Dream Tales and Prose Poems | Page 4

all the guests, without even distinguishing them, and then stared obstinately at his own feet. When at last a stray musician with a worn face, long hair, and an eyeglass 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 Liszt on a Wagner motive, Aratov could not stand it, and stole off, bearing away in his heart a vague, painful impression; across which, however, flitted something incomprehensible to him, but grave and even disquieting.
III
Kupfer came next day to dinner; he did not begin, however, expatiating on the preceding evening, he did not even reproach Aratov 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 remark in parenthesis). Kupfer probably realised 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, Aratov said nothing of the princess, nor of the previous evening. Platonida Ivanovna did not know whether to rejoice at the failure of this first experiment or to regret it. 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 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 at the Aratovs', had an absorbed look, spoke little and quickly vanished.... Aratov 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 himself, and this reminiscence was connected with the evening he had spent at the princess's. For all that he 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 Kupfer stood before him once more, this time with a somewhat embarrassed countenance. 'I know,' he began with a constrained smile, 'that your visit that time was not much to your taste; but 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 Kupfer, getting more and more heated: 'there is a society here of amateurs, artistic people, who from time to time get up readings, concerts, even theatrical performances for some charitable object.'
'And the princess has a hand in it?' interposed Aratov.
'The princess has a hand in all good deeds, but that's not the point. We have arranged a literary and musical matinée ... and at this matinée you may hear a girl ... an extraordinary girl! We cannot make out quite yet whether she is to be a Rachel or a Viardot ... for she sings exquisitely, and recites and plays.... A talent of the 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 marvellous girl sprung from?' asked Aratov.
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.... But you saw her, most likely, that evening.'
Aratov 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 theatre. There! you'll see for yourself!'
'What's her name?' asked Aratov.
'Clara...'
'Clara?' Aratov interrupted a 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 Tchaykovsky's; and then she'll recite the letter from Yevgeny Oniegin. Well; will you take a ticket?'
'And when will it be?'
'To-morrow ... to-morrow, at half-past one, in a private drawing-room, in Ostozhonka.... I will come for you. A five-rouble ticket?... Here it is ... no, that's a three-rouble one. Here ... and here's the programme.... I'm one of the stewards.'
Aratov sank into thought. Platonida Ivanovna came in at that instant, and glancing at his face, was in a flutter of agitation at once. 'Yasha,' she cried, 'what's the matter with you? Why are you so upset? Fyodor Fedoritch, what is it you've been telling him?'
Aratov did not let his friend answer his