Chapter 11

It ended in Kupfer taking him, on the following day, to the Princess's evening assembly. But Arátoff did not remain there long. In the first place, he found at her house about twenty guests, men and women, who were, presumably, sympathetic, but who were strangers to him, nevertheless; and this embarrassed him, although he was obliged to talk very little: but he feared this most of all. In the second place, he did not like the hostess herself, although she welcomed him very cordially and unaffectedly. Everything about her displeased him; her painted face, and her churned-up curls, and her hoarsely-mellifluous voice, her shrill laugh, her way of rolling up her eyes, her too _décolleté_ bodice--and those plump, shiny fingers with a multitude of rings!... Slinking off into a corner, he now swiftly ran his eyes over the faces of all the guests, as though he did not even distinguish one from another; again he stared persistently at his own feet. But when, at last, an artist who had just come to town, with a drink-sodden countenance, extremely long hair, and a bit of glass under his puckered brow, seated himself at the piano, and bringing down his hands on the keys and his feet on the pedals, with a flourish, began to bang out a fantasia by Liszt on a Wagnerian theme, Arátoff could stand it no longer, and slipped away, bearing in his soul a confused and oppressive impression, athwart which, nevertheless, there pierced something which he did not understand, but which was significant and even agitating.

III

Kupfer came on the following day to dinner; but he did not enlarge upon the preceding evening, he did not even reproach Arátoff for his hasty flight, and merely expressed regret that he had not waited for supper, at which champagne had been served! (of Nízhegorod[54] fabrication, we may remark in parenthesis).

Kupfer probably understood that he had made a mistake in trying to rouse his friend, and that Arátoff was a man who positively was not adapted to that sort of society and manner of life. On his side, Arátoff also did not allude to the Princess or to the night before. Platonída Ivánovna did not know whether to rejoice at the failure of this first attempt or to regret it. She decided, at last, that Yásha's health might suffer from such expeditions, and regained her complacency. Kupfer went away directly after dinner, and did not show himself again for a whole week. And that not because he was sulking at Arátoff for the failure of his introduction,--the good-natured fellow was incapable of such a thing,--but he had, evidently, found some occupation which engrossed all his time, all his thoughts;--for thereafter he rarely came to the Arátoffs', wore an abstracted aspect, and soon vanished.... Arátoff continued to live on as before; but some hitch, if we may so express ourselves, had secured lodgment in his soul. He still recalled something or other, without himself being quite aware what it was precisely,--and that "something" referred to the evening which he had spent at the Princess's house. Nevertheless, he had not the slightest desire to return to it; and society, a section of which he had inspected in her house, repelled him more than ever. Thus passed six weeks.

And lo! one morning, Kupfer again presented himself to him, this time with a somewhat embarrassed visage.

"I know," he began, with a forced laugh, "that thy visit that evening was not to thy taste; but I hope that thou wilt consent to my proposal nevertheless ... and wilt not refuse my request."

"What art thou talking about?" inquired Arátoff.

"See here," pursued Kupfer, becoming more and more animated; "there exists here a certain society of amateurs and artists, which from time to time organises readings, concerts, even theatrical representations, for philanthropic objects...."

"And the Princess takes part?" interrupted Arátoff.

"The Princess always takes part in good works--but that is of no consequence. We have got up a literary and musical morning ... and at that performance thou mayest hear a young girl ... a remarkable young girl!--We do not quite know, as yet, whether she will turn out a Rachel or a Viardot ... for she sings splendidly, and declaims and acts.... She has talent of the first class, my dear fellow! I am not exaggerating.--So here now ... wilt not thou take a ticket?--Five rubles if thou wishest the first row."

"And where did this wonderful young girl come from?" asked Arátoff.

Kupfer grinned.--"That I cannot say.... Of late she has found an asylum with the Princess. The Princess, as thou knowest, is a patron of all such people.... And it is probable that thou sawest her that evening."

Arátoff started inwardly, faintly ... but made no answer.

"She has even acted somewhere in country districts," went on Kupfer, "and, on the whole, she was created for the theatre. Thou shalt see for thyself!"

"Is her name Clara?" asked Arátoff.

"Yes, Clara...."

"Clara!" interrupted Arátoff again.--"It cannot be!"

"Why not?--Clara it is, ... Clara Mílitch; that is not her real name ... but that is what she is called. She is to sing a romance by Glinka ... and one by Tchaikóvsky, and then she will recite the letter from 'Evgény Onyégin'[55]--Come now! Wilt thou take a ticket?"

"But when is it to be?"

"To-morrow ... to-morrow, at half-past one, in a private hall, on Ostozhyónka Street.... I will come for thee. A ticket at five rubles?... Here it is.... No, this is a three-ruble ticket.--Here it is.--And here is the affiche.[56]--I am one of the managers."

Arátoff reflected. Platonída Ivánovna entered the room at that moment and, glancing at his face, was suddenly seized with agitation.--"Yásha," she exclaimed, "what ails thee? Why art thou so excited? Feódor Feódorovitch, what hast thou been saying to him?"

But Arátoff did not give his friend a chance to answer his aunt's question, and hastily seizing the ticket which was held out to him, he ordered Platonída Ivánovna to give Kupfer five rubles on the instant.

She was amazed, and began to blink her eyes.... Nevertheless, she handed Kupfer the money in silence. Yáshenka had shouted at her in a very severe manner.

"She's a marvel of marvels, I tell thee!" cried Kupfer, darting toward the door.--"Expect me to-morrow!"

"Has she black eyes?" called Arátoff after him.

"As black as coal!" merrily roared Kupfer, and disappeared.

Arátoff went off to his own room, while Platonída Ivánovna remained rooted to the spot, repeating: "Help, Lord! Lord, help!"

IV

The large hall in a private house on Ostozhyónka Street was already half filled with spectators when Arátoff and Kupfer arrived. Theatrical representations were sometimes given in that hall, but on this occasion neither stage-scenery nor curtain were visible. Those who had organised the "morning" had confined themselves to erecting a platform at one end, placing thereon a piano and a couple of music-racks, a few chairs, a table with a carafe of water and a glass, and hanging a curtain of red cloth over the door which led to the room set apart for the artists. In the first row the Princess was already seated, clad in a bright green gown; Arátoff placed himself at some distance from her, after barely exchanging a bow with her. The audience was what is called motley; it consisted chiefly of young men from various institutions of learning. Kupfer, in his quality of a manager, with a white ribbon on the lapel of his dress-coat, bustled and fussed about with all his might; the Princess was visibly excited, kept looking about her, launching smiles in all directions, and chatting with her neighbours ... there were only men in her immediate vicinity.

The first to make his appearance on the platform was a flute-player of consumptive aspect, who spat out ... that is to say, piped out a piece which was consumptive like himself. Two persons shouted "Bravo!" Then a fat gentleman in spectacles, very sedate and even grim of aspect, recited in a bass voice a sketch by Shtchedrín;[57] the audience applauded the sketch, not him.--Then the pianist, who was already known to Arátoff, presented himself, and pounded out the same Liszt fantasia; the pianist was favoured with a recall. He bowed, with his hand resting on the back of a chair, and after each bow he tossed back his hair exactly like Liszt! At last, after a decidedly long intermission, the red cloth over the door at the rear of the platform moved, was drawn widely apart, and Clara Mílitch made her appearance. The hall rang with applause. With unsteady steps she approached the front of the platform, came to a halt, and stood motionless, with her large, red, ungloved hands crossed in front of her, making no curtsey, neither bending her head nor smiling.

She was a girl of nineteen, tall, rather broad-shouldered, but well built. Her face was swarthy, partly Hebrew, partly Gipsy in type; her eyes were small and black beneath thick brows which almost met, her nose was straight, slightly up-turned, her lips were thin with a beautiful but sharp curve; she had a huge braid of black hair, which was heavy even to the eye, a low, impassive, stony brow, tiny ears ... her whole countenance was thoughtful, almost surly. A passionate, self-willed nature,--not likely to be either kindly or even intelligent,--but gifted, was manifested by everything about her.

For a while she did not raise her eyes, but suddenly gave a start and sent her intent but not attentive glance, which seemed to be buried in herself, along the rows of spectators.

"What tragic eyes!" remarked a certain grey-haired fop, who sat behind Arátoff, with the face of a courtesan from Revel,--one of Moscow's well-known first-nighters and rounders. The fop was stupid and intended to utter a bit of nonsense ... but he had spoken the truth! Arátoff, who had never taken his eyes from Clara since she had made her appearance, only then recalled that he actually had seen her at the Princess's; and had not only seen her, but had even noticed that she had several times looked at him with particular intentness out of her dark, watchful eyes. And on this occasion also ... or did he merely fancy that it was so?--on catching sight of him in the first row, she seemed to be delighted, seemed to blush--and again she gazed intently at him. Then, without turning round, she retreated a couple of paces in the direction of the piano, at which the accompanist, the long-haired foreigner, was already seated. She was to execute Glinka's romance, "As soon as I recognised thee...." She immediately began to sing, without altering the position of her hands and without glancing at the notes. Her voice was soft and resonant,--a contralto,--she pronounced her words distinctly and forcibly, and sang monotonously, without shading but with strong expression.

"The lass sings with conviction," remarked the same fop who sat behind Arátoff,--and again he spoke the truth.

Shouts of "Bis!" "Bravo!" resounded all about, but she merely darted a swift glance at Arátoff, who was neither shouting nor clapping,--he had not been particularly pleased by her singing,--made a slight bow and withdrew, without taking the arm of the hairy pianist which he had crooked out like a cracknel. She was recalled ... but it was some time before she made her appearance, advanced to the piano with the same uncertain tread as before, and after whispering a couple of words to her accompanist, who was obliged to get and place on the rack before him not the music he had prepared but something else,--she began Tchaikóvsky's romance: "No, only he who hath felt the thirst of meeting".... This romance she sang in a different way from the first--in an undertone, as though she were weary ... and only in the line before the last, "He will understand how I have suffered,"--did a ringing, burning cry burst from her. The last line, "And how I suffer...." she almost whispered, sadly prolonging the final word. This romance produced a slighter impression on the audience than Glinka's; but there was a great deal of applause.... Kupfer, in particular, distinguished himself: he brought his hands together in a peculiar manner, in the form of a cask, when he clapped, thereby producing a remarkably sonorous noise. The Princess gave him a large, dishevelled bouquet, which he was to present to the songstress; but the latter did not appear to perceive Kupfer's bowed figure, and his hand outstretched with the bouquet, and she turned and withdrew, again without waiting for the pianist, who had sprung to his feet with still greater alacrity than before to escort her, and who, being thus left in the lurch, shook his hair as Liszt himself, in all probability, never shook his!

During the whole time she was singing Arátoff had been scanning Clara's face. It seemed to him that her eyes, athwart her contracted lashes, were again turned on him. But he was particularly struck by the impassiveness of that face, that forehead, those brows, and only when she uttered her passionate cry did he notice a row of white, closely-set teeth gleaming warmly from between her barely parted lips. Kupfer stepped up to him.

"Well, brother, what dost thou think of her?" he asked, all beaming with satisfaction.

"She has a fine voice," replied Arátoff, "but she does not know how to sing yet, she has had no real school." (Why he said this and what he meant by "school" the Lord only knows!)

Kupfer was surprised.--"She has no school," he repeated slowly.... "Well, now.... She can still study. But on the other hand, what soul! But just wait until thou hast heard her recite Tatyána's letter."

He ran away from Arátoff, and the latter thought: "Soul! With that impassive face!"--He thought that she bore herself and moved like a hypnotised person, like a somnambulist.... And, at the same time, she was indubitably.... Yes! she was indubitably staring at him.

Meanwhile the "morning" went on. The fat man in spectacles presented himself again; despite his serious appearance he imagined that he was a comic artist and read a scene from Gógol, this time without evoking a single token of approbation. The flute-player flitted past once more; again the pianist thundered; a young fellow of twenty, pomaded and curled, but with traces of tears on his cheeks, sawed out some variations on his fiddle. It might have appeared strange that in the intervals between the recitations and the music the abrupt notes of a French horn were wafted, now and then, from the artists' room; but this instrument was not used, nevertheless. It afterward came out that the amateur who had offered to perform on it had been seized with a panic at the moment when he should have made his appearance before the audience. So at last, Clara Mílitch appeared again.

She held in her hand a small volume of Púshkin; but during her reading she never once glanced at it.... She was obviously frightened; the little book shook slightly in her fingers. Arátoff also observed the expression of dejection which _now_ overspread her stern features. The first line: "I write to you ... what would you more?" she uttered with extreme simplicity, almost ingenuously,--stretching both arms out in front of her with an ingenuous, sincere, helpless gesture. Then she began to hurry a little; but beginning with the line: "Another! Nay! to none on earth could I have given e'er my heart!" she regained her self-possession, and grew animated; and when she reached the words: "All, all life hath been a pledge of faithful meeting thus with thee,"--her hitherto rather dull voice rang out enthusiastically and boldly, and her eyes riveted themselves on Arátoff with a boldness and directness to match. She went on with the same enthusiasm, and only toward the close did her voice again fall, and in it and in her face her previous dejection was again depicted. She made a complete muddle, as the saying is, of the last four lines,--the little volume of Púshkin suddenly slipped from her hands, and she beat a hasty retreat.

The audience set to applauding and recalling her in desperate fashion.... One theological student,--a Little Russian,--among others, bellowed so loudly: "Muíluitch! Muíluitch!"[58] that his neighbour politely and sympathetically begged him to "spare himself, as a future proto-deacon!"[59] But Arátoff immediately rose and betook himself to the entrance. Kupfer overtook him....

"Good gracious, whither art thou going?" he yelled:--"I'll introduce thee to Clara if thou wishest--shall I?"

"No, thanks," hastily replied Arátoff, and set off homeward almost at a run.

V

Strange emotions, which were not clear even to himself, agitated him. In reality, Clara's recitation had not altogether pleased him either ... altogether he could not tell precisely why. It had troubled him, that recitation, it had seemed to him harsh, unmelodious.... Somehow it seemed to have broken something within him, to have exerted some sort of violence. And those importunate, persistent, almost insolent glances--what had caused them? What did they signify?

Arátoff's modesty did permit him even a momentary thought that he might have pleased that strange young girl, that he might have inspired her with a sentiment akin to love, to passion!... And he had imagined to himself quite otherwise that as yet unknown woman, that young girl, to whom he would surrender himself wholly, and who would love him, become his bride, his wife.... He rarely dreamed of this: he was chaste both in body and soul;--but the pure image which rose up in his imagination at such times was evoked under another form,--the form of his dead mother, whom he barely remembered, though he cherished her portrait like a sacred treasure. That portrait had been painted in water-colours, in a rather inartistic manner, by a friendly neighbour, but the likeness was striking, as every one averred. The woman, the young girl, whom as yet he did not so much as venture to expect, must possess just such a tender profile, just such kind, bright eyes, just such silky hair, just such a smile, just such a clear understanding....

But this was a black-visaged, swarthy creature, with coarse hair, and a moustache on her lip; she must certainly be bad-tempered, giddy.... "A gipsy" (Arátoff could not devise a worse expression)--what was she to him?

And in the meantime, Arátoff was unable to banish from his mind that black-visaged gipsy, whose singing and recitation and even whose personal appearance were disagreeable to him. He was perplexed, he was angry with himself. Not long before this he had read Walter Scott's romance "Saint Ronan's Well" (there was a complete edition of Walter Scott's works in the library of his father, who revered the English romance-writer as a serious, almost a learned author). The heroine of that romance is named Clara Mowbray. A poet of the '40's, Krásoff, wrote a poem about her, which wound up with the words:

"Unhappy Clara! foolish Clara! Unhappy Clara Mowbray!"

Arátoff was acquainted with this poem also.... And now these words kept incessantly recurring to his memory.... "Unhappy Clara! foolish Clara!..." (That was why he had been so surprised when Kupfer mentioned Clara Mílitch to him.) Even Platósha noticed, not precisely a change in Yákoff's frame of mind--as a matter of fact, no change had taken place--but something wrong about his looks, in his remarks. She cautiously interrogated him about the literary morning at which he had been present;--she whispered, sighed, scrutinised him from in front, scrutinised him from the side, from behind--and suddenly, slapping her hands on her thighs, she exclaimed:

"Well, Yáshal--I see what the trouble is!"

"What dost thou mean?" queried Arátoff in his turn.

"Thou hast certainly met at that morning some one of those tail-draggers" (that was what Platonída Ivánovna called all ladies who wore fashionable gowns).... "She has a comely face--and she puts on airs like _this_,--and twists her face like _this_" (Platósha depicted all this in her face), "and she makes her eyes go round like this...." (she mimicked this also, describing huge circles in the air with her forefinger).... "And it made an impression on thee, because thou art not used to it.... But that does not signify anything, Yásha ... it does not signify anything! Drink a cup of herb-tea when thou goest to bed, and that will be the end of it!... Lord, help!"

Platósha ceased speaking and took herself off.... She probably had never made such a long and animated speech before since she was born ... but Arátoff thought:

"I do believe my aunt is right.... It is all because I am not used to such things...." (He really had attracted the attention of the female sex to himself for the first time ... at any rate, he had never noticed it before.) "I must not indulge myself."

So he set to work at his books, and drank some linden-flower tea when he went to bed, and even slept well all that night, and had no dreams. On the following morning he busied himself with his photography, as though nothing had happened....

But toward evening his spiritual serenity was again disturbed.

VI

To wit: a messenger brought him a note, written in a large, irregular feminine hand, which ran as follows:

"If you guess who is writing to you, and if it does not bore you, come to-morrow, after dinner, to the Tver boulevard--about five o'clock--and wait. You will not be detained long. But it is very important. Come."

There was no signature. Arátoff instantly divined who his correspondent was, and that was precisely what disturbed him.--"What nonsense!" he said, almost aloud. "This is too much! Of course I shall not go."--Nevertheless, he ordered the messenger to be summoned, and from him he learned merely that the letter had been handed to him on the street by a maid. Having dismissed him, Arátoff reread the letter, and flung it on the floor.... But after a while he picked it up and read it over again; a second time he cried: "Nonsense!" He did not throw the letter on the floor this time, however, but put it away in a drawer.