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tea. Kitty and Varenka went out into the little garden that adjoined the
house.
“Am I right, that you have some reminiscences connected with that
song?” said Kitty. “Don’t tell me,” she added hastily, “only say if I’m
right.”
“No, why not? I’ll tell you simply,” said Varenka, and, without
waiting for a reply, she went on: “Yes, it brings up memories, once
painful ones. I cared for someone once, and I used to sing him that
song.”
Kitty with big, wide-open eyes gazed silently, sympathetically at
Varenka.
“I cared for him, and he cared for me; but his mother did not wish
it, and he married another girl. He’s living now not far from us, and I
see him sometimes. You didn’t think I had a love story too,” she said,
and there was a faint gleam in her handsome face of that fire which
Kitty felt must once have glowed all over her.
“I didn’t think so? Why, if I were a man, I could never care for
anyone else after knowing you. Only I can’t understand how he could,
to please his mother, forget you and make you unhappy; he had no
heart.”
“Oh, no, he’s a very good man, and I’m not unhappy; quite the
contrary, I’m very happy. Well, so we shan’t be singing any more now,”
she added, turning towards the house.
“How good you are! how good you are!” cried Kitty, and stopping
her, she kissed her. “If I could only be even a little like you!”
“Why should you be like anyone? You’re nice as you are,” said
Varenka, smiling her gentle, weary smile.
“No, I’m not nice at all. Come, tell me.... Stop a minute, let’s sit
down,” said Kitty, making her sit down again beside her. “Tell me, isn’t
it humiliating to think that a man has disdained your love, that he
hasn’t cared for it?...”
“But he didn’t disdain it; I believe he cared for me, but he was a
dutiful son...”
“Yes, but if it hadn’t been on account of his mother, if it had been
his own doing?...” said Kitty, feeling she was giving away her secret,
and that her face, burning with the flush of shame, had betrayed her
already.
“I that case he would have done wrong, and I should not have
regretted him,” answered Varenka, evidently realizing that they were
now talking not of her, but of Kitty.
“But the humiliation,” said Kitty, “the humiliation one can never
forget, can never forget,” she said, remembering her look at the last ball
during the pause in the music.
“Where is the humiliation? Why, you did nothing wrong?”
“Worse than wrong—shameful.”
Varenka shook her head and laid her hand on Kitty’s hand.
“Why, what is there shameful?” she said. “You didn’t tell a man,
who didn’t care for you, that you loved him, did you?”
“Of course not, I never said a word, but he knew it. No, no, there
are looks, there are ways; I can’t forget it, if I live a hundred years.”
“Why so? I don’t understand. The whole point is whether you love
him now or not,” said Varenka, who called everything by its name.
“I hate him; I can’t forgive myself.”
“Why, what for?”
“The shame, the humiliation!”
“Oh! if everyone were as sensitive as you are!” said Varenka. “There
isn’t a girl who hasn’t been through the same. And it’s all so unimpor-
tant.”