Netochka Nezvanova (Penguin ed.)

by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

  ‘Why are you so quiet?’ Katya began, after one of our silences.

  ‘What does your father do?’ I asked her, delighted that I had found a sentence with which to start a conversation.

  ‘Nothing. Papa is fine. Today I drank two cups of coffee instead of one. How many did you have?’

  ‘One.’

  Silence again.

  ‘Falstaff tried to bite me today.’

  ‘Is that the dog?’

  ‘Yes, haven’t you seen him?’

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘Then why ask?’ Since I did not know what to answer the Princess, she once again stared at me in astonishment.

  ‘Well? Do you like me coming to talk to you?’

  ‘Yes I do, very much. Come more often.’

  ‘They told me it would cheer you up if I came to see you, but do hurry and get well. I’m going to bring you some cake today… Why are you always so quiet?’

  ‘I just am.’

  ‘I suppose you’re always thinking?’

  ‘Yes, I think a lot.’

  ‘They tell me that I talk too much and think too little. Is it really so bad to be talkative?’

  ‘No, I like it when you talk.’

  ‘Hmm… I’ll ask Madame Léotard, she knows everything. But what do you think about?’

  ‘I think about you,’ I answered, after a pause.

  ‘Does it make you happy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then that means you must like me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I don’t like you yet. You’re so thin. I’m going to bring you that cake. Well, goodbye, then.’ Kissing me as she left, the Princess vanished from the room. But after dinner the cake really did arrive. She ran in, frenzied and giggling with glee because she had brought me something to eat that was forbidden.

  ‘Eat it all… eat more, eat more, it’s my cake. I haven’t eaten any of it. Well, goodbye.’ And that was all I saw of her.

  On another occasion she suddenly flew in to see me at an unusual hour, her black curls in wild disarray, her cheeks aflame and her eyes sparkling, which indicated that she had been running and skipping around for an hour or so.

  ‘Can you play badminton?’ she cried. She was breathless, and spoke quickly in her rush to be off again.

  ‘No,’ I answered, miserable that I could not say yes.

  ‘What a funny thing you are. Well, hurry and get better, then I’ll teach you. I only came to find out. Now I’m going to play with Madame Léotard. Goodbye, they’re waiting for me.’

  Finally I was able to get up for good, although I was still weak and fragile. My first and foremost thought was that I would no longer be separated from Katya. My attraction to her was irresistible; I could not take my eyes off her, which she found surprising. I walked about, burning with this new feeling, in such a way that she could not help noticing it; at first she thought it exceptionally strange. I remember how once, while we were playing a game, I could not restrain myself from throwing my arms around her neck and kissing her. She freed herself from my embrace, grabbed me by the hand and, frowning, as if I had offended her in some way, asked me: ‘What are you doing? Why are you kissing me?’

  I felt embarrassed, as though I had done something wrong; I was so startled by her abrupt question that I did not answer. The Princess shrugged her shoulders as a sign of her unresolved perplexity (a gesture which became a habit with her) and, squeezing her puffy lips, sat down in the corner of the sofa and stared at me for a long time, as if turning something over in her mind, trying to solve a new puzzle. This, too, was a habit of hers when she found herself in a difficult spot. For my part, it took me a long time to get accustomed to these sudden, sharp manifestations of character.

  At first I blamed myself and thought that there really was a lot about me that was strange. Although this was true, I was, none the less, tormented with doubts: why could I not make friends with Katya right from the start, once and for all? This failure grieved me terribly, and I felt ready to cry at every quick word and doubtful look from her. And my grief mounted not by the day but by the hour, because with Katya everything moved so swiftly. Within a few days I noticed that she had taken a dislike to me, and this was even turning into repugnance. Everything this girl did was done swiftly and sharply, one might even have said impetuously, had there not been a true and noble grace in the brusque manifestations of her naïve, open character. It began by her feeling uncertain of me, and then contemptuous. I believe this stemmed from my complete inability to play any kind of game. The Princess loved to frolic and romp around; she was strong, lively and nimble, while I was the exact opposite. I was still weak from my illness, quiet and thoughtful, and I did not enjoy playing. In fact, I was entirely lacking in all the qualities that appealed to Katya. Apart from this, I could not bear to feel that I was displeasing to anyone. Immediately I began to feel gloomy, and as my spirits sank I lost the strength to smooth over my mistakes or to improve on the poor impression I had made. In short, I was in a hopeless position, and Katya was unable to understand this. At first she even frightened me; she would look at me in astonishment (another of her habits) after having spent an hour or more struggling to teach me how to play badminton without success. And then, as I instantly became depressed and the tears welled up in my eyes, she would ponder for a moment or two and, failing to make sense of me or of her own feelings, she would dash off to play by herself without asking me to join her, possibly not speaking to me again for days. I was taken aback by this behaviour, and could barely endure her disdain. This new loneliness became almost as painful to me as my previous one, and again I started to grow gloomy and pensive. Once more my heart was burdened with dark thoughts.

  Madame Léotard, who looked after us, eventually became aware of the change in our relationship. As soon as she noticed my enforced solitude, she went directly to the little Princess and reprimanded her for being unable to get along with me. The Princess frowned, shrugged her shoulders and announced that there was nothing she could do with me; that I did not know how to play, that I was always thinking about something and that she had better wait for her brother, Sasha, who was coming from Moscow, and then she would be much happier.

  Madame Léotard was not satisfied with this answer and reminded Katya that she was leaving me on my own when I was still unwell and that I could not be as cheerful and playful as she herself, which was, incidentally, no bad thing, since she was too lively. She went on to remind her that three days ago she had almost been bitten by the bulldog, and she thoroughly scolded her. She ended by sending Katya to me, bidding her make it up with me at once.

  Katya listened to Madame Léotard very attentively, as if she had actually detected something new and reasonable in her reproaches. Deserting her hoop, which she had been rolling around the hall, she came up to me with a very serious air, saying: ‘Would you like to play?’

  ‘No,’ I answered, afraid both for myself and for Katya after Madame Léotard’s scolding.

  ‘Then what would you like to do?’

  ‘I’ll just sit here. I get tired running around, but don’t be cross with me, Katya, because I do like you very much.’

  ‘All right then, I’ll play by myself,’ said Katya, quietly and deliberately, as if surprised to find that she was, as it turned out, not to blame.

  ‘Goodbye then, and I’m not cross with you.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ I answered, getting up and offering her my hand.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like me to kiss you?’ she asked, after thinking a little. Probably she recalled our recent scene and was trying to be as nice as possible to me in order to be rid of me as quickly and pleasantly as she could.

  ‘As you like,’ I answered, with a faint hope. She came up to me and, very seriously, without smiling, kissed me. Having thus fulfilled her obligations, having done even more than was asked of her to make it up with the poor little girl to whom she had been sent, she ran off, satisfied and cheerful. Before long, her laughter and shout
ing was heard echoing through the house until, exhausted and completely out of breath, she threw herself down on to the sofa to rest and gather new strength. All that evening she kept looking at me suspiciously; she probably thought I was a very strange individual. I could tell that she wanted to discuss something with me, to clear up some doubt about me that was on her mind, but on that occasion – why, I do not know – she restrained herself.

  Katya usually had her lessons in the morning. Madame Léotard was teaching her French; her instruction consisted of going over the grammar and reading selections from La Fontaine. Katya was not given much in the way of lessons, because it was enough of a job to persuade her to sit still with her books for two hours a day. She had reluctantly agreed to this arrangement at her father’s request and her mother’s insistence, and followed it through conscientiously because she had given her word. She had the rare gift of being able to grasp things quickly and easily. But even here she had her little idiosyncrasies: if she did not understand something, she immediately started working it out for herself, because she found it humiliating to have something explained to her. Apparently there were times when she spent whole days struggling over a problem which she was unable to solve, and she became angry if she could not find the answer without someone else’s help. Only as a last resort, when she was completely exhausted, would she turn to Madame Léotard for help with a question that had baffled her. It was the same with everything she did. Although it was not immediately obvious, she did think a great deal. At the same time, she was naïve for her age. Sometimes she would ask questions which were utterly silly, while at other times her responses revealed a most penetrating subtlety and intelligence.

  At length, when I was well enough to study a bit, Madame Léotard examined me to see how much I knew. When she discovered that I could read well but that my writing was poor, she decided that she had to start teaching me French at once. I had no objections, and one morning I found myself sitting at the school table with Katya. As it turned out, Katya was very dull and scatterbrained that day, so much so that Madame Léotard was at a loss what to do. In an effort to please my teacher, I, on the other hand, managed to master the whole of the French alphabet in one sitting. By the end of the lesson Madame Léotard was distinctly angry with Katya.

  ‘Look at her,’ she said, pointing to me, ‘a sick child, and yet in her first lesson she’s done ten times more than you. Aren’t you ashamed?’ Katya thought for a moment, and then her face flushed as red as a beetroot, proving the accuracy of Madame Léotard’s reproach. Katya’s first reaction to any kind of failure, disappointment, indignation, or shame at being caught doing something naughty – to anything, in fact – was to turn red and burn with shame. On this occasion she forced back her tears and, saying nothing, she merely looked at me as if she wanted to chew me up. I quickly guessed what was wrong. The poor girl was proud and thoroughly egocentric. When we left Madame Léotard, I wanted to dispel her vexation as quickly as possible by convincing her that I was not to blame for what the governess had said to her. But Katya remained silent, as if she did not hear me.

  An hour later she came into the room where I was sitting over a book, still thinking about her, stunned and dismayed that once again she would not speak to me. Glancing at me mistrustfully, she sat down as usual on the sofa and gazed firmly at me for the next half-hour. Finally, unable to bear this any longer, I gave her an inquiring glance.

  ‘Do you know how to dance?’ asked Katya.

  ‘No, I don’t’

  ‘Well I do.’

  Silence.

  ‘Can you play the piano?’

  ‘No, I can’t do that either.’

  ‘I can. It’s very difficult.’

  I made no response.

  ‘Madame Léotard said that you’re cleverer than me.’

  ‘Madame Léotard was cross with you,’ I answered.

  ‘Do you think Papa will be cross too?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I replied.

  Silence again. The Princess tapped her little foot on the floor impatiently.

  ‘And are you going to make fun of me now, just because you’re cleverer than I am?’ she said at last, recognizing her chagrin.

  ‘Oh no, no!’ I cried, jumping up and throwing my arms around her. Suddenly we heard Madame Léotard’s voice. She had been observing and listening to our conversation for the last five minutes.

  ‘Aren’t you ashamed of thinking such a thing, let alone asking it? Shame on you, Princess!’ she continued. ‘You’ve become jealous of the poor child and so you start boasting about dancing and playing the piano. Disgraceful! I shall tell the Prince everything.’ The Princess’s cheeks glowed like a sunset. ‘What a nasty thing to do. You’ve offended her with your questions. Her parents were poor and could not hire teachers for her. She studied by herself, because she’s got a good honest heart. You should love her, rather than always wishing to quarrel. Shame on you! Shame on you! She’s an orphan; she has no one. Next you’ll start boasting that you’re a Princess and she isn’t. I’ll leave you alone now, to think about what I’ve just said and mend your ways.’

  The Princess thought about it for two days! For two days her laughter and cries were not to be heard. Waking in the night, I could hear her arguing with Madame Léotard even in her sleep. She even grew a little thinner during those two days; her normally rosy cheeks were not as colourful as usual. At last, on the third day, we happened to meet each other in the large rooms downstairs. The Princess was leaving her mother’s apartment, but when she saw me she sat down near by, facing me. I waited in nervous anticipation of what might happen. I was trembling ail over.

  ‘Netochka, why did I have to be scolded on account of you?’ she finally asked.

  ‘It was not on account of me, Katya,’ I hastened to correct her.

  ‘But Madame Léotard says that I offended you.’

  ‘No, Katya dear, no, you didn’t offend me.’

  The Princess shrugged her shoulders, perplexed.

  ‘Then why are you always crying?’ she asked after a brief silence.

  ‘I won’t cry, if that’s what you want,’ I answered through my tears.

  She shrugged her shoulders again.

  ‘Did you always cry a lot?’

  I did not answer.

  ‘Why have you come to live with us?’ the Princess asked abruptly, after another short pause.

  I felt as if my heart was being pierced, and I looked at her in dismay.

  ‘Because I’m an orphan,’ I answered finally, mustering my courage.

  ‘Did you have a Mama and Papa?’

  ‘Yes, I did!’

  ‘Didn’t they love you?’

  ‘Yes, they did,’ I said. I needed all the strength I had.

  ‘Were they poor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Didn’t they teach you anything?’

  ‘They taught me to read.’

  ‘Did you have any toys?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you eat cake?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How many rooms did you have?’

  ‘One.’

  ‘One room?’

  ‘One.’

  ‘What about the servants?’

  ‘There were no servants.’

  ‘Then who did the work?’

  ‘I did the shopping.’

  The Princess’s questions became increasingly painful. All the memories, my loneliness, and the Princess’s incredulity struck a cruel note in my already bleeding heart. I was shaking with emotion and choking back tears.

  ‘You must be pleased to be living with us?’

  I was silent.

  ‘Did you have pretty dresses?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you have ugly ones?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I saw your dress, they showed it to me.’

  ‘Why are you asking me these things?’ I said, jumping up from my chair and trembling with this new, unbelievable sensation. ‘Why are you asking
me these things?’ I repeated, blushing in indignation. ‘Why are you making fun of me?’ The Princess flared up and also jumped up from her chair, but swiftly gained control of herself.

  ‘I’m not making fun of you,’ she said. ‘I only wanted to find out whether it was true that your father and mother were poor.’

  ‘Why are you asking me about my father and mother?’ I cried, bursting into tears of heartfelt anguish. ‘Why are you asking me about them in this way? What have they ever done to you, Katya?’ Katya was bewildered and did not know what to say. At that moment the Prince came in.

  ‘What’s the matter, Netochka?’ he asked, seeing me in tears. ‘What’s the matter?’ he repeated, after glancing at Katya, whose face was bright red. ‘What have you been talking about? Have you been quarrelling?… Netochka, what are you two quarrelling about?’ Unable to give an answer, I grasped the Prince’s hand and kissed it, covering it in tears.

  ‘Katya, don’t lie! What’s been happening here?’

  But Katya was incapable of lying.

  ‘I told her I had seen what an ugly dress she wore when she lived with her father and mother.’

  ‘Who showed it to you? Who dared?’

  ‘I saw it myself,’ said Katya resolutely.

  ‘Very well then! I know you well enough, and I trust that you won’t tell tales. And what else?’

  ‘She started to cry and asked me why I was making fun of her father and mother.’

  ‘Then you were making fun of them?’

  Although she had not actually been making fun of them it had been her intention: this I had realized from the beginning. She gave no response, implying that she admitted to the offence.

  ‘Ask her forgiveness immediately,’ said the Prince, pointing to me. The Princess, who was as white as a sheet, did not move.

  ‘Well?’ said the Prince.

  ‘I don’t want to, I don’t want to!’ she suddenly shouted, flashing her eyes and stamping her feet. ‘I don’t want to ask her forgiveness, Papa. I don’t like her and I don’t want to live with her any longer. It’s not my fault that she spends all day crying. I don’t want to, I don’t want to.’