuzma
Vassilyevitch was alarmed.

"Emilie?" he asked.

"No."

"Someone else?"

Colibri shrugged her shoulder.

"Do you hear something?"

"Nothing." With a birdlike movement, again Colibri drew back her
little oval-shaped head with its pretty parting and the short growth
of tiny curls on the nape of her neck where her plaits began, and
again curled herself up into a ball. "Nothing."

"Nothing! Then now I'll ..." Kuzma Vassilyevitch craned forward
towards Colibri but at once pulled back his hand. There was a drop of
blood on his finger. "What foolishness is this!" he cried, shaking his
finger. "Your everlasting pins! And the devil of a pin it is!" he
added, looking at the long, golden pin which Colibri slowly thrust
into her sash. "It's a regular dagger, it's a sting.... Yes, yes, it's
your sting, and you are a wasp, that's what you are, a wasp, do you
hear?"

Apparently Colibri was much pleased at Kuzma Vasselyevitch's
comparison; she went off into a thin laugh and repeated several times
over:

"Yes, I will sting ... I will sting."

Kuzma Vassilyevitch looked at her and thought: "She is laughing but
her face is melancholy.

"Look what I am going to show you," he said aloud.

"_Tso?_"

"Why do you say _tso?_ Are you a Pole?"

"_Nee_."

"Now you say _nee!_ But there, it's no matter." Kuzma
Vassilyevitch got out his present and waved it in the air. "Look at
it.... Isn't it nice?"

Colibri raised her eyes indifferently.

"Ah! A cross! We don't wear."

"What? You don't wear a cross? Are you a Jewess then, or what?"

"We don't wear," repeated Colibri, and, suddenly starting, looked back
over her shoulder. "Would you like me to sing?" she asked hurriedly.

Kuzma Vassilyevitch put the cross in the pocket of his uniform and he,
too, looked round.

"What is it?" he muttered.

"A mouse ... a mouse," Colibri said hurriedly, and suddenly to Kuzma
Vassilyevitch's complete surprise, flung her smooth, supple arms round
his neck and a rapid kiss burned his cheek ... as though a red-hot
ember had been pressed against it.

He pressed Colibri in his arms but she slipped away like a snake--her
waist was hardly thicker than the body of a snake--and leapt to her
feet.

"Wait," she whispered, "you must have some coffee first."

"Nonsense! Coffee, indeed! Afterwards."

"No, now. Now hot, after cold." She took hold of the coffee pot by the
handle and, lifting it high, began pouring out two cups. The coffee
fell in a thin, as it were, twirling stream; Colibri leaned her head
on her shoulder and watched it fall. "There, put in the sugar ...
drink ... and I'll drink."

Kuzma Vassilyevitch put a lump of sugar in the cup and drank it off at
one draught. The coffee struck him as very strong and bitter. Colibri
looked at him, smiling, and faintly dilated her nostrils over the edge
of her cup. She slowly put it down on the table.

"Why don't you drink it?" asked Kuzma Vassilyevitch.

"Not all, now."

Kuzma Vassilyevitch got excited.

"Do sit down beside me, at least."

"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."

XXI

Colibri stood on the further side of the table and running her fingers
several times over the strings of the guitar and to the surprise of
Kuzma Vassilyevitch, who was expecting a lively, merry song, began
singing a slow, monotonous air, accompanying each separate sound,
which seemed as though it were wrung out of her by force, with a
rhythmical swaying of her body to right and left. She did not smile,
and indeed knitted her brows, her delicate, high, rounded eyebrows,
between which a dark blue mark, probably burnt in with gunpowder,
stood out sharply, looking like some letter of an oriental alphabet.
She almost closed her eyes but their pupils glimmered dimly under the
drooping lids, fastened as before on Kuzma Vassilyevitch. And he, too,
could not look away from those marvellous, menacing eyes, from that
dark-skinned face that gradually began to glow, from the half-closed
and motionless lips, from the two black snakes rhythmically moving on
both sides of her graceful head. Colibri went on swaying without
moving from the spot and only her feet were working; she kept lightly
shifting them, lifting first the toe and then the heel. Once she
rotated rapidly and uttered a piercing shriek, waving the guitar high
in the air.... Then the same monotonous movement accompanied by the
same monotonous singing, began again. Kuzma Vassilyevitch sat
meanwhile very quietly on the sofa and went on looking at Colibri; he
felt something strange and unusual in himself: he was conscious of
great lightness and freedom, too great lightness, in fact; he seemed,
as it were, unconscious of his body, as though he were floating and at
the same time shudders ran down him, a sort of agreeable weakness
crept over his legs, and his lips and eyelids tingled with drowsiness.
He had no desire now, no thought of anything ... only he was
wonderfully at ease, as though someone were lulling him, "singing him
to bye-bye," as Emilie had expressed it, and he whispered to himself,
"little doll!" At times the face of the "little doll" grew misty. "Why
is that?" Kuzma Vassilyevitch wondered. "From the smoke," he reassured
himself. "There is such a blue smoke here." And again someone was
lulling him and even whispering in his ear something so sweet ... only
for some reason it was always unfinished. But then all of a sudden in
the little doll's face the eyes opened till they were immense,
incredibly big, like the arches of a bridge.... The guitar dropped,
and striking against the floor, clanged somewhere at the other end of
the earth.... Some very near and dear friend of Kuzma Vassilyevitch's
embraced him firmly and tenderly from behind and set his cravat
straight. Kuzma Vassilyevitch saw just before his own face the hooked
nose, the thick moustache and the piercing eyes of the stranger with
the three buttons on his cuff ... and although the eyes were in the
place of the moustache and the nose itself seemed upside down, Kuzma
Vassilyevitch was not in the least surprised, but, on the contrary,
thought that this was how it ought to be; he was even on the point of
saying to the nose, "Hullo, brother Grigory," but he changed his mind
and preferred ... preferred to set off with Colibri to Constantinople
at once for their forthcoming wedding, as she was a Turk and the Tsar
promoted him to be an actual Turk.

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