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Updated: June 11, 2025
But in response to his aunt's questions he only smiled, and with such an ecstatic face that she was more alarmed than ever, and kept crossing first herself and then him.... Aratov, at last, put aside her hand, and, still with the same ecstatic expression of face, said: 'Why, Platosha, what is the matter with you? 'What is the matter with you, Yasha darling? 'With me?
'I suppose they're all Tartars living there? 'Not only Tartars. 'And did you get a Kazan dressing-gown while you were there? 'No, I didn't. With that the conversation ended. But as soon as Aratov found himself alone in his own room, he quickly felt as though something were enfolding him about, as though he were once more in the power, yes, in the power of another life, another being.
When at last a stray musician with a worn face, long hair, and an eyeglass stuck into his contorted eyebrow sat down to the grand piano and flinging his hands with a sweep on the keys and his foot on the pedal, began to attack a fantasia of Liszt on a Wagner motive, Aratov could not stand it, and stole off, bearing away in his heart a vague, painful impression; across which, however, flitted something incomprehensible to him, but grave and even disquieting.
'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.
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.
To no one in the whole world I have given my heart! she mastered her powers, gained fire; and when she came to the words, 'My whole life has but been a pledge of a meeting true with thee, her hitherto thick voice rang out boldly and enthusiastically, while her eyes just as boldly and directly fastened upon Aratov.
She held a volume of Pushkin in her hand; she did not, however, glance at it once during her recitation.... She was obviously nervous, the little book shook slightly in her fingers. Aratov observed also the expression of weariness which now overspread all her stern features.
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?
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.
And Clara's head slowly turned, her closed lids opened, and her dark eyes fastened upon Aratov. He fell back a little, and uttered a single, long-drawn-out, trembling 'Ah! Clara gazed fixedly at him ... but her eyes, her features, retained their former mournfully stern, almost displeased expression.
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