c power, and
each time they looked at me they appeared to be expecting a question.
But I had only to open my lips to speak, and away she would run, with a
sly smile.

Certainly never before had I seen a woman like her. She was by no means
beautiful; but, as in other matters, I have my own prepossessions on the
subject of beauty. There was a good deal of breeding in her... Breeding
in women, as in horses, is a great thing: a discovery, the credit of
which belongs to young France. It--that is to say, breeding, not young
France--is chiefly to be detected in the gait, in the hands and feet;
the nose, in particular, is of the greatest significance. In Russia a
straight nose is rarer than a small foot.

My songstress appeared to be not more than eighteen years of age. The
unusual suppleness of her figure, the characteristic and original way
she had of inclining her head, her long, light-brown hair, the golden
sheen of her slightly sunburnt neck and shoulders, and especially her
straight nose--all these held me fascinated. Although in her sidelong
glances I could read a certain wildness and disdain, although in
her smile there was a certain vagueness, yet--such is the force of
predilections--that straight nose of hers drove me crazy. I fancied
that I had found Goethe's Mignon--that queer creature of his German
imagination. And, indeed, there was a good deal of similarity between
them; the same rapid transitions from the utmost restlessness to
complete immobility, the same enigmatical speeches, the same gambols,
the same strange songs.

Towards evening I stopped her at the door and entered into the following
conversation with her.

"Tell me, my beauty," I asked, "what were you doing on the roof to-day?"

"I was looking to see from what direction the wind was blowing."

"What did you want to know for?"

"Whence the wind blows comes happiness."

"Well? Were you invoking happiness with your song?"

"Where there is singing there is also happiness."

"But what if your song were to bring you sorrow?"

"Well, what then? Where things won't be better, they will be worse; and
from bad to good again is not far."

"And who taught you that song?"

"Nobody taught me; it comes into my head and I sing; whoever is to
hear it, he will hear it, and whoever ought not to hear it, he will not
understand it."

"What is your name, my songstress?"

"He who baptized me knows."

"And who baptized you?"

"How should I know?"

"Wha