I can see her in "The Follies" with superb dressing and doing just the song she had done then. I did not understand a word of it, but I felt every syllable. Art is universal and needs no language. She has everything from gentleness to passion and a startling beauty. I am applauding too much, but she looks and smiles, so I am repaid.
They dance again, and while they are gone I call the waiter and have him explain to the manager that I would like to be presented to her. The manager introduces her and I invite her to my table. She sits there with us, while her companion, the dark girl, does a solo dance.
She talks charmingly and without restraint. She speaks three languages—Russian, French, and English. Her father was a Russian general during the Tsar's reign. I can see now where she gets her imperious carriage.
"Are you a Bolshevik?"
She flushes as I ask it, and her lips pout prettily as she struggles with English. She seems all afire.
"No, they are wicked. Bolshevik man, he's very bad." Her eyes flash as she speaks.
"Then you are bourgeoisie?"
"No, but not a Bolshevik." Her voice suggests a tremendous vitality, though her vocabulary is limited. "Bolshevik good idea for the mind, but not for practice."
"Has it had a fair opportunity?" I ask her.
"Plenty. My father, my mother, my brother all in Russia and very poor. Mother is Bolshevik, father bourgeoisie. Bolshevik man very impudent to me. I want to kill him. He insult me. What can I do? I escape. Bolshevik good idea, but no good for life."