He had not hoped to find him ... but he did. Kupfer actually had been
absent from Moscow for a time, but had returned about a week previously
and was even preparing to call on Arátoff again. He welcomed him with
his customary cordiality, and began to explain something to him ... but
Arátoff immediately interrupted him with the impatient question:
"Hast thou read it?--Is it true?"
"Is what true?" replied the astounded Kupfer.
"About Clara Mílitch?"
Kupfer's face expressed compassion.--"Yes, yes, brother, it is true; she
has poisoned herself. It is such a misfortune!"
Arátoff held his peace for a space.--"But hast thou also read it in the
newspaper?" he asked:--"Or perhaps thou hast been to Kazán thyself?"
"I have been to Kazán, in fact; the Princess and I conducted her
thither. She went on the stage there, and had great success. Only I did
not remain there until the catastrophe.... I was in Yaroslávl."
"In Yaroslávl?"
"Yes; I escorted the Princess thither.... She has settled in Yaroslávl
now."
"But hast thou trustworthy information?"
"The most trustworthy sort ... at first hand! I made acquaintance in
Kazán 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!"
Arátoff 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 Arátoff 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 Arátoff learned that Clara Mílitch's real name had been
Katerína Milovídoff; that her father, now dead, had been an official
teacher of drawing in Kazán, 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 class, a thoroughly stupid female, straight out of
one of Ostróvsky'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 circumstances, in a decent little house which
had been acquired by the sale of those wretched portraits and holy
pictures; that Clara ... or Kátya, 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 passion for the theatre, she had
run away from the parental house at the age of sixteen with an
actress....
"With an actor?" interjected Arátoff.
"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 Arátoff 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 Yákoff Andréitch," the narrator added with feeling,
"wert not able to appreciate at her true worth"; that finally Clara had
been offered an engagement in Kazán, and had accepted it, although she
had previously declared that she would never leave Moscow!--But how the
people of Kazán 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
Arátoff, 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 Arátoff. "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 Arátoff 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, Katerína Semyónovna?' 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?".... Arátoff wanted to
find out what part she had played that last time, but for some reason or
other he asked something else.
"In Ostróvsky's' Grúnya'[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
glass 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 breasts, 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.
Arátoff sat with drooping head.--"Canst thou give me the address of
that house in Kazán?" 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!"
Arátoff made no reply to this remark and went away, after having
procured the address in Kazán.
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 passers-by ... it
was quite different from what it had been on the boulevard!...
"Unhappy Clara! Foolish Clara!" resounded in his soul.
X
Nevertheless, Arátoff passed 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" (Arátoff 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 Arátoff'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 passed 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 passing 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! Impassive
... 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 coarse ... but undoubted.--And in that case also I was
unjust to her."--Arátoff 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 Arátoff'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?"--Arátoff meditated.--The
psychological analysis 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 Arátoff 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 passed. During dinner Arátoff chatted a
great deal with Platósha, 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 Yáshka. She merely rejoiced that he was so good-natured
and affectionate that day!--Toward evening Arátoff quieted down to such
a degree that he played several games of trumps with his aunt.
Thus passed the day ... but the night was quite another matter!