"This was what I learned.

Acia was the daughter of my father by a

former maid-servant of my mother's, Tatiana. I have a vivid
recollection of this Tatiana, I remember her tall, slender figure, her
handsome, stern, clever face, with big dark eyes. She had the
character of being a proud, unapproachable girl. As far as I could
find out from Yakov's respectful, unfinished sentences, my father
had become attached to her some years after my mother's death.
Tatiana was not living then in my father's house, but in the hut of
a married sister, who had charge of the cows. My father became
exceedingly fond of her, and after my departure from the country
he even wanted to marry her, but she herself would not consent to
be his wife, in spite of his entreaties.
"'The deceased Tatiana Vassilievna,' Yakov informed me, standing
in the doorway with his hands behind him, 'had good sense in
everything, and she didn't want to do harm to your father. "A poor
wife I should be for you, a poor sort of lady I should make," so
she was pleased to say, she said so before me." Tatiana would not
even move into the house, and went on living at her sister's with
Acia. In my childhood I used to see Tatiana only on saints' days in
church. With her head tied up in a dark kerchief, and a yellow
shawl on her shoulders, she used to stand in the crowd, near a
window-- her stern profile used to stand out sharply against the
transparent window-pane--and she used to pray sedately and
gravely, bowing low to the ground in the old-fashioned way. When
my uncle carried me off, Acia was only two years old, and she lost
her mother when she was nine.
"Directly Tatiana died, my father took Acia into his house. He had
before then expressed a wish to have her with him, but that too
Tatiana had refused him. Imagine what must have passed in Acia's
mind when she was taken into the master's house. To this day she
cannot forget the moment when they first put her on a silk dress
and kissed her hand. Her mother, as long as she lived, had brought
her up very strictly; with my father she enjoyed absolute freedom.
He was her tutor; she saw no one except him. He did not spoil
her, that is to say, he didn't fondle and pet her; but he loved her
passionately, and never checked her in anything; in his heart he
considered he had wronged her. Acia soon realised that she was
the chief personage in the house; she knew the master was her
father; but just as quickly she was aware of her false position; self-
consciousness was strongly developed in her, mistrustfulness too;
bad habits took root, simplicity was lost. She wanted (she
confessed this to me once herself), to force the whole world to forget
her origin; she was ashamed of her mother, and at the same time
ashamed of being ashamed, and was proud of her too. You see she
knew and knows a lot that she oughtn't to have known at her age. .
. . But was it her fault? The forces of youth were at work in her,
her heart was in a ferment, and not a guiding hand near her.
Absolute independence in everything! And wasn't it hard for her to
put up with? She wanted to be as good as other young ladies; she
flew to books. But what good could she get from that? Her life
went on as irregularly as it had begun, but her heart was not
spoiled, her intellect was uninjured.
"And there was I left, a boy of twenty, with a girl of thirteen on my
hands! For the first few days after my father's death the very sound
of my voice threw her into a fever, my caresses caused her
anguish, and it was only slowly and gradually that she got used to
me. It is true that later, when she fully realised that I really did
acknowledge her as my sister, and cared for her, she became
passionately attached to me; she can feel nothing by halves.
"I took her to Petersburg. Painful as it was to part with her, we
could not live together. I sent her to one of the best boarding-
schools. Acia knew our separation was inevitable, yet she began by
fretting herself ill over it, and almost died. Later on she plucked up
more spirit, and spent four years at school; but, contrary to my
expectations, she was almost exactly the same as before. The
headmistress of the school often made complaints of her, 'And we
can't punish her,' she used to say to me, 'and she's not amenable to
kindness.' Acia was exceedingly quick-witted, and did better at her
lessons than any one; but she never would put herself on a level
with the rest; she was perverse, and held herself aloof. . . . I could
not blame her very much for it; in her position she had either to be
subservient, or to hold herself aloof. Of all her school-fellows she
only made friends with one, an ugly girl of poor family, who was
sat upon by the rest. The other girls with whom she was brought
up, mostly of good family, did not like her, teased her and taunted
her as far as they could. Acia would not give way to them an inch.
One day at their lesson on the law of God, the teacher was talking
of the vices. 'Servility and cowardice are the worst vices,' Acia said
aloud. She would still go her own way, in fact; only her manners
were improved, though even in that respect I think she did not
gain a great deal.
"At last she reached her seventeenth year. I could not keep her any
longer at school. I found myself in a rather serious difficulty.
Suddenly a blessed idea came to me--to resign my commission and
go abroad for a year or two, taking Acia with me. No sooner
thought than done; and here we are on the banks of the Rhine,
where I am trying to take up painting, and she . . . is as naughty
and troublesome as ever. But now I hope you will not judge her
too harshly; for though she pretends she doesn't care, she values
the good opinion of every one, and yours particularly."
And Gagin smiled again his gentle smile. I pressed his hand
warmly.
"That's how it is," Gagin began again; "but I have a trying time
with her. She's like gunpowder, always ready to go off So far, she
has never taken a fancy to any one, but woe betide us, if she falls
in love! I sometimes don't know what to do with her. The other
day she took some notion into her head, and suddenly began
declaring I was colder to her than I used to be, that she loved me
and no one else, and never would love any one else. . . . And she
cried so, as she said it--"
"So that was it,"--I was beginning, but I bit my tongue.
"Tell me," I questioned Gagin, "we have talked so frankly about
everything, is it possible really, she has never cared for any one
yet? Didn't she see any young men in Petersburg?"
"She didn't like them at all. No, Acia wants a hero--an exceptional
individual--or a picturesque shepherd on a mountain pass. But I've
been chattering away, and keeping you," he added, getting up.
"Do you know----," I began; "let's go back to your place, I don't
want to go home."
"What about your work?"
I made no reply. Gagin smiled good-humouredly, and we went
back to L. As I caught sight of the familiar vineyard and little white
house, I felt a certain sweetness--yes, sweetness in my heart, as
though honey was stealthily dropping thence for me. My heart was
light after what Gagin had told me.
IX
ACIA met us in the very doorway of the house. I expected a laugh
again; but she came to meet us, pale and silent, with downcast
eyes.
"Here he is again," Gagin began, "and he wanted to come back of
his own accord, observe."
Acia looked at me inquiringly. It was my turn now to hold out my
hand, and this time I pressed her chilly fingers warmly. I felt very
sorry for her. I understood now a great deal in her that had
puzzled me before; her inward restlessness, her want of breeding,
her desire to be striking--all became clear to me. I had had a peep
into that soul; a secret scourge was always tormenting her, her
ignorant self-consciousness struggled in confused alarm, but her
whole nature strove towards truth. I understood why this strange
little girl attracted me; it was not only by the half-wild charm of her
slender body that she attracted me; I liked her soul.
Gagin began rummaging among his canvases. I suggested to Acia
that she should take a turn with me in the vineyard. She agreed at
once, with cheerful and almost humble readiness. We went half-
way down the mountain, and sat down on a broad stone.
"And you weren't dull without us?" Acia began.
"And were you dull without me?" I queried.
Acia gave me a sidelong look.
"Yes," she answered. "Was it nice in the mountains?" she went on
at once. "Were they high ones? Higher than the clouds? Tell me
what you saw. You were telling my brother, but I didn't hear
anything."
"It was of your own accord you went away," I remarked.