‘When I used to live with mother.… I used to think why it was no one could tell what would happen to him; and sometimes one sees trouble coming—and one can’t escape; and how it is one can never tell all the truth.… Then I used to think I knew nothing, and that I ought to learn. I want to be educated over again; I’m very badly educated. I can’t play the piano, I can’t draw, and even sewing I do very badly. I have no talent for anything; I must be a very dull person to be with.’
‘You’re unjust to yourself,’ I replied; ‘you’ve read a lot, you’re cultivated, and with your cleverness—’
‘Why, am I clever?’ she asked with such naïve interest, that I could not help laughing; but she did not even smile. ‘Brother, am I clever?’ she asked Gagin.
He made her no answer, but went on working, continually changing brushes and raising his arm.
‘I don’t know myself what is in my head,’ Acia continued, with the same dreamy air. ‘I am sometimes afraid of myself, really. Ah, I should like.… Is it true that women ought not to read a great deal?’
‘A great deal’s not wanted, but.…’
‘Tell me what I ought to read? Tell me what I ought to do. I will do everything you tell me,’ she added, turning to me with innocent confidence.
I could not at once find a reply.
‘You won’t be dull with me, though?’