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Updated: June 11, 2025
So Aratov left Kazan with the photograph in the breast-pocket of his coat. The diary he gave back to Anna; but, unobserved by her, he cut out the page on which were the words underlined. On the way back to Moscow he relapsed again into a state of petrifaction.
She wondered, she brought out, however, a very old book in a warped leather binding, with copper clasps, covered with candle wax, and handed it over to Aratov. He thought: 'That's not right. It ought to be: Greater power hath no man. 'But if she did not lay down her life for me at all? If she made an end of herself simply because life had become a burden to her?
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.
For some time she did not raise her eyes; but suddenly she started, and passed over the rows of spectators a glance intent, but not attentive, absorbed, it seemed, in herself.... 'What tragic eyes she has! observed a man sitting behind Aratov, a grey-headed dandy with the face of a Revel harlot, well known in Moscow as a prying gossip and writer for the papers.
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!
Luckily Kupfer did not turn up at all; he was in fact out of Moscow. Not long before the incident, Aratov had begun to work at painting in connection with his photographic plans; he set to work upon it now with redoubled zest. Only somewhere down below, under the surface of his life, something like a dark and burdensome secret dogged him wherever he went.
'And you were not in love with my sister? Anna asked a second time. Aratov did not at once reply, and he turned aside a little, as though in pain. 'Well, then! I was! I was I'm in love now, he cried in the same tone of despair. Steps were heard in the next room. 'Get up ... get up ... said Anna hurriedly. 'Mamma is coming. Aratov rose. 'And take the diary and the photograph, in God's name!
So passed that whole day till night-time. Aratov went to bed early, without feeling specially sleepy, but he hoped to find repose in bed. The strained condition of his nerves brought about an exhaustion far more unbearable than the bodily fatigue of the journey and the railway. However, exhausted as he was, he could not get to sleep. He tried to read ... but the lines danced before his eyes.
Aratov at once guessed who was his correspondent, and this was just what disturbed him. 'What folly, he said, almost aloud; 'this is too much. Of course I shan't go. He sent, however, for the messenger, and from him learnt nothing but that the note had been handed him by a maid-servant in the street.
A poet who flourished somewhere about 1840, Krasov, wrote a poem on her, ending with the words: 'Unhappy Clara! poor frantic Clara! Unhappy Clara Mowbray! Aratov knew this poem also.... And now these words were incessantly haunting his memory.... 'Unhappy Clara!
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