Dream Tales and Prose Poems | Page 6

began at once to sing, without changing the attitude
of her hands or glancing at 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 Aratov, and again he spoke the truth. Shouts of 'Bis!' 'Bravo!'
resounded over the room; but she flung a 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 whispering a couple of words to the accompanist, who

picked out and put before him another piece of music, began
Tchaykovsky'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 the 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 last word. This song produced less impression on
the audience than the Glinka ballad; there was much applause,
however.... Kupfer was particularly conspicuous; folding his hands in a
peculiar way, in the shape of a barrel, at each clap he produced an
extraordinarily resounding report. The princess handed him a large,
straggling nosegay for him to take it to the singer; but she, seeming not
to observe Kupfer's bowing figure, and 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!
During the whole time of the singing, Aratov had been watching Clara's
face. It seemed to him that her eyes, through the drooping eyelashes,
were again turned upon him; but he was especially struck by the
immobility of the 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. Kupfer came up to him.
'Well, my dear boy, what do you think of her?' he asked, beaming all
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!)
Kupfer was surprised. 'No musical knowledge,' he repeated slowly....
'Well, as to that ... she can acquire that. But what soul! Wait a bit,
though; you shall hear her in Tatiana'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 hypnotised, like a somnambulist. And at the same time she was
unmistakably ... yes! unmistakably looking at him.
Meanwhile the matinée went on. The fat man in spectacles appeared
again; in spite of his serious exterior, he fancied himself a comic actor,
and recited a scene from Gogol, this time without eliciting a single
token of approbation. There was another glimpse of the flute-player;
another thunder-clap from the pianist; a boy of twelve, frizzed and
pomaded, but with tear-stains on his cheeks, thrummed some variations
on a fiddle. What seemed strange was that in the intervals of the
reading and music, from the performers' 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 moment of
facing the public. At last Clara Militch made her appearance again.
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. The first line,
'I write to you ... what more?' she uttered exceedingly simply, almost
naïvely, and with a naïve, 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 to the
words, 'My whole life has but been a pledge of a meeting true with
thee,' her