He was standing, quite dishevelled and covered with paint, before his canvas, bestowing upon it, right and left, great strokes of his brush. He greeted me with a nod that had something quite fierce about it, going back a few steps, half closing his eyes, then again dashing at his picture. I did not disturb him, but went and sat by Annouchka. Her dark eyes turned slowly towards me. "You are not the same to-day as you were yesterday," I said, after vainly trying to smile. "It is true, I am not the same," she replied in a slow and dull voice; "but that's nothing. I have not slept well. I was thinking all night long." "Upon what?" "Ah, mon Dieu, upon a great many things. It is a habit of my childhood, of the time that I still lived with my mother." She spoke this last word with an effort, but repeated it again:-- "When I lived with my mother I often asked myself why no one knew what would happen to them, and why, when foreseeing a misfortune, one cannot avoid it. And why also can one not tell the whole truth. I was thinking moreover last night that I ought to study, that I know nothing; I need a new education. I have been badly brought up. I have neither learned to draw nor to play upon the piano; I hardly know how to sew. I have no talent, people must be very much bored with me." "You are unjust to yourself," I replied to her; "you have read a great deal, and with your intelligence"-- "And I am intelligent?" she asked, with such a curious naïve air that I could hardly keep from laughing. "Am I intelligent, brother?" she asked of Gaguine. He did not reply, but kept on painting assiduously, changing his brush over and over again, and raising his hand very high at every stroke. "Really at times I have no idea what I have in my head," replied Annouchka, still thoughtful. "Sometimes, I assure you, I am afraid of myself. Ah! I would like--Is it true that women should not read a great many things?" "A great many things are not necessary, but"-- "Tell me what I should read, what I should do. I will follow your advice in everything," added she, turning towards me with a burst of confidence. I could not think immediately of what I ought to tell her. "Come, would you not be afraid that I should weary you?" "What a strange idea!" "Well, thanks for that," said she, "I was afraid that you might be wearied in my society," and with her small burning hand clasped mine. "I say! N----," cried Gaguine at this moment, "is not this tone too dark?" I approached him, and the young girl rose and left the room. XII. She reappeared in about an hour at the door, and beckoned me to her. "Listen," said she; "if I should die, would you be sorry?" "What singular ideas you have to-day," I exclaimed.