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.
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