Soon after this I ceased to take lessons of
Pokrovski. Even now he thought me a child, a raw
schoolgirl, as much as he did Sasha; and this hurt me
extremely, seeing that I had done so much to atone for
my former behavior. Of my efforts in this direction no
notice had been taken, and the fact continued to anger
me more and more.
One evening, when my mother was sitting in Anna
Thedorovna's room, I crept on tiptoe to Pokrovski's
apartment, in the belief that he was not at home. Some
strange impulse moved me to do so. True, we had lived
cheek by jowl with one another; yet never once had I
caught a glimpse of his abode. Consequently my heart
beat loudly—so loudly, indeed, that it seemed almost to
be bursting from my breast. On entering the room I
glanced around me with tense interest. The apartment
was very poorly furnished, and bore few traces of
orderliness. On table and chairs there lay heaps of
books; everywhere were books and papers. Then a strange
thought entered my head, as well as, with the thought,
an unpleasant feeling of irritation.
It seemed to me that my friendship, my heart's
affection, meant little to him, for he was
well-educated, whereas I was stupid, and had learned
nothing, and had read not a single book. So I stood
looking wistfully at the long bookshelves where they
groaned under their weight of volumes. I felt filled
with grief, disappointment, and a sort of frenzy. I
felt that I must read those books, and decided to do
so—to read them one by one, and with all possible
speed. Probably the idea was that, by learning
whatsoever he knew, I should render myself more worthy
of his friendship. So, I made a rush towards the
bookcase nearest me, and, without stopping further to
consider matters, seized hold of the first dusty tome
upon which my hands chanced to alight, and, reddening
and growing pale by turns, and trembling with fear and
excitement, clasped the stolen book to my breast with
the intention of reading it by candle light while my
mother lay asleep at night.
But how vexed I felt when, on returning to our
own room, and hastily turning the pages, only an old,
battered worm-eaten Latin work greeted my eyes! Without
loss of time I retraced my steps. Just when I was
about to replace the book I heard a noise in the
corridor outside, and the sound of footsteps
approaching. Fumblingly I hastened to complete what I
was about, but the tiresome book had become so tightly
wedged into its row that, on being pulled out, it
caused its fellows to close up too compactly to leave
any place for their comrade. To insert the book was
beyond my strength; yet still I kept pushing and
pushing at the row. At last the rusty nail which
supported the shelf (the thing seemed to have been
waiting on purpose for that moment!) broke off short;
with the result that the shelf descended with a crash,
and the books piled themselves in a heap on the floor!
Then the door of the room opened, and Pokrovski
entered!
I must here remark that he never could bear to
have his possessions tampered with. Woe to the person,
in particular, who touched his books! Judge, therefore,
of my horror when books small and great, books of
every possible shape and size and thickness, came
tumbling from the shelf, and flew and sprang over the
table, and under the chairs, and about the whole room.
I would have turned and fled, but it was too late. "All
is over!" thought I. "All is over! I am ruined, I am
undone! Here have I been playing the fool like a
ten-year-old child! What a stupid girl I am! The
monstrous fool!"
Indeed, Pokrovski was very angry. "What? Have
you not done enough?" he cried. "Are you not ashamed to
be for ever indulging in such pranks? Are you NEVER
going to grow sensible?" With that he darted forward to
pick up the books, while I bent down to help him.
"You need not, you need not!" he went on. "You
would have done far better not to have entered without
an invitation."
Next, a little mollified by my humble demeanor,
he resumed in his usual tutorial tone—the tone which
he had adopted in his new-found role of preceptor:
"When are you going to grow steadier and more
thoughtful? Consider yourself for a moment. You are no
longer a child, a little girl, but a maiden of
fifteen."
Then, with a desire (probably) to satisfy
himself that I was no longer a being of tender years,
he threw me a glance — but straightway reddened to his
very ears. This I could not understand, but stood
gazing at him in astonishment. Presently, he
straightened himself a little, approached me with a
sort of confused expression, and haltingly said
something — probably it was an apology for not having
perceived that I was now a grown-up young person.