got back into his old accustomed groove. 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.

So, imperceptibly, with a few (to use the doctors’ expression) ‘symptoms of relapse,’ manifested, for instance, in his once almost deciding to call upon the princess, two months passed … then three months … and Aratov was the old Aratov again. Only somewhere down 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 his hand.

And one day, skimming through a not quite new number of the Moscow

Gazette, Aratov 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 Militch, who had succeeded during the brief period of her engagement in becoming a favourite of our discriminating public. Our regret 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 through the talented actress taking the fatal drug in the theatre itself. She had scarcely been taken home when to the universal grief, she expired. There is a rumour in the town that an unfortunate love affair drove her to this terrible act.’

Aratov slowly laid the paper on the table. In outward appearance he remained perfectly calm … but at once something seemed to strike him a blow in the chest and 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 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 grey sky, and her in her black cape … then her on the platform … saw himself 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? 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 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.

IX

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