clever as he was, but not one was able to do it. Some one confessed,
saying in a low voice:

"It is not for us." . . .

"Yes, it is hard for you!" said the soldier with confidence,
examining us fixedly. "You haven't the bearing for it . . . the
figure--you haven't the appearance, I mean! And a woman likes a good
appearance in a man. To her it must be perfect, everything perfect!
And then she respects strength. . . . A hand should be like this!"
The soldier pulled his right hand out of his pocket. The shirt
sleeve was rolled up to his elbow. He showed his hand to us. . . .
It was white, strong, covered with glossy, golden hair.

"A leg, a chest, in everything there must be firmness. And then,
again, the man must be dressed according to style. . . . As the
beauty of things requires it. I, for instance, I am loved by women.
I don't call them, I don't lure them, they come to me of themselves."
He seated himself on a bag of flour and told us how the women loved
him and how he handled them boldly. Then he went away, and when the
door closed behind him with a creak, we were silent for a long time,
thinking of him and of his stories. And then suddenly we all began
to speak, and it became clear at once that he pleased every one of
us. Such a kind and plain fellow. He came, sat awhile and talked.
Nobody came to us before, nobody ever spoke to us like this; so
friendly. . . . And we all spoke of him and of his future successes
with the embroidery girls, who either passed us by, closing their
lips insultingly, when they met us in the yard, or went straight on
as if we had not been in their way at all. And we always admired
them, meeting them in the yard, or when they went past our