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140
SÖNYA KOVALÉVSKY
that I please him more than my sister does," occurred
to me, and I began to pray mentally: "Lord God, let
every one, let the whole world, go into raptures over
Aniuta, only make me seem pretty to Feödor
Mikhåilovitch !"
But my illusions on this point were destined to a
speedy and cruel destruction.
Among the accomplishments which Dostoévsky
encouraged was music. Up to that time I had learned
to play on the piano as the majority of little girls
learn, without feeling any particular liking or any
particular hatred for it. My ear was only
moderately good; but as, from the age of five years, I had
been made to play scales and exercises for an hour
and a half every day, a certain amount of execution
had been developed in me now, at the age of thirteen
— a tolerable touch, and a faculty of reading music at
sight very readily.
It happened that once, at the very beginning of our
acquaintance, I had played for Dostoévsky a piece
in which I was remarkably successful—variations on
the themes of Russian songs. Feödor Mikhåilovitch
was not a musician. He belonged to that class of
people whose enjoyment of music depends on purely
subjective conditions — on their mood at a given
moment. Sometimes the most beautiful and artistically
executed music only provokes a yawn in them; on
other occasions, a hand-organ whining in the
courtyard moves them to tears.
It chanced that, on the occasion when I played,
Feödor Mikhåilovitch was in just one of those
sensitive, emotional states of mind, for he went into ecstar
sies over my playing, and allowing his feelings to run
away with him, as usual, he began to lavish on me
the most exaggerated praises—I had talent and
feeling, and God knows what all!
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