The Dark Star

This seems such an ungrateful letter to write you, who were so good

and kind to me in my dreadful hour of trial and disgrace. I am afraid

you won't understand how full of gratitude I am, to you and to the

Princess Mistchenka.

I have the prettiest little bedroom in her house. There is a pink

shade on my night lamp. She insisted that I go home with her, and I

had to, because I didn't know where else to go, and she wouldn't tell

me. In fact, I can't go anywhere or find any place because I speak no

French at all. It's humiliating, isn't it, for even the very little

children speak French in Paris.

But I have begun to learn; a cheerful old lady comes for an hour every

day to teach me. Only it is very hard for me, because she speaks no

English and I am forbidden to utter one word of my own language. And

so far I understand nothing that she says, which makes me more lonely

than I ever was in all my life. But sometimes it is so absurd that we

both laugh.

I am to study drawing and painting at a studio for women. The kind

Princess has arranged it. I am also to study piano and voice culture.

This I did not suppose would be possible with the money I have, but

the Princess Mistchenka, who has asked me to let her take charge of my

money and my expenses, says that I can easily afford it. She knows, of

course, what things cost, and what I am able to afford; and I trust

her willingly because she is so dear and sweet to me, but I am a

little frightened at the dresses she is having made for me. They

can't be inexpensive!--Such lovely clothes and shoes and hats--and

other things about which I never even heard in Brookhollow.

I ought to be happy, Mr. Neeland, but everything is so new and

strange--even Sunday is not restful; and how different is Nôtre Dame

de Paris and Saint Eustache from our church at Gayfield! The high

arches and jewelled windows and the candles and the dull roar of the

organ drove from my mind those quiet and solemn thoughts of God which

always filled my mind so naturally and peacefully in our church at

home. I couldn't think of Him; I couldn't even try to pray; it was as

though an ocean were rolling and thundering over me where I lay

drowned in a most deep place.

Well, I must close, because déjeuner is ready--you see I know one

French word, after all! And one other--"Bonjour, monsieur!"--which

counts two, doesn't it?--or three in all.