Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev.

After death

(Clara Milic)

In the spring of 1878 he lived in Moscow, in a small wooden house on Shabolovka, a young man, about twenty-five years old, named Yakov Aratov. His aunt lived with him, an old girl in her fifties, his father's sister, Platonvda Ivanovna. She was in charge of his household and managed his expenses, which Aratov was completely incapable of. He had no other relatives. A few years ago his father, a poor nobleman of T... and the province, moved to Moscow with him and Platonida Ivanovna, whom, however, he always called Platosha; and her nephew also called her. Leaving the village in which they had all lived until then, the old man Aratov settled in the capital with the aim of placing his son in a university, for which he himself had prepared him; bought for nothing a house in one of the remote streets and settled down in it with all his books and "drugs". And he had a lot of books and preparations - for he was not a man without learning ... "an eccentric eccentric," according to his neighbors. He even had a reputation among them as a warlock; he even got the nickname "insect watcher". He was engaged in chemistry, mineralogy, entomology, botany and medicine; treated voluntary patients with herbs and metal powders of his own invention, according to the method of Paracelsius. With these same powders, he brought to the grave his young, pretty, but too thin wife, whom he loved passionately and from whom he had an only son. With the same metal powders, he also spoiled the health of his son, which, on the contrary, he wanted to strengthen, finding in his body anemia and a tendency to consumption, inherited from his mother. By the way, he got the name "warlock" from the fact that he considered himself a great-grandson - not in a straight line, of course - of the famous Bruce, after whom he named his son Jacob. He was, as they say, "the kindest" person, but of a melancholic disposition, scurrilous, timid, prone to everything mysterious, mystical ... A half-whisper uttered: "Ah!" was his usual exclamation; he died with this exclamation on his lips, two years later after moving to Moscow. His son Jacob did not look like his father, who was ugly, clumsy and awkward; he was more like his mother. The same fine, pretty features, the same soft ash-colored hair, the same small hooked nose, the same bulging childish lips - and large, greenish-gray eyes with a veil and fluffy eyelashes. But in disposition he resembled his father; and his face, unlike his father's, bore the imprint of a father's expression - and his hands were knotty, and his chest sunken, like old Aratov, who, however, should hardly be called an old man, since he was not even fifty years old. Even during his lifetime, Yakov entered the university, in the Faculty of Physics and Mathematics; however, he did not finish the course - not out of laziness, but because, according to his concepts, one does not learn more at the university than one can learn at home; and he did not pursue a diploma, since he did not expect to enter the service. He was shy of his comrades, almost did not get acquainted with anyone, in particular he shunned women and lived very secluded, immersed in books. He shunned women, although he had a very tender heart and was captivated by beauty... He even acquired a sumptuous English kip-sack - and (shamefully!) admired the images of various delightful Gulnar and Medor that "decorated" him... But he was constantly held back by his inborn modesty. In the house, he occupied his father's former study, which was also his bedroom; and his bed was the same on which his father had died. His aunt, that Platosha, with whom he hardly exchanged ten words a day, but without whom he could not take a step, was a great help to his entire existence, an invariable comrade and friend. It was a long-faced, long-toothed creature, with pale eyes in a pale face, with an invariable expression of either sadness or preoccupied fright. Forever dressed in a gray dress and a gray shawl that smelled of camphor, she wandered around the house like a shadow with inaudible steps; she sighed, whispered prayers - one special, beloved, consisting of only two words: "Lord, help!" - and very efficiently disposed of the household, took care of every penny and bought everything herself. She adored her nephew; she was constantly worrying about her health - she was afraid of everything - not for herself, but for him - and, it happened, just a little something seemed to her, now she would quietly come up and put a cup of breast tea on his desk or stroke him on the back with her soft, like cotton wool, hands. Yakov was not weary of this courtship - he did not drink breast tea, however - and only shook his head approvingly. He was very impressionable, nervous, suspicious, suffered from palpitations, sometimes shortness of breath; like his father, he believed that there are secrets in nature and in the human soul that can sometimes be seen through, but it is impossible to comprehend, he believed in the presence of certain forces and trends, sometimes favorable, but more often hostile, and he also believed in science, in its dignity and importance. IN Lately he is addicted to photography. The smell of the drugs used worried the old woman very much - again, not for herself, but for Yasha, for his chest; but, for all the gentleness of his disposition, there was a lot of stubbornness in him - and he persistently continued his favorite occupation. Platosha resigned herself and only sighed and whispered more than ever: "Lord, help me!", Looking at his iodine-stained fingers. Yakov, as has already been said, shunned his comrades; however, he got along quite close with one of them and saw him often, even after this comrade, having left the university, entered the service, which, however, was not obligatory: he, in his words, “squatted” with the construction of the Temple of the Savior, nothing , of course, in architecture without understanding. Strange thing: this only friend of Aratov, by the name of Kupfer, a German so Russified that he did not know a single word of German and even cursed "German" - this friend apparently had nothing in common with him. He was a black-haired, ruddy-cheeked fellow, a merry fellow, a talker and a great lover of the same sorority, which Aratov so avoided. True, Kupfer both breakfasted and dined with him often - and even, being a poor man, he borrowed small sums from him; but this was not what made the cheeky German diligently visit the secluded house on Shabolovka. The spiritual purity, the "ideality" of Yakov fell in love with him, perhaps as a contradiction to what he met and saw every day; or, perhaps, in this very attraction to the "ideal" young man, his Germanic blood nevertheless affected. And Yakov liked Kupfer's good-natured frankness; and besides, his stories about theaters, about concerts, about balls where he was a regular, - in general, about that alien world where Yakov did not dare to penetrate - secretly occupied and even excited the young hermit, without exciting, however, in he wants to experience it all own experience. And Platosha complained about Kupfer, although she sometimes found him too unceremonious, but, instinctively feeling and understanding that he was sincerely attached to her dear Yasha, she not only tolerated a noisy guest, but also favored him. At the time we are talking about, there was a certain widow in Moscow, a Georgian princess - an indefinite, almost suspicious person. She was already under forty; in her youth, she probably blossomed with that special oriental beauty that fades so soon; now she bleached, blushed, and dyed her hair yellow. There were various, not entirely profitable and not entirely clear rumors about her; no one knew her husband - and she did not live long in any city. She had no children, no fortune; but she lived openly, on credit or otherwise; kept, as they say, a salon and accepted a rather mixed society - for the most part youth Everything in her house, starting with her own toilet, furniture, table and ending with the carriage and servants, bore the stamp of something of poor quality, fake, temporary ... but the princess herself and her guests, apparently, did not demand anything better . The princess was known as a lover of music, literature, patroness of artists and artists; and she was really interested in all these "questions" even to the point of enthusiasm - and to the point of enthusiasm, not entirely feigned. The aesthetic vein in her undoubtedly beat. In addition, she was very accessible, amiable, - in fact, very kind, soft-hearted and condescending ... Qualities are rare - and even more expensive - in this kind of personalities! “An empty woman!” one wise man said of her, “but she will certainly go to heaven! Because: she forgives everything - and everything will be forgiven her!” It was also said of her that when she disappeared from any city, she always left in it as many lenders as people who benefited from her. A soft heart bends in any direction you want. Kupfer, as expected, got into her house and became close to her ... gossips assured: too close person. He himself always spoke of her not only friendly, but with respect, he called her golden woman -- whatever you say! -- and firmly believed in her love of art and in her understanding of art! So one day, after dinner at the Aratovs, talking about the princess and her evenings, he began to persuade Yakov to disrupt his life as an anchorite for once and allow him, Kupfer, to introduce him to his friend. Jacob didn't want to listen at first. - Yes, what do you think? ' exclaimed Kupfer at last, 'what performance are we talking about? I'll just take you, that's how you're sitting now, in your frock coat, and I'll take you to her house for the evening. No there, brother, there are no ethics! You are a scientist, and you love literature and music (Aratov really had a piano in his study, on which he occasionally played chords with a diminished seventh) - and in her house there is plenty of all this stuff! And you will meet sympathetic people there, without any pretensions! And, finally, at your age, with your appearance (Aratov lowered his eyes and waved his hand) - yes, yes, with your appearance, to be so alienated from society, from light! After all, I'm not taking you to the generals! However, I myself do not know the generals! Don't give up, dove! Morality is a good, honorable thing... But why go into asceticism? You are not preparing yourself for monks! Aratov, however, continued to resist; but Platonida Ivanovna unexpectedly appeared to help Kupfer. Although she did not understand well what this word is: asceticism? - however, she also found that it would not be bad for Yashenka to have fun, to look at people - and show herself. "Moreover," she added, "that I'm sure of Fyodor Fedo-rych! He won't take you to a bad place..." "I'll present him back to you in all integrity!" cried Kupfer, at whom Platonida Ivanovna, in spite of her confidence, cast restless glances. Aratov blushed to the ears - but he ceased to object. It ended up that the next day Kupfer took him to the princess for an evening. But Aratov didn't stay there long. Firstly, he found about twenty guests with her, men and women, let's say, both sympathetic, but still strangers; and this embarrassed him, although he had to talk very little, and this he was most afraid of. Secondly, he did not like the hostess herself, although she received him very cordially and simply. He didn't like everything about her, the painted face, the tousled curls, the hoarse, sugary voice, the shrill laugh, the way she rolled her eyes under her forehead, the excessive cleavage - and those plump, glossy fingers with lots of rings! Crawling into a corner, he now quickly ran his eyes over all the faces of the guests, somehow not even distinguishing them, then stared stubbornly at his feet. When, finally, one visiting artist with a tired face, longest hair and, like a piece of glass under a crumpled eyebrow, sat down at the piano and, striking with a swing of his hands on the keys, and with his foot on the pedal, began to play Liszt's fantasy on Wagnerian themes - Aratov could not stand it and slipped away, carrying away in his soul a vague and heavy impression, through which, however, something incomprehensible to himself was breaking through - but significant and even disturbing. Kupfer came to dinner the next day; however, he did not expand on yesterday's evening, did not even reproach Aratov for his hasty flight - and only regretted that he did not wait for supper, after which champagne was served! (Nizhny Novgorod product, we note in parentheses.) Kupfer probably realized that he had thought in vain to stir up his friend and that Aratov was definitely “not suitable” for that society and way of life. For his part, Aratov also did not speak of either the princess or the previous evening. Platonvda Ivanovna did not know whether to rejoice at the failure of this first attempt or regret it? She finally decided that Yasha's health might have suffered from such trips, and calmed down Kupfer left immediately after dinner and did not show himself for a whole week afterwards. And it wasn’t that he was sulky at Aratov for the failure of his recommendation—the good-natured man was incapable of that—but he obviously found some occupation that consumed all his time, all his thoughts—because even afterwards he rarely appeared. to the Aratovs, he looked distracted, spoke little and soon disappeared ... Aratov continued to live as before; but some sort of, so to speak, squiggle settled into his soul. He kept remembering something, not knowing exactly what it was, and the light, of which he had seen some of it in her house, repelled him more than ever. So six weeks passed. And then one morning Kupfer again appeared before him, this time with a somewhat embarrassed face. “I know,” he began with a forced laugh, “that you did not like your visit then; but I hope that you will still agree to my proposal ... do not refuse my request! -- What's the matter? asked Aratov. “Well, you see,” continued Kupfer, becoming more and more animated, “there is one society of amateurs here, artists, which from time to time arranges readings, concerts, even theatrical performances with a charitable purpose ... - And the princess participates? interrupted Aratov. "The princess is always in good deeds participates - but it's nothing. We started a literary and musical morning ... and on this morning you can hear a girl ... an extraordinary girl. We still do not know well: is she Rachel or Viardot? ... because she sings excellently, and recites, and plays ... Talent, my brother, you are first-class! I say without exaggeration. So...would you take a ticket? Five rubles, if in the first row. Where did this amazing girl come from? asked Aratov. Kupfer grinned. “I can’t say that... Recently, she has taken refuge with the princess. The princess, you know, patronizes all such ... Yes, you probably saw her at that evening. Aratov trembled - inwardly, weakly ... but said nothing - She even played somewhere in the provinces, - continued Kupfer, - and in general she was created for the theater. Here you will see! -- What is her name? asked Aratov. - Clara... - Clara? interrupted Aratov for the second time. -- Can't be! - Why can't it be? Clara... Clara Milic; that's not her real name... but that's what they call her. She will sing the Glinka romance and Tchaikovsky; and then read a letter from "Eugene Onegin". Well? do you get a ticket? - When will that be? - Tomorrow ... tomorrow at half past one, in a private hall, on Ostozhenka ... I'll pick you up. A five-ruble ticket?... Here it is... no, it's a three-ruble ticket. Here. Here is the flyer. I am one of the stewards. Aratov thought. Platonvda Ivanovna came in at that moment and, looking into his face, suddenly became alarmed. "Yasha," she exclaimed, "what's the matter with you?" Why are you so embarrassed? Fyodor Fedorych, what did you say to him like that? But Aratov did not let his friend answer his aunt's question, and, hurriedly snatching the ticket held out to him, ordered Platonida Ianovna to give Kupfer five roubles. She was surprised, blinked her eyes ... However, she handed the money to Kupfer silently. Yashenka shouted at her very sternly. “I tell you, miracle of miracles!” - exclaimed Kupfer and rushed to the door - Wait for me tomorrow! She has black eyes! - Aratov said after him - Like coal! Kupfer barked merrily and disappeared. Aratov went to his room, but Platonida Ivanovna remained where she was, repeating in a whisper: "Help me, Lord! Lord, help me!" The large hall in the private house on Ostozhenka was already half full of visitors when Aratov and Kupfer arrived there. Theatrical performances were sometimes given in this hall, but this time neither the scenery nor the curtain was visible. The founders of the "morning" limited themselves to erecting a stage at one end, placing a piano, a couple of music stands, several chairs, a table with a decanter of water and a glass on it - and hung with red cloth the door that led to the room provided to the artists. In the front row was already sitting, the princess in a bright green dress; Aratov placed himself at some distance from her, barely exchanging a bow with her. The audience was what is called motley; more and more young people educational institutions. Kupfer, like one of the stewards, with a white bow on the cuff of his tailcoat, fussed and fussed with all his might; the princess was apparently agitated, looked around, sent smiles in all directions, spoke to her neighbors ... there were only men around her. The flutist of a consumptive appearance was the first to appear on the stage and painstakingly spat ... that is to say! he whistled a little piece, also of a consumptive quality; two people shouted "Bravo!" Then some fat gentleman with glasses, very imposing and even gloomy in appearance, read Shchedrin's essay in a bass voice; they clapped for the essay, not for him; then a piano player, already familiar to Aratov, appeared and drummed out the same Lisztian fantasy; the piano player received the challenge. He bowed, leaning his hand on the back of the chair, and after each bow he waved his hair, just like Liszt! Finally, after a rather long interval, the red cloth on the door behind the stage stirred, flung open wide - and Clara Milic appeared. The hall resounded with applause. With hesitant steps she approached the front of the platform, stopped and remained motionless, folding large, beautiful hands without gloves, without crouching, without tilting his head or smiling. She was a girl of about nineteen, tall, somewhat broad-shouldered, but well built. The face is swarthy, either Jewish or Gypsy type, eyes are small, black, under thick, almost fused eyebrows, a straight, slightly upturned nose, thin lips with a beautiful but sharp arch, a huge black braid, heavy even in appearance, low, motionless, like a stone forehead, tiny ears... the whole face is pensive, almost stern. A passionate, self-willed nature - and hardly kind, hardly very smart - but gifted - was reflected in everything. She did not raise her eyes for some time, but suddenly she started up and passed her intent, but inattentive, as if inward gaze through the rows of spectators ... "What tragic eyes she has!" - noticed a certain gray-haired veil with the face of a cocotte from Revel, a well-known employee and spy in Moscow, who was sitting behind Aratov. Fat was stupid and wanted to say something stupid ... but Aratov told the truth, who from the very appearance of Clara did not take his eyes off her, only then he remembered that he really saw her at the princess's; and not only saw her, but even noticed that she looked at him several times with special insistence with her dark, intent gases. And now... or did it seem to him? - she, seeing him in the first row, seemed to be delighted, as if blushed - and again looked insistently at him. Then, without turning around, she stepped back two paces in the direction of the piano, at which her accompanist, a long-haired stranger, was already sitting. She had to perform Glinka's romance "I just recognized you ..." She immediately began to sing, without changing the position of her hands and without looking at the notes. Her voice was resonant and soft - a contralto, she pronounced her words clearly and weightily, she sang monotonously, without shades, but with a strong expression. "The girl sings with conviction," said the same fat man, who was sitting behind Aratov's back, "and again he told the truth. Shouts: "Bis! bravo!" resounded all around ... but she threw a quick glance at Aratov, who did not shout or clap - he did not particularly like her singing, bowed slightly and left, not accepting the pianist's hand held out in a ball. She was called. She did not appear soon, with the same hesitant steps she went up to the piano and, whispering two words to the accompanist, who had to get and put in front of him not prepared, but other notes, began Tchaikovsky's romance: "No, only the one who knew the thirst for goodbye ... She sang this romance differently than the first, in an undertone, as if tired. .. and only at the penultimate verse: "He will understand how I suffered," a ringing, hot cry broke out from her. Last verse"And how I suffer ..." she almost whispered, woefully drawing out the last word . This romance made less of an impression on the public than Glinka's; however, there was a lot of clapping ... Kupfer was especially distinguished: folding his palms when striking in a special manner, in the form of a barrel, he produced an unusually booming sound. The princess handed him a large disheveled bouquet so that he presented it to the singer; but she did not seem to notice Kupfer's bent figure, his outstretched hand with a bouquet, turned and left, without waiting for the second time for the pianist, who, more hastily than before, jumped up to see her off, and, having nothing to do with it, waved his hair like, probably, Liszt himself never waved! During the whole time of singing, Aratov watched Clara's face. It seemed to him. that her eyes, through half-closed eyelashes, were turned again to him, but he was especially struck by the immobility of that face, forehead, eyebrows - and only at her passionate cry did he notice how a series of white, teeth. Kupfer went up to him: - Well, brother. how do you find? he asked, beaming with pleasure. “She has a good voice,” answered Aratov, “but she still doesn’t know how to sing, there is no real school. (Why did he say that, and what concept did he himself have of "school" - God knows!) Kupfer was surprised - There is no school, - he repeated with an arrangement ... - Well, that's it. She can still learn. But what a soul! Just wait: you will listen to her in Tatyana's letter. He ran away from Aratov, and he thought: "Soul! With such a motionless face!" He found that she both held and moved as if magnetized, like a somnambulist. And at the same time, she certainly... yes! definitely looking at him. Meanwhile, the "morning" continued. The fat man with spectacles reappeared; despite his serious appearance, he imagined himself to be a comedian - and read a scene from Gogol, this time not arousing a single sign of approval. The flutist flashed by again, the pianist thundered again, a twelve-year-old boy, pomaded and curled, but with traces of tears on his cheeks, saw through some variations on the violin. It might have seemed strange that, in the intervals of reading and music, the abrupt sounds of a French horn could occasionally be heard from the artists' room; meanwhile, this instrument remained unused. Subsequently, it turned out that the amateur who volunteered to play it became timid at the time of the release in front of the public. Finally, Clara Milic appeared again. She held a volume of Pushkin in her hand; however, during the reading, she never looked into it ... She was clearly shy; the small book trembled slightly in her fingers. Aratov also noticed an expression of despondency, now spilling over all her stern features. The first verse: "I am writing to you, why else?" - she said extremely simply, almost naively - and with a naive, sincere, helpless gesture, she stretched out both hands forward. Then she hurried herd a little; but already starting with the verses: "Another! No! I would not give my heart to anyone in the world!" - she mastered herself, brightened up - and when she came to the words: "My whole life was the guarantee of a faithful meeting with you," - her hitherto rather dull voice rang out enthusiastically and boldly - and her eyes just as boldly and stared directly at Aratov. She continued with the same enthusiasm, and only towards the end her voice dropped again - and her former despondency was reflected in it and on her face. She completely crumpled the last quatrain, as they say - the volume of Pushkin suddenly slipped out of her hands, and she hurried away. The audience began to applaud desperately, to call out. the neighbor politely, with sympathy, asked him to "spare the future protodeacon in himself!" But Aratov immediately got up and headed for the exit. Kupfer overtook him... - Pardon me, where are you going? he cried, “do you want me to introduce you to Clara? "No, thank you," Aratov retorted hastily, and almost ran home. Strange, vague sensations disturbed him. In fact, he did not quite like reading Clara either ... although he could not give himself an account: why exactly? It disturbed him, this reading, it seemed to him sharp, inharmonious... It seemed to disturb something in him, it was some kind of violence. And these intent, persistent, almost obsessive looks - what are they for? What do they mean? Aratov's modesty did not allow him even an instantaneous thought that this strange girl could like him, could inspire her with a feeling similar to love, to passion! Yes, and he himself did not at all imagine that still unknown woman, that girl, to whom he would give himself completely, who would love him, become his bride, his wife ... He rarely dreamed about it: he was a virgin both in soul and body ; but the pure image that then arose in his imagination was inspired by another image - the image of his dead mother, whom he barely remembered, but whose portrait he kept as a shrine This portrait was painted in watercolor, rather skillfully, by a neighbor friend; but the resemblance, according to everyone, was striking. The same gentle profile, such kind, bright eyes, the same silky hair, the same smile, the same clear expression must have been that woman, that girl, whom he did not even dare to expect. .. And this dark-skinned, swarthy, with coarse hair, with a mustache on her lip, she is probably unkind, eccentric ... "Gypsy" (Aratov could not think of a worse expression), what is she to him? And meanwhile, Aratov was unable to throw out of his head this black -up gypsy, singing and reading and the most appearance of which he did not like. He was perplexed, he was angry with himself. Shortly before that, he had read Walter Scott's novel The Waters of Saint-Ronan (the complete works of Walter Scott were in the library of his father, who respected the English novelist as a serious, almost scientific writer) The heroine of this novel is called Clara Maubray The poet of the forties, Krasov, wrote a poem on her, ending with the words: Unfortunate Clara! crazy Clara! Poor Clara Maubray! Aratov also knew this poem. And now these words constantly came to his mind ... "Unfortunate Clara! Mad Clara!" (That's why he was so surprised when Kupfer called him Clara Milic.) Platosha herself noticed - not that there was a change in Yakov's mood, in fact, there was no change in him - but something was wrong in his views, in his speeches. She asked him carefully about the literary morning he had attended; she whispered, sighed, looked at him from the front, looked from the side, from behind - and suddenly, slapping her thighs with her palms, she exclaimed: - Well, Yasha! I see what's the matter! -- What's happened? asked Aratov. - You probably met one of these tail-carriers this morning ... (Platonida Ivanovna called all the ladies wearing fashionable dresses like that.) Platosha imagined all this in faces), and describes such circles with her eyes (and she imagined this, drawing large circles through the air with her index finger) ... It seemed to you out of habit ... but it's nothing, Yasha ... no-and - what does not mean! Have a cup of tea at night... and that's it! Lord, help! Platosha fell silent and withdrew... She hardly ever delivered such a long and lively speech... and Aratov thought: the attention of a female person to himself ... in any case, he did not notice this before.) There is no need to indulge yourself. And he set to work on his books, and at night he drank linden tea - and even slept well all that night and did not dream. The next morning, he again took up photography as if nothing had happened ... But by evening, his peace of mind was disturbed again. Namely: the messenger brought him a note with the following content, written in an irregular and large female handwriting: "If you can guess who is writing to you, and if you are not bored, come tomorrow afternoon to Tverskoy Boulevard - about five o'clock - and wait. You won't be detained long. But it's very important. Come." There was no signature. Aratov immediately guessed who his correspondent was, and it was precisely this that angered him. "What nonsense!" he said almost aloud, "that was still lacking. Of course I won't go." He, however, ordered a messenger to be called, from whom he learned only that the letter had been handed to him by a maid in the street. Letting him go, Aratov re-read the letter, threw it on the floor... But after a while he picked it up and re-read it again; exclaimed a second time: "Nonsense!" - however, he no longer threw the letter on the floor, but hid it in a box. Aratov set about his usual occupations, now one thing, then another; but the matter was arguing with him and did not stick. He suddenly noticed behind himself that he was waiting for Kupfer! Whether he wanted to question him, or perhaps even inform him... But Kupfer did not appear. Then Aratov got hold of Pushkin, read Tatyana's letter, and again became convinced that that "gypsy" did not understand the real meaning of this letter at all. And this jester Kupfer shouts: "Rachel! Viardot!" Then he went up to his piano, somehow unconsciously lifted its lid, tried to find the melody of Tchaikovsky's romance as a memento; but immediately, with annoyance, he slammed the piano shut and went with his aunt to her special, always hotly heated room, with the eternal smell of mint, sage and other medicinal herbs and with so many rugs, bookcases, benches, pillows and various upholstered furniture that an unusual person and it was difficult to turn around in this room and it was shy to breathe. Platonida Ivanovna was sitting under the window with knitting needles in her hands (she was knitting a scarf for Yashenka, by the count during his life - the thirty-eighth!) - and was very amazed. Aratov rarely went to see her and, if he needed anything, every time he shouted in a thin voice from his office: "Aunt Platosha!" However, she made him sit down and, in anticipation of his first words, became alert, looking at him with one eye through round glasses, with the other above them. She did not inquire about his health and did not offer him tea, for she saw that he had come for the wrong thing. Aratov hesitated a bit... then he started talking... talking about his mother, about how she lived with her father and how her father met her. He knew all this very well ... but he wanted to talk about it. To his misfortune, Platosha did not know how to talk at all; answered very briefly, as if she suspected that this was not what Yasha had come for. -- Well! she repeated, hurriedly, moving her knitting needles almost with vexation. - It is known: your mother was a dove ... a dove, as it is ... And your father loved her, as a husband should, faithfully and honestly, to the very coffin; and he loved no other woman,” she added, raising her voice and taking off her glasses. “And was she of a timid disposition?” asked after a pause. Aratov. - It is known, timid. As it should be female. Bold something in recent times wound up. - And in your time there were no brave ones? - It was in ours ... how not to be! But who? So, some kind of slut, shameless. She zaslyunda hem - and rushing about in vain ... What is it to her? What sadness? A fool will turn up - and into her hands. And sedate people neglected. Do you remember, did you see such people in our house? Aratov made no answer and returned to his office. Platonida Ivanovna looked after him, shook her head, and again put on her spectacles, again took hold of her scarf... but more than once she pondered and dropped the knitting needles on her knees. And Aratov, until nightfall, no, no, yes, and with the same annoyance, with the same exasperation, will begin to think about this note, about the “gypsy”, about the appointment, which he probably won’t go to! And at night she disturbed him. He kept imagining her eyes, now screwed up, now wide open, with their insistent gaze, directly fixed on them, and those motionless features with their domineering expression... The next morning, for some reason, he again kept expecting Kupfer; I almost wrote him a letter ... but, by the way, did nothing ... he paced more and more around his office. Not for a single moment did he even allow himself the thought that he would go to this stupid "rendezvous" ... and at half past three, after a hastily swallowed dinner, suddenly putting on an overcoat and pulling his hat on, furtively from his aunt jumped out into the street and went to Tverskaya boulevard. Aratov found a few passers-by on it. The weather was damp and rather cold. He tried not to think about what he was doing, forced himself to pay attention to all the objects that came across and, as it were, assured himself that he, too, went out for a walk, like those passers-by ... Yesterday's letter was in his side pocket, and he constantly felt his presence. He walked a couple of times along the boulevard, gazing vigilantly at every female figure that approached him - and his heart beat, beat... He felt tired and sat down on a bench. And suddenly it occurred to him: "Well, what if this letter was not written by her, but by someone else, another woman?" Really, it should have been all one for him. .. and yet he had to admit to himself that this was not what he wanted. “It would be very stupid,” he thought, “even more stupid than that!” Nervous restlessness began to take possession of him; he began to feel cold—not from without, but from within. Several times he took the watch out of his waistcoat pocket, looked at the dial, put it back, and each time forgot how many minutes remained until five o'clock. It seemed to him that everyone passing by was looking at him in a peculiar way, with a kind of mocking surprise and curiosity. The wretched little dog ran up, sniffed his feet and began to twirl his tail. He swung at her angrily. Most of all he annoyed the factory boy, in a shabby dressing gown, who sat down on a bench on the other side of the boulevard - and then whistling, then scratching and dangling his legs in huge torn boots - kept looking at him. "After all," thought Aratov, "the master must be waiting for him—and here he is, a lazybones, beating his thumbs..." But at that very moment it seemed to him that someone had come up and stood close behind him... something warm wafted from there ... He looked around ... She! He recognized her immediately, though a thick dark blue veil covered her features. He instantly jumped up from the bench - but he remained like that and could not utter a word. She, too, was silent. He felt great embarrassment... but her embarrassment was no less: Aratov, even through the veil, could not fail to notice how deathly she had grown pale. However, she spoke first. “Thank you,” she began in a broken voice, “thank you for coming. I didn't hope..." She turned away slightly and walked down the boulevard. Aratov went after her. "Perhaps you have condemned me," she went on, without turning her head. - Indeed, my act is very strange ... But I have heard a lot about you ... no! I... not for this reason... If you knew... I wanted to tell you so much, my God! But how to do it... How to do it! Aratov walked beside her, a little behind. He did not see her face; he saw only her hat and part of her veil ... and a long, black, already worn mantilla. All his annoyance both at her and at himself suddenly returned to him; everything funny, everything absurd of this meeting, these explanations between completely strangers , on a public boulevard, appeared to him suddenly. “I have come to your invitation,” he began in turn, “I have come, gracious empress (her shoulders trembled softly—she turned into a side path—he followed her), in order to explain, to to find out, due to what strange misunderstanding you were pleased to turn to me, a stranger to you, who ... who only guessed - as you put it in your letter - that it was you who wrote to him ... because he guessed that you , during that literary morning, I wanted to give him too ... too obvious attention! This whole little speech was delivered by Aratov in that, albeit resonant, but unsteady voice, with which very young people answer at an exam in a subject for which they are well prepared ... He became angry; he was angry... It was this very anger that unleashed him in ordinary times, not a very free language. She continued to walk along the path with somewhat slow steps... Aratov, as before, followed her and as before saw only that old mantilla and a hat, also not entirely new. His pride suffered at the thought that now she must think: "I had only to give a sign - and he immediately came running!" Aratov was silent... he expected her to answer him; but she didn't say a word. “I’m ready to listen to you,” he began again, “and I’ll be very glad if I can be of any help to you ... although, all the same, I confess, it’s surprising to me ... In my solitary life ... But at his last words Clara suddenly turned to him - and he saw such a frightened, such a deeply saddened face, with such large bright tears in his eyes, with such a sorrowful expression around his parted lips - and this face was so beautiful that he he involuntarily stumbled and himself felt something like fright and pity and tenderness. “Ah, why... why are you so...” she uttered with irresistibly sincere and truthful force, and how touchingly her voice rang out! “Could my appeal to you have offended you ... didn’t you understand anything?” Oh yes! You did not understand anything, you did not understand what I was telling you, you God knows what you imagined about me, you did not even think what it cost me to write to you! You only cared about yourself, about your dignity, about your peace! Is it really me (she clenched her hands raised to her lips so tightly that her fingers cracked distinctly) ... It’s as if I made what demands I made of you, as if I needed explanations first ... “Dear Empress. ..", "I'm even surprised ...", "I can be useful ..." Ahya, crazy! I was deceived in you, in your face! When I saw you for the first time ... Here ... you stand... And even a word! Not a word, then? She fell silent... Her face suddenly flared up - and just as suddenly took on an angry and insolent expression. "Lord! how stupid it is!" she suddenly exclaimed with "How stupid our rendezvous! How stupid I am! and you too... Fui!" this insulting laughter, this last exclamation at once restored Aratov to his former mood and drowned out in him the feeling that arose in his soul when she turned to him with tears in her eyes. He again became angry and almost shouted after the departing girl: can get out good actress, but why did you think of breaking a comedy over me?" Big steps he returned home, and although he continued to be annoyed and indignant throughout the whole journey, at the same time, through all these bad, hostile feelings, the memory of that wonderful face, which he saw for only a moment ... He even put I asked myself: “Why didn’t I answer her when she demanded at least a word from me? I didn’t have time ...” he thought ... “She didn’t let me say this word. And what word would I say?” But he immediately shook his head and said reproachfully: "An actress!" And again, at the same time, the pride of the inexperienced, nervous youth, at first offended, now seemed to be flattered by the fact that, however, what passion he inspired ... reflections - all this, of course, is over ... I should have seemed ridiculous to her ... "This thought was unpleasant to him - and he was again angry ... both at her ... and at himself. Returning home, he locked himself in his office. He did not want to see Platosha. The good old woman came up to his door a couple of times - put her ear to the keyhole - and only sighed and whispered her prayer ... "It has begun!" she thought ... "And he is only twenty-five. early!" The whole next day, Aratov was very out of sorts. "What are you, Yasha? - Platonida Ivanovna told him, - are you somehow disheveled today ?!" In the peculiar language of the old woman, this expression quite correctly determined the moral state of Aratov. He could not work, and he himself did not know what he wanted? Then he again waited for Kupfer (he suspected that Clara had received his address from Kupfer ... and who else could "talk a lot" to her about him?); then he wondered: is this how his acquaintance with her should end? then he imagined that she would write to him again; then he would ask himself whether he should not write her a letter in which he would explain everything, since he still does not want to leave an unfavorable opinion of himself ... but, in fact, what to explain? Now he aroused in himself almost a disgust for her, for her importunity, impudence; then again he imagined that indescribably touching face and heard an irresistible voice; then he remembered her singing, her reading - and did not know if he was right in his sweeping condemnation? In a word: disheveled man! Finally, he got tired of all this - and he decided, as they say, "to take over" and fuck the whole story, since it undoubtedly interfered with his studies and disturbed his peace. It was not so easy for him to fulfill this decision ... More than a week passed before he again fell into his usual rut. Fortunately, Kupfer did not appear at all: it was as if he was not even in Moscow. Shortly before the "history" Aratov began to paint for photographic purposes; he set to work on it with redoubled zeal. So, imperceptibly, with some, as the doctors say, "relapsing seizures", which consisted, for example, in the fact that once he almost went on a visit to the princess, two ... three months passed ... and Aratov became the former Aratov . Only there, below, under the surface of his life, something heavy and dark secretly accompanied him on all his paths. So a big, just hooked, but not yet snatched, fish swims along the bottom of a deep river under the very boat on which the fisherman sits with a strong line in his hand. And then one day, running through the not entirely fresh Moskovskie Vedomosti, Aratov came across the following correspondence: “With great regret,” wrote a local writer from Kazan, “we are entering into our theatrical annals the news of the sudden death of our talented actress Clara Milic, who, in the short time of her engagement, has become the darling of our picky public. Our regret is all the greater because Mrs. Milic arbitrarily ended her young, so promising life, by means of poisoning. And this poisoning is all the more terrible because the actress took poison in theater! She was barely taken home, where she, unfortunately, died. There are rumors in the city that unsatisfied love brought her to this terrible act. " Aratov quietly laid the newspaper on the table. In appearance, he remained completely calm ... but something at once pushed him in the chest and head - and then slowly floated over all his limbs. He got up, stood still for a while, and sat down again, again rereading this correspondence. Then he got up again, lay down on the bed, and, clasping his hands behind his head, as if in a daze, stared at the wall for a long time. Gradually, this wall seemed to smooth out ... disappeared ... and he saw in front of him both the boulevard under the gray sky, and her in a black mantilla ... then her on the stage ... he even saw himself near her. What had pushed him so hard in the chest in the first instant began now to rise ... rise to his throat ... He wanted to clear his throat, wanted to call someone, but the voice failed him - and, to his own tears rolled down uncontrollably... What caused these tears? A pity? Repentance? Or just nerves could not stand the sudden shock? Was she nothing to him? Is not it? “Yes, maybe it’s still not true?” a thought suddenly dawned on him. “We must find out! But from whom? From the princess? No, from Kupfer... from Kupfer! Yes, they say he is not in Moscow? Doesn't matter! First we need to go to him!" With these considerations in his head, Aratov dressed hastily, took a cab and galloped to Kupfer. He did not hope to catch him ... but he did. was about to visit Aratov again. He met him with the usual cordiality - and began to explain something to him ... but Aratov immediately interrupted him with an impatient question: "Did you read it? Really?" "About Clara Milich?" Kupfer's face expressed regret. "Yes, yes, brother, it's true; she was poisoned! Such grief! Aratov was silent for a while. "Did you also read it in the newspaper?" did you go to Kazan yourself?" "I went to Kazan for sure; the princess and I took her there. She entered the stage there - and big success had. Only I didn't live up to the catastrophe... I was in Yaroslavl. - In Yaroslavl? -- Yes. I took the princess there... She has now settled in Yaroslavl. But do you have the correct information? - The most faithful ... first-hand! I met her family in Kazan. Yes, wait, brother ... you seem to be very worried about this news? And, remember, you didn’t like Clara then? In vain. The girl was wonderful - only the head! Poor head! I was very upset about her! Aratov did not utter a word, sank into a chair, and after a while asked Kupfer to tell him... He stammered. -- What? asked Kupfer. "Yes... that's all," Aratov answered with an emphasis. “At least about her family... and other things. Everything you know! - Does that interest you? Please! And Kupfer, from whose face it was impossible to notice that he was already very much distressed about Clara, began to tell. From his words, Aratov learned that Clara Milic's real name was Katerina Milovidova; that her father, now deceased, was a full-time art teacher in Kazan, painted bad portraits and official images - and besides, he was known as a drunkard and a domestic tyrant ... and also an educated person! (here Kupfer laughed smugly, hinting at the pun he had made); that after him remained, firstly, a widow from merchant family, a completely stupid woman, straight out of Ostrovsky's comedies; and secondly, a daughter, much older than Clara and not like her - a very smart girl, only an enthusiastic, sick, wonderful girl - and overdeveloped, my brother! That they both live - both the widow and the daughter, comfortably, in a decent house, acquired from the sale of those bad portraits and images; that Clara ... or Katya, as you like, from childhood amazed everyone with her talent - but her disposition was rebellious, capricious - and constantly squabbled with her father; that, having an innate passion for the theater, at the age of sixteen she ran away from her parents' house with an actress ... - With an actor? interrupted Aratov. - No, not with an actor, but with an actress to whom she became attached ... True, this actress had a patron, a rich and already old gentleman, who only did not marry her because he was married himself, and the actress seems to be was a married woman. - Further, Kupfer informed Aratov that Klara had already played and sang in provincial theaters before her arrival in Moscow; that, having lost her friend, the actress (the gentleman, too, it seems, died, or got back together with his wife - Kupfer did not remember this well ...), she met the princess, this golden woman, whom you, my friend, Yakov Andreevich, added with feeling the narrator, - did not know how to evaluate properly; that, finally, Clara was offered an engagement in Kazan - and that she accepted it, although before that she assured that she would never leave Moscow! But how Kazanians fell in love with her - even surprising! Whatever the idea - bouquets and a gift! bouquets and gifts! The grain merchant, the first ace in the province, he even presented a golden inkwell! - Kupfer told all this with great animation, without showing, however, special sentimentality and interrupting his speech with questions: "Why do you need this?..." or; "What's this for?" - when Aratov, who listened to him with devouring attention, demanded more and more details. Everything was said at last, and Kupfer fell silent, rewarding himself with a cigar for his work. “But why did she get poisoned?” asked Aratov. "It's in the newspaper..." Kupfer waved his hands. “Well… I can’t say that… I don’t know. And the newspaper is lying. Clara behaved approximately ... no cupids ... And where with her pride! She was proud - like Satan himself - and impregnable! Poor head! Hard as a rock! Do you believe me - why did I know her closely - and never saw tears in her eyes! "But I saw it," Aratov thought to himself. “Only this,” continued Kupfer, “lately I big change noticed in her; she became so boring, she was silent, you couldn’t get a word from her for whole hours. I already asked her: has anyone offended you, Katerina Semyonovna? Therefore, I knew her temper: she could not bear the insult! Silent, and that's it! Even success on stage did not amuse her; bouquets are pouring in... but she won't smile! She glanced at the golden inkwell once - and away! She complained that no one would write her a real role, as she understands it. And she stopped singing altogether. I'm guilty brother! I told her then that you did not find a school in her. But still ... why she got poisoned is incomprehensible! Yes, and how poisoned! In what role did she ... have more success? Aratov wanted to know what role she played in last time, but for some reason asked another. - I remember, in Ostrovsky's Grun. But I repeat to you: no cupids! Judge one thing: she lived with her mother in the house ... You know - there are such merchants' houses: in every corner there is an icon case and an icon lamp in front of the icon case, the stuffiness is deadly, it smells of sourness, in the living room there are only chairs along the walls, rubbish on the windows - and he will come guest - the hostess gasps - as if the enemy is approaching. What kind of ferlacours and cupids are there? Sometimes they wouldn't even let me in. Their maid, a hefty woman, in a kumach sarafan, with pendulous breasts, will stand across in the front - and growls: "Where to?" No, I absolutely do not understand why she poisoned herself. It means that you are tired of living,” Kupfer concluded his reasoning philosophically. Aratov sat with his head bowed. - Can you give me the address of this house in Kazan? he finally said. -- Can; but what do you want? Or do you want to send a letter there? -- May be. -- Well as you know. Only the old woman will not answer you, because she is illiterate. Is it a sister ... Oh, a clever sister! But again, I'm surprised, brother, you! What indifference before ... and now what attention! All this, my dear, from loneliness! Aratov made no reply to this remark and left, stocking up on the Kazan address. When he rode to Kupfer, his face showed excitement, amazement, expectation ... Now he walked with an even gait, with downcast eyes, with his hat pulled down over his forehead; almost every passer-by he met followed him with an inquisitive gaze ... but he did not notice the passers-by ... not like on the boulevard! "Poor Clara! Mad Clara!" sounded in his mind. However, Aratov spent the next day rather calmly. He could even indulge in ordinary activities. Only one thing: both during classes and in free time he was constantly thinking about Clara, about what Kupfer had told him the day before. True, his thoughts were also of a rather peaceful nature. It seemed to him that this strange girl interested him with psychological point vision, as something like a riddle, over the solution of which it would be worth racking your brains. “Ran away with an actress to support,” he thought, “surrendered herself under the patronage of this princess, with whom, it seems, she lived — and no cupids? Incredible! Kupfer says: pride! say: we read in books) ... we know that pride coexists with frivolous behavior; and, secondly, how could she, being so proud, make an appointment with a man who could show her contempt ... and showed ... and even in a public place... on the boulevard!" Here Aratov remembered the whole scene on the boulevard - and he asked himself: "Did he really show Clara contempt? No," he decided ... "It was a different feeling ... a feeling of bewilderment ... distrust at last! Poor Clara "- again sounded in his head. "Yes, unfortunate one," he decided again ... "That is the most appropriate word. And if so, I was unfair. She rightly said that I did not understand her." It's a pity! such, perhaps, a wonderful creature passed by so close.... and I didn't take advantage, I pushed it away... Well, nothing! did she choose me?" He glanced at the mirror he was passing by. "What is special about me? And what a handsome man I am?" "What an expressive face! Motionless... but expressive! I've never seen such a face before. And she has talent... that is, she was undeniable. And in this case I was unfair to her." literary and musical morning ... and he himself noticed behind him that he extremely clearly remembered every word she sang and said, every intonation ... - This would not have happened if she had been devoid of talent. And now it's all in the grave, where she pushed herself... But I have nothing to do with it... It's not my fault! It would even be ridiculous to think that I am to blame. - It again occurred to Aratov that even if she had "something like that" - his behavior during the meeting would undoubtedly disappoint her ... That's why she laughed so cruelly in parting. - And where is the proof that she poisoned herself from unhappy love? It is only newspaper correspondents who attribute any such death to unhappy love! For people with a character like Clara's, life easily becomes hateful... boring. Yes, boring. Kupfer is right: she's just tired of living. "Despite the successes, a standing ovation?" Aratov thought. He even liked psychological analysis to which he indulged. Alien until now to any contact with women, he did not even suspect how significant this intense trial of the female soul was for him. “So,” he continued his reflections, “art did not satisfy her, did not fill the emptiness of her life. Real artists only exist for art, for the theater ... Everything else pales before the fact that they consider their vocation ... She was an amateur!" Here Aratov thought again. No, the word "amateur" did not fit with that face, with the expression of that face, those eyes... And the image of Clara again surfaced in front of him with her eyes fixed on him, flooded with tears, with her hands raised to her lips, clenched... Oh, don't, don't... - he whispered... - Why? So the whole day passed. At dinner, Aratov talked a lot with Platosha, asking her about the old days, which, however, she remembered and conveyed badly, since she did not speak the language very well - and, except for her Yasha, noticed almost nothing during her life. She was only glad that he was so kind and gentle today! By evening, Aratov calmed down to the point that he played his trump cards with his aunt several times. So the day passed ... - but the night !! It started well; he soon fell asleep - and when his aunt came in to him on tiptoe to cross him three times while he was sleeping - she did this every night - he lay and breathed calmly, like a child. But before dawn he had a dream. He dreamed: he was walking on a bare steppe, dotted with stones, under a low sky. A path wound between the stones; he followed her. Suddenly, something like a thin cloud rose in front of him. He peers; the cloud became a woman in a white dress with a light belt around her waist. She hurries away from him. He did not see her face, nor her hair ... they were covered with a long cloth. But he certainly wanted to catch up with her and look into her eyes. But no matter how he hurried, she walked faster than him. On the path lay a wide, flat stone, like a tombstone. He blocked her way... The woman stopped. Aratov ran up to her. She turned to him - but he still did not see her eyes ... they were closed. Her face was as white as snow; hands hung motionless. She looked like a statue. Slowly, without bending a single limb, she leaned back and sank down on that slab... And now Aratov was already lying next to her, all stretched out like a tomb statue - and his hands were folded like those of a dead man. But then the woman suddenly got up and walked away. Aratov also wants to get up. .. but he can neither move nor unclench his hands - and only looks after her with despair. Then the woman suddenly turned around - and he saw bright, lively eyes in a lively, but unfamiliar face. She laughs, she beckons him with her hand ... but he still cannot move ... She laughed again - and quickly went away, shaking her head merrily, on which a wreath of small roses began to glow. Aratov is trying to scream, trying to break this terrible nightmare... Suddenly everything went dark... and the woman returned to him. But this is no longer that unfamiliar statue... this is Clara. She stopped in front of him, folded her arms, and looked at him sternly and attentively. Her lips are pursed, but it seems to Aratov that he hears the words: "If you want to know who I am, go there!" "Where?" he asks. "There," comes the moaning reply. "There!" Aratov woke up. He sat up in bed, lit a candle that was on the bedside table, but did not get up, and sat for a long time, all cold, slowly looking around. It seemed to him that something had happened to him since he had gone to bed; that something had invaded him... something had taken possession of him. "Is that possible?" he whispered unconsciously. "Is there such a power?" He couldn't stay in bed. He quietly dressed - and wandered around the room until morning. And a strange thing! He did not think of Clara for a minute—and did not think about it because he had decided to go to Kazan the very next day! He thought only of this trip; about how to do it, and what to take with him - and how he would find everything there and find out - and calm down. "If you don't go," he reasoned to himself, "perhaps you'll go crazy!" He was afraid of it; I was afraid of my nerves. He was sure that as soon as he saw "all this" with his own eyes there, all sorts of obsessions would scatter - like that night's nightmare. "And all it takes is a week to travel...," he thought, "what is a week? Otherwise you won't get off." The rising sun illuminated his room; but the light of day did not disperse the night shadows that had fallen on him and did not change his decision. Platosha almost had a shock when he told her this decision. She even squatted down ... her legs buckled. "How to go to Kazan? Why go to Kazan?" she whispered, bulging her already blind eyes. She would not have been more surprised if she had learned that her Yasha was marrying a neighboring baker or leaving for America. - And for a long time in Kazan? "I'll be back in a week," answered Aratov, standing half-turn to his aunt, who was still sitting on the floor. Platonida Ivanovna still wanted to object - but Aratov, by a completely unexpected and in an extraordinary way yelled at her. “I am not a child,” he cried, and turned pale all over, and his lips trembled, and his eyes flashed angrily. "I'm twenty-six years old, I know what I'm doing, I'm free to do what I want!" I won't let anyone... Give me money for the journey, prepare a suitcase with linen and a dress... and don't torture me! I'll be back in a week, Platosha," he added in a softer voice. Platosha got up groaning and, no longer objecting, trudged into her little room. Yasha scared her. “It’s not my head on my shoulders,” she said to the cook, who helped her pack Yasha’s things, “not the head - into the hive ... and what kind of bees are buzzing there - I don’t know. My mother is leaving for Kazan, in Kaza -an!" The cook, who had seen the day before that their janitor had been talking for a long time with the policeman, wanted to report this circumstance to her mistress, but she didn’t dare and only thought: “To Kazan! But Platonida Ivanovna was so confused that she did not even say her usual prayer. In such a trouble, the Lord God could not help! On the same day Aratov left for Kazan. Before he had time to arrive in this city and take a room in a hotel, he already rushed to look for the house of the widow Milovidova. During the entire journey, he was in some kind of stupor, which, however, did not in the least prevent him from taking all the necessary measures, in Nizhny Novgorod railway on the ship, to eat at the stations, etc. He was still sure that everything would be resolved there - and therefore drove away all memories and considerations from himself, being satisfied with one thing: the mental preparation of that speech in which he would present to the family of Clara Milic the real reason for your trip. So he finally got to the goal of his aspiration, ordered to report about himself. They let him in ... with bewilderment and fear - but they let him in. The house of the widow Milovidova turned out to be really the way Kupfer described it; and the widow herself looked exactly like one of Ostrovsky's merchants, although there was an official: her husband was in the rank of collegiate assessor. Not without some embarrassment, Aratov, after first apologizing for his boldness, for the strangeness of his visit, delivered a prepared speech about how he would like to collect all the necessary information about the gifted artist who died so early; how he is guided in this case not by idle curiosity, but by deep sympathy for her talent, of which he was an admirer (he said so: an admirer); how, finally, it would be a sin to leave the public in the dark about what they have lost - and why their hopes have not come true! Madame Milovidova did not interrupt Aratov; she hardly understood well what this unknown guest was saying to her, and only puffed up slightly and goggled at him, finding, however, that he looked meek, he was decently dressed - and not a mazurik ... no money will ask. Are you talking about Katya? she asked, as soon as Aratov fell silent. “That's right... about your daughter. - And you came from Moscow for this? -- From Moscow. - Only for this? -- For this. Madame Milovidova suddenly started up. - Are you a writer? Do you write in magazines? - No, I'm not a writer - and I still haven't written in magazines. The widow tilted her head. She was puzzled. “So… by your own will?” she asked suddenly. Aratov did not immediately find what to answer. “Out of sympathy, out of respect for talent,” he said at last. The word "respect" pleased Mrs. Milovidova. -- Well! she said with a sigh. “Even though I was her mother, I grieved for her very much ... Why, such a sudden misfortune! But I must say: she was always crazy - and ended in the same manner! Stram is so... Judge: what is it like for a mother? Thank you for burying her like a Christian...” Mrs. Milovidova crossed herself. - Sizmala did not submit to anyone - parental home left ... and finally - it's easy to say! - went to acting! It is known: I did not refuse her the house: after all, I loved her! After all, I'm still a mother! She should not live with strangers - but beg! - Here the widow shed tears. “And if you, sir,” she began again, wiping her eyes with the ends of her scarf, “it’s definitely such an intention and you are not plotting any dishonor against us - but, on the contrary, you want to show attention, - so you are with talk to my other daughter. She will tell you everything better than mine... Annochka! called Madame Milovidova, “Annochka, come here!” Here, some gentleman from Moscow wants to talk about Katya! Something knocked in the next room, but no one appeared. - Annochka! shouted the widow again, “Anna Semyonovna! Go, they tell you! The door quietly opened, and a girl appeared on the threshold, no longer young, sickly-looking - and ugly - but with very meek and sad eyes. Aratov got up to meet her and introduced himself, moreover, he named his friend Kupfer. -- A! Fyodor Fedorych! the girl said softly, and sank quietly into a chair. - Well, talk to the gentleman, - said Mrs. Milovidova, rising heavily from her place, - he worked hard, he came from Moscow on purpose, he wants to collect information about Katya. And you, sir," she added, turning to Aratova, "excuse me... I'll go away, take care of the housework." With Annochka you can explain yourself well - she will tell you about the theater ... and all that. She is smart, educated: she speaks French and reads books, no worse than the sister of her deceased. She, one might say, raised her ... She was older than her - well, she got busy. Madame Milovidova withdrew. Left alone with Anna Semyonovna, Aratov repeated his speech to her; but realizing at the first glance that he was dealing with a really educated girl, not with a merchant's daughter, he spread himself somewhat - and used other expressions; and in the end he himself became agitated, blushed, and felt that his heart was pounding. Anna listened to him in silence, putting her hand on her hand; a sad smile did not leave her face ... bitter, unrecovered grief was expressed in this smile. - Did you know my sister? she asked Aratov. -- No; I didn’t really know her,” he replied. - I saw her and heard her once ... but your sister was worth seeing and hearing once ... - Do you want to write her biography? Anna asked again. Aratov did not expect this word; but he answered at once that—why not? But most importantly, he wanted to introduce the audience. .. Anna stopped him with a wave of her hand. - What is it for? The audience has already done her a lot of grief; and Katya had just begun to live. But if you yourself (Anna looked at him and smiled again with the same sad, but already more friendly smile ... she seemed to think: yes, you inspire confidence in me) ... if you yourself have such an interest in her, then let me to ask you to come to us tonight... after dinner. I can't now... all of a sudden... I'll gather my strength... I'll try... Ah, I loved her too much! Anna turned away; she was ready to cry. Aratov quickly got up from his chair, thanked for the offer, said that he would certainly come ... certainly! - and left, carrying in his soul the impression of a quiet voice, meek and sad eyes - and burning with the languor of expectation. Aratov returned the same day to the Milovidovs and talked for three whole hours with Anna Semyonovna. Madame Milovidova went to bed immediately after dinner - at two o'clock - and "rested" until evening tea, until seven o'clock. Aratov's conversation with Clara's sister was not, in fact, a conversation: she spoke almost alone, at first hesitantly, with embarrassment, but then with uncontrollable fervour. She obviously idolized her sister. The confidence inspired with Aratov grew and grew stronger; she was no longer shy; she even wept a couple of times, silently, in front of him. He seemed to her worthy of her frank messages and outpourings ... nothing like this had ever happened in her own deaf life! And he... he drank in her every word. That's what he learned ... much, of course, from omissions ... he added a lot himself. As a child, Clara was undoubtedly an unpleasant child; and in girls she was not much softer: self-willed, quick-tempered, proud, she did not get along especially with her father, whom she despised - both for drunkenness and mediocrity. He felt it and did not forgive her for it. Musical ability got into it early; my father did not give them a go, recognizing only painting as art, in which he himself succeeded so little, but which fed both him and his family. Clara loved her mother ... carelessly, like a nurse; she adored her sister, even though she fought with her and bit her ... True, she then knelt before her and kissed the bitten places. She was all fire, all passion, and all contradiction: vengeful and kind, magnanimous and vindictive; believed in fate - and did not believe in God (Anna whispered these words with horror); she loved everything beautiful, but she herself did not care about her beauty and dressed haphazardly; she hated to be looked after by young people, and in books she reread only those pages where we are talking about love; did not want to be liked, did not like caresses, and never forgot caresses, just as she never forgot insults; I was afraid of death and killed myself! She used to say sometimes: “I won’t meet the one I want ... but I don’t need others!” - "Well, if you meet?" Anna asked. "Meeting ... I'll take it." - "And if it doesn't work?" "Well, then... I'll kill myself. So I'm not fit." Clara’s father (he sometimes asked his wife from drunk eyes: “From whom do you have this little crust?” “Not from me!”) - Clara’s father, trying to get her away from his hands, enlightened her for a wealthy young merchant, a transparent , -- from "educated". Two weeks before the wedding (she was only sixteen years old), she approached her fiancé, crossing her arms and playing with her fingers on her elbows (her favorite position), and suddenly, like a slap on his rosy cheek with her big strong hand ! He jumped up and only opened his mouth - I must say that he was mortally in love with her ... He asks: "For what?" She laughed and left. “I was right there in the room,” Anna said, “I was a witness. I ran after her and told her: “Katya, have mercy, what are you?” And she answered me: “If there was a real person - - beat me, otherwise the chicken is wet! And asks again? for what? There will be nothing for him from me - forever and ever!" So she did not marry him. Immediately, she soon met that actress - and left our house. flocks out!" And he didn't bother, he didn't bother to look. Father didn't understand Clara. On the eve of her flight," Anna added, "she nearly strangled me in her arms—and kept repeating: 'I can't! I can't do otherwise! heart in half, but I can not. Your cell is small ... not on the wings! Yes, and you can’t escape your fate ... "- After that," Anna remarked, "we rarely saw her ... When her father died, she came for two days, took nothing from the inheritance - and again disappeared It was hard for her ... I saw it. According to you, she arrived in Kazan already an actress. Aratov began to ask Anna about the theaters, about the roles in which Clara appeared, about her successes ... Anna answered in detail, but with She even showed Aratov a photographic card showing Clara in the costume of one of her roles. Aratov looked at this card for a long time, found it similar, asked if Clara had taken part in public readings, and found out that she hadn't, that she needed to stir up the theatre, the stage... but another question burned on his lips. Anna Semyonovna!” he finally exclaimed, not loudly, but with special force, “tell me, I beg you, tell me why she decided on that terrible act?... Anna lowered her eyes. -- Don't know! she said after a few moments. “God, I don’t know!” she went on rapidly, noticing that Aratov spread his hands, as if not believing her. - From the very arrival here, she was definitely thoughtful, gloomy. Something must have happened to her in Moscow that I could not figure out! But, on the contrary, on that fateful day she seemed to be ... if not more cheerful, then calmer than usual. I didn’t even have any premonitions,” Anna added with a bitter smile, as if reproaching herself for this. “You see,” she began again, “Katya seemed to have it written in her family that she would be unhappy. From an early age, she was convinced of this. He leans on his hand like that, thinks about it and says: “I don’t have long to live!” She had premonitions. Imagine that she even in advance - sometimes in a dream, and sometimes so, saw what would happen to her! "I can't live as I want, I don't have to..." - was also her saying. "Because our life is in our hand!" And she proved it! Anna covered her face with her hands and fell silent. “Anna Semyonovna,” Aratov began a little later, “perhaps you have heard what the newspapers attributed to...” “Unhappy love?” Anna interrupted, pulling her hands away from her face at once. “This is slander, slander, fiction!” My untouched, impregnable Katya... Katya! and unfortunate, rejected love?! And I wouldn't know that?... Everyone fell in love with her, with her... but she... And who would she fall in love with here? Who of all these people who was worthy of her? Who has grown up to that ideal of honesty, truthfulness, purity, most importantly, purity, which, with all its shortcomings, constantly rushed before her?... To reject her... her... Anna's voice broke off... Her fingers trembled slightly. She suddenly blushed all over ... blushed with indignation - and at that moment - and only for a moment did she look like her sister. Aratov began to apologize. “Listen,” Anna interrupted again, “I certainly want you not to believe in this slander yourself and to dispel it, if possible! So you want to write an article about her, or something, here is an opportunity for you to protect her memory! That's why I'm talking to you so frankly. Listen: Katya left a diary... Aratov shuddered. “A diary,” he whispered… “Yes, a diary… that is, just a few pages. Katya didn't like to write... she didn't write anything down for whole months... and her letters were so short. But she was always, always truthful, she never lied... With her vanity, yes lie! I... I'll show you this diary! You will see for yourself whether there was even a hint of some unhappy love in it! Anna hurriedly took out a thin notebook from the table drawer, no more than ten pages, and handed it to Aratov. He grabbed it greedily, recognized the irregular, sweeping handwriting, the handwriting of that unnamed letter, opened it at random - and immediately attacked the following lines: "Moscow. Tuesday ... June 1st. Sang and read at the literary morning. Today for me a momentous day. It must decide my fate. (These words were underlined twice.) I saw again..." There followed several carefully soiled lines. And then: "No! no! no! We must go back to the old one, if only..." Aratov lowered the hand in which he held the notebook, and his head hung softly on his chest. -- Read! Anna exclaimed. Why don't you read? Read from the beginning ... It's only five minutes of reading, although this diary stretches for two whole years. In Kazan, she no longer wrote down anything ... Aratov slowly got up from his chair and fell on his knees in front of Anna. She was simply petrified with surprise and fear. "Give me ... give me this diary," Aratov began in a fading voice, and stretched out both hands to Anna. “Give it to me and the card... you probably have another one—and I’ll return the diary to you. it even looked like malice, like suffering. Yes, he really suffered. It was as if he himself could not foresee that such a misfortune would befall him, - and irritably begged for mercy, for salvation - Give me, - he repeated. "Yes... you, you were in love with my sister?" said Anna at last. Aratov continued to kneel. “I saw her only twice ... believe me, and if I weren’t prompted by reasons that I myself can neither understand nor explain well, if there weren’t some kind of power over me, stronger than me ... I wouldn’t I would ask you... I would not come here. I need, I must... because you yourself said that I must restore her image. "And you weren't in love with your sister?" Anna asked a second time. Aratov did not immediately answer, and turned away slightly, as if in pain. - Well, yes, "was" was "I'm still in love ... - he exclaimed with the same despair. Footsteps were heard in the next room. - Get up ... get up," Anna hastily said. Aratov got up - And take the diary and the card, God be with you! Poor, poor Katya But you return the diary to me, - she added with liveliness - And if you write something, send it to me by all means ... Do you hear? Mrs. Milovidova spared Aratov the need to answer. He managed, however, to whisper: "You are an angel! Thank you! I'll send everything I write..." in the side pocket of his frock coat. he put off all thoughts of Clara until he returned home. He thought much more about her sister Anna. “Here,” he thought, a wonderful, sympathetic creature! What a subtle understanding of everything, what a loving heart, what a lack of selfishness! And how is it in our province - and even in such an environment - such girls flourish. She is sickly, and bad-looking, and not young - and what an excellent friend she would be for a decent, educated person! That's who you should fall in love with." Aratov thought so, but upon arrival in Moscow, things took a completely different turn. Platonida Ivanovna was unspeakably delighted at the return of her nephew. She did not change her mind in his absence, "At least to Siberia! she whispered, sitting motionless in her little room, “at least for a year!” Besides, the cook frightened her, reporting the most certain news of the disappearance of one or the other young man Next door. Yasha's perfect innocence and trustworthiness did not at all reassure the old woman "Because ... you never know! - he is engaged in photography ... well, that's enough! Take him!" And now her Yashenka returned safe and sound! True, she noticed that he seemed to have grown thinner and haggard in his face - an understandable thing ... without a guard! but she did not dare to ask him about this journey. Asked at dinner: "A a good city Kazan?" - "Good," replied Aratov. "Tea, do all the Tatars live there?" - "Not only Tatars." and the conversation ended. But as soon as Aratov found himself alone in his study, he immediately felt that something seemed to seize him all around, that he was again in power, precisely in the power of another life, another being. Although he said to Anna - in that burst of sudden frenzy - that he is in love with Clara - but this word now seemed to him senseless and wild. No, he is not in love, and how to fall in love with a dead woman, has he almost forgotten? that it'll all pass, that it's just nerves—not looking for evidence for it—nothing else! . “Why, she is dead? Yes; her body is dead ... but her soul? Isn’t she immortal, does she need earthly organs in order to exercise power? human soul... Why does this influence not continue even after death - if the soul remains alive? Yes, for what purpose? What can come of this? But do we - in general - comprehend what is the purpose of everything that happens around us?" These thoughts occupied Aratov so much that he suddenly, over tea, asked Platosha: "Does she believe in the immortality of the soul?" At first she did not understand What is he asking, and then she crossed herself and answered, what else - the soul - would not be immortal! “And if so, can it act after death?” Aratov asked again The old woman answered that she could pray for us that is, and then, when all the ordeals pass - in anticipation doomsday. And for the first forty days, she only hovered around the place where her death happened. "The first forty days?" -- Yes; and then the ordeals will come. Aratov marveled at his aunt's knowledge and went to his room. And again I felt the same, the same power over myself. This power was also reflected in the fact that he constantly imagined the image of Clara, to the smallest detail, to such details that he did not seem to notice her during her lifetime: he saw, saw her fingers, nails, rows of hair on her cheeks under the temples, a small a mole under her left eye, saw the movements of her lips, nostrils, eyebrows ... and what a gait she had - and how she held her head a little to the right side, he saw everything! He did not admire all this at all; he just couldn't stop thinking about it and not see it. On the first night after his return, however, he did not dream of her ... he was very tired and slept like a log. On the other hand, as soon as he woke up - she again entered his room - and so remained in it - a ton hostess; as if by her voluntary death she bought this right for herself, without asking him and without needing his permission. He took her photographic card; he began to reproduce it, to enlarge it. Then he took it into his head to attach it to a stereoscope. He had a lot of trouble ... at last he succeeded. He shuddered when he saw through the glass her figure, which received a semblance of corporality. But this figure was gray, as if covered with dust ... and besides, the eyes ... the eyes kept looking away, they all seemed to turn away. He began to look at them for a long, long time, as if expecting them to head in his direction, he even narrowed his eyes on purpose ... but his eyes remained motionless, and the whole figure took on the appearance of some kind of doll. He walked away, threw himself into an armchair, took out a cut-out sheet of her diary, with underlined words - and thought: “After all, they say that lovers kiss lines written by a sweet hand, but I don’t want to do this - and the handwriting seems ugly to me But this line is my sentence." Then the promise he had made to Anna about the article occurred to him. He sat down at the table and began to write it; but everything with him came out so false, so rhetorical ... most importantly, so false ... as if he did not believe either in what he wrote or in own feelings... and Clara herself seemed unfamiliar to him, incomprehensible! She didn't give in to him. "No! - he thought, throwing down his pen ... - either writing is not my business at all, or you still have to wait!" He began to recall his visit to the Milovvdovs and the whole story of Anna, that kind, wonderful Anna ... The word she had spoken. "Untouched!" suddenly struck him ... As if something burned and illuminated. “Yes,” he said aloud, “she is untouched—and I am untouched… That’s what gave her this power!” Thoughts about the immortality of the soul, about life after the grave again visited him. Doesn't the Bible say, "Death, where is your sting?" And Schiller-- "And the dead will live!" (Auch die Todten sollen leben!) Or another one, I think, in Mickiewicz's "I will love until the end of the age... and at the end of the age!" And one English writer said: "Love stronger than death "The biblical saying had a special effect on Aratov. He wanted to find the place where these words of the Bible were, he didn't have it, he went to ask Platosha for it. She was surprised, but took out an old, old book in a warped leather binding, with copper clasps, all dripped wax - and handed it to Aratov. He took it to his room - but for a long time did not find that saying ... but he came across another: "No one has more sowing love, but who will lay down his life for his friend ... "(Heb. from John, XV ch., 13 st.) He thought:" Not so it is said. It was necessary to say “No one has more sowing power ...” “And if she didn’t lay down her life for me at all? explanation came on a date?" But at that moment Clara imagined himself before parting on the boulevard ... He remembered that sorrowful expression on her face - and those tears and those words: "Ah, you did not understand anything ..." No, he could not doubt that because of what and for whom she laid down her soul ... So the whole day passed until night. Aratov went to bed early, without much desire to sleep; but he hoped to find rest in bed. The tense state of his nerves caused him a weariness far more unbearable than the physical weariness of travel and road. However, no matter how tired he was, he could not sleep. He tried to read... but the lines were confused before his eyes. He put out the candle, and darkness settled in his room. But he continued to lie awake, with his eyes closed... And then it seemed to him: someone was whispering in his ear... "The beat of the heart, the rustle of blood..." he thought. But the whisper turned into a coherent speech. Someone was speaking in Russian, hastily, plaintively, and indistinctly. Not a single word could be caught... But it was Clara's voice! Aratov opened his eyes, got up, leaned on his elbows... his voice became weaker, but continued his mournful, hasty, still indistinct speech... This is undoubtedly Clara's voice! Someone's fingers ran light arpeggios over the piano keys... Then the voice spoke again. More drawn-out sounds were heard ... like groans, all the same. And there the words began to stand out... "Roses, roses, roses." "Roses," Aratov repeated in a whisper. -- Oh yes! these are the roses that I saw on the head of that woman in a dream ... "Roses," was heard again. -- Is that you? asked Aratov in the same whisper. The voice suddenly stopped. Aratov waited ... waited - and dropped his head on the pillow. A hallucination of hearing, he thought. "Well, what if... if she's right here, close?... If I saw her, would I be frightened?" Or happy? But what would I be afraid of? What would you be happy about? Is it this: it would be proof that there is another world, that the soul is immortal. But, by the way, even if I saw something - after all, it could also be a hallucination of vision ... "However, he lit a candle - and with a quick glance, not without some fear, he ran around the whole room ... and there was nothing unusual in it "He didn't see it. He got up and went over to the stereoscope... again the same gray doll with eyes looking away. The feeling of fear was replaced in Arato by a feeling of annoyance. He seemed to have been deceived in his expectations... and these the very expectations. "After all, this is stupid at last!" he muttered, lying down again in bed, and blew out the candle. Again deep darkness set in. Aratov decided to go to sleep this time... But a new sensation arose in him. It seemed to him that "Someone is standing in the middle of the room, not far from him, and breathing barely perceptibly. He hastily turned around, opened his eyes... But what could be seen in this impenetrable darkness? He began to look for a match on the night table... it seemed that some kind of soft, noiseless whirlwind swept through the whole room, through him, through him - and the word "I!" clearly resounded in his ears. "Me! Me!" It was a few moments before he had time to light the candle. There was no one in the room again - and he no longer heard anything but the impetuous pounding of his own heart. He drank a glass of water and remained motionless, resting his head on his hand. He waited. He thought: "I'll wait. Either it's all eyes ... or she's here. She won't play with me like a cat with a mouse!" He waited, waited for a long time... so long that the hand with which he supported his head swelled... but none of the previous sensations was repeated. Once or twice his eyes closed... He immediately opened them... at least it seemed to him that he opened them. Little by little they rushed to the door and stopped on it. The candle burned out, and it became dark again in the room... but the door was a long white spot in the semi-darkness. And then this spot moved, decreased, disappeared ... and in its place, on the threshold of the door, a female figure appeared. Aratov peers... Clara! And this time she looks straight at him, moves towards him... She has a wreath of red roses on her head... white sweatshirt. - Platosha! he said with difficulty. -- It is you? "It's me," answered Platonida Ivanovna. - I, Yashenenochek, I. - Why did you come? - You woke me up. At first, everything seemed to be moaning ... and then suddenly you scream: "Save! Help!" - Did I scream? -- Yes; shouted - and hoarsely so: "Save me!" I thought: Lord! Isn't he sick? I entered. You are healthy? - Perfectly healthy. “Well, then you had a bad dream. Do you want me to smoke incense? Aratov once again peered intently at his aunt, and laughed out loud.... The figure of the kind old woman in a cap and blouse, with a frightened, long face, was indeed very amusing. All that mysterious that surrounded him, that crushed him - all these spells were scattered at once. “No, Platosha, my dear, don’t,” he said. “I'm sorry that I unwillingly disturbed you. Rest in peace and I will sleep. Platonida Ivanovna stood still for a little while, pointed to the candle, grumbled: why don't you put it out ... how long until trouble! - and, leaving, she could not resist, even from a distance, but not to cross him. Aratov immediately fell asleep - and slept until morning. He stood up in good location spirit... although he felt sorry for something... He felt light and free. "What a romantic idea, think about it," he said to himself with a smile. He never glanced at the stereoscope or at the sheet he had torn out. However, immediately after breakfast he went to Kupfer. What attracted him there ... he was vaguely aware. Aratov found his sanguine friend at home. I chatted with him a little, reproached him that he completely forgot them with his aunt, - he listened to new praises for the golden woman, the princess, from whom Kupfer had just received from Yaroslavl a yarmulke embroidered with fish scales ... and suddenly, sitting down in front of Kupfer and looking right in his eyes, announced that he had gone to Kazan. - Did you go to Kazan? What is this for? “Yes, I wanted to collect information about this Clara Milic. “About the one who got poisoned?” -- Yes. Kupfer shook his head. - Look what you are! And still quiet! I broke off a thousand miles back and forth ... because of what? A? And even if the female interest here was what Then I understand everything! All! all sorts of madness! - Kupfer ruffled his hair - But in order to collect some materials - as you say - from learned men ... Obedient servant! There is a statistical committee for this! So what, did you meet the old woman and your sister? Isn't it wonderful girl? "Wonderful," Aratov confirmed. She told me a lot of interesting things. “Did she tell you exactly how Clara got poisoned?” “I mean…how?” -- Yes; in what manner? - No... She was still so upset... I didn't dare to ask too much. Was there anything special? - Of course it was. Imagine: she was supposed to play that very day - and she did. She took a glass of poison with her to the theatre, drank it before the first act, and played the whole act that way. With poison inside! What is willpower? What is the character? And, they say, she never played her part with such feeling, with such fervor! The audience does not suspect anything, claps, calls ... And as soon as the curtain fell - and she immediately fell on the stage. Writhe ... writhe ... and an hour later and the spirit out! Didn't I tell you this? And it was in the papers! Aratov's hands suddenly went cold and his chest trembled. "No, you didn't tell me that," he finally said. "And you don't know what play it was?" Kupfer considered. “They called me this play... a deceived girl appears in it... It must be some kind of drama... Clara was born for dramatic roles... Her very appearance... But where are you going? Kupfer interrupted himself, seeing that Aratov was taking up his hat. "I'm feeling unwell," replied Aratov. - Farewell... I'll come another time. Kupfer stopped him and looked into his face. “What a nervous man you are, brother! Look at you... Turned as white as clay. "I'm not feeling well," repeated Aratov, freed himself from Kupfer's hand and set off on his way. Only at that moment did it become clear to him that he had come to Kupfer with the sole purpose of talking about Clara... About the insane, unfortunate Clara... However, when he got home, he soon calmed down again - to a certain extent. The circumstances surrounding Clara's death made a startling impression on him at first; but then this game "with poison inside," as Kupfer put it, seemed to him some kind of ugly phrase, a bravado - and he already tried not to think about it, afraid to arouse in himself a feeling similar to disgust. And at dinner, sitting in front of Platosha, he suddenly remembered her appearance in the evening, remembered this scanty jacket, this cap with a high bow (and why the bow on the night cap ?!), all this funny figure, from which, like the whistle of a machinist in fantastic ballet, all his visions crumbled to dust! He even made Platosha repeat the story of how she heard his cry, got frightened, jumped up, could not get into either her or his door at once, etc. In the evening he played cards with her and went into his room for a little while. sad, but again quite calm. Aratov did not think about the upcoming night and was not afraid of it; he was sure that he would spend it in the best possible way. The thought of Clara awoke in him from time to time; but he immediately remembered how she "phrased" herself to death, and turned away. This "disgrace" interfered with other memories of her. Glancing briefly at the stereoscope, it even seemed to him that she was looking away because she was ashamed. Directly above the stereoscope, a portrait of his mother hung on the wall. Aratov took it off the nail, looked at it for a long time, kissed it, and carefully hid it in a box. Why did he do it? Whether because that portrait should not have been in the neighborhood of that woman ... or for some other reason - Aratov did not realize. But the portrait of his mother stirred up in him memories of his father... of his father, whom he had seen dying in this very room, on this bed. "What do you think of all this, father?" he turned mentally to him. "You understood all this; you also believed in Schiller's 'world of spirits'. Give me advice!" "Father would give me advice to give up all these nonsense," Aratov said loudly and took up the book. However, he could not read for a long time and, feeling some kind of heaviness of his whole body, went to bed earlier than usual, in full confidence that he would fall asleep immediately. And so it happened... but his hopes for a peaceful night did not come true. Midnight had not yet struck when he had an unusual, threatening dream. It seemed to him that he was in a rich landowner's house, of which he was the owner. He recently bought this house and all the estate adjacent to it. And all he thinks: "Well, now it's good, but to be thin!" A little man is spinning around him, his manager; he keeps laughing, bowing, and wants to show Aratov how perfectly arranged everything is in his house and estate. “Please, please,” he repeats, giggling at every word, “look how well everything is with you! Here are the horses ... what wonderful horses!” And Aratov sees a row of huge horses. They stand with their backs to him, in stalls; their manes and tails are amazing, but as soon as Aratov passes by, the heads of the horses turn towards him - they bare their teeth badly. "Good ... - thinks Aratov, - but be worse!" - "Please, please," the manager repeats again, "please come into the garden: look at what wonderful apples you have." Apples are definitely wonderful, red, round; but as soon as Aratov looks at them, they frown and fall... "To be thin," he thinks. “And here is the lake,” the manager babbles, “how blue and smooth it is! Here is the golden boat ... Would you like to ride on it? ... it will float itself.” "I won't sit down!" thought Aratov, "be thin!" - and still sits in the boat. At the bottom lies, crouching, some kind of small creature resembling a monkey; it holds in its paw a flask with a dark liquid. "Don't worry," the manager shouts from the shore ... "It's nothing! It's death! Have a good trip!" The boat is speeding fast... but suddenly a whirlwind comes up, not like yesterday, silent, soft - no, a black, terrible, howling whirlwind! Everything gets in the way, and in the midst of the swirling darkness Aratov sees Clara in a theatrical costume; she raises the glass to her lips, distant voices are heard: "Bravo! bravo!" - and someone's rough voice shouts in Aratov's ear: "Ah! did you think this would all end in a comedy? No, it's a tragedy! a tragedy!" Trembling, Aratov woke up. The room is not dark... A faint light is pouring from somewhere and sadly and motionlessly illuminates all objects. Aratov does not realize where this light is coming from... He feels one thing: Clara is here, in this room... he feels her presence... he is again and forever in her power! A cry escapes from his lips: "Clara, are you there?" -- Yes! resounds distinctly in the still-lighted room. Aratov silently repeats his question. .. -- Yes! is heard again. - So I want to see you! he screams and jumps out of bed. For several moments he stood in one place, trampling the cold floor with his bare feet. His eyes wandered. "Where? where?" - whispered his lips ... See nothing, hear nothing ... He looked around - and noticed that the faint light that filled the room came from a night lamp, obscured by a sheet of paper and placed in the corner, probably by Platosha, how he slept. He even smelled incense... probably also the work of her. He dressed hastily. Staying in bed, sleeping, was unthinkable." Then he stopped in the middle of the room and folded his arms. The feeling of Clara's presence was stronger than ever in him. And then he spoke, not in a loud voice, but with solemn slowness, like incantations. "Clara," he began, "if you are truly here, if you see me, if you hear me, then appear! If this power that I feel over me is precisely your power, then appear! If you you understand how bitterly I regret that I did not understand that I pushed you away, come! If what I heard was exactly your voice; if the feeling that took possession of me was love; if you are now sure that I love you I, who up to now have not loved or known a single woman, if you know that after your death I fell in love with you passionately, irresistibly, if you do not want me to go mad, then come, Klara! before he had time to utter this last word, he suddenly felt that someone quickly approached him, from behind - as then, on the boulevard - and put his hand on his shoulder. He turned around and saw no one. But that feeling of her presence became so clear, so undoubted, that he looked back hastily... What is it?! On his armchair, two steps away from him, sits a woman, all dressed in black. The head is tilted to the side, as in a stereoscope ... This is it! It's Clara! But what a stern, what a sad face! Aratov quietly knelt down. Yes; he was right then: there was no fear, no joy in him - not even surprise ... Even his heart began to beat more quietly. There was only one consciousness in him, one feeling: "Ah! finally! finally!" "Clara," he began in a weak but even voice, "why don't you look at me?" I know it's you... but I might think that my imagination has created an image like that... (He pointed in the direction of the stereoscope) Prove to me that it's you... turn around, look at me , Clara! Clara's hand slowly rose... and fell again. Clara, Clara! turn to me! And Clara's head turned quietly, her lowered eyelids opened, and the dark pupils of her eyes stared at Aratov. He leaned back a little, and uttered one drawn-out, trembling: “Ah! Clara gazed at him intently... but her eyes, her features retained their former pensively stern, almost dissatisfied expression. It was with this expression on her face that she appeared on the stage on the day of the literary morning - before she saw Aratov. And just as on that occasion, she suddenly blushed, her face brightened, her eyes flashed - and a joyful, triumphant smile opened her lips ... - I am forgiven! exclaimed Aratov. - You won... Take me! After all, I'm yours - and you're mine! He rushed to her, he wanted to kiss those smiling, those triumphant lips - and he kissed them, he felt their hot touch, he even felt the damp chill of her teeth - and an enthusiastic cry filled the dim room. Platonida Ivanovna, who ran in, found him in a swoon. He was on his knees; his head lay on an armchair; his outstretched hands dangled helplessly, his pale face breathed the intoxication of immeasurable happiness. Platonida Ivanovna fell down beside him, hugged his waist, stammered: "Yasha!" Yashenka! Yashenochek! - tried to lift him with her bony hands ... he did not move. Then Platonida Ivanovna began to shout in a voice that was not her own. The maid ran in. Together they somehow lifted him up, sat him down, began to sprinkle water on him - and even from the image ... He came to his senses. But in response to his aunt's questions, he only smiled - and with such a blissful look that she was even more alarmed - and then she baptized him, then herself ... Aratov finally took her hand away and still with the same blissful expression on his face said: - Yes, Platosha, what's the matter with you? - What's wrong with you, Yashenka? -- With me? I'm happy ... happy, Platosha ... that's what's wrong with me And now I want to go to bed and sleep. - He wanted to get up - but he felt such a weakness in his legs, and in his whole body, that without the help of his aunt and the maid, he would not have been able to undress - and go to bed. But he fell asleep very soon, keeping the same blissfully enthusiastic expression on his face. Only his face was very pale. When Platonida Ivanovna came in to see him the next morning, he was still in the same position ... but the weakness did not go away - and he even preferred to stay in bed. The pallor of his face did not particularly please Platonida Ivanovna. "What is this, Lord! - she thought, there is no blood in her face, she refuses the broth, lies and laughs - and all assures that she is healthy! "He also refused breakfast. "What are you, Yasha? - she asked him, - does he intend to lie like that all day?" - "But even if it were so?" Aratov answered affectionately. Platonida Ivanovna again did not like this affectionateness. Aratov looked like a man who recognized great, for him a very pleasant secret - and jealously keeps and keeps it to himself. He waited for the night - not only with impatience, but with curiosity. "What next? he asked himself, “what will happen?” He ceased to be amazed, perplexed; he did not doubt that he had entered into communication with Clara; that they loved each other ... And he did not doubt that. Only ... what can come out of such a love?" He remembered that kiss... and a wonderful cold quickly and sweetly ran through all his limbs. "With such a kiss," he thought, "even Romeo and Juliet did not change! But next time I'll better endure... I'll have her. She will come in a wreath of small roses on black curls. But what next? After all, we can't live together, can we? So I have to die to be with her? Isn't that what she came for - and isn't that how she wants to take me? Well, so what? To die is to die. Death now does not frighten me at all. It cannot destroy me, can it? On the contrary, only in this way and there I will be happy ... no matter how happy I was in life, just as it was not ... After all, we are both untouched! Oh that kiss! Platonida Ivanovna kept dropping into Aratov's room; she did not trouble him with questions—she only glanced at him, whispered, sighed—and went away again. But now he refused to have dinner too ... It was already very bad. The old woman went for her familiar local doctor, in whom she believed only because he was a non-drinker and married a German woman. Aratov was surprised when she brought him to him; but Platonida Ivanovna so persistently began to ask her Yashenka to allow Paramon Paramonych (that was the name of the doctor) to examine him - well, at least for her! - that Aratov agreed. Paramon Paramongch felt his pulse, looked at his tongue - asked some questions - and finally announced that it was necessary to "auscutate" him. Aratov was in such an agreeable frame of mind that he agreed to this too. The doctor delicately bared his chest, delicately knocked, listened, chuckled - prescribed drops and a mixture, and most importantly: advised him to be calm and refrain from strong impressions"That's how! - thought Aratov ... - Well, brother, missed it too late!" - What is with Yasha? asked Platonida Ivanovna, handing Paramon Paramonych a three-rouble note on the threshold of the door. The district physician, who, like all modern physicians - especially those of them who wear a uniform - liked to flaunt scientific terms, announced to her that her nephew had all the "dioptric symptoms of nervous cardialgia - and there is febris." “You, however, father, speak plainly,” Platonida Ivanovna snapped, “don’t scare me with Latin; you’re not in the pharmacy” - “The heart is not in order,” the doctor explained, “well, the fever ... - repeated his advice about calmness and abstinence. "But there's no danger, is there?" asked Platonida Ivanovna sternly (look, they say, don't go into Latin again!). "Until expected!" The doctor left - and Platonida Ivanovna became sad ... however, she sent to the pharmacy for medicine, which Aratov did not take, despite her requests. He also refused breast tea. “And why are you so worried, my dear?” he said to her, “I assure you, I am now the healthiest and happiest person in the whole world!” Platonila Ivanovna only shook her head. Toward evening he became slightly feverish; and yet he insisted that she not remain in his room and went to bed with her. Platonida Ivanovna obeyed - but did not undress and did not lie down; she sat down in an armchair and kept listening and whispering her prayer. She was about to doze off, when suddenly a terrible, piercing cry woke her up. She jumped up, rushed into Aratov's office, and, as of yesterday, found him lying on the floor. that same night he developed a fever, complicated by inflammation of the heart. A few days later he died. A strange circumstance accompanied his second fainting. When he was lifted and laid down, in his clenched right hand turned out to be a small strand of black female hair. Where did this hair come from? Anna Semyonovna had such a strand left over from Clara, but why on earth would she give Aratov one of these for her? expensive thing? Did she somehow put it in her diary - and did not notice how she gave it away? In his dying delirium, Aratov called himself Romeo after the poison, spoke of a prisoner, of a perfect marriage; about what he now knows what pleasure is. Especially terrible was the moment for Platosha when Aratov, somewhat regaining his senses and seeing her near his bed, said to her: - Aunt, why are you crying? that I must die? Don't you know that love is stronger than death? Death! Death, where is your sting? You should not cry, but should rejoice - just as I rejoice. And again on the face of the dying man shone that blissful smile, from which the poor old woman became so terribly.

Year of writing:

1883

Reading time:

Description of the work:

The story "Clara Milic" was written by Ivan Turgenev. Turgenev finished work on the story in the autumn of 1882, and a year later it was published. The place for writing the story "Clara Milic" was a French villa in Bougival.

From the moment the story was published in Vestnik Evropy and until now, critics have given it a variety of assessments. And indeed, this story was the last in the work of Turgenev and the most mysterious. Anticipating that many would find mystical motives in it, Turgenev renamed the story "Klara Milic", because the title "After Death" appears in the manuscript.

We are sure that it will be interesting for you to get acquainted with the summary of the story "Clara Milic".

Yakov Aratov lived on Shabolovka in a small wooden house with his aunt Platonida Ivanovna, Platosha, as his father called her. He was 25 years old, but he lived in seclusion, was engaged in photography, was friends only with Kupfer, a Russified German who was sincerely attached to Aratov. For this, Platosha forgave him some arrogance and noisy cheerfulness. Disposition Yakov went to his father. He also lived in solitude, studied chemistry, mineralogy, entomology, botany and medicine, was known as a warlock, considering himself the great-grandson of Bruce, after whom he named his son, and was prone to everything mysterious and mystical. Jacob inherited this trait of his, he believed in secrets that can sometimes be seen, but it is impossible to comprehend. At the same time, he believed in science. Even during the life of his father, he studied at the Faculty of Physics and Mathematics, but dropped out.

Nevertheless, Kupfer once dragged Aratov to a concert at the house of a familiar Georgian princess. But he did not stay long at that evening. Despite this, Kupfer next time lured him to the princess, praising the first-class talent of a certain Clara Milic, about whom they have not yet decided: she is Viardot or Rachel. "Does she have black eyes?" asked Aratov. "Yes, like coal!" It turned out that he had already seen this girl with the princess. She was about nineteen years old, she was tall, beautifully built, with a beautiful swarthy face, thoughtful and almost stern. They received her very well, clapping loudly and for a long time.

During the singing, it seemed to Aratov that her black eyes were all the time turned on him. This continued later, when she read from Eugene Onegin. Her reading, at first a little hurried, with the words "My whole life has been a guarantee of a faithful meeting with you," became expressive and filled with feeling. Her eyes looked boldly and directly at Aratov.

Shortly after the concert, the messenger brought Aratov a note with an invitation to come to Tverskoy Boulevard at about five. It is very important.

At first he was determined not to go, but at half-past four he went to the boulevard. After sitting for some time on a bench with thoughts about a mysterious stranger, he suddenly felt someone come up and stand behind him. Clara Milic was embarrassed, apologizing for her boldness, but she had so much to say to him.

Aratov suddenly felt annoyed: with himself, with her, with the absurd meeting, and with this explanation among the public. Irritation dictated a dry and strained rebuke: "gracious madam", "it even surprises me", "I can be useful", "ready to listen to you."

Clara was frightened, embarrassed and saddened: “I was deceived in you ...” Her face, suddenly flushed, took on an angry and impudent expression: “How stupid our meeting is! How stupid I am! .. Yes, and you ... ”She burst out laughing and quickly disappeared.

Two or three months have passed. And then one day he read in Moskovskie Vedomosti a message about the suicide in Kazan of a gifted artist and favorite of the public, Clara Milic. The reason, according to rumors, was an unhappy love. Kupfer confirmed that this was true. But the newspaper is lying, there are no cupids: she was proud and impregnable Hard as a stone. I just couldn't bear the insult. He traveled to Kazan, met the family. Her real name is Katerina Milovidova, the daughter of an art teacher, a drunkard and a domestic tyrant.

That same night, Aratov dreamed that he was walking across the bare steppe. Suddenly, a thin cloud appeared in front of him, which became a woman in white robes. Her eyes were closed, her face was white, and her hands hung motionless. Without bending at the back, she lay down on a stone like a gravestone, and Aratov, folding his arms over his chest, lay down next to her. But she got up and went, and he could not even move. She turned around, her eyes were alive, and her face also came to life. She beckoned him. It was Clara: "If you want to know who I am, go there!"

In the morning he announced to Platosha that he was going to Kazan. There, from conversations with the widow Milovidova and Clara's sister Anna Aratov, he learned that Katya had been obstinate, self-willed and proud since childhood. She despised her father for drunkenness and mediocrity. She was all fire, passion and contradiction. She said: “I won’t meet the one I want ... but I don’t need others!” - "Well, if you meet?" - "I'll meet ... I'll take it." - "And if it doesn't work?" - “Well, then ... I will commit suicide. So I'm not good enough."

Anna resolutely rejected even the thought of unhappy love as the cause of her sister's death. Here is her diary, is there a hint of unhappy love there?

Alas, Aratov stumbled upon such a hint immediately. He begged Anna for a diary and a photograph, promising to return it, and went to Moscow.

At home, in his office, he felt that he was now at the mercy of Clara. He took her photograph, enlarged it, attached it to the stereoscope: the figure received some semblance of physicality, but did not completely come to life, the eyes all looked to the side. She didn't seem to give in to him. He remembered what Anna had said about her: untouched. That's what gave her power over him, also intact. The thought of the immortality of the soul again visited him. "Death, where is your sting?" - said in the Bible.

In the evening darkness, it now seemed to him that he heard Clara's voice, felt her presence. Once, from a stream of sounds, he managed to isolate the word "roses", another time - the word "I"; it seemed as if a soft whirlwind swept through the room, through him, through him. The stain of the door, whitening in the darkness, moved, and a white female figure appeared - Clara! She has a wreath of red roses on her head… He sat up. In front of him was his aunt in a cap and a white jacket. She became worried when she heard his screams in her sleep.

Immediately after breakfast, Aratov went to Kupfer, who told him that Clara had drunk poison already in the theater, before the first act, and she played like never before. And as soon as the curtain fell, she immediately fell on the stage ...

On the night after a visit to a friend, Aratov dreamed that he was the owner of a rich estate. He is accompanied by the manager, a small fidgety little man. Here they come to the lake. There is a golden boat near the shore: if you don’t want to ride, it will float itself. He steps into it and sees there an ape-like creature holding a vial of dark liquid in its paw. "It's nothing! - the manager shouts from the shore. - It's death! Bon Voyage!" Suddenly a black whirlwind interferes with everything, and Aratov sees how Klara, in a theatrical costume, raises a bottle to her lips to the cries of "bravo", and someone's rough voice says: "Ah! did you think it was all a comedy? No, this is a tragedy!

Aratov woke up. The night light is on. Clara's presence is felt in the room. He is back in her power.

"Clara, are you here?

Yes! - is distributed in response.

If you are definitely here, if you understand how bitterly I regret that I did not understand, pushed you away, - appear! If you are now sure that I, who until now have not loved or known a single woman, fell in love with you after your death, then appear!

Someone quickly approached him from behind and put a hand on his shoulder. He turned around and saw a woman dressed in black in his chair, with her head turned to the side, as if in a stereoscope.

- ... Turn around to me, look at me, Clara! - The head quietly turned to him, the eyelids opened, the stern expression was replaced by a smile.

I am forgiven! - with these words, Aratov kissed her on the lips. Platosha, who ran to the scream, found him in a swoon.

He was looking forward to the next night. She and Clara love each other. That kiss was still running cold through her body. Another time, he will possess her ... But they cannot live together. Well, you have to die to be with her.

In the evening he developed a fever, and Platonida Ivanovna remained dozing in an armchair. In the middle of the night, a piercing scream woke her up. Yasha was lying on the floor again. He was lifted up and laid down. In his right hand was a strand of black female hair. He was delirious, talking about the perfect marriage he had concluded, that he now knows what pleasure is. Having come to his senses for a second, he said: “Don't cry, aunt. Don't you know that love is stronger than death?" And a blissful smile shone on his face.

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Turgenev Ivan

After death (Clara Milic)

Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

After death (Clara Milic)

In the spring of 1878 he lived in Moscow, in a small wooden house on Shabolovka, a young man, about twenty-five years old, named Yakov Aratov. His aunt lived with him, an old girl in her fifties, his father's sister, Platonvda Ivanovna. She was in charge of his household and managed his expenses, which Aratov was completely incapable of. He had no other relatives. A few years ago his father, a poor nobleman of T... and the province, moved to Moscow with him and Platonida Ivanovna, whom, however, he always called Platosha; and her nephew also called her. Leaving the village in which they had all lived until then, the old man Aratov settled in the capital with the aim of placing his son in a university, for which he himself had prepared him; bought for nothing a house in one of the remote streets and settled down in it with all his books and "drugs". And he had a lot of books and preparations - for he was a man not devoid of learning ... "an eccentric eccentric," according to his neighbors. He even had a reputation among them as a warlock; he even got the nickname "insect watcher". He was engaged in chemistry, mineralogy, entomology, botany and medicine; treated voluntary patients with herbs and metal powders of his own invention, according to the method of Paracelsius. With these same powders, he brought to the grave his young, pretty, but too thin wife, whom he loved passionately and from whom he had an only son. With the same metal powders, he also spoiled the health of his son, which, on the contrary, he wanted to strengthen, finding in his body anemia and a tendency to consumption, inherited from his mother. By the way, he got the name "warlock" from the fact that he considered himself a great-grandson - not in a straight line, of course - of the famous Bruce, after whom he named his son Jacob. He was, as they say, "the kindest" person, but of a melancholic disposition, scurrilous, timid, prone to everything mysterious, mystical ... A half-whisper uttered: "Ah!" was his usual exclamation; he died with this exclamation on his lips - two years later after moving to Moscow.

His son Jacob did not look like his father, who was ugly, clumsy and awkward; he was more like his mother. The same fine, pretty features, the same soft ash-colored hair, the same small hooked nose, the same bulging baby lips - and large, greenish-gray eyes with a veil and fluffy eyelashes. But in disposition he resembled his father; and his face, unlike his father's, bore the imprint of a father's expression - and his hands were knotty, and his chest was sunken, like old Aratov, who, however, should hardly be called an old man, since he did not live up to fifty years old. Even during his lifetime, Yakov entered the university, in the Faculty of Physics and Mathematics; however, he did not finish the course - not out of laziness, but because, according to his concepts, at the university you do not learn more than what you can learn at home; and he did not pursue a diploma, since he did not expect to enter the service. He was shy of his comrades, almost did not get acquainted with anyone, in particular he shunned women and lived very secluded, immersed in books. He shunned women, although he had a very tender heart and was captivated by beauty... He even acquired a sumptuous English kip-sack - and (shamefully!) admired the images of various delightful Gulnar and Medor that "decorated" him... But he was constantly restrained by his inborn modesty. In the house, he occupied his father's former study, which was also his bedroom; and his bed was the same on which his father had died.

His aunt, that Platosha, with whom he hardly exchanged ten words a day, but without whom he could not take a step, was a great help to his entire existence, an invariable comrade and friend. It was a long-faced, long-toothed creature, with pale eyes in a pale face, with an invariable expression of either sadness or preoccupied fright. Forever dressed in a gray dress and a gray shawl that smelled of camphor, she wandered around the house like a shadow with inaudible steps; she sighed, whispered prayers - one special, beloved, consisting of only two words: "Lord, help!" - and very efficiently disposed of the household, took care of every penny and bought everything herself. She adored her nephew; she was constantly worried about her health; . Yakov was not weary of this courtship - he did not drink breast tea, however - and only shook his head approvingly. He was very impressionable, nervous, suspicious, suffered from palpitations, sometimes shortness of breath; like his father, he believed that there are secrets in nature and in the human soul that can sometimes be seen through, but it is impossible to comprehend, he believed in the presence of certain forces and trends, sometimes favorable, but more often hostile, and he also believed in science, in its dignity and importance. Lately he has become addicted to photography. The smell of the drugs used worried the old woman very much - again, not for herself, but for Yasha, for his chest; but, for all the gentleness of his temper, there was a lot of stubbornness in him - and he persistently continued his favorite occupation. Platosha resigned herself and only sighed and whispered more than ever: "Lord, help me!", Looking at his iodine-stained fingers.

Yakov, as has already been said, shunned his comrades; however, he got along quite close with one of them and saw him often, even after this comrade, having left the university, entered the service, which, however, was not obligatory: he, in his words, “squatted” with the construction of the Temple of the Savior, nothing , of course, in architecture without understanding. It is strange: this only friend of Aratov, by the name of Kupfer, a German so Russified that he did not know a single word of German and even cursed "German" - this friend apparently had nothing in common with him. He was a black-haired, ruddy-cheeked fellow, a merry fellow, a talker, and a great lover of the very female company that Aratov so avoided. True, Kupfer both breakfasted and dined with him often - and even, being a poor man, he borrowed small sums from him; but this was not what made the cheeky German diligently visit the secluded house on Shabolovka. The spiritual purity, the "ideality" of Yakov fell in love with him, perhaps as a contradiction to what he met and saw every day; or, perhaps, in this very attraction to the "ideal" young man, his Germanic blood nevertheless affected. And Yakov liked Kupfer's good-natured frankness; and besides, his stories about theaters, about concerts, about balls where he was a regular - in general about that alien world where Yakov did not dare to penetrate - secretly occupied and even excited the young hermit, without arousing, however, in him a desire experience it all with your own experience. And Platosha complained about Kupfer, although she sometimes found him too unceremonious, but, instinctively feeling and understanding that he was sincerely attached to her dear Yasha, she not only tolerated a noisy guest, but also favored him.

Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

"Clara Milic"

Yakov Aratov lived on Shabolovka in a small wooden house with his aunt Platonida Ivanovna, Platosha, as his father called her. He was 25 years old, but he lived in seclusion, was engaged in photography, was friends only with Kupfer, a Russified German who was sincerely attached to Aratov. For this, Platosha forgave him some arrogance and noisy cheerfulness. Disposition Jacob went to his father. He also lived in solitude, studied chemistry, mineralogy, entomology, botany and medicine, was known as a warlock, considering himself the great-grandson of Bruce, after whom he named his son, and was prone to everything mysterious and mystical. Yakov inherited this trait of his, he believed in secrets that can sometimes be seen, but impossible to comprehend. At the same time, he believed in science. Even during the life of his father, he studied at the Faculty of Physics and Mathematics, but dropped out.

Nevertheless, Kupfer once dragged Aratov to a concert at the house of a familiar Georgian princess. But he did not stay long at that evening. Despite this, Kupfer next time lured him to the princess, praising the first-class talent of a certain Clara Milich, about whom they have not yet decided: she is Viardot or Rachel. "Does she have black eyes?" asked Aratov. "Yes, like coal!" It turned out that he had already seen this girl with the princess. She was about nineteen years old, she was tall, beautifully built, with a beautiful swarthy face, thoughtful and almost stern. They received her very well, clapping loudly and for a long time.

During the singing, it seemed to Aratov that her black eyes were all the time turned to him. This continued later, when she read from Eugene Onegin. Her reading, at first a little hurried, with the words “My whole life has been a guarantee of a faithful meeting with you,” became expressive and filled with feeling. Her eyes looked boldly and directly at Aratov.

Shortly after the concert, the messenger brought Aratov a note with an invitation to come to Tverskoy Boulevard at about five. It is very important.

At first he firmly decided not to go, but at half past four he went to the boulevard. After sitting for some time on a bench with thoughts about a mysterious stranger, he suddenly felt someone come up and stand behind him. Clara Milic was embarrassed, apologizing for her boldness, but she had so much to say to him.

Aratov suddenly felt annoyed: with himself, with her, with the absurd meeting, and with this explanation among the public. Irritation dictated a dry and strained rebuke: "gracious madam", "it even surprises me", "I can be useful", "ready to listen to you."

Clara was frightened, embarrassed and saddened: “I was deceived in you ...” Her face, suddenly flushed, took on an angry and impudent expression: “How stupid our meeting is! How stupid I am! .. Yes, and you ... ”She burst out laughing and quickly disappeared.

Two or three months have passed. And then one day he read in Moskovskie Vedomosti a message about the suicide in Kazan of a talented artist and favorite of the public, Clara Milic. The reason, according to rumors, was an unhappy love. Kupfer confirmed that this was true. But the newspaper is lying, there are no cupids: she was proud and impregnable Hard as a stone. I just couldn't bear the insult. He traveled to Kazan, met the family. Her real name is Katerina Milovidova, the daughter of an art teacher, a drunkard and a domestic tyrant.

That same night, Aratov dreamed that he was walking across the bare steppe. Suddenly, a thin cloud appeared in front of him, which became a woman in white robes. Her eyes were closed, her face white, and her hands hung motionless. Without bending at the back, she lay down on a stone like a gravestone, and Aratov, folding his arms over his chest, lay down next to her. But she got up and went, and he could not even move. She turned around, her eyes were alive, and her face also came to life. She beckoned him. It was Clara: "If you want to know who I am, go there!"

In the morning he announced to Platosha that he was going to Kazan. There, from conversations with the widow Milovidova and Clara's sister Anna Aratov, he learned that Katya had been obstinate, self-willed and proud since childhood. She despised her father for drunkenness and mediocrity. She was all fire, passion and contradiction. She said: “I won’t meet the one I want ... but I don’t need others!” - "Well, what if you meet?" - "Meeting ... I'll take it." - "And if it doesn't work?" “Well, then… I’ll kill myself. So I'm not good enough."

Anna resolutely rejected even the thought of unhappy love as the cause of her sister's death. Here is her diary, is there a hint of unhappy love there?

Alas, Aratov stumbled upon such a hint immediately. He begged Anna for a diary and a photograph, promising to return it, and went to Moscow.

At home, in his office, he felt that he was now at the mercy of Clara. He took her photograph, enlarged it, attached it to the stereoscope: the figure received some semblance of physicality, but did not completely come to life, her eyes all looked to the side. She didn't seem to give in to him. He remembered what Anna had said about her: untouched. That's what gave her power over him, also intact. The thought of the immortality of the soul again visited him. "Death, where is your sting?" - said in the Bible.

In the evening darkness, it now seemed to him that he heard Clara's voice, felt her presence. Once, from a stream of sounds, he managed to isolate the word "roses", another time - the word "I"; it seemed as if a soft whirlwind swept through the room, through him, through him. The spot of the door, whitening in the darkness, stirred, and a white female figure appeared - Clara! She has a wreath of red roses on her head… He got up. In front of him was his aunt in a cap and a white jacket. She became worried when she heard his screams in her sleep.

Immediately after breakfast, Aratov went to Kupfer, who told him that Clara had drunk poison already in the theater, before the first act, and she played like never before. And as soon as the curtain fell, she immediately fell on the stage ...

On the night after a visit to a friend, Aratov dreamed that he was the owner of a rich estate. He is accompanied by the manager, a small fidgety little man. Here they come to the lake. There is a golden boat near the shore: if you don’t want to ride, it will float itself. He steps into it and sees an ape-like creature holding a vial of dark liquid in its paw. "It's nothing! the manager shouts from the shore. - It's death! Bon Voyage!" Suddenly, a black whirlwind interferes with everything, and Aratov sees how Klara, in a theatrical costume, raises a bottle to her lips to the cries of “bravo”, and someone’s rough voice says: “Ah! did you think it was all a comedy? No, this is a tragedy!

Aratov woke up. The night light is on. Clara's presence is felt in the room. He is back in her power.

Clara, are you there?
- Yes! - is distributed in response.
“If you are definitely here, if you understand how bitterly I regret that I didn’t understand, pushed you away, then appear!” If you are now sure that I, who until now have not loved or known a single woman, have loved you after your death, then appear!

Someone quickly approached him from behind and put a hand on his shoulder. He turned around and in his chair saw a woman dressed in black, with her head turned to the side, as if in a stereoscope.

“…Turn around to me, look at me, Clara!” Her head turned quietly towards him, her eyelids fluttering open, her stern expression replaced by a smile.
- I'm forgiven! With these words, Aratov kissed her on the lips.

Platosha, who ran to the scream, found him in a swoon.

He was looking forward to the next night. She and Clara love each other. That kiss was still running cold through her body. Another time, he will possess her ... But they cannot live together. Well, you have to die to be with her.

In the evening he developed a fever, and Platonida Ivanovna remained dozing in an armchair. In the middle of the night, a piercing scream woke her up. Yasha was lying on the floor again. He was lifted up and laid down. In his right hand was a strand of black female hair. He was delirious, talking about the perfect marriage he had entered into, about the fact that he now knows what pleasure is. Having come to his senses for a second, he said: “Don't cry, aunt. Don't you know that love is stronger than death?" And a blissful smile shone on his face.

Yakov Aratov, who lives in Shabolovka, was engaged in photography. He lived with his aunt Platosha, in a wooden house. His only friend was Kupfer, a Russified German. Once, when Kupfer finally pulled Jacob out of the house, they attended a concert by a certain Clara Milic. Yakov noticed that during his speech, Clara looked at him all the time. After the concert, the messenger brought a note with an invitation to meet on Tverskoy Boulevard. The meeting did not work out, and Clara ran away. A few months later, Jacob found out from the newspaper about Clara's suicide. According to rumors, the reason for everything was unrequited love.

After a strange dream, with Clara, he went to the homeland of Ekaterina Milovidova, that was the name of the artist. Her family lived in Kazan. There he was given Clara's diary. Sitting in Moscow, over a photograph of Clara, he tried to make out her, but something was in the way. It seemed to him that he felt the presence of Clara and heard her. The white spot that appeared in the room moved and headed towards him, it was she - Clara. With a wreath of red roses on her head. He got up and saw his aunt in her nightgown. She was frightened when she heard him scream. The next day, Kupfer told Yakov that Clara drank poison before the performance, played like never before, and after the curtain fell, she fell dead. On the same night, Yakov dreams that he is a rich man and has his own estate. Together with their assistant, they approached the lake, on the shore of which stood a golden boat. Entering it, he found a creature resembling a monkey with a glass in his hand. The manager from the shore shouted that it was death. Everything changed, and Yakov saw Clara in front of him.

Platosha found Jacob in a swoon. In the evening, a fever began, and at night, Yakov Platosha, who was on duty at the bedside, found her nephew lying on the floor with a lock of black hair in his hand. He raved, saying that he had made the perfect marriage. After coming to his senses for a while, he asked his aunt not to cry, saying that love is stronger than death. And a smile was forever on his face.

Compositions

Yakov Aratov lived on Shabolovka in a small wooden house with his aunt Platonida Ivanovna, Platosha, as his father called her. He was 25 years old, but he lived in seclusion, was engaged in photography, was friends only with Kupfer, a Russified German who was sincerely attached to Aratov. For this, Platosha forgave him some arrogance and noisy cheerfulness. Disposition Jacob went to his father. He also lived in solitude, studied chemistry, mineralogy, entomology, botany and medicine, was known as a warlock, considering himself the great-grandson of Bruce, after whom he named his son, and was prone to everything mysterious and mystical. Jacob inherited this trait of his, he believed in secrets that can sometimes be seen, but it is impossible to comprehend. At the same time, he believed in science. Even during the life of his father, he studied at the Faculty of Physics and Mathematics, but dropped out.

Nevertheless, Kupfer once dragged Aratov to a concert at the house of a familiar Georgian princess. But he did not stay long at that evening. Despite this, Kupfer next time lured him to the princess, praising the first-class talent of a certain Clara Milich, about whom they have not yet decided: she is Viardot or Rachel. "Does she have black eyes?" asked Aratov. "Yes, like coal!" It turned out that he had already seen this girl with the princess. She was about nineteen years old, she was tall, beautifully built, with a beautiful swarthy face, thoughtful and almost stern. They received her very well, clapping loudly and for a long time.

During the singing, it seemed to Aratov that her black eyes were all the time turned to him. This continued later, when she read from Eugene Onegin. Her reading, at first a little hurried, with the words “My whole life has been a guarantee of a faithful meeting with you,” became expressive and filled with feeling. Her eyes looked boldly and directly at Aratov.

Shortly after the concert, the messenger brought Aratov a note with an invitation to come to Tverskoy Boulevard at about five. It is very important.

At first he firmly decided not to go, but at half past four he went to the boulevard. After sitting for some time on a bench with thoughts about a mysterious stranger, he suddenly felt someone come up and stand behind him. Clara Milic was embarrassed, apologizing for her boldness, but she had so much to say to him.

Aratov suddenly felt annoyed: with himself, with her, with the absurd meeting, and with this explanation among the public. Irritation dictated a dry and strained rebuke: "gracious madam", "it even surprises me", "I can be useful", "ready to listen to you."

Clara was frightened, embarrassed and saddened: “I was deceived in you ...” Her face, suddenly flushed, took on an angry and impudent expression: “How stupid our meeting is! How stupid I am! .. Yes, and you ... ”She burst out laughing and quickly disappeared.

Two or three months have passed. And then one day he read in Moskovskie Vedomosti a message about the suicide in Kazan of a talented artist and favorite of the public, Clara Milic. The reason, according to rumors, was an unhappy love. Kupfer confirmed that this was true. But the newspaper is lying, there are no cupids: she was proud and impregnable Hard as a stone. I just couldn't bear the insult. He traveled to Kazan, met the family. Her real name is Katerina Milovidova, the daughter of an art teacher, a drunkard and a domestic tyrant.

That same night, Aratov dreamed that he was walking across the bare steppe. Suddenly, a thin cloud appeared in front of him, which became a woman in white robes. Her eyes were closed, her face white, and her hands hung motionless. Without bending at the back, she lay down on a stone like a gravestone, and Aratov, folding his arms over his chest, lay down next to her. But she got up and went, and he could not even move. She turned around, her eyes were alive, and her face also came to life. She beckoned him. It was Clara: "If you want to know who I am, go there!"

In the morning he announced to Platosha that he was going to Kazan. There, from conversations with the widow Milovidova and Clara's sister Anna Aratov, he learned that Katya had been obstinate, self-willed and proud since childhood. She despised her father for drunkenness and mediocrity. She was all fire, passion and contradiction. She said: “I won’t meet the one I want ... but I don’t need others!” - "Well, what if you meet?" - "I'll meet ... I'll take it." - "And if it doesn't work?" “Well, then… I’ll kill myself. So I'm not good enough."

Anna resolutely rejected even the thought of unhappy love as the cause of her sister's death. Here is her diary, is there a hint of unhappy love there?

Alas, Aratov stumbled upon such a hint immediately. He begged Anna for a diary and a photograph, promising to return it, and went to Moscow.

At home, in his office, he felt that he was now at the mercy of Clara. He took her photograph, enlarged it, attached it to the stereoscope: the figure received some semblance of physicality, but did not completely come to life, her eyes all looked to the side. She didn't seem to give in to him. He remembered what Anna had said about her: untouched. That's what gave her power over him, also intact. The thought of the immortality of the soul again visited him. "Death, where is your sting?" - said in the Bible.

In the evening darkness, it now seemed to him that he heard Clara's voice, felt her presence. Once, from a stream of sounds, he managed to isolate the word "roses", another time - the word "I"; it seemed as if a soft whirlwind swept through the room, through him, through him. The stain of the door, whitening in the darkness, moved, and a white female figure appeared - Clara! She has a wreath of red roses on her head... He got up. In front of him was his aunt in a cap and a white jacket. She became worried when she heard his screams in her sleep.

Immediately after breakfast, Aratov went to Kupfer, who told him that Clara had drunk poison already in the theater, before the first act, and she played like never before. And as soon as the curtain fell, she immediately fell on the stage ...

On the night after a visit to a friend, Aratov dreamed that he was the owner of a rich estate. He is accompanied by the manager, a small fidgety little man. Here they come to the lake. There is a golden boat near the shore: if you don’t want to ride, it will float itself. He steps into it and sees an ape-like creature holding a vial of dark liquid in its paw. "It's nothing! - the manager shouts from the shore. - It's death! Bon Voyage!" Suddenly, a black whirlwind interferes with everything, and Aratov sees how Klara, in a theatrical costume, raises a bottle to her lips to the cries of “bravo”, and someone’s rough voice says: “Ah! did you think it was all a comedy? No, this is a tragedy!

Aratov woke up. The night light is on. Clara's presence is felt in the room. He is back in her power.

- Clara, are you there?
- Yes! - distributed in response.
- If you are definitely here, if you understand how bitterly I regret that I did not understand, pushed you away, - appear! If you are now sure that I, who until now have not loved or known a single woman, fell in love with you after your death, then appear!

Someone quickly approached him from behind and put a hand on his shoulder. He turned around and in his chair saw a woman dressed in black, with her head turned to the side, as if in a stereoscope.

- ... Turn around to me, look at me, Clara! - The head quietly turned to him, the eyelids opened, the stern expression was replaced by a smile.
- I'm forgiven! - with these words Aratov kissed her on the lips.

Platosha, who ran to the scream, found him in a swoon.

He was looking forward to the next night. She and Clara love each other. That kiss was still running cold through her body. Another time he will possess her... But they can't live together. Well, you have to die to be with her.

In the evening he developed a fever, and Platonida Ivanovna remained dozing in an armchair. In the middle of the night, a piercing scream woke her up. Yasha was lying on the floor again. He was lifted up and laid down. In his right hand was a strand of black female hair. He was delirious, talking about the perfect marriage he had entered into, about the fact that he now knows what pleasure is. Having come to his senses for a second, he said: “Don't cry, aunt. Don't you know that love is stronger than death?" And a blissful smile shone on his face.