"But hast thou trustworthy information?"

"The most trustworthy sort ... at first hand! I made acquaintance in Kazan with her family.--But stay, my dear fellow ... this news seems to agitate thee greatly.--But I remember that Clara did not please thee that time! Thou wert wrong! She was a splendid girl--only her head! She had an ungovernable head! I was greatly distressed about her!"

Aratoff did not utter a word, but dropped down on a chair, and after waiting a while he asked Kupfer to tell him ... he hesitated.

"What?" asked Kupfer.

"Why ... everything," replied Aratoff slowly.--"About her family, for instance ... and so forth. Everything thou knowest!"

"But does that interest thee?--Certainly!"

Kupfer, from whose face it was impossible to discern that he had grieved so greatly over Clara, began his tale.

From his words Aratoff learned that Clara Militch's real name had been Katerina Milovidoff; that her father, now dead, had been an official teacher of drawing in Kazan, had painted bad portraits and official images, and moreover had borne the reputation of being a drunkard and a domestic tyrant ... "and a _cultured_ man into the bargain!".... (Here Kupfer laughed in a self-satisfied manner, by way of hinting at the pun he had made);[60]--that he had left at his death, in the first place, a widow of the merchant cla.s.s, a thoroughly stupid female, straight out of one of Ostrovsky's comedies;[61] and in the second place, a daughter much older than Clara and bearing no resemblance to her--a very clever girl and "greatly developed, my dear fellow!" That the two--widow and daughter--lived in easy circ.u.mstances, in a decent little house which had been acquired by the sale of those wretched portraits and holy pictures; that Clara ... or Katya, whichever you choose to call her, had astonished every one ever since her childhood by her talent, but was of an insubordinate, capricious disposition, and was constantly quarrelling with her father; that having an inborn pa.s.sion for the theatre, she had run away from the parental house at the age of sixteen with an actress....

"With an actor?" interjected Aratoff.

"No, not with an actor, but an actress; to whom she had become attached.... This actress had a protector, it is true, a wealthy gentleman already elderly, who only refrained from marrying her because he was already married--while the actress, it appeared, was married also."

Further, Kupfer informed Aratoff that, prior to her arrival in Moscow, Clara had acted and sung in provincial theatres; that on losing her friend the actress (the gentleman had died also, it seems, or had made it up with his wife--precisely which Kupfer did not quite remember ...), she had made the acquaintance of the Princess, "that woman of gold, whom thou, my friend Yakoff Andreitch," the narrator added with feeling, "wert not able to appreciate at her true worth"; that finally Clara had been offered an engagement in Kazan, and had accepted it, although she had previously declared that she would never leave Moscow!--But how the people of Kazan had loved her--it was fairly amazing! At every representation she received bouquets and gifts! bouquets and gifts!--A flour merchant, the greatest bigwig in the government, had even presented her with a golden inkstand!--Kupfer narrated all this with great animation, but without, however, displaying any special sentimentality, and interrupting his speech with the question:--"Why dost thou want to know that?" ... or "To what end is that?" when Aratoff, after listening to him with devouring attention, demanded more and still more details. Everything was said at last, and Kupfer ceased speaking, rewarding himself for his toil with a cigar.

"But why did she poison herself?" asked Aratoff. "The newspaper stated...."

Kupfer waved his hands.--"Well.... That I cannot say.... I don't know.

But the newspaper lies, Clara behaved in an exemplary manner ... she had no love-affairs.... And how could she, with her pride! She was as proud as Satan himself, and inaccessible! An insubordinate head! Firm as a rock! If thou wilt believe me,--I knew her pretty intimately, seest thou,--I never beheld a tear in her eyes!"

"But I did," thought Aratoff to himself.

"Only there is this to be said," went on Kupfer:--"I noticed a great change in her of late: she became so depressed, she would remain silent for hours at a time; you couldn't get a word out of her. I once asked her: 'Has any one offended you, Katerina Semyonovna?' Because I knew her disposition: she could not endure an insult. She held her peace, and that was the end of it! Even her success on the stage did not cheer her up; they would shower her with bouquets ... and she would not smile! She gave one glance at the gold inkstand,--and put it aside!--She complained that no one would write her a genuine part, as she conceived it. And she gave up singing entirely. I am to blame, brother!... I repeated to her that thou didst not think she had any _school_. But nevertheless ... why she poisoned herself is incomprehensible! And the way she did it too...."

"In what part did she have the greatest success?".... Aratoff wanted to find out what part she had played that last time, but for some reason or other he asked something else.

"In Ostrovsky's' Grunya'[62] I believe. But I repeat to thee: she had no love-affairs! Judge for thyself by one thing: she lived in her mother's house.... Thou knowest what some of those merchants' houses are like; a gla.s.s case filled with holy images in every corner and a shrine lamp in front of the case; deadly, stifling heat; a sour odour; in the drawing-room nothing but chairs ranged along the wall, and geraniums in the windows;--and when a visitor arrives, the hostess begins to groan as though an enemy were approaching. What chance is there for love-making, and amours in such a place? Sometimes it happened that they would not even admit me. Their maid-servant, a robust peasant-woman, in a Turkey red cotton sarafan,[63] and pendulous b.r.e.a.s.t.s, would place herself across the path in the anteroom and roar: 'Whither away?' No, I positively cannot understand what made her poison herself. She must have grown tired of life," Kupfer philosophically wound up his remarks.

Aratoff sat with drooping head.--"Canst thou give me the address of that house in Kazan?" he said at last.

"I can; but what dost thou want of it?--Dost thou wish to send a letter thither?"

"Perhaps so."

"Well, as thou wilt. Only the old woman will not answer thee. Her sister might ... the clever sister!--But again, brother, I marvel at thee! Such indifference formerly ... and now so much attention! All that comes of living a solitary life, my dear fellow!"

Aratoff made no reply to this remark and went away, after having procured the address in Kazan.

Agitation, surprise, expectation had been depicted on his face when he went to Kupfer.... Now he advanced with an even gait, downcast eyes, and hat pulled low down over his brows; almost every one he met followed him with a searching gaze ... but he paid no heed to the pa.s.sers-by ... it was quite different from what it had been on the boulevard!...

"Unhappy Clara! Foolish Clara!" resounded in his soul.

X

Nevertheless, Aratoff pa.s.sed the following day in a fairly tranquil manner. He was even able to devote himself to his customary occupations.

There was only one thing: both during his busy time and in his leisure moments he thought incessantly of Clara, of what Kupfer had told him the day before. Truth to tell, his thoughts were also of a decidedly pacific nature. It seemed to him that that strange young girl interested him from a psychological point of view, as something in the nature of a puzzle, over whose solution it was worth while to cudgel one's brains,--"She ran away from home with a kept actress," he thought, "she placed herself under the protection of that Princess, in whose house she lived,--and had no love-affairs? It is improbable!... Kupfer says it was pride! But, in the first place, we know" (Aratoff should have said: "we have read in books") ... "that pride is compatible with light-minded conduct; and in the second place, did not she, such a proud person, appoint a meeting with a man who might show her scorn ... and appoint it in a public place, into the bargain ... on the boulevard!"--At this point there recurred to Aratoff's mind the whole scene on the boulevard, and he asked himself: "Had he really shown scorn for Clara?"--"No," he decided.... That was another feeling ... a feeling of perplexity ... of distrust, in short!--"Unhappy Clara!" again rang through his brain.--"Yes, she was unhappy," he decided again ... that was the most fitting word.

"But if that is so, I was unjust. She spoke truly when she said that I did not understand her. 'Tis a pity!--It may be that a very remarkable being has pa.s.sed so close to me ... and I did not take advantage of the opportunity, but repulsed her.... Well, never mind! My life is still before me. I shall probably have other encounters of a different sort!

"But what prompted her to pick out _me_ in particular?"--He cast a glance at a mirror which he was pa.s.sing at the moment. "What is there peculiar about me? And what sort of a beauty am I?--My face is like everybody else's face.... However, she was not a beauty either.

"She was not a beauty ... but what an expressive face she had! Impa.s.sive ... but expressive! I have never before seen such a face.--And she has talent ... that is to say, she had talent, undoubted talent. Wild, untrained, even coa.r.s.e ... but undoubted.--And in that case also I was unjust to her."--Aratoff mentally transported himself to the musical morning ... and noticed that he remembered with remarkable distinctness every word she had sung or recited, every intonation.... That would not have been the case had she been devoid of talent.

"And now all that is in the grave, where she has thrust herself.... But I have nothing to do with that.... I am not to blame! It would even be absurd to think that I am to blame."--Again it flashed into Aratoff's mind that even had she had "anything of that sort" about her, his conduct during the interview would indubitably have disenchanted her.

That was why she had broken into such harsh laughter at parting.--And where was the proof that she had poisoned herself on account of an unhappy love? It is only newspaper correspondents who attribute every such death to unhappy love!--But life easily becomes repulsive to people with character, like Clara ... and tiresome. Yes, tiresome. Kupfer was right: living simply bored her.

"In spite of her success, of her ovations?"--Aratoff meditated.--The psychological a.n.a.lysis to which he surrendered himself was even agreeable to him. Unaccustomed as he had been, up to this time, to all contact with women, he did not suspect how significant for him was this tense examination of a woman's soul.

"Consequently," he pursued his meditations, "art did not satisfy her, did not fill the void of her life. Genuine artists exist only for art, for the theatre.... Everything else pales before that which they regard as their vocation.... She was a dilettante!"

Here Aratoff again became thoughtful.--No, the word "dilettante" did not consort with that face, with the expression of that face, of those eyes....

And again there rose up before him the image of Clara with her tear-filled eyes riveted upon him, and her clenched hands raised to her lips....

"Akh, I won't think of it, I won't think of it ..." he whispered....

"What is the use?"

In this manner the whole day pa.s.sed. During dinner Aratoff chatted a great deal with Platosha, questioned her about old times, which, by the way, she recalled and transmitted badly, as she was not possessed of a very glib tongue, and had noticed hardly anything in the course of her life save her Yashka. She merely rejoiced that he was so good-natured and affectionate that day!--Toward evening Aratoff quieted down to such a degree that he played several games of trumps with his aunt.

Thus pa.s.sed the day ... but the night was quite another matter!

XI

It began well; he promptly fell asleep, and when his aunt entered his room on tiptoe for the purpose of making the sign of the cross over him thrice as he slept--she did this every night--he was lying and breathing as quietly as a child.--But before daybreak he had a vision.

He dreamed that he was walking over the bare steppes, sown with stones, beneath a low-hanging sky. Between the stones wound a path; he was advancing along it.

Suddenly there rose up in front of him something in the nature of a delicate cloud. He looked intently at it; the little cloud turned into a woman in a white gown, with a bright girdle about her waist. She was hurrying away from him. He did not see either her face or her hair ... a long piece of tissue concealed them. But he felt bound to overtake her and look into her eyes. Only, no matter how much haste he made, she still walked more quickly than he.

On the path lay a broad, flat stone, resembling a tomb-stone. It barred her way. The woman came to a halt. Aratoff ran up to her. She turned toward him--but still he could not see her eyes ... they were closed.

Her face was white,--white as snow; her arms hung motionless. She resembled a statue.

Slowly, without bending a single limb, she leaned backward and sank down on that stone.... And now Aratoff was lying beside her, outstretched like a mortuary statue,--and his hands were folded like those of a corpse.

But at this point the woman suddenly rose to her feet and went away.