And she suddenly burst into tears.
“You don’t know how sorry I am for Natasha,” she whispered, her lips quivering with tears.
There was nothing more to be said. I was silent, and I too felt inclined to cry as I watched her, for no particular reason, from a vague feeling like tenderness. what a charming child she was! I no longer felt it necessary to ask her why she thought she could make Alyosha happy.
“Are you fond of music?” she asked, growing a little calmer, though she was still subdued by her recent tears.
“Yes,” I answered, with some surprise.
“If there were time I’d play you Beethoven’s third concerto. That’s what I’m playing now. All those feelings are in it . . . just as I feel them now. So it seems to me. But that must be another time, now we must talk.”
We began discussing how she could meet Natasha, and how it was all to be arranged. She told me that they kept a watch on her, and though her stepmother was kind and fond of her, she would never allow her to make friends with Natalya Nikolaevna, and so she had decided to have recourse to deception. She sometimes went a drive in the morning, but almost always with the countess. Sometimes the countess didn’t go with her but sent her out alone with a French lady, who was ill just now. Sometimes the countess had headaches, and so she would have to wait until she had one. And meanwhile she would over-persuade her Frenchwoman (an old lady who was some sort of companion), for the latter was very good-natured. The upshot of it was that it was impossible to fix beforehand what day she would be able to visit Natasha.
“You won’t regret making Natasha’s acquaintance,” I said. “She is very anxious to know you too, and she must, if only to know to whom she is giving up Alyosha. Don’t worry too much about it all. Time will settle it all, without your troubling You are going into the country, aren’t you?”
“Quite soon. In another month perhaps,” she answered “And I know the prince is insisting on it.”
“What do you think — will Alyosha go with you?
“I’ve thought about that,” she said, looking intently at me “He will go, won’t he?”
“Yes, he will.”
“Good heavens, how it will all end I don’t know. I tell you what, Ivan Petrovitch, I’ll write to you about everything, I’ll write to you often, fully. Now I’m going to worry you, too. Will you often come and see us?”
“I don’t know, Katerina Fyodorovna. That depends upon circumstances. Perhaps I may not come at all.”
“Why not?”
“It will depend on several considerations, and chiefly what terms I am on with the prince.”
“He’s a dishonest man,” said Katya with decision. “I tell you what, Ivan Petrovitch, how if I should come to see you? Will that be a good thing, or not?”
“What do you think yourself?”
“I think it would be a good thing. In that way I could bring you news,” she added with a smile. “And I say this because I like you very much as well as respect you. And could learn a great deal from you. And I like you. . . . And it’s not disgraceful my speaking of it, is it?”
“Why should it be? You’re as dear to me already as on of my own family.”
“Then you want to be my friend?
“Oh yes, yes!” I answered.
“And they would certainly say it was disgraceful and that a young girl ought not to behave like this,” she observed, again indicating the group in conversation at the tea-table.
I may mention here that the prince seemed purposely to leave us alone that we might talk to our heart’s content.
“I know very well,” she added, “that the prince wants my money. They think I’m a perfect baby, and in fact they tell me so openly. But I don’t think so. I’m not a child now. They’re strange people: they’re like children themselves What are they in such a fuss about?”
“Katerina Fyodorovna, I forgot to ask you, who are these Levinka and Borinka whom Alyosha goes to see so often?”
“They’re distant relations. They’re very clever and very honest, but they do a dreadful lot of talking. . . . I know them . . .”
And she smiled.
“Is it true that you mean to give them a million later on?
“Oh, well, you see, what if I do? They chatter so much about that million that it’s growing quite unbearable. Of course I shall be delighted to contribute to everything useful; what’s the good of such an immense fortune? But what though I am going to give it some day, they’re already dividing it, discussing it, shouting, disputing what’s the best use to make of it, they even quarrel about it, so that it’s quite queer. They’re in too great a hurry. But they’re honest all the same and clever. They are studying. That’s better than going on as other people do. Isn’t it?”
And we talked a great deal more. She told me almost her whole life, and listened eagerly to what I told her. She kept insisting that I should tell her more about Natasha and Alyosha. It was twelve o’clock when Prince Valkovsky came and let me know it was time to take leave. I said good-bye. Katya pressed my hand warmly and looked at me expressively. The countess asked me to come again; the prince and I went out.
I cannot refrain from one strange and perhaps quite inappropriate remark. From my three hours’ conversation with Katya I carried away among other impressions the strange but positive conviction that she was still such a child that she had no idea of the inner significance of the relations of the sexes. This gave an extraordinarily comic flavour to some of her reflections, and in general to the serious tone in which she talked of many very important matters.
Last updated on Wed Jan 12 09:26:21 2011 for eBooks@Adelaide.
The Insulted and the Injured, by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Chapter X
“I TELL you what,” said Prince Valkovsky, as he seated himself beside me in the carriage, “what if we were to go to supper now, hein? What do you say to that?”
“I don’t know, prince,” I answered, hesitating, “I never eat supper.”
“Well, of course, we’ll have a talk, too, over supper,” he added, looking intently and slyly into my face.
There was no misunderstanding! “He means to speak out,” I thought; “and that’s just what I want.” I agreed.
“That’s settled, then. To B.‘s, in Great Morskaya.”
“A restaurant?” I asked with some hesitation.
“Yes, why not? I don’t often have supper at home. Surely you won’t refuse to be my guest?”
“But I’ve told you already that I never take supper.”
“But once in a way doesn’t matter; especially as I’m inviting you. . .”
Which meant he would pay for me. I am certain that he added that intentionally. I allowed myself to be taken, but made up my mind to pay for myself in the restaurant. We arrived. The prince engaged a private room, and with the taste of a connoisseur selected two or three dishes. They were expensive and so was the bottle of delicate wine which he ordered. All this was beyond my means. I looked at the bill of fare and ordered half a woodcock and a glass of Lafitte. The prince looked at this.
“You won’t sup with me! Why, this is positively ridiculous! Pardon, mon ami, but this is . . . revolting punctiliousness. It’s the paltriest vanity. There’s almost a suspicion of class feeling about this. I don’t mind betting that’s it. I assure you you’re offending me.”
But I stuck to my point.
“But, as you like,” he added. “I won’t insist. . . . Tell me, Ivan Petrovitch, may I speak to you as a friend?”
“I beg you to do so.”
“Well, then, to my thinking such punctiliousness stands in your way. All you people stand in your own light in that way. You are a literary man; you ought to know the world, and you hold yourself aloof from everything. I’m not talking of your woodcock now, but you are ready to refuse to associate with our circle altogether, and that’s against your interests. Apart from the fact that you lose a great deal, a career, in fact, if only that you ought to know what you’re describing, and in novels we have counts and princes and boudoirs. . . . But what am I saying! Poverty is all
