Читать книгу Dream Tales and Prose Poems - Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev - Страница 12

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Though he had not expected to find him, he found him. Kupfer had, as a fact, been away from Moscow for some time, but he had now been back a week, and was indeed on the 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 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. She came out on the stage there, and had a great success. But I didn’t stay 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? Why, I recollect you didn’t care for Clara at one time? You were wrong, though! She was a marvellous girl—only what a temper! I was terribly broken-hearted about her!’

Aratov did not utter a word, he dropped into a chair, and after a brief pause, asked Kupfer to tell him ... he stammered.

‘What?’ inquired Kupfer.

‘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.

From his account Aratov learnt that Clara Militch’s real name was Katerina Milovidov; that her father, now dead, had held the post of 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 Ostrovsky comedy; and secondly, a daughter much older than Clara and not like her—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 Katia, if you like, from her childhood up impressed every one with her talent, but was of an insubordinate, capricious temper, and used to be for ever quarrelling with her father; that having an inborn passion for the theatre, at sixteen she had run away from her parent’s house with an actress ...’

‘With an actor?’ put in Aratov.

‘No, not with an actor, with an actress, to whom she became attached.... It’s true 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 Kupfer informed Aratov that Clara had even before her coming to Moscow acted and sung in provincial theatres, that, having lost her friend the actress—the gentleman, too, it seemed, had died, or else he had made it up with his wife—Kupfer could not quite remember this—she had made the acquaintance of the princess, ‘that heart of gold, whom you, my dear Yakov Andreitch,’ the speaker added with feeling, ‘were incapable of appreciating properly’; that at last Clara had been offered an engagement in Kazan, and that she had accepted it, though before then she used to declare that 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 inkstand! 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. All was told at last, and Kupfer was silent, rewarding himself for his exertions with a cigar.

‘And why did she take poison?’ asked Aratov. ‘In the paper it was stated....’

Kupfer waved his hand. ‘Well ... that I can’t say ... I don’t know. But the paper tells a lie. Clara’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—though I knew her so well—I never saw a tear in her eyes!’

‘But I have,’ Aratov thought to himself.

‘But there’s one thing,’ continued Kupfer, ‘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 any one offended you, 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 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’d no musical knowledge. But for all that ... why she poisoned herself—is incomprehensible! And the way she did it!...’

‘In what part had she the greatest success?’... Aratov wanted to know in what part she had appeared for the last time, but for some reason he asked a different question.

‘In Ostrovosky’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 thing. She lived in her mother’s house.... You know the sort of shopkeeper’s houses: in every corner a holy picture and a little lamp before it, a deadly stuffiness, 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 sarafan, with an enormous bust, would stand right across the 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.

Aratov 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 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 too much solitude!’

Aratov made no reply, and went away, having provided himself with the Kazan address.

When he was on his way to Kupfer’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 after him ... but he did not observe any one who passed ... it was not as on the Tversky boulevard!

‘Unhappy Clara! poor frantic Clara!’ was echoing in his soul.