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Updated: June 11, 2025
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.
Aratov was a little disconcerted ... then he began to talk ... talked of his mother, of how she had lived with his father and how his father had got to know her. All this he knew very well ... but it was just what he wanted to talk about.
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....
Did you ever see, pray, the like of such in our house? Aratov made no reply, and went back to his study. Platonida Ivanovna looked after him, shook her head, put on her spectacles again, and again took up her comforter ... but more than once sank into thought, and let her knitting-needles fall on her knees.
And he kept thinking, 'It's nice, very nice now, but evil is coming! Beside him moved to and fro a little tiny man, his steward; he kept laughing, bowing, and trying to show Aratov how admirably everything was arranged in his house and his estate. 'This way, pray, this way, pray, he kept repeating, chuckling at every word; 'kindly look how prosperous everything is with you!
On an easy-chair, two paces from him, sat a woman, all in black. Her head was turned away, as in the stereoscope.... It was she! It was Clara! But what a stern, sad face! Aratov slowly sank on his knees. Yes; he was right, then. He felt neither fear nor delight, not even astonishment.... His heart even began to beat more quietly. He had one sense, one feeling, 'Ah! at last! at last!
It ended by Kupfer taking him next day to spend an evening at the princess's. But Aratov did not remain there long. To begin with, he found there some twenty visitors, men and women, sympathetic people possibly, but still strangers, and this oppressed him, even though he had to do very little talking; and that, he feared above all things.
'Wait till to-morrow. 'Has she black eyes? Aratov called after him. 'Black as coal! Kupfer shouted cheerily, as he vanished. Aratov went away to his room, while Platonida Ivanovna stood rooted to the spot, repeating in a whisper, 'Lord, succour us! Succour us, Lord! The big drawing-room in the private house in Ostozhonka was already half full of visitors when Aratov and Kupfer arrived.
In the room it was not dark.... A faint light streamed in from somewhere, and showed every thing in the gloom and stillness. Aratov did not ask himself whence this light came.... He felt one thing only: Clara was there, in that room ... he felt her presence ... he was again and for ever in her power! The cry broke from his lips, 'Clara, are you here?
Poor, poor Katia!... But you will give me back the diary, she added emphatically. 'And if you write anything, be sure to send it me.... Do you hear? The entrance of Madame Milovidov saved Aratov from the necessity of a reply. He had time, however, to murmur, 'You are an angel! Thanks! I will send anything I write.... Madame Milovidov, half awake, did not suspect anything.
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