The chief thing I remember, the one I love to dwell upon in memory, is the extraordinary confidence which she had when she entered my house, when she had to have the doctor,--a confidence which was always shining in her darling face. She would sit in a corner somewhere with her face tied up, and would be sure to be absorbed in watching something. Whether she was watching me write and read books, or my wife bustling about, or the cook peeling the potatoes in the kitchen or the dog playing about--her eyes invariably expressed the same thing: “Everything that goes on in this world,--everything is beautiful and clever.” She was inquisitive and adored to talk to me. She would sit at the table opposite me, watching my movements and asking questions. She is interested to know what I read, what I do at the University, if I’m not afraid of corpses, what I do with my money. “Do the students fight at the University?” she would ask. “They do, my dear.” “You make them go down on their knees?” “I do.” And it seemed funny to her that the students fought and that I made them go down on their knees, and she laughed. She was a gentle, good, patient child. Pretty often I happened to see how something was taken away from her, or she was unjustly punished, or her curiosity was not satisfied. At such moments sadness would be added to her permanent expression of confidence--nothing more. I didn’t know how to take her part, but when I saw her sadness, I always had the desire to draw her close to me and comfort her in an old nurse’s voice: “My darling little orphan!” I remember too she loved to be well dressed and to sprinkle herself with scents. In this she was like me. I also love good clothes and fine scents. I regret that I had neither the time nor the inclination to watch the beginnings and the growth of the passion which had completely taken hold of Katy when she was no more than fourteen or fifteen. I mean her passionate love for the theatre. When she used to come from the College for her holidays and live with us, nothing gave her such pleasure and enthusiasm to talk about as plays and actors. She used to tire us with her incessant conversation about the theatre. I alone hadn’t the courage to deny her my attention. My wife and children did not listen to her. When she felt the desire to share her raptures she would come to my study and coax: “Nicolai Stiepanich, do let me speak to you about the theatre.” I used to show her the time and say: “I’ll give you half an hour. Fire away!” Later on she used to bring in pictures of the actors and actresses she worshipped--whole dozens of them. Then several times she tried to take part in amateur theatricals, and finally when she left College she declared to me she was born to be an actress.