01 - Dream Tales and Prose Poems by Ivan Turgenev

Step into the mesmerizing world crafted by world-renowned Russian author Ivan Turgenev, as he presents a captivating collection of stories that delve into dreams, lost love, fleeting specters, and ominous premonitions. This anthology also features a selection of sketches and prose poems, all penned in Turgenevs deceptively simple but profoundly articulate style. These aren‚t your typical tales of romance and nature; instead, Turgenev intertwines a thread of cynicism and melancholy that enriches his poetic language, inviting readers to explore the deeper complexities of the human experience. (Summary by Ben Tucker)

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Section one of dream Tales and Prose Poems by Ivan Turkenev.
This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in
the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please
visit LibriVox dot org. Read by Ben Tucker. Dream Tales
and Prose Poems by Ivan Turkenev Clara Militch, Chapter one.

(00:25):
In the spring of eighteen seventy eight, there was living
in Moscow in a small wooden house in Shabalovka, a
young man of five and twenty called Yakov Aratov. With
him lived his father's sister, an elderly maiden lady over fifty,
Platinita Ivanovna. She took charge of his house and looked
after his household expenditure, a task for which Aratov was

(00:46):
utterly unfit. Other relations he had none. A few years previously,
his father, a provincial gentleman of small property, had moved
to Moscow together with him in Platinita Ivanovna, whom he always, however,
called Platotia. Her nephew too, used the same name on
leaving the country, place where they had always lived up

(01:07):
till then. The elder Aratov settled in the old capital
with the object of putting his son to the university
for which he had himself prepared him. He bought for
a trifle a little house in one of the outlying streets,
and established himself in it with all his books and
scientific odds and ends. And of books and odds and
ends he had many, for he was a man of

(01:29):
some considerable learning, and out and out eccentric. As his
neighbors said of him, he positively passed among them for
a sorcerer. He had even been given the title of insectivist.
He studied chemistry, mineralogy, entomology, botany, and medicine. He doctored
patience gratis with herbs and metallic powders of his own invention,

(01:51):
after the method of Paracelsus. These same powders were the
means of his bringing to the grave his pretty, young,
too delicate wife, whom he passionately, and by whom he
had an only son. With the same powders. He fairly
ruined his son's health, too, in the hope and intention
of strengthening it, as he detected anemia in a tendency

(02:11):
to consumption. In his constitution, inherited from his mother the
name of sorcerer had been given him, partly because he
regarded himself as a descendant, not in the direct line,
of course, of the Great Bruce, in honor of whom
he had called his son Yakov, the Russian form of James.
He was what is called a most good natured man,
but of melancholy temperament, pottering and timid, with a bent

(02:35):
for everything mysterious in a cult. A half whispered ah
was his habitual exclamation. He even died with this exclamation
on his lips two years after his removal to Moscow.
His son Yakov was in appearance unlike his father, who
had been plain, clumsy and awkward. He took more after
his mother. He had the same delicate, pretty features, the

(02:56):
same soft ash colored hair, the same little aquiline nose,
the same pouting, childish lips in great greenish gray, languishing
eyes with soft eyelashes. But in character he was like
his father, and the face so unlike the father's face,
wore the father's expression, and he had the triangular shaped
hands and hollow chest of the old Aretov, who ought, however,

(03:19):
hardly to be called old, since he never reached his
fiftieth year before his death, Yakov had already entered the
university in the faculty of Physics and Mathematics. He did not, however,
complete his course, not through laziness, but because, according to
his notions, you could learn no more in the university
than you could studying alone at home. And he did
not go in for a diploma because he had no

(03:40):
idea of entering the government service. He was shy with
his fellow students, made friends with scarcely any one, especially,
held a loof from women, and lived in great solitude
buried in books. He held aloof from women, though he
had a heart of the tenderest and was fascinated by beauty.
He had even obtained a somptuous English keepsake, and oh shame,

(04:03):
gloated adoringly over its elegantly engraved representations of the various
ravishing Gulnaras and Medora's. But his innate modesty always kept
him in check. In the house, he used to work
in what had been his father's study. It was also
his bedroom, and his bed was the very one in
which his father had breathed his last. The mainstay of

(04:24):
his whole existence, his unfailing friend and companion was his
aunt Platosha, with whom he exchanged barely a dozen words
in the day, but without whom he could not stir,
hand or foot. She was a long faced, long toothed
creature with pale eyes and a pale face, with an
invariable expression half of dejection, half of anxious dismay forever

(04:46):
Garbed in a gray dress and a gray shawl, she
wandered about the house like a spirit with noiseless steps, sighed,
murmured prayers, especially one favorite one consisting of three words only,
Lord Succorus, and looked after the house with much good sense,
taking care of every halfpenny and buying everything herself. Her
nephew she adored. She was in a perpetual fidget over

(05:09):
his health, afraid of everything, not for herself but for him,
and directly she fancied the slightest thing wrong. She would
steal in softly and set a cup of herb tea
on his writing table, or stroke him on the spine
with her hands soft as wadding. Yakov was not annoyed
by these attentions, though the herb tea he left untouched.
He merely nodded his head approvingly. However, his health was

(05:31):
really nothing to boast of. He was very impressionable, nervous, fanciful,
suffered from palpitations of the heart, and sometimes from asthma.
Like his father, he believed that there art in nature
and in the soul of man, mysteries which may sometimes
be divined, but to which one can never penetrate. He
believed in the existence of certain powers and influences, sometimes beneficient,

(05:53):
but more often malignant. And he believed too in science
and its dignity and importance. Of late, he had taken
a great fancy to photography. The smell of the chemicals
used in this pursuit was a source of great uneasiness
to his old aunt, not on her own account again,
but on Yasha's, on account of his chest. But for

(06:14):
all the softness of his temper, there was not a
little obstinacy in his composition, and he persisted in his
favorite pursuit. Platosha gave in and only sighed more than ever,
and murmured Lord Sucreus whenever she saw his fingers stained
with iodine. Yakov, as we have already related, had held
aloof from his fellow students, with one of them. He had, however,

(06:35):
become fairly intimate and saw him frequently, even after the
fellow student had left the university and entered the service
in a position involving little responsibility. He had, in his
own words, got on to the building of the Church
of Our Savior, though of course he knew nothing whatever
of architecture. Strange to say this one solitary friend of
Aratov's by name Kupfer, a German so far russianized that

(07:00):
he did not know one word of German and even
fell foul of the Germans. This friend had apparently nothing
in common with him. He was a black haired, red
cheeked young man, very jovial, talkative, and devoted to the
feminine society Aretov so assiduously avoided. It is true Kupfer
both lunched and dined with him pretty often, and, even

(07:21):
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. The spiritual purity, the idealism of
Yakov pleased him, possibly as a contrast to what he
was seeing and meeting every day, or possibly this very

(07:41):
attachment to the youthful idealist betrayed him of German blood.
After all, Yakov liked Kupfer's simple hearted frankness, and besides
that his accounts of the theater's concerts and balls, where
he was always in attendants of the unknown world altogether
into which Yakov could not make up his mind to enter,
secretly interested and even excited the young hermit, without however,

(08:02):
arousing any desire to learn. All this by his own experience,
and Platosha made coope for a welcome. It is true
she thought him at times excessively unceremonious, but instinctively perceiving
and realizing that he was sincerely attached to her precious Yasha.
She not only put up with the noisy guest, but
felt kindly towards him. Chapter two. At the time with

(08:24):
which our stories concerned, there was in Moscow a certain widow,
a Georgian princess, a person of somewhat dubious, almost suspicious character.
She was close upon forty. In her youth, she had
probably bloomed with that peculiar oriental beauty which fades so
quickly now. She powdered, rouged and dyed her hair yellow
Various reports, not altogether favorable, not altogether definite, were in

(08:48):
circulation about her. Her husband no one had known, and
she had never stayed long in any one town. She
had no children, no property, yet she kept open house
in debt or otherwise. She had a salon, as it
is called, and received a rather mixed society, for the
most part young men. Everything in her house, from her
own dress, furniture and table, down to her carriage and

(09:10):
her servants bore the stamp of something shoddy, artificial, temporary.
But the princess herself, as well as her guests, apparently
desired nothing better. The princess was reputed a devotee of
music and literature, a patroness of artists and men of talent,
and she really was interested in all these subjects, even
to the point of enthusiasm, and an enthusiasm not altogether affected.

(09:34):
There was an unmistakable fiber of artistic feeling in her. Moreover,
she was very approachable, genial, free from presumption or pretentiousness,
and though many people did not suspect it, she was
fundamentally good natured, soft hearted, and kindly disposed, qualities rare
and the more precious for their rarity precisely in persons
of her sort a fool of a woman, A wit

(09:57):
said of her, But she'll get into heaven a doubt
of it, because she forgives everything, and everything will be
forgiven her. It was said of her, too, that when
she disappeared from a town, she always left as many
creditors behind as persons she had befriended. A soft heart
readily turned in any direction, Kupefer, as might have been anticipated,
found his way into her house and was soon on

(10:18):
an intimate, evil tongue said, a too intimate footing with her.
He himself always spoke of her, not only affectionately, but
with respect. He called her a heart of gold, say
what you like, and firmly believed both in her love
for art and her comprehension of art. One day, after
dinner at the Aratovs, in discussing the princess and her evenings,

(10:40):
he began to persuade Yakov to break for once from
his anchorite seclusion and to allow him Koupefer 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?
Simply I take you just as you are sitting now,
in your every day coat, and go with you to

(11:00):
her for an evening. No sort of etiquette is necessary here,
my dear boy. You're learned, you know, and fond of
literature and music. There actually was an Aretov's study, a
piano on which he sometimes struck minor chords. And in
her house there's enough and to spare of all those goods.
And you'll meet there sympathetic people, no nonsense about them.

(11:20):
And after all, you really can't at your age with
your looks. Aretov dropped his eyes and waved his hand deprecatingly. Yes, yes,
with your looks, you really can't keep aloof from society,
from the world like this. Why I'm not going to
take you to see generals. Indeed, I know no generals myself.
Don't be obstinate, dear boy. Morality is an excellent thing,

(11:41):
most laudable. But why fail a prey to asceticism. You're
not going in for becoming a monk. Aretov was, however,
still refractory, but Kupfer found an unexpected ally in Platinita Avanovna,
though she had no clear idea what was meant by
the word asceticism. She too was of opinion that it
would be no harm for dear Yasha to take a
little recreation, to see people and to show himself. Especially,

(12:06):
she added, as I've perfect confidence in Fyodor Fiedoritch. He'll
take you to no bad place. I'll bring him back
in all his maiden innocence, shouted Kupfer, at which Platinida Ivanovna,
in spite of her confidence, cast uneasy glances upon him.
Aretov blushed up to his ears, but ceased to make objections.
It ended by Kupfer taking him next day to spend

(12:28):
an evening at the princess's, But Aritov 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. Secondly,
he did not like their hostess, though she received him
very graciously and simply, everything about her was distasteful to him.

(12:52):
Her painted face, her frizzed curls, her thickly sugary voice,
her shrill giggle, her way of rolling her eyes, and
looking up her excessively low necked dress and those fat,
glossy fingers with their multitude of rings. Hiding himself away
in a corner, he took from time to time a
rapid survey of the faces of all the guests, without
even distinguishing them, and then stared obstinately at his own feet,

(13:16):
when at last, a stray musician with a worn face,
long hair, and an eye glass 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 list on
a Wagner motive. Aretov could not stand it and stole off,
bearing away in his heart a vague, painful impression a cross, which, however,

(13:38):
flitted something incomprehensible to him, but grave and even disquieting.
Chapter three, Coupev came next day to dinner. He did
not begin, however, expatiating on the preceding evening. He did
not even reproach Aretov for his hasty retreat, and only
regretted that he had not stayed to supper when there
had been Champagne of the Novgorod brand we may remain

(14:00):
in parentheses. Kupfer probably realized that it had been a
mistake on his part to disturb his friend, and that
Aratov really was a man not suited to that circle
and way of life. On his side too, Aretov said
nothing of the princess nor of the previous evening. Platinita
Ivanovna did not know whether to rejoice at the failure
of this first experiment or to regret it. She decided

(14:22):
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
it was not that he resented the failure of his suggestion.
The good fellow was incapable of that. But he had
obviously found some interest which was absorbing all his time,
all his thoughts. For later on too, He rarely appeared

(14:43):
at the Aratovs, had an absorbed look, spoke little, and
quickly vanished. Aretov went on living as before, but a
sort of, if one may so express it, little hook
was pricking at his soul. He was continually haunted by
some reminiscence he could not quite tell what it was
him self. And this reminiscence was connected with the evening
he had spent at the princesses, for all that he

(15:05):
had not the slightest inclination to return there again, And
the world, a part of which he had looked upon
at her house, repelled him more than ever. So passed
six weeks, and behold, one morning, Cook Firs stood before
him once more, this time with a somewhat embarrassed countenance.
I know, he began with a constrained smile, that your
visit this time was not much to your taste. But

(15:26):
I hope for all that you'll agree to my proposal,
that you won't refuse me my request. What is it,
inquired Aratov? Well do you see, pursued Kupfort getting more
and more heated. There is a society here of amateurs,
artistic people who from time to time get up readings, concerts,
and even theatrical performances for some charitable object, And the

(15:49):
princess has a hand in it, interposed Aretov. The princess
has a hand in all good deeds. But that's not
the point. We have arranged a literary and musical matinee,
and at this matinee, you may hear a girl, an
extraordinary girl. We cannot make out quite yet whether she
is to be a rachel or a viadot, for she
sings exquisitely and recites and plays a talent of the

(16:13):
very first rank. My dear boy, I'm not exaggerating. Well, then,
won't you take a ticket five roubles for a seat
in the front row? And where has this marvelous girl
sprung from? Asked Aritov. Kupfer grinned that I really can't say.
Of late, she's found a home with the Princess. The princess,
you know, is a protector of every one of that sort.

(16:34):
But you saw her most likely that evening. Aretov gave
a faint inward start, but he said nothing. She has
even played somewhere in the provinces. Kupfer continued, and altogether
she's created for the theater. There you'll see for yourself.
What's her name, asked Aretov. Clara Clara, Aretov interrupted a

(16:56):
second time. Impossible, Why impossible, Clara Clara Militch. It's not
her real name, but that's what she's called. She's going
to sing a song of Glinka's and of Tchaikovsky's, and
then she'll recite the letter from yevgeny or Niejin. Well,
will you take a ticket? And when will it be? Tomorrow?

(17:16):
Tomorrow at half past one in a private drawing room
in Ostazonka. I will come for you a five ruble
ticket here it is no, that's a three rouble one here,
and here's the program. I'm one of the stewards. Aritov
sank into thought. Platinida Ivanovna came in at that instant, and,
glancing at his face, was in a flutter of agitation.

(17:37):
At once Yasha, she cried, what's the matter with you?
Why are you so upset? Fyodor Fedorovitch? What is it
you've been telling him? Aretov did not let his friend
answer his aunt's question, but, hurriedly, snatching the ticket held
out to him, told Platinida Ivanovna to give coup for
five rubles. At once. She blinked in amazement. However, she

(17:58):
handed coop for the money in silence. Her darling Yasha
had ejaculated his commands in a very imperative manner. I
tell you a wonder of wonders, cried coote Fer, hurrying
to the door. Wait till tomorrow, has she black eyes.
Aretov called after him black as coal. Kopefor shouted cheerily

(18:18):
as he vanished. Aratov went away to his room, while
Platinida Ivanovna stood rooted to the spot, repeating in a whisper, Lord, Succorus, Succorus, Lord.
Chapter four. The big drawing room in the private house
in Ostoshonka was already half full of visitors when Aratov
and Kupfer arrived. Dramatic performances had sometimes been given in

(18:39):
this drawing room, but on this occasion there was no
scenery nor curtain visible. The organizers of the matinee had
confined themselves to fixing up a platform at one end,
putting it upon a piano, a couple of reading desks,
a few chairs, a table with a bottle of water
and a glass on it, and hanging red cloth over
the door that led to the room allotted to the performers.

(19:00):
In the first row was already sitting the princess in
a bright green dress. Aratov placed himself at some distance
from her, after exchanging the barest of greetings with her.
The public was, as they say, of mixed materials. For
the most part, young men from educational institutions cope for
as one of the stewards, with a white ribbon on
the cuff of his coat, fussed and bustled about busily.

(19:22):
The princess was obviously excited, looked about her, shot smiles
in all directions, talked with those next to her. None
but men were sitting near her. The first to appear
on the platform was a flute player of consumptive appearance,
who most conscientiously dribbled away, what am I saying piped?
I mean a piece also of consumptive tendency. Two persons

(19:42):
shouted bravo. Then a stout gentleman in spectacles of an
exceedingly solid, even surly aspect, read in a bass voice
a sketch of chetrin. The sketch was applauded, not the reader.
Then the pianist, whom Aretov had seen before, came forward
and strummed the same fantasia of litz. The pianists gained
an encore. He bowed with one hand on the back

(20:03):
of the chair, and after each bow he shook back
his hair precisely lightless. At last, after a rather long interval,
the red cloth over the door on to the platform
stirred and opened wide. And Clara Militch appeared. The room
resounded with applause. With hesitating steps, she moved forward on
the platform, stopped, and stood motionless, clasping her large, handsome,

(20:24):
ungloved hands in front of her, without a curtsey, a
bend of the head, or a smile. She was a
girl of nineteen tall, rather broad shouldered, but well built.
A dark face of a half Jewish half Gipsy type,
small black eyes under a thick brows almost meeting in
the middle, a straight, slightly turned up nose, delicate lips
with a beautiful but decided curve, an immense mass of

(20:47):
black hair, heavy even in appearance, A low brow still
as marble, tiny ears, the whole face dreamy, almost sullen.
A nature passionate, wilful, hardly, good tempered, hardly, very clever,
but gifted was expressed in every feature. For some time
she did not raise her eyes, but suddenly she started
and passed over the rows of spectators at a glance,

(21:09):
intent but not attentive. Absorbed, it seemed in herself, what
tragic eye she has observed? A man sitting behind Aretov,
a gray headed dandy with the face of a revel Harlot,
well known in Moscow as a prying gossip and writer
for the papers. The Dandy was an idiot and meant
to say something idiotic, but he spoke the truth. Aretov,

(21:30):
who from the very moment of Clara's entrance had never
taken his eyes off her, only at that instant recollected
that he really had seen her at the Princess's and
not only that he had seen her, but that he
had even noticed that she had several times, with a
peculiar insistency, gazed at him with her dark intent eyes,
And now too, or was it his fancy? On seeing

(21:51):
him in the front row, she seemed delighted, seemed to flush,
and again gazed intently at him. Then, without turning round,
she stepped away a couple of paces in the direction
of the piano at which her accompaniest, a long haired foreigner,
was sitting. She had to render Glink's ballad as soon
as I knew you. She began at once to sing,
without changing the attitude of her hands or glancing at

(22:13):
the music. Her voice was soft and resonant, a contralto.
She uttered the words distinctly and with emphasis, and sang
monotonously with little light and shade, but with intense expression.
The girl sings with conviction, said the same dandy sitting
behind Aritov, and again he spoke the truth. Shouts of
bis bravo resounded over the room, but she flung a

(22:35):
rapid glance on Aratov, who neither shouted nor clapped. He
did not particularly care for her singing, gave a slight
bow and walked out without taking the hooked arm proffered
her by the long haired pianist. She was called back
not very soon. She reappeared with the same hesitating steps,
approached the piano and whispered a couple of words to
the accompanist, who picked out and put before him. Another

(22:57):
piece of music began Schikovsky's song No only he who
knows the thirst to see this song she sang differently
from the first, in a low voice, as though she
were tired, and only at the line next to last,
he knows what I have suffered broke from her in
a ringing, passionate cry. The last line, and how I
suffer She almost whispered with a mournful prolongation of the

(23:20):
last word. This song produced less impression on the audience
than the glink of ballad. There was much applause. However,
Coupefor was particularly conspicuous, folding his hands in a peculiar
way in the shape of a barrel. At each clap
he produced an extraordinary resounding report. The princess handed him
a large, straggling nosegay for him to take it to
the singer, but she, seeming not to observe Coopfer's bowing

(23:44):
figure an outstretched hand with the nosegay, turned and went
away again without waiting for the pianist, who skipped forward
to escort her more hurriedly than before, and when he
found himself so unjustifiably deserted, tossed his hair, as certainly
Liszt himself had never tossed his. The whole time of
the singing, Aratov had been watching Clara's face. It seemed

(24:04):
to him that her eyes, through the drooping eyelashes, were
again turned upon him, But he was especially struck by
the immobility of face, the forehead, the eyebrows, and only
at her outburst of passion he caught through the hardly
parted lips the warm gleam of a close row of
white teeth. Coupfer came up to him. Well, my dear boy,
what do you think of her, he asked, beaming all

(24:26):
over with satisfaction. It's a fine voice, replied Aratov, But
she doesn't know how to sing yet. She's no real
musical knowledge. Why he said this, and what conception he
had himself of musical knowledge, The Lord only knows. Coupfer
was surprised. No musical knowledge, he repeated slowly, Well as

(24:48):
to that, she can acquire that, But what soul? Wait
a bit, though you shall hear her in Tachiana's letter.
He hurried away from Aratov, while the latter said to himself,
soul with that immovable face, He thought that she moved
and held herself like one hypnotized, like a somnambulist, And
at the same time she was unmistakably yes, unmistakably looking

(25:12):
at him. Meanwhile, the matinee went on the fat Man
and spectacles appeared again. In spite of his serious exterior,
he fancied himself a comic actor and recited a scene
from Goggel, this time without eliciting a single token of approbation.
There was another glimpse of the flute player, another thunderclap
from the pianist, a boy of twelve, frizzed and palmated,

(25:33):
but with tear stains on his cheeks, thrumbed some variations
on a fiddle. What seemed strange was that in the
intervals of the reading and music from the performer's room,
sounds were heard from time to time of a French horn,
and yet this instrument never was brought into requisition. In
the sequel, it appeared that the amateur who had been
invited to perform on it had lost courage at the

(25:53):
moment of facing the public. At last, Carol Militch made
her appearance again. She held a volume of Pushkin her hand.
She did not, however, glance at at 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. The first line, I

(26:15):
write to you what more, she uttered exceedingly, simply, almost naively,
and with a naive, genuine helpless gesture, held both hands
out before her. Then she began to hurry a little,
But from the beginning of the lines another no, to
no one in the whole world. I have given my heart,
she mastered, her powers, gained fire, and when she came

(26:35):
to the words, my whole life has been but 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 went on
the same fervor, and only towards the end her voice
dropped again, and in it and in her face, the
same weariness was reflected again. The last four lines she

(26:58):
completely murd as it is called. The volume of pushkin
suddenly slid out of her hand, and she hastily withdrew.
The audience fell to applauding, desperately uncooring. One little Russian
divinity student bellowed in so deep a basse milch militch
that his neighbors, civilly and sympathetically advised him to take
care of his voice. It would be the making of

(27:20):
a proto deacon. But Aretov at once rose and made
for the door. Kopfer overtook him. I say, where are
you off to? He called? Would you like me to
present you to Clara? No thanks, Aratov returned hurriedly, and
he went homewards almost at a run. Chapter five, he

(27:40):
was agitated by strange sensations incomprehensible to himself. In reality,
Clara's recitation, too, had not been quite to his taste,
though he could not quite tell why it disturbed him.
This recitation it struck him as crude and inharmonious. It
was as though it broke something within him, forced itself
with a certain violence upon him. And those fixed, insistent,

(28:03):
almost importunate looks, what were they for? What did they mean?
Aretov's modesty did not, for one instant admit of the
idea that he might have made an impression on this
strange girl, that he might have inspired in her a
sentiment akin to love, to passion. And indeed he himself
had formed a totally different conception of the still unknown woman,

(28:26):
the girl to whom he was to give himself holy,
who would love him, be his bride, his wife. He
seldom dwelt on this dream and spirit is in body
he was virginal. But the pure image that arose at
such times in his fancy was inspired by a very
different figure, the figure of his dead mother, whom he
scarcely remembered, but whose portrait he treasured as a sacred relic.

(28:48):
The portrait was a water color, painted rather unskillfully by
a lady who had been a neighbor of hers. But
the likeness, as every one declared, was a striking one.
Just such a tender profile, just such kind clear eyes
and silken hair, just such a smile and pure expression,
was the woman the girl to have for whom as

(29:10):
yet he scarcely dared to hope. But this swarthy, dark
skinned creature with coarse hair, dark eyebrows, and a tiny
mustache on her upper lip, she was certainly a wicked,
giddy gipsy. Aretov could not imagine a harsher appellation. What
was she to him? And yet Aretov could not succeed
in getting out of his head this dark skinned gipsy,

(29:31):
whose singing and reading in very appearance were displeasing to him.
He was puzzled. He was angry with himself. Not long
before he had read Sir Walter Scott's novel Saint Ronan's Well.
There was a complete edition of Sir Walter Scott's works
in the library of his father, who had regarded the
English novelist with esteem as a serious, almost scientific writer.

(29:51):
The heroine of that novel is called Clara Mowbray, a
poet who flourished somewhere about eighteen forty. Crossoff wrote a
poem on her, ending with the words unhappy Clara, Poor
frantic Clara. Unhappy Clara Mowbray. Aretov knew this poem also,
and now these words were incessantly haunting his memory. Unhappy Clara,

(30:12):
poor frantic Clara. This was why he had been so
surprised when Coopford told him the name of Clara Militch.
Platosha herself noticed not a change exactly in Yasha's temper,
no change in reality took place in it, but something
unsatisfactory in his looks and in his words. She cautiously
questioned him about the literary matinee at which he had

(30:33):
been present, muttered, sighed, looked at him from in front,
from the side, from behind, and suddenly, clapping her hands
on her thighs, she exclaimed to be sure, Yasha, I
see what it is? Why what? Aretov queried? You've met
for certain at that matinee, one of those long tailed creatures.
This was how Platinida Ivanovna always spoke of all fashionably

(30:56):
dressed ladies of the period with a pretty dolly face,
and she goes prinking this way and pluming that way.
Platinida presented these fancied maneuvers and mimicry and making saucers
like this with her eyes, and she drew big round
circles in the air with her forefinger. You're not used
to that sort of thing, so you fancied, But that

(31:17):
means nothing, Yasha nahing at all. Drink a cup of
posset at night. It'll pass off, Lord Succorus. Platosha ceased
speaking and left the room. She had hardly ever uttered
such a long and animated speech in her life, while
Iritov thought, and he's right, I dare say I'm not
used to it, that's all. It actually was the first

(31:37):
time his attention had ever happened to be drawn to
a person of the female sex. At least he had
never noticed it before. I mustn't give way to it.
And he set to work on his books, and at
night drank some lime flower tea and positively slept well
that night and had no dreams. The next morning, he
took up his photography again as though nothing had happened,

(31:59):
but towards evening, his spiritual repose was again disturbed. Chapter six,
And this is what happened. A messenger brought him a
note written in a large, irregular woman's hand and containing
the following lines. If you guess who it is writes
to you, and if it is not a bore to you,
come tomorrow after dinner to the Tabirsky Boulevard about five o'clock.

(32:22):
And wait. You shall not be kept long, but it
is very important do come. There was no signature. Aretov
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

(32:44):
the note had been handed him by a maid servant
in the street, Dismissing him. Aretov read the letter through
and flung it on the ground, but after a little
while he picked it up and read it again a
second time. He cried folly. He did, not, however, throw
the note on the floor again, but put it in
a drawer. Aretov took up his ordinary occupations, first one

(33:06):
and then another, but nothing he did was successful or satisfactory.
He suddenly realized that he was eagerly expecting Coopfer. Did
he want to question him, or perhaps even to confide
in him, But Coupefer did not make his appearance. Then
Aretov took down Pushkin, read Tatiana's letter and convinced himself
again that the gipsy girl had not in the least

(33:27):
understood the real force of the letter, and that donkey
Cooper shouts Rachel verdot. Then he went on to his piano,
as it seemed, unconsciously opened it and tried to pick
out by ear the melody of Tchaikovsky's song, But he
slammed it to again directly in vexation, and went up
to his aunt, to her special room, which was forever baking.
Haunt smelled of mint, sage and other medicinal herbs, and

(33:50):
was littered up with such a multitude of rugs, side tables, stools, cushions,
and padded furniture of all sorts that any one unused
to it would have found it difficult to turn round
and opressive to breathe in it. Platinita Ivanovna was sitting
at the window, her knitting in her hands. She was
knitting her darling Yasha, a comforter the thirty eighth. She

(34:10):
had made him in the course of his life, and
was much astonished to see him. Aretov rarely went up
to see her, and if he wanted anything, used always
to call in his delicate voice from his study. Aunt Platosha, however,
she made him sit down and sat all alert in
expectation of his first words, watching him through her spectacles
with one eye over them with the other. She did

(34:32):
not inquire after his health, nor offer him tea, as
she saw he had not come for that. Aretov 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. Unlucky for him, Platosha did

(34:54):
not know how to keep up a conversation at all.
She gave him very brief replies, as though she suspected
that was not what Yasha had come for. Eh, she repeated, hurriedly,
almost irritably, plying her knitting needles. We all know your
mother was a darling, a darling that she was, and
your father loved her as a husband should, truly and faithfully,

(35:14):
even in her grave, and he never loved any other woman,
she added, raising her voice and taking off her spectacles.
And was she of a retiring disposition? Aretov inquired, after
a short silence, retiring to be sure she was as
a woman should be. Bold ones have sprung up nowadays,
And were there no bold ones in your time? There

(35:36):
were in our time too? To be sure there were?
But who were they? A pack of strumpets, shameless hussies,
draggle tails, for ever gadding about after no good. What
do they care? It's little they take to heart. If
some poor fool comes in their way, they pounce on him,
But sensible folk look down on them. Did you ever
see pray the like of such in our house? Arotov
made no reply and went back to his study. Platinita

(35:59):
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. Aratov, up till very night, kept
telling himself no, no, But with the same irritation, the
same exasperation, he fell again into musing on the note
on the gipsy girl on the appointed meeting, to which

(36:22):
he would certainly not go, and at night she gave
him no rest. He was continually haunted by her eyes,
at one time half closed, at another wide open, and
their persistent gaze fixed straight upon him, and those motionless
features with their dominating expression. The next morning, he again,
for some reason, kept expecting Kupfer. He was on the

(36:43):
point of writing a note to him, but did nothing, however,
and spent most of his time walking up and down
his room. He never, for one instant admitted to himself
even the idea of going to this idiotic rendezvous, And
at half past three, after a hastily swallowed dinner, suddenly
throwing on his cloak and thrusting his cap on his head,
he dashed out into the street, unseen by his aunt,

(37:03):
and turned towards the Tursky Boulevard. Chapter seven. Aritav found
few people walking in it. The weather was damp and
rather cold. He tried not to reflect on what he
was doing, to force himself to turn his attention to
every object that presented itself, and as it were, persuaded
himself that he had simply come out for a walk
like the other people passing to and fro. The letter

(37:25):
of the day before was in his breast pocket, and
he was conscious all the while of its presence there.
He walked twice up and down the boulevard, scrutinized sharply
every feminine figure that came near him, and his heart throbbed.
He felt tired and sat down on a bench, And
suddenly the thought struck him, what if that letter was
not written by her, but to some one else, by

(37:46):
some other woman. In reality, this should have been a
matter of indifference to him. And yet he had to
admit to himself that he did not want this to
be so. That would be too silly, he thought. Even
sillier than this, A nervous unrest began to gain possession
of him. He began to shiver, not outwardly, but inwardly.

(38:07):
He several times took his watch out of his waistcoat pocket,
looked the face, put it back, and each time forgot
how many minutes it was to five. He fancied that
every passer by looked at him in a peculiar way,
with a sort of sarcastic astonishment and curiosity. A wretched
little dog ran up, sniffed at his legs and began
wagging its tail. He threatened it angrily. He was particularly

(38:30):
annoyed by a factory lad and a greasy smock, who
seated himself on a seat on the other side of
the boulevard, and by turns whistling, scratching himself, and swinging
his feet in enormous tattered boots, persistently stared at him.
And his master thought, Arotov is waiting for him, no doubt,
while he, lazy scamp is kicking up his heels here.

(38:51):
But at that very instant he felt that some one
had come up and was standing close behind him. There
was a breadth of something warm from behind. He looked
round she he knew her at once, though a thick,
dark blue veil hid her features. He instantaneously leapt up
from the seat, but stopped short and could not utter
a word. She too, was silent. He felt great embarrassment,

(39:15):
but her embarrassment was no less. Aretov, even through the veil,
could not help noticing how deadly pale she had turned.
Yet she was the first to speak. Thanks, she began,
in an unsteady voice, Thanks for coming, I did not expect.
She turned a little away and walked along the boulevard.
Aretov walked after her. You have perhaps thought ill of me,

(39:39):
she went on, without turning her head. Indeed, my conduct
is very strange. But I had heard so much about you.
But no, I that was not the reason. If only
you knew. There was so much I wanted to tell you,
my God, But how to do it? How to do it?
Aretov was walking by her side, a little behind her.

(40:02):
He could not see her face. He saw only her
hat and part of her veil, and her long, black,
shabby cape. All his irritation, both with her and with himself,
suddenly came back to him. All the absurdity, the awkwardness
of this interview, these explanations between perfect strangers and a
public promenade, suddenly struck him. I've come on your invitation,

(40:23):
he began, in his turn. I've come, my dear madam.
Her shoulders gave a faint twitch. She turned off into
a side passage. He followed her, simply to clear up,
to discover what strange misunderstanding it is do that you
are pleased to address me, a stranger to you, who
only guessed to use your expression in your letter that

(40:45):
it was you writing to him guessed it because during
that literary matinee you saw fit to pay him such
such obvious attention. All this little speech was delivered by
Aretov in that ringing but unsteady voice in which very
young people answer examinations on a subject in which they
are well prepared. He was angry, He was furious. It

(41:06):
was just this fury which loosened his ordinarily not very
ready tongue. She still went along the walk with rather
slower steps. Aratov, as before, walked after her, and as
before saw only the old cape and the hat also
not a very new one. His vanity suffered at the
idea that she must now be thinking. I had only
to make a sign, and he rushed at once. Aretov

(41:29):
was silent. He expected her to answer him, but she
did not utter a word. I am ready to listen
to you, he began again, and shall be very glad
if I can be of use to you in any way,
though I am, I confess surprised considering the retired life
I lead. At these last words of his Clara suddenly
turned to him, and he beheld such a terrified, such

(41:52):
a deeply wounded face, with such large bright tears in
the eyes, such a pained expression about the parted lips,
and this face was so lovely that he involuntarily faltered
and himself felt something akin to terror and pity and softening. Ah,
why why are you like that? She said, with an
irresistibly genuine and truthful force, and how movingly her voice

(42:15):
rang out. Could my turning to you be offensive to you?
Is it possible you have understood nothing? Ah? Yes, you
have understood nothing. You did not understand what I said
to you. God knows what you have been imagining about me.
You have not even dreamed what it cost me to
write to you. You thought of nothing but yourself, your
own dignity, your peace of mind. But is it likely? I?

(42:38):
She squeezed her hand raised to her lips, so hard
that the fingers gave a distinct crack, as though I
made any sort of demands of you, as though explanations
were necessary. First, my dear madam, I am, I confess surprised.
If I can be of any use, Ah, I am
mad I was mistaken in you, in your face when

(43:00):
I saw you the first time. Here you stand if
only one word? What not? One word? She ceased, Her
face suddenly flushed and as suddenly took a wrathful and
insolent expression mercy. How idiotic this is, she cried suddenly,
with a shrill laugh, How idiotic our meeting is? What
a fool I am? And you two ugh. She gave

(43:23):
a contemptuous wave of her hand, as though motioning him
out of her road and passing him, ran quickly out
of the boulevard and vanished the gesture of her hand.
The insulting laugh and the last exclamation at once carried
Aratov back to his first frame of mind and stifled
the feeling that had sprung up in his heart. When
she turned to him with tears in her eyes, he
was angry again and almost shouted after the retreating girl,

(43:46):
You make a good actress, But why did you think
fit to play off this farce on me? He returned
home with long strides, and though he still felt anger
and indignation all the way, yet across these evil, malignant feelings,
unconsciously the memory forced itself of the exquisite face he
had seen for a single moment. Only He even put
himself to question, why did I not answer her when

(44:09):
she asked me only a word? I had not time?
He thought she did not let me utter the word,
and what word could I have uttered? But he shook
his head at once and murmured, reproachfully, actress, and again
at the same time. The vanity of the inexperienced, nervous youth,
at first wounded, was now, as it were, flattered at

(44:31):
having any way inspired such a passion, though by now
he pursued his reflections. It's all over. Of course, I
must have seemed absurd to her. This idea was disagreeable
to him, and again he was angry, both with her
and with himself. On reaching home, he shut himself up
in his study. He did not want to see Platotia.

(44:52):
The good old lady came twice to his locked door,
put her ear to the keyhole, and only sighed and
murmured her prayer. It has the gun, she thought, and
he only five and twenty. Ah, it's early, it's early.
Chapter eight. All the following day Aratov was in very
low spirits. What is it, Yasha, Platinita Ivanovna said to him,

(45:15):
who seemed somehow all loose ends to day in her
own peculiar idiom. The old Lady's expression described fairly accurately
Aretov's mental condition. He could not work, and he did
not know himself what he wanted. At one time he
was eagerly on the watch for Coupe For again he
suspected that it was from Coupefer that Clara had got
his address, And from where else could she have heard

(45:36):
so much about him? Then he wondered, was it possible
his acquaintance with her was to end like this? Then
he fancied she would write to him again. Then he
asked himself whether he ought not to write her a
letter explaining everything, since he did not at all like
leaving an unfavorable impression of himself, but exactly what to explain.

(45:57):
Then he stirred up in himself almost a feeling of
repulsion for her, for her insistence, her impertinence. And then
again he saw that unutterably touching face and heard an
irresistible voice. Then he recalled her singing her recitation, and
could not be sure whether he had been right in
his wholesale condemnation of it. In fact, he was all

(46:18):
loose ends. At last, he was heartily sick of it,
and resolved to keep a firm hand over himself, as
it is called, and to obliterate the whole incident, as
it was unmistakably hindering his studies and destroying his peace
of mind. It turned out not so easy to carry
out this resolution. More than a week passed by before
he got back into his old accustomed groove. Luckily, coupe

(46:40):
For did not turn up at all. He was, in
fact out of Moscow. Not long before the incident, Aretov
had begun to work at a painting in connection with
his photographic plans. He set to work upon it, now
with redoubled zest so imperceptibly, with a few to use
the doctor's expression symptoms of relapse manifested from stance in
his once almost deciding to call upon the princess. Two

(47:03):
months passed, then three months, and Aretov was the old
Aretov again, only somewhere deep 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

(47:26):
his hand. And one day, skimming through a not quite
new number of the Moscow Gazette, Aretov 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 Militche,
who had succeeded during the brief period of her engagement
in becoming a favorite of our discriminating public. Our regret

(47:50):
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. The talented actress taking the
fatal drug in the theater itself. She had scarcely been
taken home when, to the universal grief she expired. There
was a rumor in the town that an unfortunate love

(48:11):
affair drove her to this terrible act. Aratov slowly laid
the paper on the table. An outward appearance, he remained
perfectly calm, but at once something seemed to strike him
a blow in the chest, in 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

(48:31):
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 gray sky, and her
in her black cape, then her on the platform, saw himself,

(48:53):
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?

(49:17):
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 cupfer from Coup.
But they say he's not in Moscow. No matter, I

(49:39):
must try him first. With these reflections in his head,
Aretov dressed himself in haste, called a cab, and drove
to Couper's Chapter nine though he had not expected to
find him, he found him. Cooper had as a fact,
been away from Moscow for some time, but he had
now been back a week and was indeed on the

(50:01):
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 coopfor puzzled about Claire Milich, Gopher's
face expressed commiseration. Yes, yes, my dear boy, it's true.

(50:22):
She poisoned herself. Such a sad thing. Aretov was silent
for a while. But did you read it in the
paper too, he asked, Or perhaps you've been in Kazan yourself.
I have been in Kazan, Yes, the princess and I
accompanied her there. She came out on to the stage
there and had a great success. But I didn't stay

(50:43):
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.

(51:05):
Why I recollect you didn't care for Clara at one time?
You were wrong, though she was a marvelous girl, only
what a temper. I was terribly broken hearted about her.
Aretov did not utter a word. He dropped into a chair, and,
after a brief pause, asked Coopefer to tell him. He stammered, what,
inquired Coopefer, Oh, everything, Aretov answered, brokenly, All about her

(51:30):
family and the rest of it. Everything you know? Why
does it interest you by all means? And Cooepfer, whose
face showed no traces of his having been so terribly
broken hearted about Clara, began his story. From his account,
Aretov learned that Clara Militch's real name was Katerina Milovidov,
that her father, now dead, had held the post of

(51:52):
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 Ostrowsky comedy. And secondly,
a daughter much older than Clara and not like her,

(52:14):
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 Katya if
you like, from her childhood up impressed every one with

(52:34):
her talent, but was of an insubordinate capricious temper and
used to be forever quarreling with her father. That having
an inborn passion for the theater, at sixteen, she had
run away from her parents house with an actress with
an actor put in Aritov. No, not with an actor
with an actress to whom she became attached. It's true

(52:57):
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, Cooper informed Aretov that Clara had, even
before her coming to Moscow, acted in song in provincial theaters,
that having lost her friend, the actress, a gentleman too,
it seemed, had died, or else he had made it

(53:18):
up with his wife. Gopher could not quite remember this.
She had made the acquaintance of the princess that heart
of gold, whom you, my dear Yakov Andreych. The speaker added,
with feeling were incapable of appreciating properly that at last
Clara had been offered an engagement in Kazan, that she
had accepted it, though before that she used declared that

(53:39):
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 ink stand. Coopfer related
all this with great animation, without giving expression, however, to

(54:02):
any special sentimentality, in interspersing his narrative with the questions
what is it to you? And why do you ask?
When Aretov, who listened to him with devouring attention, kept
asking for more and more details, all was told at last,
and Coopfer was silent, rewarding himself for his exertions with
a cigar. And why did she take poison? Asked Aretov.

(54:25):
In the paper, it was stated Coopfer waved his hand.
Well that I can't say. I don't know, but the
paper tells a lie. Claire'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.

(54:46):
Though I knew her so well, I never saw a
tear in her eyes, but I have, Aretov thought to himself.
But there's one thing, continued Coopfer. 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 anyone offended you,

(55:07):
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

(55:27):
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 had no musical knowledge.
But for all that, why she poisoned herself is incomprehensible,
And the way she did it, and what part had
she the greatest success? Aratov wanted to know in what

(55:47):
part she had appeared for the last time, But for
some reason he asked a different question in Ostrovsky'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 she lived in her mother's house. You know
the sort of shopkeepers houses. In every corner, a holy
picture and a little lamp before it, a deadly stuffiness,

(56:08):
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
seraphon with an enormous bust, would stand right across the

(56:30):
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. Aritov 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

(56:51):
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

(57:13):
too much solitude. Aratov made no reply and went away,
having provided himself with the Kazan address. When he was
on his way to Cooper'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

(57:34):
after him, but he did not observe any one who passed.
It was not as on the Taversky Boulevard. Unhappy Clara,
poor frantic Clara, was echoing in his Soul Chapter ten.
The following day, Aretov spent, however, fairly quietly. He was
even able to give his mind to his ordinary occupations.

(57:56):
But there was one thing. Both during his work and
during his leisure, he was continually thinking of Clara, of
what Coupe had told him the evening before. It is
true that his meditations, too, were of a fairly tranquil character.
He fancied that the 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

(58:18):
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 seemed to have lived and
no love affairs. It's incredible Cooper talked of pride. But
in the first place, we know, Aretov, uptrus said, we

(58:38):
have read in books. We know that pride can exist
side by side with the 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, Aretov
recalled all the scene in the boulevard, and he asked himself,

(59:00):
had he really shone contempt with 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 quite unjust. She said, truly that I did

(59:22):
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 saw 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

(59:45):
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,

(01:00:06):
That is, she had unmistakable, untrained, undeveloped, even coarse perhaps,
but unmistakable talent. And in that case I was unjust
to her. Aretov was carried back in thought to the
literary musical matinee, and he observed to himself how exceedingly
clearly he recollected every word she had sung, or recited,

(01:00:29):
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 Aretov that even if she had

(01:00:49):
had anything of the sort in her mind, his behavior
during their interview must have effectually disillusioned her. That was
why she laughed so cruelly too at parting. Beside, what
proof is there that she took poison because of unrequited love?
That's only the newspaper correspondence who ascribe every death of
that sort to unrequited love. People of a character like

(01:01:10):
Clara's readily feel life repulsive. Burdensome, Yes, burdensome. Couper was right,
she was simply sick of life in spite of her successes,
her triumphs Aretov 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

(01:01:32):
even suspect all the significance for himself of this intense
realization of a woman's soul. 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 theater. Everything else is pale beside what they
regard as their vocation. She was a dilettent. At this point,

(01:01:56):
Aretov felt a pondering. Again. No, the word dilettant 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, Aretov

(01:02:21):
talked a great deal with Platosha questioned her about the
good 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 humored to day. Towards evening, Aretov was so
far calm that he played several games of cards with

(01:02:42):
his aunt. So passed the day but the night end
of Clara Militch Part one,