At supper Muzio regaled his friends with wine of Shiraz from a round flask with a long neck; extremely fragrant and thick, of a golden hue, with greenish lights, it sparkled mysteriously when poured into the tiny jasper cups. In taste it did not resemble European wines: it was very sweet and spicy; and, quaffed slowly, in small sips, it produced in all the limbs a sensation of agreeable drowsiness. Muzio made Fabio and Valeria drink a cup apiece, and drank one himself. Bending over her cup, he whispered something and shook his fingers. Valeria noticed this; but as there was something strange and unprecedented in all Muzio's ways in general, and in all his habits, she merely thought: "I wonder if he has not accepted in India some new faith, or whether they have such customs there?"—Then, after a brief pause, she asked him: "Had he continued to occupy himself with music during the time of his journeys?"—In reply Muzio ordered the Malay to bring him his Indian violin. It resembled those of the present day, only, instead of four strings it had three; a bluish snake-skin was stretched across its top, and the slender bow of reed was semi-circular in form, and on its very tip glittered a pointed diamond.

Muzio first played several melancholy airs,—which were, according to his assertion, popular ballads,—strange and even savage to the Italian ear; the sound of the metallic strings was plaintive and feeble. But when Muzio began the last song, that same sound suddenly strengthened, quivered powerfully and resonantly; the passionate melody poured forth from beneath the broadly-handled bow,—poured forth with beautiful undulations, like the snake which had covered the top of the violin with its skin; and with so much fire, with so much triumphant joy did this song beam and blaze that both Fabio and Valeria felt a tremor at their heart, and the tears started to their eyes ... while Muzio, with his head bent down and pressed against his violin, with pallid cheeks, and brows contracted into one line, seemed still more concentrated and serious than ever, and the diamond at the tip of the bow scattered ray-like sparks in its flight, as though it also were kindled with the fire of that wondrous song. And when Muzio had finished and, still holding the violin tightly pressed between his chin and his shoulder, dropped his hand which held the bow—"What is that? What hast thou been playing to us?" Fabio exclaimed.—Valeria uttered not a word, but her whole being seemed to repeat her husband's question. Muzio laid the violin on the table, and lightly shaking back his hair, said, with a courteous smile: "That? That melody ... that song I heard once on the island of Ceylon. That song is known there, among the people, as the song of happy, satisfied love."

"Repeat it," whispered Fabio.

"No; it is impossible to repeat it," replied Muzio. "And it is late now. Signora Valeria ought to rest; and it is high time for me also.... I am weary."

All day long Muzio had treated Valeria in a respectfully-simple manner, like a friend of long standing; but as he took leave he pressed her hand very hard, jamming his fingers into her palm, staring so intently into her face the while that she, although she did not raise her eyelids, felt conscious of that glance on her suddenly-flushing cheeks. She said nothing to Muzio, but drew away her hand, and when he was gone she stared at the door through which he had made his exit. She recalled how, in former years also, she had been afraid of him ... and now she was perplexed. Muzio went off to his pavilion; the husband and wife withdrew to their bed-chamber.



IV

Valeria did not soon fall asleep; her blood was surging softly and languidly, and there was a faint ringing in her head ... from that strange wine, as she supposed, and, possibly, also from Muzio's tales, from his violin playing.... Toward morning she fell asleep at last, and had a remarkable dream.

It seems to her that she enters a spacious room with a low, vaulted ceiling.... She has never seen such a room in her life. All the walls are set with small blue tiles bearing golden patterns; slender carved pillars of alabaster support the marble vault; this vault and the pillars seem semi-transparent.... A pale, rose-coloured light penetrates the room from all directions, illuminating all the objects mysteriously and monotonously; cushions of gold brocade lie on a narrow rug in the very middle of the floor, which is as smooth as a mirror. In the corners, barely visible, two tall incense-burners, representing monstrous animals, are smoking; there are no windows anywhere; the door, screened by a velvet drapery, looms silently black in a niche of the wall. And suddenly this curtain softly slips aside, moves away ... and Muzio enters. He bows, opens his arms, smiles.... His harsh arms encircle Valeria's waist; his dry lips have set her to burning all over.... She falls prone on the cushions....

* * * * *

Moaning with fright, Valeria awoke after long efforts.—Still not comprehending where she is and what is the matter with her, she half raises herself up in bed and looks about her.... A shudder runs through her whole body.... Fabio is lying beside her. He is asleep; but his face, in the light of the round, clear moon, is as pale as that of a corpse ... it is more melancholy than the face of a corpse. Valeria awoke her husband—and no sooner had he cast a glance at her than he exclaimed: "What is the matter with thee?"

"I have seen ... I have seen a dreadful dream," she whispered, still trembling....

But at that moment, from the direction of the pavilion, strong sounds were wafted to them—and both Fabio and Valeria recognised the melody which Muzio had played to them, calling it the Song of Love Triumphant.—Fabio cast a glance of surprise at Valeria.... She closed her eyes, and turned away—and both, holding their breath, listened to the song to the end. When the last sound died away the moon went behind a cloud, it suddenly grew dark in the room.... The husband and wife dropped their heads on their pillows, without exchanging a word, and neither of them noticed when the other fell asleep.



V

On the following morning Muzio came to breakfast; he seemed pleased, and greeted Valeria merrily. She answered him with confusion,— scrutinised him closely, and was startled by that pleased, merry face, those piercing and curious eyes. Muzio was about to begin his stories again ... but Fabio stopped him at the first word.

"Evidently, thou wert not able to sleep in a new place? My wife and I heard thee playing the song of last night."

"Yes? Did you hear it?"—said Muzio.—"I did play it, in fact; but I had been asleep before that, and I had even had a remarkable dream."

Valeria pricked up her ears.—"What sort of a dream?" inquired Fabio.

"I seemed," replied Muzio, without taking his eyes from Valeria, "to see myself enter a spacious apartment with a vaulted ceiling, decorated in Oriental style. Carved pillars supported the vault; the walls were covered with tiles, and although there were no windows nor candles, yet the whole room was filled with a rosy light, just as though it had all been built of transparent stone. In the corners Chinese incense-burners were smoking; on the floor lay cushions of brocade, along a narrow rug. I entered through a door hung with a curtain, and from another door directly opposite a woman whom I had once loved made her appearance. And she seemed to me so beautiful that I became all aflame with my love of days gone by...."

Muzio broke off significantly. Valeria sat motionless, only paling slowly ... and her breathing grew more profound.

"Then," pursued Muzio, "I woke up and played that song."

"But who was the woman?" said Fabio.

"Who was she? The wife of an East Indian. I met her in the city of Delhi.... She is no longer among the living. She is dead."

"And her husband?" asked Fabio, without himself knowing why he did so.

"Her husband is dead also, they say. I soon lost sight of them."

"Strange!" remarked Fabio.—"My wife also had a remarkable dream last night—which she did not relate to me," added Fabio.

But at this point Valeria rose and left the room. Immediately after breakfast Muzio also went away, asserting that he was obliged to go to Ferrara on business, and that he should not return before evening.



VI

Several weeks before Muzio's return Fabio had begun a portrait of his wife, depicting her with the attributes of Saint Cecilia.—He had made noteworthy progress in his art; the famous Luini, the pupil of Leonardo da Vinci, had come to him in Ferrara, and aiding him with his own advice, had also imparted to him the precepts of his great master. The portrait was almost finished; it only remained for him to complete the face by a few strokes of the brush, and then Fabio might feel justly proud of his work.

When Muzio departed to Ferrara, Fabio betook himself to his studio, where Valeria was generally awaiting him; but he did not find her there; he called to her—she did not respond. A secret uneasiness took possession of Fabio; he set out in quest of her. She was not in the house; Fabio ran into the garden—and there, in one of the most remote alleys, he descried Valeria. With head bowed upon her breast, and hands clasped on her knees, she was sitting on a bench, and behind her, standing out against the dark green of a cypress, a marble satyr, with face distorted in a malicious smile, was applying his pointed lips to his reed-pipes. Valeria was visibly delighted at her husband's appearance, and in reply to his anxious queries she said that she had a slight headache, but that it was of no consequence, and that she was ready for the sitting. Fabio conducted her to his studio, posed her, and took up his brush; but, to his great vexation, he could not possibly finish the face as he would have liked. And that not because it was somewhat pale and seemed fatigued ... no; but he did not find in it that day the pure, holy expression which he so greatly loved in it, and which had suggested to him the idea of representing Valeria in the form of Saint Cecilia. At last he flung aside his brush, told his wife that he was not in the mood, that ft would do her good to lie down for a while, as she was not feeling quite well, to judge by her looks,—and turned his easel so that the portrait faced the wall. Valeria agreed with him that she ought to rest, and repeating her complaint of headache, she retired to her chamber.

Fabio remained in the studio. He felt a strange agitation which was incomprehensible even to himself. Muzio's sojourn under his roof, a sojourn which he, Fabio, had himself invited, embarrassed him. And it was not that he was jealous ... was it possible to be jealous of Valeria?—but in his friend he did not recognise his former comrade. All that foreign, strange, new element which Muzio had brought with him from those distant lands—and which, apparently, had entered into his very flesh and blood,—-all those magical processes, songs, strange beverages, that dumb Malay, even the spicy odour which emanated from Muzio's garments, from his hair, his breath,—all this inspired in Fabio a feeling akin to distrust, nay, even to timidity. And why did that Malay, when serving at table, gaze upon him, Fabio, with such disagreeable intentness? Really, one might suppose that he understood Italian. Muzio had said concerning him, that that Malay, in paying the penalty with his tongue, had made a great sacrifice, and in compensation now possessed great power.—What power? And how could he have acquired it at the cost of his tongue? All this was very strange! Very incomprehensible!

Fabio went to his wife in her chamber; she was lying on the bed fully dressed, but was not asleep.—On hearing his footsteps she started, then rejoiced again to see him, as she had done in the garden. Fabio sat down by the bed, took Valeria's hand, and after a brief pause, he asked her, "What was that remarkable dream which had frightened her during the past night? And had it been in the nature of that dream which Muzio had related?"

Valeria blushed and said hastily—"Oh, no! no! I saw ... some sort of a monster, which tried to rend me."

"A monster? In the form of a man?" inquired Fabio.

"No, a wild beast ... a wild beast!"—And Valeria turned away and hid her flaming face in the pillows. Fabio held his wife's hand for a while longer; silently he raised it to his lips, and withdrew.

The husband and wife passed a dreary day. It seemed as though something dark were hanging over their heads ... but what it was, they could not tell. They wanted to be together, as though some danger were menacing them;—but what to say to each other, they did not know. Fabio made an effort to work at the portrait, to read Ariosto, whose poem, which had recently made its appearance in Ferrara, was already famous throughout Italy; but he could do nothing.... Late in the evening, just in time for supper, Muzio returned.



VII

He appeared calm and contented—but related few stories; he chiefly interrogated Fabio concerning their mutual acquaintances of former days, the German campaign, the Emperor Charles; he spoke of his desire to go to Rome, to have a look at the new Pope. Again he offered Valeria wine of Shiraz—and in reply to her refusal he said, as though to himself, "It is not necessary now."

On returning with his wife to their bedroom Fabio speedily fell asleep ... and waking an hour later was able to convince himself that no one shared his couch: Valeria was not with him. He hastily rose, and at the selfsame moment he beheld his wife, in her night-dress, enter the room from the garden. The moon was shining brightly, although not long before a light shower had passed over.—With widely-opened eyes, and an expression of secret terror on her impassive face, Valeria approached the bed, and fumbling for it with her hands, which were outstretched in front of her, she lay down hurriedly and in silence. Fabio asked her a question, but she made no reply; she seemed to be asleep. He touched her, and felt rain-drops on her clothing, on her hair, and grains of sand on the soles of her bare feet. Then he sprang up and rushed into the garden through the half-open door. The moonlight, brilliant to harshness, inundated all objects. Fabio looked about him and descried on the sand of the path traces of two pairs of feet; one pair was bare; and those tracks led to an arbour covered with jasmin, which stood apart, between the pavilion and the house. He stopped short in perplexity; and lo! suddenly the notes of that song which he had heard on the preceding night again rang forth! Fabio shuddered, and rushed into the pavilion.... Muzio was standing in the middle of the room, playing on his violin. Fabio darted to him.

"Thou hast been in the garden, thou hast been out, thy clothing is damp with rain."

"No.... I do not know ... I do not think ... that I have been out of doors ..." replied Muzio, in broken accents, as though astonished at Fabio's advent, and at his agitation.

Fabio grasped him by the arm.—"And why art thou playing that melody again? Hast thou had another dream?"

Muzio glanced at Fabio with the same surprise as before, and made no answer.

"Come, answer me!"

"The moon is steel, like a circular shield.... The river gleams like a snake.... The friend is awake, the enemy sleeps— The hawk seizes the chicken in his claws.... Help!"

mumbled Muzio, in a singsong, as though in a state of unconsciousness.

Fabio retreated a couple of paces, fixed his eyes on Muzio, meditated for a space ... and returned to his house, to the bed-chamber.

With her head inclined upon her shoulder, and her arms helplessly outstretched, Valeria was sleeping heavily. He did not speedily succeed in waking her ... but as soon as she saw him she flung herself on his neck, and embraced him convulsively; her whole body was quivering.

"What aileth thee, my dear one, what aileth thee?" said Fabio repeatedly, striving to soothe her.

But she continued to lie as in a swoon on his breast. "Akh, what dreadful visions I see!" she whispered, pressing her face against him.

Fabio attempted to question her ... but she merely trembled....

The window-panes were reddening with the first gleams of dawn when, at last, she fell asleep in his arms.



VIII

On the following day Muzio disappeared early in the morning, and Valeria informed her husband that she intended to betake herself to the neighbouring monastery, where dwelt her spiritual father—an aged and stately monk, in whom she cherished unbounded confidence. To Fabio's questions she replied that she desired to alleviate by confession her soul, which was oppressed with the impressions of the last few days. As he gazed at Valeria's sunken visage, as he listened to her faint voice, Fabio himself approved of her plan: venerable Father Lorenzo might be able to give her useful advice, disperse her doubts.... Under the protection of four escorts, Valeria set out for the monastery, but Fabio remained at home; and while awaiting the return of his wife, he roamed about the garden, trying to understand what had happened to her, and feeling the unremitting terror and wrath and pain of indefinite suspicions.... More than once he entered the pavilion; but Muzio had not returned, and the Malay stared at Fabio like a statue, with an obsequious inclination of his head, and a far-away grin—at least, so it seemed to Fabio—a far-away grin on his bronze countenance.

In the meantime Valeria had narrated everything in confession to her confessor, being less ashamed than frightened. The confessor listened to her attentively, blessed her, absolved her from her involuntary sins,—but thought to himself: "Magic, diabolical witchcraft ... things cannot be left in this condition".... and accompanied Valeria to her villa, ostensibly for the purpose of definitely calming and comforting her.

At the sight of the confessor Fabio was somewhat startled; but the experienced old man had already thought out beforehand how he ought to proceed. On being left alone with Fabio, he did not, of course, betray the secrets of the confessional; but he advised him to banish from his house, if that were possible, his invited guest who, by his tales, songs, and his whole conduct, had upset Valeria's imagination. Moreover, in the old man's opinion, Muzio had not been firm in the faith in days gone by, as he now recalled to mind; and after having sojourned so long in regions not illuminated by the light of Christianity, he might have brought thence the infection of false doctrines; he might even have dabbled in magic; and therefore, although old friendship did assert its rights, still wise caution pointed to parting as indispensable.

Fabio thoroughly agreed with the venerable monk. Valeria even beamed all over when her husband communicated to her her confessor's counsel; and accompanied by the good wishes of both husband and wife, and provided with rich gifts for the monastery and the poor, Father Lorenzo wended his way home.

Fabio had intended to have an explanation with Muzio directly after supper, but his strange guest did not return to supper. Then Fabio decided to defer the interview with Muzio until the following day, and husband and wife withdrew to their bed-chamber.



IX

Valeria speedily fell asleep; but Fabio could not get to sleep. In the nocturnal silence all that he had seen, all that he had felt, presented itself to him in a still more vivid manner; with still greater persistence did he ask himself questions, to which, as before, he found no answer. Was Muzio really a magician? And had he already poisoned Valeria? She was ill ... but with what malady? While he was engrossed in painful meditations, with his head propped on his hand and restraining his hot breathing, the moon again rose in the cloudless sky; and together with its rays, through the semi-transparent window-panes, in the direction of the pavilion, there began to stream in—or did Fabio merely imagine it?—there began to stream in a breath resembling a faint, perfumed current of air....

Now an importunate, passionate whisper began to make itself heard ... and at that same moment he noticed that Valeria was beginning to stir slightly. He started, gazed; she rose, thrust first one foot, then the other from the bed, and, like a somnambulist, with her dull eyes strained straight ahead, and her arms extended before her, she advanced toward the door into the garden! Fabio instantly sprang through the other door of the bedroom, and briskly running round the corner of the house, he closed the one which led into the garden.... He had barely succeeded in grasping the handle when he felt some one trying to open the door from within, throwing their force against it ... more and more strongly ... then frightened moans resounded.

* * * * *

"But Muzio cannot have returned from the town, surely," flashed through Fabio's head, and he darted into the pavilion....

What did he behold?

Coming to meet him, along the path brilliantly flooded with the radiance of the moonlight, also with arms outstretched and lifeless eyes staring widely—was Muzio.... Fabio ran up to him, but the other, without noticing him, walked on, advancing with measured steps, and his impassive face was smiling in the moonlight like the face of the Malay. Fabio tried to call him by name ... but at that moment he heard a window bang in the house behind him.... He glanced round....

In fact, the window of the bedroom was open from top to bottom, and with one foot thrust across the sill stood Valeria in the window ... and her arms seemed to be seeking Muzio, her whole being was drawn toward him.

Unspeakable wrath flooded Fabio's breast in a suddenly-invading torrent.—"Accursed sorcerer!" he yelled fiercely, and seizing Muzio by the throat with one hand, he fumbled with the other for the dagger in his belt, and buried its blade to the hilt in his side.

Muzio uttered a piercing shriek, and pressing the palm of his hand to the wound, fled, stumbling, back to the pavilion.... But at that same instant, when Fabio stabbed him, Valeria uttered an equally piercing shriek and fell to the ground like one mowed down.

Fabio rushed to her, raised her up, carried her to the bed, spoke to her....

For a long time she lay motionless; but at last she opened her eyes, heaved a deep sigh, convulsively and joyously, like a person who has just been saved from inevitable death,—caught sight of her husband, and encircling his neck with her arms, pressed herself to his breast.

"Thou, thou, it is thou," she stammered. Gradually the clasp of her arms relaxed, her head sank backward, and whispering, with a blissful smile:—"Thank God, all is over.... But how weary I am!"—she fell into a profound but not heavy slumber.



X

Fabio sank down beside her bed, and never taking his eyes from her pale, emaciated, but already tranquil face, he began to reflect upon what had taken place ... and also upon how he ought to proceed now. What was he to do? If he had slain Muzio—and when he recalled how deeply the blade of his dagger had penetrated he could not doubt that he had done so—then it was impossible to conceal the fact. He must bring it to the knowledge of the Duke, of the judges ... but how was he to explain, how was he to narrate such an incomprehensible affair? He, Fabio, had slain in his own house his relative, his best friend! People would ask, "What for? For what cause?..." But what if Muzio were not slain?—Fabio had not the strength to remain any longer in uncertainty, and having made sure that Valeria was asleep, he cautiously rose from his arm-chair, left the house, and directed his steps toward the pavilion. All was silent in it; only in one window was a light visible. With sinking heart he opened the outer door—(a trace of bloody fingers still clung to it, and on the sand of the path drops of blood made black patches)— raversed the first dark chamber ... and halted on the threshold, petrified with astonishment.

In the centre of the room, on a Persian rug, with a brocade cushion under his head, covered with a wide scarlet shawl with black figures, lay Muzio, with all his limbs stiffly extended. His face, yellow as wax, with closed eyes and lids which had become blue, was turned toward the ceiling, and no breath was to be detected: he seemed to be dead. At his feet, also enveloped in a scarlet shawl, knelt the Malay. He held in his left hand a branch of some unfamiliar plant, resembling a fern, and bending slightly forward, he was gazing at his master, never taking his eyes from him. A small torch, thrust into the floor, burned with a greenish flame, and was the only light in the room. Its flame did not flicker nor smoke.

The Malay did not stir at Fabio's entrance, but merely darted a glance at him and turned his eyes again upon Muzio. From time to time he raised himself a little, and lowered the branch, waving it through the air,—and his dumb lips slowly parted and moved, as though uttering inaudible words. Between Muzio and the Malay there lay upon the floor the dagger with which Fabio had stabbed his friend. The Malay smote the blood-stained blade with his bough. One minute passed ... then another. Fabio approached the Malay, and bending toward him, he said in a low voice: "Is he dead?"—The Malay bowed his head, and disengaging his right hand from beneath the shawl, pointed imperiously to the door. Fabio was about to repeat his question, but the imperious hand repeated its gesture, and Fabio left the room, raging arid marvelling but submitting.

He found Valeria asleep, as before, with a still more tranquil face. He did not undress, but seated himself by the window, propped his head on his hand, and again became immersed in thought. The rising sun found him still in the same place. Valeria had not wakened.



XI

Fabio was intending to wait until she should awake, and then go to Ferrara—when suddenly some one tapped lightly at the door of the bedroom. Fabio went out and beheld before him his aged major-domo, Antonio.

"Signor," began the old man, "the Malay has just informed us that Signor Muzio is ailing and desires to remove with all his effects to the town; and therefore he requests that you will furnish him with the aid of some persons to pack his things—and that you will send, about dinner-time, both pack-and saddle-horses and a few men as guard. Do you permit?"

"Did the Malay tell thee that?" inquired Fabio. "In what manner? For he is dumb."

"Here, signor, is a paper on which he wrote all this in our language, very correctly."

"And Muzio is ill, sayest thou?"

"Yes, very ill, and he cannot be seen."

"Has not a physician been sent for?"

"No; the Malay would not allow it."

"And was it the Malay who wrote this for thee?"

"Yes, it was he."

Fabio was silent for a space.

"Very well, take the necessary measures," he said at last.

Antonio withdrew.

Fabio stared after his servant in perplexity.—"So he was not killed?"—he thought ... and he did not know whether to rejoice or to grieve.—"He is ill?"—But a few hours ago he had beheld him a corpse!

Fabio returned to Valeria. She was awake, and raised her head. The husband and wife exchanged a long, significant look.

"Is he already dead?" said Valeria suddenly.—Fabio shuddered.

"What ... he is not?—Didst thou.... Has he gone away?" she went on.

Fabio's heart was relieved.—"Not yet; but he is going away to-day."

"And I shall never, never see him again?"

"Never."

"And those visions will not be repeated?"

"No."

Valeria heaved another sigh of relief; a blissful smile again made its appearance on her lips. She put out both hands to her husband.

"And we shall never speak of him, never, hearest thou, my dear one. And I shall not leave this room until he is gone. But now do thou send me my serving-women ... and stay: take that thing!"—she pointed to a pearl necklace which lay on the night-stand, the necklace which Muzio had given her,—-"and throw it immediately into our deep well. Embrace me—I am thy Valeria—and do not come to me until ... that man is gone."

Fabio took the necklace—its pearls seemed to have grown dim—and fulfilled his wife's behest. Then he began to roam about the garden, gazing from a distance at the pavilion, around which the bustle of packing was already beginning. Men were carrying out chests, lading horses ... but the Malay was not among them. An irresistible feeling drew Fabio to gaze once more on what was going on in the pavilion. He recalled the fact that in its rear facade there was a secret door through which one might penetrate to the interior of the chamber where Muzio had been lying that morning. He stole up to that door, found it unlocked, and pushing aside the folds of a heavy curtain, darted in an irresolute glance.



XII

Muzio was no longer lying on the rug. Dressed in travelling attire, he was sitting in an arm-chair, but appeared as much of a corpse as at Fabio's first visit. The petrified head had fallen against the back of the chair, the hands lay flat, motionless, and yellow on the knees. His breast did not heave. Round about the chair, on the floor strewn with dried herbs, stood several flat cups filled with a dark liquid which gave off a strong, almost suffocating odour,—the odour of musk. Around each cup was coiled a small, copper-coloured serpent, which gleamed here and there with golden spots; and directly in front of Muzio, a couple of paces distant from him, rose up the tall figure of the Malay, clothed in a motley-hued mantle of brocade, girt about with a tiger's tail, with a tall cap in the form of a horned tiara on his head.

But he was not motionless: now he made devout obeisances and seemed to be praying, again he drew himself up to his full height, even stood on tiptoe; now he threw his hands apart in broad and measured sweep, now he waved them urgently in the direction of Muzio, and seemed to be menacing or commanding with them, as he contracted his brows in a frown and stamped his foot. All these movements evidently cost him great effort, and even caused him suffering: he breathed heavily, the sweat streamed from his face. Suddenly he stood stock-still on one spot, and inhaling the air into his lungs and scowling, he stretched forward, then drew toward him his clenched fists, as though he were holding reins in them ... and to Fabio's indescribable horror, Muzio's head slowly separated itself from the back of the chair and reached out after the Malay's hands.... The Malay dropped his hands, and Muzio's head again sank heavily backward; the Malay repeated his gestures, and the obedient head repeated them after him. The dark liquid in the cups began to seethe with a faint sound; the very cups themselves emitted a faint tinkling, and the copper snakes began to move around each of them in undulating motion. Then the Malay advanced a pace, and elevating his eyebrows very high and opening his eyes until they were of huge size, he nodded his head at Muzio ... and the eyelids of the corpse began to flutter, parted unevenly, and from beneath them the pupils, dull as lead, revealed themselves. With proud triumph and joy—a joy that was almost malicious—beamed the face of the Malay; he opened his lips widely, and from the very depths of his throat a prolonged roar wrested itself with an effort.... Muzio's lips parted also, and a faint groan trembled on them in reply to that inhuman sound.

But at this point Fabio could endure it no longer: he fancied that he was witnessing some devilish incantations! He also uttered a shriek and started off at a run homeward, without looking behind him,—homeward as fast as he could go, praying and crossing himself as he ran.



XIII

Three hours later Antonio presented himself before him with the report that everything was ready, all the things were packed, and Signor Muzio was preparing to depart. Without uttering a word in answer to his servant, Fabio stepped out on the terrace, whence the pavilion was visible. Several pack-horses were grouped in front of it; at the porch itself a powerful black stallion, with a roomy saddle adapted for two riders, was drawn up. There also stood the servants with bared heads and the armed escort. The door of the pavilion opened and, supported by the Malay, Muzio made his appearance. His face was deathlike, and his arms hung down like those of a corpse,—but he walked ... yes! he put one foot before the other, and once mounted on the horse, he held himself upright, and got hold of the reins by fumbling. The Malay thrust his feet into the stirrups, sprang up behind him on the saddle, encircled his waist with his arm,—and the whole procession set out. The horses proceeded at a walk, and when they made the turn in front of the house, Fabio fancied that on Muzio's dark countenance two small white patches gleamed.... Could it be that he had turned his eyes that way?—The Malay alone saluted him ... mockingly, but as usual.

Did Valeria see all this? The shutters of her windows were closed ... but perhaps she was standing behind them.



XIV

At dinner-time she entered the dining-room, and was very quiet and affectionate; but she still complained of being weary. Yet there was no agitation about her, nor any of her former constant surprise and secret fear; and when, on the day after Muzio's departure, Fabio again set about her portrait, he found in her features that pure expression, the temporary eclipse of which had so disturbed him ... and his brush flew lightly and confidently over the canvas.

Husband and wife began to live their life as of yore. Muzio had vanished for them as though he had never existed. And both Fabio and Valeria seemed to have entered into a compact not to recall him by a single sound, not to inquire about his further fate; and it remained a mystery for all others as well. Muzio really did vanish, as though he had sunk through the earth. One day Fabio thought himself bound to relate to Valeria precisely what had occurred on that fateful night ... but she, probably divining his intention, held her breath, and her eyes narrowed as though she were anticipating a blow.... And Fabio understood her: he did not deal her that blow.

One fine autumnal day Fabio was putting the finishing touches to the picture of his Cecilia; Valeria was sitting at the organ, and her fingers were wandering over the keys.... Suddenly, contrary to her own volition, from beneath her fingers rang out that Song of Love Triumphant which Muzio had once played,—and at that same instant, for the first time since her marriage, she felt within her the palpitation of a new, germinating life.... Valeria started and stopped short....

What was the meaning of this? Could it be....

With this word the manuscript came to an end.



CLARA MILITCH

A TALE

(1882)



I

In the spring of 1878 there lived in Moscow, in a small wooden house on Shabolovka Street, a young man five-and-twenty years of age, Yakoff Aratoff by name. With him lived his aunt, an old maid, over fifty years of age, his father's sister, Platonida Ivanovna. She managed his housekeeping and took charge of his expenditures, of which Aratoff was utterly incapable. He had no other relations. Several years before, his father, a petty and not wealthy noble of the T—— government, had removed to Moscow, together with him and Platonida Ivanovna who, by the way, was always called Platosha; and her nephew called her so too. When he quitted the country where all of them had constantly dwelt hitherto, old Aratoff had settled in the capital with the object of placing his son in the university, for which he had himself prepared him; he purchased for a trifling sum a small house on one of the remote streets, and installed himself therein with all his books and "preparations." And of books and preparations he had many, for he was a man not devoid of learning ... "a supernatural eccentric," according to the words of his neighbours. He even bore among them the reputation of a magician: he had even received the nickname of "the insect-observer." He busied himself with chemistry, mineralogy, entomology, botany, and medicine; he treated voluntary patients with herbs and metallic powders of his own concoction, after the method of Paracelsus. With those same powders he had sent into the grave his young, pretty, but already too delicate wife, whom he had passionately loved, and by whom he had had an only son. With those same metallic powders he had wrought considerable havoc with the health of his son also, which, on the contrary, he had wished to reinforce, as he detected in his organisation anaemia and a tendency to consumption inherited from his mother. The title of "magician" he had acquired, among other things, from the fact that he considered himself a great-grandson—not in the direct line, of course—of the famous Bruce, in whose honour he had named his son Yakoff.[51] He was the sort of man who is called "very good-natured," but of a melancholy temperament, fussy, and timid, with a predilection for everything that was mysterious or mystical.... "Ah!" uttered in a half-whisper was his customary exclamation; and he died with that exclamation on his lips, two years after his removal to Moscow.

His son Yakoff did not, in outward appearance, resemble his father, who had been homely in person, clumsy and awkward; he reminded one rather of his mother. There were the same delicate, pretty features, the same soft hair of ashblonde hue, the same plump, childish lips, and large, languishing, greenish-grey eyes, and feathery eyelashes. On the other hand in disposition he resembled his father; and his face, which did not resemble his father's, bore the stamp of his father's expression; and he had angular arms, and a sunken chest, like old Aratoff, who, by the way, should hardly be called an old man, since he did not last to the age of fifty. During the latter's lifetime Yakoff had already entered the university, in the physico-mathematical faculty; but he did not finish his course,—not out of idleness, but because, according to his ideas, a person can learn no more in the university than he can teach himself at home; and he did not aspire to a diploma, as he was not intending to enter the government service. He avoided his comrades, made acquaintance with hardly any one, was especially shy of women, and lived a very isolated life, immersed in his books. He was shy of women, although he had a very tender heart, and was captivated by beauty.... He even acquired the luxury of an English keepsake, and (Oh, for shame!) admired the portraits of divers, bewitching Gulnares and Medoras which "adorned" it.... But his inborn modesty constantly restrained him. At home he occupied his late father's study, which had also been his bedroom; and his bed was the same on which his father had died.

The great support of his whole existence, his unfailing comrade and friend, was his aunt, that Platosha, with whom he exchanged barely ten words a day, but without whom he could not take a step. She was a long-visaged, long-toothed being, with pale eyes in a pale face, and an unvarying expression partly of sadness, partly of anxious alarm. Eternally attired in a grey gown, and a grey shawl which was redolent of camphor, she wandered about the house like a shadow, with noiseless footsteps; she sighed, whispered prayers—especially one, her favourite, which consisted of two words: "Lord, help!"—and managed the housekeeping very vigorously, hoarding every kopek and buying everything herself. She worshipped her nephew; she was constantly fretting about his health, was constantly in a state of alarm, not about herself but about him, and as soon as she thought there was anything the matter with him, she would quietly approach and place on his writing-table a cup of herb-tea, or stroke his back with her hands, which were as soft as wadding.

This coddling did not annoy Yakoff, but he did not drink the herb-tea, and only nodded approvingly. But neither could he boast of his health. He was extremely sensitive, nervous, suspicious; he suffered from palpitation of the heart, and sometimes from asthma. Like his father, he believed that there existed in nature and in the soul of man secrets, of which glimpses may sometimes be caught, though they cannot be understood; he believed in the presence of certain forces and influences, sometimes well-disposed but more frequently hostile ... and he also believed in science,—in its dignity and worth. Of late he had conceived a passion for photography. The odour of the ingredients used in that connection greatly disturbed his old aunt,—again not on her own behalf, but for Yasha's sake, on account of his chest. But with all his gentleness of disposition he possessed no small portion of stubbornness, and he diligently pursued his favourite occupation. "Platosha" submitted, and merely sighed more frequently than ever, and whispered "Lord, help!" as she gazed at his fingers stained with iodine.

Yakoff, as has already been stated, shunned his comrades; but with one of them he struck up a rather close friendship, and saw him frequently, even after that comrade, on leaving the university, entered the government service, which, however, was not very exacting: to use his own words, he had "tacked himself on" to the building of the Church of the Saviour[52] without, of course, knowing anything whatever about architecture. Strange to say, that solitary friend of Aratoff's, Kupfer by name, a German who was Russified to the extent of not knowing a single word of German, and even used the epithet "German"[53] as a term of opprobrium,—that friend had, to all appearance, nothing in common with him. He was a jolly, rosy-cheeked young fellow with black, curly hair, loquacious, and very fond of that feminine society which Aratoff so shunned. Truth to tell, Kupfer breakfasted and dined with him rather often, and even—as he was not a rich man—borrowed small sums of money from him; but it was not that which made the free-and-easy German so diligently frequent the little house on Shabolovka Street. He had taken a liking to Yakoff's spiritual purity, his "ideality,"—possibly as a contrast to what he daily encountered and beheld;—or, perhaps, in that same attraction toward "ideality" the young man's German blood revealed itself. And Yakoff liked Kupfer's good-natured frankness; and in addition to this, his tales of the theatres, concerts, and balls which he constantly attended—in general of that alien world into which Yakoff could not bring himself to penetrate—secretly interested and even excited the young recluse, yet without arousing in him a desire to test all this in his own experience. And Platosha liked Kupfer; she sometimes thought him too unceremonious, it is true; but instinctively feeling and understanding that he was sincerely attached to her beloved Yasha, she not only tolerated the noisy visitor, but even felt a kindness for him.



II

At the time of which we are speaking, there was in Moscow a certain widow, a Georgian Princess,—a person of ill-defined standing and almost a suspicious character. She was about forty years of age; in her youth she had, probably, bloomed with that peculiar oriental beauty, which so quickly fades; now she powdered and painted herself, and dyed her hair a yellow hue. Various, not altogether favourable, and not quite definite, rumours were in circulation about her; no one had known her husband—and in no one city had she lived for any length of time. She had neither children nor property; but she lived on a lavish scale,—on credit or otherwise. She held a salon, as the saying is, and received a decidedly mixed company—chiefly composed of young men. Her whole establishment, beginning with her own toilette, furniture, and table, and ending with her equipage and staff of servants, bore a certain stamp of inferiority, artificiality, transitoriness ... but neither the Princess herself nor her guests, apparently, demanded anything better. The Princess was reputed to be fond of music and literature, to be a patroness of actors and artists; and she really did take an interest in these "questions," even to an enthusiastic degree—and even to a pitch of rapture which was not altogether simulated. She indubitably did possess the aesthetic chord. Moreover, she was very accessible, amiable, devoid of pretensions, of affectation, and—a fact which many did not suspect—in reality extremely kind, tender-hearted and obliging.... Rare qualities, and therefore all the more precious, precisely in individuals of that stamp.

"A frivolous woman!" one clever person said concerning her, "and she will infallibly get into paradise! For she forgives everything—and everything will be forgiven her!"—It was also said concerning her that when she disappeared from any town, she always left behind her as many creditors as persons whom she had loaded with benefits. A soft heart can be pressed in any direction you like.

Kupfer, as was to be expected, was a visitor at her house, and became very intimate with her ... altogether too intimate, so malicious tongues asserted. But he always spoke of her not only in a friendly manner, but also with respect; he lauded her as a woman of gold—interpret that as you please!—and was a firm believer in her love for art, and in her comprehension of art!—So then, one day after dinner, at the Aratoffs', after having discussed the Princess and her evening gatherings, he began to urge Yakoff to break in upon his life of an anchorite for once, and permit him, Kupfer, to introduce him to his friend. At first Yakoff would not hear to anything of the sort.

"Why, what idea hast thou got into thy head?" exclaimed Kupfer at last. "What sort of a presentation is in question? I shall simply take thee, just as thou art now sitting there, in thy frock-coat, and conduct thee to her evening. They do not stand on ceremony in the least there, brother! Here now, thou art learned, and thou art fond of music" (there actually was in Aratoff's study a small piano, on which he occasionally struck a few chords in diminished sevenths)—"and in her house there is any quantity of that sort of thing!... And there thou wilt meet sympathetic people, without any airs! And, in conclusion, it is not right that at thy age, with thy personal appearance" (Aratoff dropped his eyes and waved his hand)—"yes, yes, with thy personal appearance, thou shouldst shun society, the world, in this manner! I'm not going to take thee to call on generals, seest thou! Moreover, I don't know any generals myself!... Don't be stubborn, my dear fellow! Morality is a good thing, a thing worthy of respect.... But why give thyself up to asceticism? Assuredly, thou art not preparing to become a monk!"

Aratoff continued, nevertheless, to resist; but Platonida Ivanovna unexpectedly came to Kupfer's assistance. Although she did not quite understand the meaning of the word "asceticism," still she also thought that it would not be a bad idea for Yashenka to divert himself, to take a look at people,—and show himself.—"The more so," she added, "that I have confidence in Feodor Feodoritch! He will not take thee to any bad place!..."

"I'll restore him to thee in all his pristine purity!" cried Kupfer, at whom Platonida Ivanovna, in spite of her confidence, kept casting uneasy glances; Aratoff blushed to his very ears—but he ceased to object.

It ended in Kupfer taking him, on the following day, to the Princess's evening assembly. But Aratoff did not remain there long. In the first place, he found at her house about twenty guests, men and women, who were, presumably, sympathetic, but who were strangers to him, nevertheless; and this embarrassed him, although he was obliged to talk very little: but he feared this most of all. In the second place, he did not like the hostess herself, although she welcomed him very cordially and unaffectedly. Everything about her displeased him; her painted face, and her churned-up curls, and her hoarsely-mellifluous voice, her shrill laugh, her way of rolling up her eyes, her too decollete bodice—and those plump, shiny fingers with a multitude of rings!... Slinking off into a corner, he now swiftly ran his eyes over the faces of all the guests, as though he did not even distinguish one from another; again he stared persistently at his own feet. But when, at last, an artist who had just come to town, with a drink-sodden countenance, extremely long hair, and a bit of glass under his puckered brow, seated himself at the piano, and bringing down his hands on the keys and his feet on the pedals, with a flourish, began to bang out a fantasia by Liszt on a Wagnerian theme, Aratoff could stand it no longer, and slipped away, bearing in his soul a confused and oppressive impression, athwart which, nevertheless, there pierced something which he did not understand, but which was significant and even agitating.



III

Kupfer came on the following day to dinner; but he did not enlarge upon the preceding evening, he did not even reproach Aratoff for his hasty flight, and merely expressed regret that he had not waited for supper, at which champagne had been served! (of Nizhegorod[54] fabrication, we may remark in parenthesis).

Kupfer probably understood that he had made a mistake in trying to rouse his friend, and that Aratoff was a man who positively was not adapted to that sort of society and manner of life. On his side, Aratoff also did not allude to the Princess or to the night before. Platonida Ivanovna did not know whether to rejoice at the failure of this first attempt or to regret it. She decided, at last, that Yasha's health might suffer from such expeditions, and regained her complacency. Kupfer went away directly after dinner, and did not show himself again for a whole week. And that not because he was sulking at Aratoff for the failure of his introduction,—the good-natured fellow was incapable of such a thing,—but he had, evidently, found some occupation which engrossed all his time, all his thoughts;—for thereafter he rarely came to the Aratoffs', wore an abstracted aspect, and soon vanished.... Aratoff continued to live on as before; but some hitch, if we may so express ourselves, had secured lodgment in his soul. He still recalled something or other, without himself being quite aware what it was precisely,—and that "something" referred to the evening which he had spent at the Princess's house. Nevertheless, he had not the slightest desire to return to it; and society, a section of which he had inspected in her house, repelled him more than ever. Thus passed six weeks.

And lo! one morning, Kupfer again presented himself to him, this time with a somewhat embarrassed visage.

"I know," he began, with a forced laugh, "that thy visit that evening was not to thy taste; but I hope that thou wilt consent to my proposal nevertheless ... and wilt not refuse my request."

"What art thou talking about?" inquired Aratoff.

"See here," pursued Kupfer, becoming more and more animated; "there exists here a certain society of amateurs and artists, which from time to time organises readings, concerts, even theatrical representations, for philanthropic objects...."

"And the Princess takes part?" interrupted Aratoff.

"The Princess always takes part in good works—but that is of no consequence. We have got up a literary and musical morning ... and at that performance thou mayest hear a young girl ... a remarkable young girl!—We do not quite know, as yet, whether she will turn out a Rachel or a Viardot ... for she sings splendidly, and declaims and acts.... She has talent of the first class, my dear fellow! I am not exaggerating.—So here now ... wilt not thou take a ticket?—Five rubles if thou wishest the first row."

"And where did this wonderful young girl come from?" asked Aratoff.

Kupfer grinned.—"That I cannot say.... Of late she has found an asylum with the Princess. The Princess, as thou knowest, is a patron of all such people.... And it is probable that thou sawest her that evening."

Aratoff started inwardly, faintly ... but made no answer.

"She has even acted somewhere in country districts," went on Kupfer, "and, on the whole, she was created for the theatre. Thou shalt see for thyself!"

"Is her name Clara?" asked Aratoff.

"Yes, Clara...."

"Clara!" interrupted Aratoff again.—"It cannot be!"

"Why not?—Clara it is, ... Clara Militch; that is not her real name ... but that is what she is called. She is to sing a romance by Glinka ... and one by Tchaikovsky, and then she will recite the letter from 'Evgeny Onyegin'[55]—Come now! Wilt thou take a ticket?"

"But when is it to be?"

"To-morrow ... to-morrow, at half-past one, in a private hall, on Ostozhyonka Street.... I will come for thee. A ticket at five rubles?... Here it is.... No, this is a three-ruble ticket.—Here it is.—And here is the affiche.[56]—I am one of the managers."

Aratoff reflected. Platonida Ivanovna entered the room at that moment and, glancing at his face, was suddenly seized with agitation.—"Yasha," she exclaimed, "what ails thee? Why art thou so excited? Feodor Feodorovitch, what hast thou been saying to him?"

But Aratoff did not give his friend a chance to answer his aunt's question, and hastily seizing the ticket which was held out to him, he ordered Platonida Ivanovna to give Kupfer five rubles on the instant.

She was amazed, and began to blink her eyes.... Nevertheless, she handed Kupfer the money in silence. Yashenka had shouted at her in a very severe manner.

"She's a marvel of marvels, I tell thee!" cried Kupfer, darting toward the door.—"Expect me to-morrow!"

"Has she black eyes?" called Aratoff after him.

"As black as coal!" merrily roared Kupfer, and disappeared.

Aratoff went off to his own room, while Platonida Ivanovna remained rooted to the spot, repeating: "Help, Lord! Lord, help!"



IV

The large hall in a private house on Ostozhyonka Street was already half filled with spectators when Aratoff and Kupfer arrived. Theatrical representations were sometimes given in that hall, but on this occasion neither stage-scenery nor curtain were visible. Those who had organised the "morning" had confined themselves to erecting a platform at one end, placing thereon a piano and a couple of music-racks, a few chairs, a table with a carafe of water and a glass, and hanging a curtain of red cloth over the door which led to the room set apart for the artists. In the first row the Princess was already seated, clad in a bright green gown; Aratoff placed himself at some distance from her, after barely exchanging a bow with her. The audience was what is called motley; it consisted chiefly of young men from various institutions of learning. Kupfer, in his quality of a manager, with a white ribbon on the lapel of his dress-coat, bustled and fussed about with all his might; the Princess was visibly excited, kept looking about her, launching smiles in all directions, and chatting with her neighbours ... there were only men in her immediate vicinity.

The first to make his appearance on the platform was a flute-player of consumptive aspect, who spat out ... that is to say, piped out a piece which was consumptive like himself. Two persons shouted "Bravo!" Then a fat gentleman in spectacles, very sedate and even grim of aspect, recited in a bass voice a sketch by Shtchedrin;[57] the audience applauded the sketch, not him.—Then the pianist, who was already known to Aratoff, presented himself, and pounded out the same Liszt fantasia; the pianist was favoured with a recall. He bowed, with his hand resting on the back of a chair, and after each bow he tossed back his hair exactly like Liszt! At last, after a decidedly long intermission, the red cloth over the door at the rear of the platform moved, was drawn widely apart, and Clara Militch made her appearance. The hall rang with applause. With unsteady steps she approached the front of the platform, came to a halt, and stood motionless, with her large, red, ungloved hands crossed in front of her, making no curtsey, neither bending her head nor smiling.

She was a girl of nineteen, tall, rather broad-shouldered, but well built. Her face was swarthy, partly Hebrew, partly Gipsy in type; her eyes were small and black beneath thick brows which almost met, her nose was straight, slightly up-turned, her lips were thin with a beautiful but sharp curve; she had a huge braid of black hair, which was heavy even to the eye, a low, impassive, stony brow, tiny ears ... her whole countenance was thoughtful, almost surly. A passionate, self-willed nature,—not likely to be either kindly or even intelligent,—but gifted, was manifested by everything about her.

For a while she did not raise her eyes, but suddenly gave a start and sent her intent but not attentive glance, which seemed to be buried in herself, along the rows of spectators.

"What tragic eyes!" remarked a certain grey-haired fop, who sat behind Aratoff, with the face of a courtesan from Revel,—one of Moscow's well-known first-nighters and rounders. The fop was stupid and intended to utter a bit of nonsense ... but he had spoken the truth! Aratoff, who had never taken his eyes from Clara since she had made her appearance, only then recalled that he actually had seen her at the Princess's; and had not only seen her, but had even noticed that she had several times looked at him with particular intentness out of her dark, watchful eyes. And on this occasion also ... or did he merely fancy that it was so?—on catching sight of him in the first row, she seemed to be delighted, seemed to blush—and again she gazed intently at him. Then, without turning round, she retreated a couple of paces in the direction of the piano, at which the accompanist, the long-haired foreigner, was already seated. She was to execute Glinka's romance, "As soon as I recognised thee...." She immediately began to sing, without altering the position of her hands and without glancing at the notes. Her voice was soft and resonant,—a contralto,—she pronounced her words distinctly and forcibly, and sang monotonously, without shading but with strong expression.

"The lass sings with conviction," remarked the same fop who sat behind Aratoff,—and again he spoke the truth.

Shouts of "Bis!" "Bravo!" resounded all about, but she merely darted a swift glance at Aratoff, who was neither shouting nor clapping,—he had not been particularly pleased by her singing,—made a slight bow and withdrew, without taking the arm of the hairy pianist which he had crooked out like a cracknel. She was recalled ... but it was some time before she made her appearance, advanced to the piano with the same uncertain tread as before, and after whispering a couple of words to her accompanist, who was obliged to get and place on the rack before him not the music he had prepared but something else,—she began Tchaikovsky's romance: "No, only he who hath felt the thirst of meeting".... This romance she sang in a different way from the first—in an undertone, as though she were weary ... and only in the line before the last, "He will understand how I have suffered,"—did a ringing, burning cry burst from her. The last line, "And how I suffer...." she almost whispered, sadly prolonging the final word. This romance produced a slighter impression on the audience than Glinka's; but there was a great deal of applause.... Kupfer, in particular, distinguished himself: he brought his hands together in a peculiar manner, in the form of a cask, when he clapped, thereby producing a remarkably sonorous noise. The Princess gave him a large, dishevelled bouquet, which he was to present to the songstress; but the latter did not appear to perceive Kupfer's bowed figure, and his hand outstretched with the bouquet, and she turned and withdrew, again without waiting for the pianist, who had sprung to his feet with still greater alacrity than before to escort her, and who, being thus left in the lurch, shook his hair as Liszt himself, in all probability, never shook his!

During the whole time she was singing Aratoff had been scanning Clara's face. It seemed to him that her eyes, athwart her contracted lashes, were again turned on him. But he was particularly struck by the impassiveness of that face, that forehead, those brows, and only when she uttered her passionate cry did he notice a row of white, closely-set teeth gleaming warmly from between her barely parted lips. Kupfer stepped up to him.

"Well, brother, what dost thou think of her?" he asked, all beaming with satisfaction.

"She has a fine voice," replied Aratoff, "but she does not know how to sing yet, she has had no real school." (Why he said this and what he meant by "school" the Lord only knows!)

Kupfer was surprised.—"She has no school," he repeated slowly.... "Well, now.... She can still study. But on the other hand, what soul! But just wait until thou hast heard her recite Tatyana's letter."

He ran away from Aratoff, and the latter thought: "Soul! With that impassive face!"—He thought that she bore herself and moved like a hypnotised person, like a somnambulist.... And, at the same time, she was indubitably.... Yes! she was indubitably staring at him.

Meanwhile the "morning" went on. The fat man in spectacles presented himself again; despite his serious appearance he imagined that he was a comic artist and read a scene from Gogol, this time without evoking a single token of approbation. The flute-player flitted past once more; again the pianist thundered; a young fellow of twenty, pomaded and curled, but with traces of tears on his cheeks, sawed out some variations on his fiddle. It might have appeared strange that in the intervals between the recitations and the music the abrupt notes of a French horn were wafted, now and then, from the artists' room; but this instrument was not used, nevertheless. It afterward came out that the amateur who had offered to perform on it had been seized with a panic at the moment when he should have made his appearance before the audience. So at last, Clara Militch appeared again.

She held in her hand a small volume of Pushkin; but during her reading she never once glanced at it.... She was obviously frightened; the little book shook slightly in her fingers. Aratoff also observed the expression of dejection which now overspread her stern features. The first line: "I write to you ... what would you more?" she uttered with extreme simplicity, almost ingenuously,—stretching both arms out in front of her with an ingenuous, sincere, helpless gesture. Then she began to hurry a little; but beginning with the line: "Another! Nay! to none on earth could I have given e'er my heart!" she regained her self-possession, and grew animated; and when she reached the words: "All, all life hath been a pledge of faithful meeting thus with thee,"—her hitherto rather dull voice rang out enthusiastically and boldly, and her eyes riveted themselves on Aratoff with a boldness and directness to match. She went on with the same enthusiasm, and only toward the close did her voice again fall, and in it and in her face her previous dejection was again depicted. She made a complete muddle, as the saying is, of the last four lines,—the little volume of Pushkin suddenly slipped from her hands, and she beat a hasty retreat.

The audience set to applauding and recalling her in desperate fashion.... One theological student,—a Little Russian,—among others, bellowed so loudly: "Muiluitch! Muiluitch!"[58] that his neighbour politely and sympathetically begged him to "spare himself, as a future proto-deacon!"[59] But Aratoff immediately rose and betook himself to the entrance. Kupfer overtook him....

"Good gracious, whither art thou going?" he yelled:—"I'll introduce thee to Clara if thou wishest—shall I?"

"No, thanks," hastily replied Aratoff, and set off homeward almost at a run.



V

Strange emotions, which were not clear even to himself, agitated him. In reality, Clara's recitation had not altogether pleased him either ... altogether he could not tell precisely why. It had troubled him, that recitation, it had seemed to him harsh, unmelodious.... Somehow it seemed to have broken something within him, to have exerted some sort of violence. And those importunate, persistent, almost insolent glances—what had caused them? What did they signify?

Aratoff's modesty did permit him even a momentary thought that he might have pleased that strange young girl, that he might have inspired her with a sentiment akin to love, to passion!... And he had imagined to himself quite otherwise that as yet unknown woman, that young girl, to whom he would surrender himself wholly, and who would love him, become his bride, his wife.... He rarely dreamed of this: he was chaste both in body and soul;—but the pure image which rose up in his imagination at such times was evoked under another form,—the form of his dead mother, whom he barely remembered, though he cherished her portrait like a sacred treasure. That portrait had been painted in water-colours, in a rather inartistic manner, by a friendly neighbour, but the likeness was striking, as every one averred. The woman, the young girl, whom as yet he did not so much as venture to expect, must possess just such a tender profile, just such kind, bright eyes, just such silky hair, just such a smile, just such a clear understanding....

But this was a black-visaged, swarthy creature, with coarse hair, and a moustache on her lip; she must certainly be bad-tempered, giddy.... "A gipsy" (Aratoff could not devise a worse expression)—what was she to him?

And in the meantime, Aratoff was unable to banish from his mind that black-visaged gipsy, whose singing and recitation and even whose personal appearance were disagreeable to him. He was perplexed, he was angry with himself. Not long before this he had read Walter Scott's romance "Saint Ronan's Well" (there was a complete edition of Walter Scott's works in the library of his father, who revered the English romance-writer as a serious, almost a learned author). The heroine of that romance is named Clara Mowbray. A poet of the '40's, Krasoff, wrote a poem about her, which wound up with the words:

"Unhappy Clara! foolish Clara! Unhappy Clara Mowbray!"

Aratoff was acquainted with this poem also.... And now these words kept incessantly recurring to his memory.... "Unhappy Clara! foolish Clara!..." (That was why he had been so surprised when Kupfer mentioned Clara Militch to him.) Even Platosha noticed, not precisely a change in Yakoff's frame of mind—as a matter of fact, no change had taken place—but something wrong about his looks, in his remarks. She cautiously interrogated him about the literary morning at which he had been present;—she whispered, sighed, scrutinised him from in front, scrutinised him from the side, from behind—and suddenly, slapping her hands on her thighs, she exclaimed:

"Well, Yashal—I see what the trouble is!"

"What dost thou mean?" queried Aratoff in his turn.

"Thou hast certainly met at that morning some one of those tail-draggers" (that was what Platonida Ivanovna called all ladies who wore fashionable gowns).... "She has a comely face—and she puts on airs like this,—and twists her face like this" (Platosha depicted all this in her face), "and she makes her eyes go round like this...." (she mimicked this also, describing huge circles in the air with her forefinger).... "And it made an impression on thee, because thou art not used to it.... But that does not signify anything, Yasha ... it does not signify anything! Drink a cup of herb-tea when thou goest to bed, and that will be the end of it!... Lord, help!"

Platosha ceased speaking and took herself off.... She probably had never made such a long and animated speech before since she was born ... but Aratoff thought:

"I do believe my aunt is right.... It is all because I am not used to such things...." (He really had attracted the attention of the female sex to himself for the first time ... at any rate, he had never noticed it before.) "I must not indulge myself."

So he set to work at his books, and drank some linden-flower tea when he went to bed, and even slept well all that night, and had no dreams. On the following morning he busied himself with his photography, as though nothing had happened....

But toward evening his spiritual serenity was again disturbed.



VI

To wit: a messenger brought him a note, written in a large, irregular feminine hand, which ran as follows:

"If you guess who is writing to you, and if it does not bore you, come to-morrow, after dinner, to the Tver boulevard—about five o'clock—and wait. You will not be detained long. But it is very important. Come."

There was no signature. Aratoff instantly divined who his correspondent was, and that was precisely what disturbed him.—"What nonsense!" he said, almost aloud. "This is too much! Of course I shall not go."—Nevertheless, he ordered the messenger to be summoned, and from him he learned merely that the letter had been handed to him on the street by a maid. Having dismissed him, Aratoff reread the letter, and flung it on the floor.... But after a while he picked it up and read it over again; a second time he cried: "Nonsense!" He did not throw the letter on the floor this time, however, but put it away in a drawer.

Aratoff went about his customary avocations, busying himself now with one, now with another; but his work did not make progress, was not a success. Suddenly he noticed that he was waiting for Kupfer, that he wanted to interrogate him, or even communicate something to him.... But Kupfer did not make his appearance. Then Aratoff got Pushkin and read Tatyana's letter and again felt convinced that that "gipsy" had not in the least grasped the meaning of the letter. But there was that jester Kupfer shouting: "A Rachel! A Viardot!" Then he went to his piano, raised the cover in an abstracted sort of way, tried to search out in his memory the melody of Tchaikovsky's romance; but he immediately banged to the piano-lid with vexation and went to his aunt, in her own room, which was always kept very hot, and was forever redolent of mint, sage, and other medicinal herbs, and crowded with such a multitude of rugs, etageres, little benches, cushions and various articles of softly-stuffed furniture that it was difficult for an inexperienced person to turn round in it, and breathing was oppressive. Platonida Ivanovna was sitting by the window with her knitting-needles in her hand (she was knitting a scarf for Yashenka—the thirty-eighth, by actual count, during the course of his existence!)—and was greatly surprised. Aratoff rarely entered her room, and if he needed anything he always shouted in a shrill voice from his study: "Aunt Platosha!"—But she made him sit down and, in anticipation of his first words, pricked up her ears, as she stared at him through her round spectacles with one eye, and above them with the other. She did not inquire after his health, and did not offer him tea, for she saw that he had not come for that. Aratoff hesitated for a while ... then began to talk ... to talk about his mother, about the way she had lived with his father, and how his father had made her acquaintance. He knew all this perfectly well ... but he wanted to talk precisely about that. Unluckily for him, Platosha did not know how to converse in the least; she made very brief replies, as though she suspected that Yasha had not come for that purpose.

"Certainly!"—she kept repeating hurriedly, as she plied her knitting-needles almost in an angry way. "Every one knows that thy mother was a dove ... a regular dove.... And thy father loved her as a husband should love, faithfully and honourably, to the very grave; and he never loved any other woman,"—she added, elevating her voice and removing her spectacles.

"And was she of a timid disposition?" asked Aratoff, after a short pause.

"Certainly she was. As is fitting for the female sex. The bold ones are a recent invention."

"And were there no bold ones in your time?"

"There were such even in our day ... of course there were! But who were they? Some street-walker, or shameless hussy or other. She would drag her skirts about, and fling herself hither and thither at random.... What did she care? What anxiety had she? If a young fool came along, he fell into her hands. But steady-going people despised them. Dost thou remember ever to have beheld such in our house?"

Aratoff made no reply and returned to his study. Platonida Ivanovna gazed after him, shook her head and again donned her spectacles, again set to work on her scarf ... but more than once she fell into thought and dropped her knitting-needles on her knee.

And Aratoff until nightfall kept again and again beginning, with the same vexation, the same ire as before, to think about "the gipsy," the appointed tryst, to which he certainly would not go! During the night also she worried him. He kept constantly seeing her eyes, now narrowed, now widely opened, with their importunate gaze riveted directly on him, and those impassive features with their imperious expression.

On the following morning he again kept expecting Kupfer, for some reason or other; he came near writing him a letter ... however, he did nothing ... but spent most of his time pacing to and fro in his study. Not for one instant did he even admit to himself the thought that he would go to that stupid "rendezvous" ... and at half-past four, after having swallowed his dinner in haste, he suddenly donned his overcoat and pulling his cap down on his brows, he stole out of the house without letting his aunt see him and wended his way to the Tver boulevard.



VII

Aratoff found few pedestrians on the boulevard. The weather was raw and quite cold. He strove not to think of what he was doing. He forced himself to turn his attention to all the objects he came across and pretended to assure himself that he had come out to walk precisely like the other people.... The letter of the day before was in his side-pocket, and he was uninterruptedly conscious of its presence. He walked the length of the boulevard a couple of times, darting keen glances at every feminine form which approached him, and his heart thumped, thumped violently.... He began to feel tired, and sat down on a bench. And suddenly the idea occurred to him: "Come now, what if that letter was not written by her but by some one else, by some other woman?" In point of fact, that should have made no difference to him ... and yet he was forced to admit to himself that he did not wish this. "It would be very stupid," he thought, "still more stupid than that!" A nervous restlessness began to take possession of him; he began to feel chilly, not outwardly but inwardly. Several times he drew out his watch from his waistcoat pocket, glanced at the face, put it back again,—and every time forgot how many minutes were lacking to five o'clock. It seemed to him as though every one who passed him stared at him in a peculiar manner, surveying him with a certain sneering surprise and curiosity. A wretched little dog ran up, sniffed at his legs and began to wag its tail. He flourished his arms angrily at it. He was most annoyed of all by a small boy from a factory in a bed-ticking jacket, who seated himself on the bench and first whistled, then scratched his head, dangling his legs, encased in huge, broken boots, the while, and staring at him from time to time. "His employer is certainly expecting him," thought Aratoff, "and here he is, the lazy dog, wasting his time idling about...."

But at that same moment it seemed to him as though some one had approached and taken up a stand close behind him ... a warm current emanated thence....

He glanced round.... It was she!

He recognised her immediately, although a thick, dark-blue veil concealed her features. He instantly sprang from the bench, and remained standing there, unable to utter a word. She also maintained silence. He felt greatly agitated ... but her agitation was as great as his: Aratoff could not help seeing even through the veil how deadly pale she grew. But she was the first to speak.

"Thank you," she began in a broken voice, "thank you for coming. I did not hope...." She turned away slightly and walked along the boulevard. Aratoff followed her.

"Perhaps you condemn me," she went on, without turning her head.—"As a matter of fact, my action is very strange.... But I have heard a great deal about you ... but no! I ... that was not the cause.... If you only knew.... I wanted to say so much to you, my God!... But how am I to do it?... How am I to do it!"

Aratoff walked by her side, but a little in the rear. He did not see her face; he saw only her hat and a part of her veil ... and her long, threadbare cloak. All his vexation against her and against himself suddenly returned to him; all the absurdity, all the awkwardness of this tryst, of these explanations between utter strangers, on a public boulevard, suddenly presented itself to him.

"I have come hither at your behest," he began in his turn, "I have come, my dear madame" (her shoulders quivered softly, she turned into a side path, and he followed her), "merely for the sake of having an explanation, of learning in consequence of what strange misunderstanding you were pleased to appeal to me, a stranger to you, who ... who only guessed, as you expressed it in your letter, that it was precisely you who had written to him ... because he guessed that you had tried, in the course of that literary morning to show him too much ... too much obvious attention."

Aratoff uttered the whole of this little speech in the same resonant but firm voice in which men who are still very young answer at examinations on questions for which they are well prepared.... He was indignant; he was angry.... And that wrath had loosed his tongue which was not very fluent on ordinary occasions.

She continued to advance along the path with somewhat lagging steps.... Aratoff followed her as before, and as before saw only her little old mantilla and her small hat, which was not quite new either. His vanity suffered at the thought that she must now be thinking: "All I had to do was to make a sign, and he immediately hastened to me!"

Aratoff lapsed into silence ... he expected that she would reply to him; but she did not utter a word.

"I am ready to listen to you," he began again, "and I shall even be very glad if I can be of service to you in any way ... although, I must confess, nevertheless, that I find it astonishing ... that considering my isolated life...."

But at his last words Clara suddenly turned to him and he beheld the same startled, profoundly-sorrowful visage, with the same large, bright tears in its eyes, with the same woful expression around the parted lips; and the visage was so fine thus that he involuntarily broke off short and felt within himself something akin to fright, and pity and forbearance.

"Akh, why ... why are you like this? ..." she said with irresistibly sincere and upright force—and what a touching ring there was to her voice!—"Is it possible that my appeal to you can have offended you?... Is it possible that you have understood nothing?... Ah, yes! You have not understood anything, you have not understood what I said to you. God knows what you have imagined about me, you have not even reflected what it cost me to write to you!... You have been anxious only on your own account, about your own dignity, your own peace!... But did I...." (she so tightly clenched her hands which she had raised to her lips that her fingers cracked audibly).... "As though I had made any demands upon you, as though explanations were requisite to begin with.... 'My dear madame'.... 'I even find it astonishing'.... 'If I can be of service to you'.... Akh, how foolish I have been!—I have been deceived in you, in your face!... When I saw you for the first time.... There.... There you stand.... And not one word do you utter! Have you really not a word to say?"

She had been imploring.... Her face suddenly flushed, and as suddenly assumed an evil and audacious expression,—"O Lord! how stupid this is!"—she cried suddenly, with a harsh laugh.—"How stupid our tryst is! How stupid I am! ... and you, too!... Fie!"

She made a disdainful gesture with her hand as though sweeping him out of her path, and passing around him she ran swiftly from the boulevard and disappeared.

That gesture of the hand, that insulting laugh, that final exclamation instantly restored Aratoff to his former frame of mind and stifled in him the feeling which had risen in his soul when she turned to him with tears in her eyes. Again he waxed wroth, and came near shouting after the retreating girl: "You may turn out a good actress, but why have you taken it into your head to play a comedy on me?"

With great strides he returned home, and although he continued to be indignant and to rage all the way thither, still, at the same time, athwart all these evil, hostile feelings there forced its way the memory of that wondrous face which he had beheld only for the twinkling of an eye.... He even put to himself the question: "Why did not I answer her when she demanded from me at least one word?"—"I did not have time," ... he thought.... "She did not give me a chance to utter that word.... And what would I have uttered?"

But he immediately shook his head and said, "An actress!"

And yet, at the same time, the vanity of the inexperienced, nervous youth, which had been wounded at first, now felt rather flattered at the passion which he had inspired....

"But on the other hand," he pursued his reflections, "all that is at an end of course.... I must have appeared ridiculous to her."....

This thought was disagreeable to him, and again he grew angry ... both at her ... and at himself. On reaching home he locked himself in his study. He did not wish to encounter Platosha. The kind old woman came to his door a couple of times, applied her ear to the key-hole, and merely sighed and whispered her prayer....

"It has begun!" she thought.... "And he is only five-and-twenty.... Akh, it is early, early!"



VIII