Chapter 13

"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!

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. Arátoff 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 Arátoff 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. Arátoff tried to rise also ... but he could not stir, he could not unclasp his hands, and could only gaze after her in despair.

Then the woman suddenly turned round, and he beheld bright, vivacious eyes in a living face, which was strange to him, however. She was laughing, beckoning to him with her hand ... and still he was unable to move.

She laughed yet once again, and swiftly retreated, merrily nodding her head, on which a garland of tiny roses gleamed crimson.

Arátoff strove to shout, strove to break that frightful nightmare.... Suddenly everything grew dark round about ... and the woman returned to him.

But she was no longer a statue whom he knew not ... she was Clara. She halted in front of him, folded her arms, and gazed sternly and attentively at him. Her lips were tightly compressed, but it seemed to Arátoff that he heard the words:

"If thou wishest to know who I am, go thither!"

"Whither?" he asked.

"Thither!"--the moaning answer made itself audible.--"Thither!"

Arátoff awoke.

He sat up in bed, lighted a candle which stood on his night-stand, but did not rise, and sat there for a long time slowly gazing about him. It seemed to him that something had taken place within him since he went to bed; that something had taken root within him ... something had taken possession of him. "But can that be possible?" he whispered unconsciously. "Can it be that such a power exists?"

He could not remain in bed. He softly dressed himself and paced his chamber until daylight. And strange to say! He did not think about Clara for a single minute,--and he did not think about her because he had made up his mind to set off for Kazán that very day!

He thought only of that journey, of how it was to be made, and what he ought to take with him,--and how he would there ferret out and find out everything,--and regain his composure.

"If thou dost not go," he argued with himself, "thou wilt surely lose thy reason!" He was afraid of that; he was afraid of his nerves. He was convinced that as soon as he should see all that with his own eyes, all obsessions would flee like a nocturnal nightmare.--"And the journey will occupy not more than a week in all," he thought.... "What is a week? And there is no other way of ridding myself of it."

The rising sun illuminated his room; but the light of day did not disperse the shades of night which weighed upon him, did not alter his decision.

Platósha came near having an apoplectic stroke when he communicated his decision to her. She even squatted down on her heels ... her legs gave way under her. "To Kazán? Why to Kazán?" she whispered, protruding her eyes which were already blind enough without that. She would not have been any more astounded had she learned that her Yásha was going to marry the neighbouring baker's daughter, or depart to America.--"And shalt thou stay long in Kazán?"

"I shall return at the end of a week," replied Arátoff, as he stood half-turned away from his aunt, who was still sitting on the floor.

Platósha tried to remonstrate again, but Arátoff shouted at her in an utterly unexpected and unusual manner:

"I am not a baby," he yelled, turning pale all over, while his lips quivered and his eyes flashed viciously.--"I am six-and-twenty years of age. I know what I am about,--I am free to do as I please!--I will not permit any one.... Give me money for the journey; prepare a trunk with linen and clothing ... and do not bother me! I shall return at the end of a week, Platósha," he added, in a softer tone.

Platósha rose to her feet, grunting, and, making no further opposition, wended her way to her chamber. Yásha had frightened her.--"I have not a head on my shoulders," she remarked to the cook, who was helping her to pack Yásha's things,--"not a head--but a bee-hive ... and what bees are buzzing there I do not know! He is going away to Kazán, my mother, to Ka-zá-án!"

The cook, who had noticed their yard-porter talking for a long time to the policeman about something, wanted to report this circumstance to her mistress, but she did not dare, and merely thought to herself: "To Kazán? If only it isn't some place further away!"--And Platonída Ivánovna was so distracted that she did not even utter her customary prayer.--In such a catastrophe as this even the Lord God could be of no assistance!

That same day Arátoff set off for Kazán.

XII

No sooner had he arrived in that town and engaged a room at the hotel, than he dashed off in search of the widow Milovídoff's house. During the whole course of his journey he had been in a sort of stupor, which, nevertheless, did not in the least prevent his taking all proper measures,--transferring himself at Nizhni Nóvgorod from the railway to the steamer, eating at the stations, and so forth. As before, he was convinced that everything would be cleared up _there_, and accordingly he banished from his thoughts all memories and speculations, contenting himself with one thing,--the mental preparation of the speech in which he was to set forth to Clara Mílitch's family the real reason of his trip.--And now, at last, he had attained to the goal of his yearning, and ordered the servant to announce him. He was admitted--with surprise and alarm--but he was admitted.

The widow Milovídoff's house proved to be in fact just as Kupfer had described it; and the widow herself really did resemble one of Ostróvsky's women of the merchant class, although she was of official rank; her husband had been a Collegiate Assessor.[64] Not without some difficulty did Arátoff, after having preliminarily excused himself for his boldness, and the strangeness of his visit, make the speech which he had prepared, to the effect that he wished to collect all the necessary information concerning the gifted actress who had perished at such an early age; that he was actuated not by idle curiosity, but by a profound sympathy for her talent, of which he was a worshipper (he said exactly that--"a worshipper"); that, in conclusion, it would be a sin to leave the public in ignorance of the loss it had sustained,--and why its hopes had not been realized!

Madame Milovídoff did not interrupt Arátoff; it is hardly probable that she understood very clearly what this strange visitor was saying to her, and she merely swelled a little with pride, and opened her eyes widely at him on perceiving that he had a peaceable aspect, and was decently clad, and was not some sort of swindler ... and was not asking for any money.

"Are you saying that about Kátya?" she asked, as soon as Arátoff ceased speaking.

"Exactly so ... about your daughter."

"And you have come from Moscow for that purpose?"

"Yes, from Moscow."

"Merely for that?"

"Merely for that."

Madame Milovídoff suddenly took fright.--"Why, you--are an author? Do you write in the newspapers?"

"No, I am not an author,--and up to the present time, I have never written for the newspapers."

The widow bent her head. She was perplexed.

"Consequently ... it is for your own pleasure?" she suddenly inquired. Arátoff did not immediately hit upon the proper answer.

"Out of sympathy, out of reverence for talent," he said at last.

The word "reverence" pleased Madame Milovídoff. "Very well!" she ejaculated with a sigh.... "Although I am her mother, and grieved very greatly over her.... It was such a catastrophe, you know!... Still, I must say, that she was always a crazy sort of girl, and ended up in the same way! Such a disgrace.... Judge for yourself: what sort of a thing is that for a mother? We may be thankful that they even buried her in Christian fashion...." Madame Milovídoff crossed herself.--"From the time she was a small child she submitted to no one,--she abandoned the paternal roof ... and finally, it is enough to say that she became an actress! Every one knows that I did not turn her out of the house; for I loved her! For I am her mother, all the same! She did not have to live with strangers,--and beg alms!..." Here the widow melted into tears.--"But if you, sir," she began afresh, wiping her eyes with the ends of her kerchief, "really have that intention, and if you will not concoct anything dishonourable about us,--but if, on the contrary, you wish to show us a favour,--then you had better talk with my other daughter. She will tell you everything better than I can...." "Ánnotchka!" called Madame Milovídoff:--"Ánnotchka, come hither! There's some gentleman or other from Moscow who wants to talk about Kátya!"

There was a crash in the adjoining room, but no one appeared.--"Ánnotchka!" cried the widow again--"Anna Semyónovna! come hither, I tell thee!"

The door opened softly and on the threshold appeared a girl no longer young, of sickly aspect, and homely, but with very gentle and sorrowful eyes. Arátoff rose from his seat to greet her, and introduced himself, at the same time mentioning his friend Kupfer.--"Ah! Feódor Feódoritch!" ejaculated the girl softly, as she softly sank down on a chair.

"Come, now, talk with the gentleman," said Madame Milovídoff, rising ponderously from her seat: "He has taken the trouble to come expressly from Moscow,--he wishes to collect information about Kátya. But you must excuse me, sir," she added, turning to Arátoff.... "I shall go away, to attend to domestic affairs. You can have a good explanation with Ánnotchka--she will tell you about the theatre ... and all that sort of thing. She's my clever, well-educated girl: she speaks French and reads books quite equal to her dead sister. And she educated her sister, I may say.... She was the elder--well, and so she taught her."

Madame Milovídoff withdrew. When Arátoff was left alone with Anna Semyónovna he repeated his speech; but from the first glance he understood that he had to deal with a girl who really was cultured, not with a merchant's daughter,--and so he enlarged somewhat, and employed different expressions;--and toward the end he became agitated, flushed, and felt conscious that his heart was beating hard. Anna Semyónovna listened to him in silence, with her hands folded; the sad smile did not leave her face ... bitter woe which had not ceased to cause pain, was expressed in that smile.

"Did you know my sister?" she asked Arátoff.

"No; properly speaking, I did not know her," he replied. "I saw and heard your sister once ... but all that was needed was to hear and see your sister once, in order to...."

"Do you mean to write her biography?" Anna put another question.

Arátoff had not expected that word; nevertheless, he immediately answered "Why not?" But the chief point was that he wished to acquaint the public....

Anna stopped him with a gesture of her hand.

"To what end? The public caused her much grief without that; and Kátya had only just begun to live. But if you yourself" (Anna looked at him and again smiled that same sad smile, only now it was more cordial ... apparently she was thinking: "Yes, thou dost inspire me with confidence") ... "if you yourself cherish such sympathy for her, then permit me to request that you come to us this evening ... after dinner. I cannot now ... so suddenly.... I will collect my forces.... I will make an effort.... Akh, I loved her too greatly!"

Anna turned away; she was on the point of bursting into sobs.

Arátoff rose alertly from his chair, thanked her for her proposal, said that he would come without fail ... without fail! and went away, bearing in his soul an impression of a quiet voice, of gentle and sorrowful eyes--and burning with the languor of anticipation.

XIII

Arátoff returned to the Milovídoffs' house that same day, and conversed for three whole hours with Anna Semyónovna. Madame Milovídoff went to bed immediately after dinner--at two o'clock--and "rested" until evening tea, at seven o'clock. Arátoff's conversation with Clara's sister was not, properly speaking, a conversation: she did almost the whole of the talking, at first with hesitation, with confusion, but afterward with uncontrollable fervour. She had, evidently, idolised her sister. The confidence wherewith Arátoff had inspired her waxed and strengthened; she was no longer embarrassed; she even fell to weeping softly, twice, in his presence. He seemed to her worthy of her frank revelations and effusions. Nothing of that sort had ever before come into her own dull life!... And he ... he drank in her every word.

This, then, is what he learned ... much of it, as a matter of course, from what she refrained from saying ... and much he filled out for himself.

In her youth Clara had been, without doubt, a disagreeable child; and as a young girl she had been only a little softer: self-willed, hot-tempered, vain, she had not got on particularly well with her father, whom she despised for his drunkenness and incapacity. He was conscious of this and did not pardon it in her. Her musical faculties showed themselves at an early age; her father repressed them, recognising painting as the sole art,--wherein he himself had had so little success, but which had nourished him and his family. Clara had loved her mother ... in a careless way, as she would have loved a nurse; she worshipped her sister, although she squabbled with her, and bit her.... It is true that afterward she had been wont to go down on her knees before her and kiss the bitten places. She was all fire, all passion, and all contradiction: vengeful and kind-hearted, magnanimous and rancorous; "she believed in Fate, and did not believe in God" (these words Anna whispered with terror); she loved everything that was beautiful, and dressed herself at haphazard; she could not endure to have young men pay court to her, but in books she read only those pages where love was the theme; she did not care to please, she did not like petting and never forgot caresses as she never forgot offences; she was afraid of death, and she had killed herself! She had been wont to say sometimes, "I do not meet the sort of man I want--and the others I will not have!"--"Well, and what if you should meet the right sort?" Anna had asked her.--"If I do ... I shall take him."--"But what if he will not give himself?"--"Well, then ... I will make an end of myself. It will mean that I am good for nothing."