IX

Though he had not expected to find him, he found him. Kupfer had, as a

fact, been away from Moscow for some time, but he had now been back a week,

and was indeed on the point of setting off to see Aratov. He met him with

his usual heartiness, and was beginning to make some sort of explanation

... but Aratov at once cut him short with the impatient question, ‘Have you

heard it? Is it true?’

‘Is what true?’ replied Kupfer, puzzled.

‘About Clara Militch?’

Kupfer’s face expressed commiseration. ‘Yes, yes, my dear boy, it’s true;

she poisoned herself! Such a sad thing!’

Aratov was silent for a while. ‘But did you read it in the paper too?’ he

asked--‘or perhaps you have been in Kazan yourself?’

‘I have been in Kazan, yes; the princess and I accompanied her there. She

came out on the stage there, and had a great success. But I didn’t stay up

to the time of the catastrophe ... I was in Yaroslav at the time.’

‘In Yaroslav?’

‘Yes--I escorted the princess there.... She is living now at Yaroslav.’

‘But you have trustworthy information?’

‘Trustworthy ... I have it at first-hand!--I made the acquaintance of her

family in Kazan. But, my dear boy ... this news seems to be upsetting you?

Why, I recollect you didn’t care for Clara at one time? You were wrong,

though! She was a marvellous girl--only what a temper! I was terribly

broken-hearted about her!’

Aratov did not utter a word, he dropped into a chair, and after a brief

pause, asked Kupfer to tell him ... he stammered.

‘What?’ inquired Kupfer.

‘Oh ... everything,’ Aratov answered brokenly, ‘all about her family ...

and the rest of it. Everything you know!’

‘Why, does it interest you? By all means!’ And Kupfer, whose face showed no

traces of his having been so terribly broken-hearted about Clara, began his

story.

From his account Aratov learnt that Clara Militch’s real name was Katerina

Milovidov; that her father, now dead, had held the post of drawing-master

in a school in Kazan, had painted bad portraits and holy pictures of the

regulation type; that he had besides had the character of being a drunkard

and a domestic tyrant; that he had left behind him, first a widow, of a

shopkeeper’s family, a quite stupid body, a character straight out of an

Ostrovsky comedy; and secondly, a daughter much older than Clara and not

like her--a very clever girl, and enthusiastic, only sickly, a remarkable

girl--and very advanced in her ideas, my dear boy! That they were living,

the widow and daughter, fairly comfortably, in a decent little house,

obtained by the sale of the bad portraits and holy pictures; that Clara ...

or Katia, if you like, from her childhood up impressed every one with her

talent, but was of an insubordinate, capricious temper, and used to be for

ever quarrelling with her father; that having an inborn passion for the

theatre, at sixteen she had run away from her parent’s house with an

actress ...’

‘With an actor?’ put in Aratov.

‘No, not with an actor, with an actress, to whom she became attached....

It’s true this actress had a protector, a wealthy gentleman, no longer

young, who did not marry her simply because he happened to be married--and

indeed I fancy the actress was a married woman.’ Furthermore Kupfer

informed Aratov that Clara had even before her coming to Moscow acted and

sung in provincial theatres, that, having lost her friend the actress--the

gentleman, too, it seemed, had died, or else he had made it up with his

wife--Kupfer could not quite remember this--she had made the acquaintance

of the princess, ‘that heart of gold, whom you, my dear Yakov Andreitch,’

the speaker added with feeling, ‘were incapable of appreciating properly’;

that at last Clara had been offered an engagement in Kazan, and that she

had accepted it, though before then she used to declare that she would

never leave Moscow! But then how the people of Kazan liked her--it was

really astonishing! Whatever the performance was, nothing but nosegays and

presents! nosegays and presents! A wholesale miller, the greatest swell in

the province, had even presented her with a gold inkstand! Kupfer related

all this with great animation, without giving expression, however, to any

special sentimentality, and interspersing his narrative with the questions,

‘What is it to you?’ and ‘Why do you ask?’ when Aratov, who listened to him

with devouring attention, kept asking for more and more details. All was

told at last, and Kupfer was silent, rewarding himself for his exertions

with a cigar.

‘And why did she take poison?’ asked Aratov. ‘In the paper it was

stated....’

Kupfer waved his hand. ‘Well ... that I can’t say ... I don’t know. But the

paper tells a lie. Clara’s conduct was exemplary ... no love affairs of any

kind.... And indeed how should there be with her pride! She was proud--as

Satan himself--and unapproachable! A headstrong creature! Hard as rock!

You’ll hardly believe it--though I knew her so well--I never saw a tear in

her eyes!’

‘But I have,’ Aratov thought to himself.

‘But there’s one thing,’ continued Kupfer, ‘of late I noticed a great

change in her: she grew so dull, so silent, for hours together there was

no getting a word out of her. I asked her even, “Has any one offended you,

Katerina Semyonovna?” For I knew her temper; she could never swallow an

affront! But she was silent, and there was no doing anything with her! Even

her triumphs on the stage didn’t cheer her up; bouquets fairly showered

on her ... but she didn’t even smile! She gave one look at the gold

inkstand--and put it aside! She used to complain that no one had written

the real part for her, as she conceived it. And her singing she’d given up

altogether. It was my fault, my dear boy!... I told her that you thought

she’d no musical knowledge. But for all that ... why she poisoned

herself--is incomprehensible! And the way she did it!...’

‘In what part had she the greatest success?’... Aratov wanted to know in

what part she had appeared for the last time, but for some reason he asked

a different question.

‘In Ostrovosky’s _Gruna_, as far as I remember. But I tell you again she’d

no love affairs! You may be sure of that from one thing. She lived in her

mother’s house.... You know the sort of shopkeeper’s houses: in every

corner a holy picture and a little lamp before it, a deadly stuffiness,

a sour smell, nothing but chairs along the walls in the drawing-room, a

geranium in the window, and if a visitor drops in, the mistress sighs and

groans, as if they were invaded by an enemy. What chance is there for

gallantry or love-making? Sometimes they wouldn’t even admit me. Their

servant, a muscular female, in a red sarafan, with an enormous bust, would

stand right across the passage, and growl, “Where are you coming?” No,

I positively can’t understand why she poisoned herself. Sick of life, I

suppose,’ Kupfer concluded his cogitations philosophically.

Aratov sat with downcast head. ‘Can you give me the address of that house

in Kazan?’ he said at last.

‘Yes; but what do you want it for? Do you want to write a letter there?’

‘Perhaps.’ ‘Well, you know best. But the old lady won’t answer, for she

can’t read and write. The sister, though, perhaps ... Oh, the sister’s a

clever creature! But I must say again, I wonder at you, my dear boy! Such

indifference before ... and now such interest! All this, my boy, comes from

too much solitude!’

Aratov made no reply, and went away, having provided himself with the Kazan

address.

When he was on his way to Kupfer’s, excitement, bewilderment, expectation

had been reflected on his face.... Now he walked with an even gait, with

downcast eyes, and hat pulled over his brows; almost every one who met him

sent a glance of curiosity after him ... but he did not observe any one who

passed ... it was not as on the Tversky boulevard!

‘Unhappy Clara! poor frantic Clara!’ was echoing in his soul.

X

The following day Aratov spent, however, fairly quietly. He was even able

to give his mind to his ordinary occupations. But there was one thing:

both during his work and during his leisure he was continually thinking

of Clara, of what Kupfer had told him the evening before. It is true that

his meditations, too, were of a fairly tranquil character. He fancied

that this strange girl interested him from the psychological point of

view, as something of the nature of a riddle, the solution of which was

worth racking his brains over. ‘Ran away with an actress living as a

kept mistress,’ he pondered, ‘put herself under the protection of that

princess, with whom she seems to have lived--and no _love affairs_’? It’s

incredible!... Kupfer talked of pride! But in the first place we know’

(Aratov ought to have said: we have read in books),...’we know that pride

can exist side by side with levity of conduct; and secondly, how came she,

if she were so proud, to make an appointment with a man who might treat

her with contempt ... and did treat her with it ... and in a public place,

moreover ... in a boulevard!’ At this point Aratov recalled all the scene

in the boulevard, and he asked himself, Had he really shown contempt for

Clara? ‘No,’ he decided,... ‘it was another feeling ... a feeling of doubt

... lack of confidence, in fact!’ ‘Unhappy Clara!’ was again ringing in his

head. ‘Yes, unhappy,’ he decided again.... ‘That’s the most fitting word.

And, if so, I was unjust. She said truly that I did not understand her. A

pity! Such a remarkable creature, perhaps, came so close ... and I did not

take advantage of it, I repulsed her.... Well, no matter! Life’s all before

me. There will be, very likely, other meetings, perhaps more interesting!

‘But on what grounds did she fix on _me_ of all the world?’ He glanced into

a looking-glass by which he was passing. ‘What is there special about me?

I’m not a beauty, am I? My face ... is like any face.... She was not a

beauty either, though.

‘Not a beauty ... and such an expressive face! Immobile ... and yet

expressive! I never met such a face.... And talent, too, she has ... that

is, she had, unmistakable. Untrained, undeveloped, even coarse, perhaps ...

but unmistakable talent. And in that case I was unjust to her.’ Aratov was

carried back in thought to the literary musical matinée ... and he observed

to himself how exceedingly clearly he recollected every word she had sung

of recited, every intonation of her voice.... ‘That would not have been so

had she been without talent. And now it is all in the grave, to which she

has hastened of herself.... But I’ve nothing to do with that ... I’m not to

blame! It would be positively ridiculous to suppose that I’m to blame.’

It again occurred to Aratov that even if she had had ‘anything of the sort’

in her mind, his behaviour during their interview must have effectually

disillusioned her.... ‘That was why she laughed so cruelly, too, at

parting. Besides, what proof is there that she took poison because of

unrequited love? That’s only the newspaper correspondents, who ascribe

every death of that sort to unrequited love! People of a character like

Clara’s readily feel life repulsive ... burdensome. Yes, burdensome. Kupfer

was right; she was simply sick of life.

‘In spite of her successes, her triumphs?’ Aratov mused. He got a positive

pleasure from the psychological analysis to which he was devoting himself.

Remote till now from all contact with women, he did not even suspect all

the significance for himself of this intense realisation of a woman’s soul.

‘It follows,’ he pursued his meditations, ‘that art did not satisfy her,

did not fill the void in her life. Real artists exist only for art, for

the theatre.... Everything else is pale beside what they regard as their

vocation.... She was a dilettante.’

At this point Aratov fell to pondering again. ‘No, the word dilettante did

not accord with that face, the expression of that face, those eyes....’

And Clara’s image floated again before him, with eyes, swimming in tears,

fixed upon him, with clenched hands pressed to her lips....

‘Ah, no, no,’ he muttered, ‘what’s the use?’

So passed the whole day. At dinner Aratov talked a great deal with

Platosha, questioned her about the old days, which she remembered, but

described very badly, as she had so few words at her command, and except

her dear Yasha, had scarcely ever noticed anything in her life. She could

only rejoice that he was nice and good-humoured to-day; towards evening

Aratov was so far calm that he played several games of cards with his aunt.

So passed the day ... but the night!