David, as an amateur and connoisseur of every kind of instrument, seized it at once. "An English glass," he said, holding it first at one eye and then at the other—"a marine telescope."
"And the glasses are whole," continued Raissa. "I showed it to father, and he said, 'Take it to the jeweler.' What do you think? Will they give me money for it? Of what use is a telescope to us? If we could see in the glass how beautiful we are! but we have no looking-glass, unfortunately."
And when she had said these words she suddenly laughed aloud. Her little sister could not have heard her, but probably she felt the shaking of her body: she had hold of Raissa's hand, and raising her great eyes, she made up a frightened face and began to cry.
"She's always like that," said Raissa: "she doesn't like to have people laugh.—Here, then, darling, I won't," she added, stooping down to the child and running, her fingers through its hair. "Do you see?"
The laughter died away from Raissa's face, and her lips, with the corners prettily turned up, again became immovable: the child was quiet.
Raissa stood up: "Here, David, take care of the telescope: it's too bad about the wood, and the goose, if it is too old."
"We shall certainly get ten rubles for it," said David, turning the telescope over. "I will buy it of you; and here are fifteen kopecks for the apothecary: is it enough?"
"I will borrow them of you," whispered Raissa, taking the fifteen kopecks.
"Yes, indeed; with interest, perhaps? I have a pledge—a very heavy one. These English are a great people."
"And yet people say we are going to war with them."