LITMIR.BIZ

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very badly, considered it a matter of the first necessity to teach me French.

      I made no objections, so one morning I sat down to lessons at the same table with Katya. It happened, as luck would have it, she was particularly dense and inattentive that morning, so much so that Madame Leotard was surprised at her. At one sitting I almost mastered the whole French alphabet, wishing to do my utmost to please Madame Leotard by my diligence. Towards the end of the lesson Madame Leotard was really angry with Katya.

      “Look at her!” she said, indicating me. “The child is ill and is having her first lesson, and yet she has done ten times as much as you. Aren’t you ashamed?”

      “Does she know more than I do?” Katya asked in astonishment.

      “How long did it take you to learn the alphabet?”

      “Three lessons.”

      “And she has learnt it in one. So she learns three times as quickly as you do, and will soon catch you up.”

      Katya pondered a little and turned suddenly fiery red, as she recognised that Madame Leotard’s observation was just. To flush crimson and grow hot with shame was the first thing she did if she failed in anything, if she were vexed or her pride were wounded, or she were caught in some piece of mischief — on almost every occasion, in fact. This time tears almost came into her eyes; but she said nothing, merely looked at me as though she would burn me with her eyes. I guessed at once what was wrong. The poor child’s pride and amour-propre were excessive. When we left Madame Leotard I began to speak, hoping to soften her vexation and to show that I was not to blame for the governess’s words, but Katya remained mute as though she had not heard me.

      An hour later she came into the room where I was sitting over a book, thinking all the while of Katya, and feeling upset and frightened at her refusing to talk to me again. She looked at me from under her brows, sat down as usual on the sofa, and for half an hour did not take her eyes off me. At last I could bear it no longer, and glanced at her inquiringly.

      “Can you dance?” asked Katya.

      “No, I can’t.”

      “I can.”

      Silence.

      “And can you play the piano?”

      “No, I can’t do that, either.”

      “I can. That’s very difficult to learn.”

      I said nothing.

      “Madame Leotard says you are cleverer than I am.”

      “Madame Leotard is angry with you,” I said.

      “And will father be angry too?”

      “I don’t know,” I answered.

      Silence again; Katya tapped the floor with her little foot in her impatience.

      “So you are going to laugh at me because you are quicker at learning than I am?” she asked at last, unable to restrain her annoyance.

      “Oh, no, no,” I cried, and I jumped up from my place to rush and hug her.

      “And aren’t you ashamed to imagine such a thing and ask about it, princess?” we suddenly heard the voice of Madame Leotard, who had been watching us for the last five minutes and listening to our conversation. “For shame! You are envious of the poor child, and boast to her that you can dance and play the piano. For shame! I shall tell the prince all about it.”

      Katya’s cheeks glowed like a fire.

      “It’s a bad feeling. You have insulted her by your questions. Her parents were poor people and could not engage teachers for her; she has taught herself because she has a kind good heart. You ought to love her, and you want to quarrel with her. For shame, for shame! Why, she is an orphan. She has no one. You will be boasting next that you are a princess and she is not. I shall leave you alone. Think over what I have said to you, and improve.”

      Katya did think for exactly two days. For two days her laughter and shouts were not heard. Waking in the night, I heard her even in her sleep still arguing with Madame Leotard. She actually grew a little thinner during those two days, and there was not such a vivid flush of red on her bright little face. At last on the third day we met downstairs in the big rooms. Katya was on her way from her mother’s room, but seeing me, she stopped and sat not far off, facing me. I waited in terror for what was coming, trembling in every limb.

      “Nyetochka, why did they scold me because of you?” she asked at last.

      “It was not because of me, Katenka,” I said in haste to defend myself.

      “But Madame Leotard said that I had insulted you.”

      “No, Katenka, no; you did not insult me.”

      Katya shrugged her shoulders to express her perplexity.

      “Why is it you are always crying?” she asked after a brief silence.

      “I won’t cry if you want me not to,” I answered through my tears.

      She shrugged her shoulders again.

      “You were always crying before.”

      I made no answer.

      “Why is it you are living with us?” Katya asked suddenly.

      I gazed at her in bewilderment, and something seemed to stab me to the heart.

      “Because I am an orphan,” I answered at last, pulling myself together.

      “Used you to have a father and mother?”

      “Yes.”

      “Well, didn’t they love you?”

      “No… they did love me,” I answered with an effort.

      “Were they poor?”

      “Yes.”

      “They didn’t each you anything?”

      “They taught me to read.”

      “Did you have any toys?”

      “No.”

      “Did you have any cakes?”

      “No.”

      “How many rooms had you?”

      “One.”

      “And had you any servants?”

      “No, we had no servants.”

      “Who did the work?”

      “I used to go out and buy things myself.”

      Katya’s questions lacerated my heart more and more. And memories and my loneliness and the astonishment of the little princess — all this stabbed and wounded my heart, and all the blood seemed to rush to it. I was trembling with emotion, and was choking with tears.

      “I suppose you are glad you are living with us?”

      I did not speak.

      “Did you have nice clothes?”

      “No.”

      “Nasty ones?”

      “Yes.”

      “I have seen your dress, they showed me it.”

      “Why do you ask me questions?” I said, trembling all over with a new and unknown feeling, and I got up from my seat. “Why do you ask me questions?” I went on, flushing with indignation. “Why are you laughing at me?”

      Katya flared up, and she, too, rose from her seat, but she instantly controlled her feeling.

      “No… I am not laughing,” she answered. “I only wanted to know whether it was true that your father and mother were poor.”

      “Why do you ask me about father and mother?” I said, beginning to cry from mental distress. “Why do you ask such questions

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