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Updated: June 20, 2025
"I do not feel quite well," replied Arátoff. "Good-bye.... I will drop in some other time." Kupfer held him back and looked him in the face. "What a nervous fellow thou art, brother! Just look at thyself.... Thou hast turned as white as clay." "I do not feel well," repeated Arátoff, freeing himself from Kupfer's hands and going his way.
Only at that moment did it become clear to him that he had gone to Kupfer with the sole object of talking about Clara.... "About foolish, about unhappy Clara".... But on reaching home he speedily recovered his composure to a certain extent.
One day after dinner at the Aratovs', in discussing the princess and her evenings, he began to persuade Yakov to break for once from his anchorite seclusion, and to allow him, Kupfer, to present him to his friend. Yakov at first would not even hear of it. 'But what do you imagine? Kupfer cried at last: 'what sort of presentation are we talking about?
And it was in the papers too! Aratov's hands had grown suddenly cold, and he felt an inward shiver. 'No, you didn't tell me that, he said at last. 'And you don't know what play it was? Kupfer thought a minute. 'I did hear what the play was ... there is a betrayed girl in it.... Some drama, it must have been.
She decided at last that Yasha's health might suffer from such outings, and was comforted. Kupfer went away directly after dinner, and did not show himself again for a whole week.
And lo! one morning, Kupfer again presented himself to him, this time with a somewhat embarrassed visage. "I know," he began, with a forced laugh, "that thy visit that evening was not to thy taste; but I hope that thou wilt consent to my proposal nevertheless ... and wilt not refuse my request." "What art thou talking about?" inquired Arátoff.
He was a black-haired, red-cheeked young man, very jovial, talkative, and devoted to the feminine society Aratov so assiduously avoided. It is true Kupfer both lunched and dined with him pretty often, and even, being a man of small means, used to borrow trifling sums of him; but this was not what induced the free and easy German to frequent the humble little house in Shabolovka so diligently.
'Unhappy Clara! poor frantic Clara! was echoing in his soul. 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.
He kept constantly seeing her eyes, now narrowed, now widely opened, with their importunate gaze riveted directly on him, and those impassive features with their imperious expression. On the following morning he again kept expecting Kupfer, for some reason or other; he came near writing him a letter ... however, he did nothing ... but spent most of his time pacing to and fro in his study.
'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.
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