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‘Oh, well, tastes differ!’
‘Indeed, tastes are queer sometimes,’ Aniuta
says calmly, and continues to brush her hair.
They put out the light, but Tania keeps on
brooding over the same thing.
‘Is it possible?’ she asks herself, ‘Can Fedor
Michajlovitsch really think me better looking
than Aniuta?’ and she adds these words to her
prayer,
‘Good Lord, let all the world admire Aniuta,
but let Fedor Michajlovitsch only think that I
am prettier.’
But a bitter disappointment was in store for
poor Tania.
Dostojevsky had strongly advised Tania to
keep up her music. She was not very musical,
but her regular daily practising had given her
some execution, a good touch and facility in
reading. She once happened to play a piece to
Dostojevsky—variations on Russian ballads—
which pleased him particularly, because he was
in a mood to enjoy music, and so he became
quite enthusiastic about it and broke out in
exaggerated praise of Tania’s musical gifts. Of
course this was sufficient for Tania to make a
fresh start. She took lessons of a first-rate
teacher, and spent every leisure hour at the
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