So, imperceptibly, with a few (to use the doctors’ expression) ‘symptoms of relapse,’ manifested, for instance, in his once almost deciding to call upon the princess, two months passed … then three months … and Aratov was the old Aratov again. Only somewhere down below, under the surface of his life, something like a dark and burdensome secret dogged him wherever he went. So a great fish just caught on the hook, but not yet drawn up, will swim at the bottom of a deep stream under the very boat where the angler sits with a stout rod in his hand.
And one day, skimming through a not quite new number of the Moscow
Gazette, Aratov lighted upon the following paragraph:
‘With the greatest regret,’ wrote some local contributor from Kazan, ‘we must add to our dramatic record the news of the sudden death of our gifted actress Clara Militch, who had succeeded during the brief period of her engagement in becoming a favourite of our discriminating public. Our regret is the more poignant from the fact that Miss Militch by her own act cut short her young life, so full of promise, by means of poison. And this dreadful deed was the more awful through the talented actress taking the fatal drug in the theatre itself. She had scarcely been taken home when to the universal grief, she expired. There is a rumour in the town that an unfortunate love affair drove her to this terrible act.’
Aratov slowly laid the paper on the table. In outward appearance he remained perfectly calm … but at once something seemed to strike him a blow in the chest and the head — and slowly the shock passed on through all his limbs. He got up, stood still on the spot, and sat down again, again read through the paragraph. Then he got up again, lay down on the bed, and clasping his hands behind, stared a long while at the wall, as though dazed. By degrees the wall seemed to fade away … vanished … and he saw facing him the boulevard under the grey sky, and her in her black cape … then her on the platform … saw himself even close by her. That something which had given him such a violent blow in the chest at the first instant, began mounting now … mounting into his throat…. He tried to clear his throat; tried to call some one — but his voice failed him — and, to his own astonishment, tears rushed in torrents from his eyes … what called forth these tears? Pity? Remorse? Or was it simply his nerves could not stand the sudden shock?
Why, she was nothing to him? was she?
‘But, perhaps, it’s not true after all,’ the thought came as a sudden relief to him. ‘I must find out! But from whom? From the princess? No, from Kupfer … from Kupfer? But they say he’s not in Moscow — no matter, I must try him first!’
With these reflections in his head, Aratov dressed himself in haste, called a cab and drove to Kupfer’s.
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!
XI
It began well; he soon fell asleep, and when his aunt went into him on tip - toe to make the sign of the cross three times over him in his sleep — she did so every night — he lay breathing as quietly as a child. But before dawn he had a dream.
He dreamed he was on a bare steppe, strewn with big stones, under a lowering sky. Among the stones curved a little path; he walked along it.
Suddenly there rose up in front of him something of the nature of a thin cloud. He looked steadily at it; the cloud turned into a woman in a white gown with a bright sash round her waist. She was hurrying away from him. He saw neither her face nor her hair … they were covered by a long veil. But he had an intense desire to overtake her, and to look into her face. Only, however much he hastened, she went more quickly than he.
On the path lay a broad flat stone, like a tombstone. It blocked up the way. The woman stopped. Aratov ran up to her; but yet he could not see her eyes … they were shut. Her face was white, white as snow; her hands hung lifeless. She was like a statue.
Slowly, without bending a single limb, she fell backwards, and sank down upon the tombstone…. And then Aratov lay down beside her, stretched out
straight like a figure on a monument, his hands folded like a dead man’s.
But now the woman suddenly rose, and went away. Aratov tried to get up too … but he could neither stir nor unclasp his hands, and could only gaze after her in despair.
Then the woman suddenly turned round, and he saw bright living eyes, in a living but unknown face. She laughed, she waved her hand to him … and still he could not move.
She laughed once more, and quickly retreated, merrily nodding her head, on which there was a crimson wreath of tiny roses.
Aratov tried to cry out, tried to throw off this awful nightmare….
Suddenly all was darkness around … and the woman came back to him. But this was not the unknown statue … it was Clara. She stood before him, crossed her arms, and sternly and intently looked at him. Her lips were tightly pressed together, but Aratov fancied he heard the words, ‘If you want to know what I am, come over here!’
‘Where?’ he asked.
‘Here!’ he heard the wailing answer. ‘Here!’
Aratov woke up.
He sat up in bed, lighted the candle that stood on the little table by his bedside — but did not get up — and sat a long while, chill all over, slowly looking about him. It seemed to him as if something had happened to him since he went to bed; that something had taken possession of him … something was in control of him. ‘But is it possible?’ he murmured unconsciously. ‘Does such a power really exist?’
Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) Page 184
