Ivan Turgenev - After death (Klara Milich).

Turgenev Ivan

After death (Klara Milic)

Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

After death (Klara Milic)

In the spring of 1878, a young man, about twenty or five years old, named Yakov Aratov, lived in Moscow, in a small wooden house on Shabolovka. His aunt, an old maid of over fifty years old, his father’s sister, Platonvda Ivanovna, lived with him. She managed his household and managed his expenses, something Aratov was completely incapable of doing. He had no other relatives. Several 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 called her the same way. Having left the village in which they had all lived permanently until then, the old man Aratov settled in the capital with the goal of placing his son in the university for which he himself had prepared him; I bought a house for next to nothing from one of the remote streets and settled in it with all my books and “medicines.” And he had a lot of books and drugs - for he was not devoid of learning... “a supernatural eccentric,” according to his neighbors. He was even known among them as a warlock; He even received the nickname “insect observer.” He studied chemistry, mineralogy, entomology, botany and medicine; treated voluntary patients with herbs and metal powders of his own invention, according to the Paracelsius method. With these very powders, he brought to the grave his young, pretty, but too thin wife, whom he loved passionately and with whom he had his only son. With the same metal powders, he also seriously 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 received the name “warlock” because he considered himself the great-grandson - not in a direct line, of course - of the famous Bruce, in whose honor he named his son Jacob. He was, as they say, the “kindest” person, but of a melancholic disposition, smoky, timid, prone to everything mysterious, mystical... In a half-whisper he said: “Ah!” was his usual exclamation; he died with this exclamation on his lips, two years after moving to Moscow.

His son Yakov did not resemble his father in appearance, who was ugly, clumsy and awkward; he rather resembled his mother. The same thin, pretty features, the same soft ash-colored hair, the same small nose with a hump, the same convex childish lips - and large, greenish-gray eyes with languor and fluffy eyelashes. But in character he was like his father; and his face, unlike his father’s, bore the imprint of his father’s expression - and he had gnarled hands and a sunken chest, like old Aratov, who, however, should hardly be called an old man, since he did not even reach the age of fifty. During his lifetime, Yakov entered the university, the Faculty of Physics and Mathematics; however, he did not finish the course - not out of laziness, but because, according to his ideas, at the university you cannot learn more than what you can learn at home; but he did not pursue a diploma, since he did not expect to enter the service. He shunned his comrades, made almost no acquaintance with anyone, especially shunned women and lived very solitary, immersed in books. He shunned women, although he had a very tender heart and was captivated by beauty... He even acquired a luxurious English jacket - and (oh shame!) admired the images of various delightful Gulnar and Medora that “decorated” him... But he was constantly restrained by his innate modesty. In the house he occupied his father's former office, which was also his bedroom; and his bed was the same on which his father died.

The great help of his entire existence, his constant comrade and friend, was his aunt, that Platosha, with whom he hardly exchanged ten words a day, but without whom he could not take a step. It was a long-faced, long-toothed creature, with pale eyes on a pale face, with a constant expression of either sadness or anxious fear. Always dressed in a gray dress and a gray shawl that smelled of camphor, she wandered around the house like a shadow, with silent steps; sighed, whispered prayers - one special, beloved one, consisting of just two words: “Lord, help!” - and managed the housework very efficiently, saved every penny and purchased everything herself. She adored her nephew; she was constantly spinning about her health, she was afraid of everything - not for herself, but for him - and sometimes, just as she thought, she would quietly come up and put a cup of breast tea on his desk or stroke him on the back with her soft, cotton-like hands . Yakov was not burdened by this courtship - however, he did not drink breast tea - and only shook his head approvingly. He was very impressionable, nervous, suspicious, suffered from palpitations and 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, but impossible to comprehend, he believed in the presence of certain forces and trends, sometimes supportive, 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 she was taking was very disturbing to the old woman's aunt - again, not for herself, but for Yasha, for his chest; but, for all his gentle disposition, he had a lot of tenacity - and he persistently continued the activity he loved. Platosha submitted and only sighed more than ever and whispered: “Lord, help me!”, looking at his iodine-painted fingers.

Yakov, as already said, was alienated from his comrades; however, I became quite close with one of them and saw him often, even after this comrade, having left the university, entered service, which, however, was not obligatory: he, in his words, “perched” on the construction of the Temple of the Savior, nothing Of course, I don’t know anything about architecture. It’s a strange thing: this only friend of Aratov, named Kupfer, a German who had become so Russified that he didn’t know a single word of German and even swore “German” - this friend apparently had nothing in common with him. He was a black-haired, red-cheeked fellow, a merry fellow, a talker, and a great lover of that very female society that Aratov so avoided. True, Kupfer often had breakfast and lunch with him - and even, being a poor man, he borrowed small sums from him; but this was not what forced the cheeky German to diligently visit the secluded house on Shabolovka. He fell in love with Yakov’s spiritual purity and “ideality,” perhaps as a contradiction to what he met and saw every day; or, perhaps, in this very attraction to the “ideal” young man his German blood was still reflected. 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 into which Yakov did not dare to penetrate - secretly occupied and even excited the young hermit, without, however, arousing any desire in him experience all this with your own experience. And Platosha favored 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 the noisy guest, but also favored him.

Turgenev Ivan

Turgenev Ivan

After death (Klara Milic)

Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

After death (Klara Milic)

At the time we are talking about, there was a certain widow in Moscow, a Georgian princess - an uncertain, almost suspicious person. She was already nearly forty years old; in her youth she probably bloomed with that special oriental beauty that fades so quickly; Now she bleached, blushed and dyed her hair yellow. There were various rumors about her, not entirely favorable and not entirely clear; No one knew her husband - and she did not live in any city for a long time. She had neither children nor fortune; but she lived openly - on credit or otherwise; kept, as they say, a salon and received a rather mixed society - mostly young people. Everything in her house, from her own toilet, furniture, table and ending with the carriage and servants, bore the stamp of something of poor quality, fake, temporary... but also The princess herself and her guests, apparently, did not demand anything better. The princess was known as a lover of music, literature, and patroness of artists and painters; and she was really interested in all these “issues”, 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, kind, in essence, very kind, kind-hearted and forgiving... Qualities are rare and even more expensive - precisely in this kind of personalities! “An empty woman! As one wise man put it about her, she will certainly go to heaven! Because: she forgives everything - and everything will be forgiven to her!” They also said about her that when she disappeared from some city, she always left in it as many creditors as there were people who had benefited from her. A soft heart bends in any direction you want.

Kupfer, as one would expect, ended up in her house and became close to her... evil tongues assured: too close a person. He himself always spoke of her not only in a friendly manner, but with respect - he called her a golden woman - no matter what you interpret! - and firmly believed in her love for art and in her understanding of art! So one day, after dinner at the Aratovs, having talked about the princess and her evenings, he began to convince Yakov to break his anchorite life for once and allow him, Kupfer, to introduce him to his friend. At first Yakov didn’t want to listen.

What do you think? - Kupfer finally exclaimed, “what kind of performance are we talking about?” I’ll just take you, this is how you’re sitting now, in a frock coat, and take you to her for the evening. There are no ethics there, brother! You are a scientist, and you love literature, and music (Aratov actually had a piano in his office, on which he occasionally played chords with a diminished seventh) - and she has plenty of all this stuff in her house! And you will meet sympathetic people there, without any pretensions! And, finally, it’s impossible at your age, with your appearance (Aratov lowered his eyes and ma...

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The history of studying Turgenev’s story “After Death (Klara Milich)”: possible aspects, prerequisites for studying the title in relation to the plot

History of studying the story

As mentioned above, the story “After Death (Klara Milich)” refers to the last period of Turgenev’s work. Toporov9 writes that this period of creativity is significantly richer in references to the dream topic and the “sea” theme. “The fact that dreams played a very significant role in Turgenev’s life, as well as - more broadly - visions, divinations, hallucinations and - even more broadly - premonitions, which at the noted moments allowed him to “see” (albeit in a slightly different sense of the word) the future, attention was paid long ago, as well as the fact that this ability of Turgenev was associated with a strong sense of the mystical, characteristic of him”10. There are quite a few examples of such dreams in the story “After Death (Klara Milich).” These are the dreams of Yakov Aratov, one of the main characters of the story. An interesting feature of these dreams is that in all of them Aratov sees Clara, who is no longer alive. In Chapter XI, in his first dream, he sees an unfamiliar woman in a white dress, who then turns into Clara in a wreath of small scarlet roses, she tells him: “If you want to know who I am, go there!”11, waking up after this, Aratov feels changes in himself and understands that Clara was talking about Kazan, where her relatives live, and he decides to go there to find out something about her and at least somehow understand himself. Toporov writes about this strange connection between dreams and life and death, which is precisely present in our story under study: “When life and death turn out to be so closely connected and dependent on sleep, when sleep is able to reveal in life what life itself, a living person do not know about themselves, the dream turns out to be a kind of “subtle” and suggestive otherness of life...”12. Further, in Chapter XV, the dream is preceded by hallucinations: he hears Clara’s voice, then he sees her herself. Here Toporov reveals a characteristic sequence: “...auditory hallucination>visual hallucination>dream. The last transition was especially smooth and unnoticeable for Aratov, unlike the first. The next night it all began directly with a dream, as if leading him - again - to some “unreal reality, that is, to some way out of the dream, if not into life itself, then into some strange and terrible likeness of it”13. He dreams of a rich landowner's house, an estate, how the manager revolves around him and shows everything, Aratov is tormented by a premonition of something evil. He gets into the boat, which rushes quickly, and the manager shouts from the shore: “If you please, don’t worry. It's nothing! This is death! Bon Voyage!<…>Among the swirling darkness, Aratov sees Clara in a theatrical costume: she brings the glass to her lips, and distant voices are heard: “Bravo! Bravo! - and someone’s rude voice shouts in Aratov’s ear: “Ah! did you think this would all end in comedy? No! This is a tragedy! Tragedy!”14 Aratov wakes up in horror and feels Clara’s presence in the room, her power, begins to call her and she appears, he rushes to her. “Power became common, but it was achieved along different paths and, in order to be preserved, implied serious consequences. The price of his power is his death, and he, now not content with their meetings in a dream or in a dream-like reality, understands this,”15 writes Toporov. Aratov understands that in order to be with Clara he must die, but now death no longer frightens him at all. And then Toporov explains to us the end of the “mysterious” story: “The painful lack of freedom as a result of the invasion of a “stranger” and, in fact, painful, violent will-power at this point is transformed into a feeling of newfound freedom: “Auntie, why are you crying? Because I have to die? Don't you know that love is stronger than death?.. Death! Death, where is your sting? One should not cry, but should rejoice - just as I rejoice... - And again that blissful smile shone on the dying man’s face, which made the poor old woman feel so terribly” - the last words of Turgenev’s last word addressed to the reader”16.

Researcher Shatalov wrote about the story “After Death (Klara Milich)”: “The writer focused all his attention on love, death and immortality. He “cleared this triple motive of everything that, in his opinion, could interfere with the most careful study of the problem in solving which his hero, the student Aratov, stumbled and fell into the swamp of outright mysticism, and with him many more educated, more learned people that era"17. Aratov falls in love with Clara after her death, believing in the immortality of the soul, in the ability of the dead to have power over the living, that is, through the hero, Turgenev introduces faith in mysticism into the work. But this does not mean at all that Turgenev renounced his principles of realism: “Turgenev remained a realist, his later stories and stories did not mean a concession to either mysticism or romanticism. But this tendency to depict the mysterious in the psyche and in nature, this constant reservation that there are many unknown phenomena in the world and that not all of them can be known by his generation - this could not but give realism a special shade,” writes Shatalov . Thus, we understand that the story “After Death (Klara Milic)” has not only mystical meaning.

The history of the creation of the story and the context of the author’s life circumstances

The story “After Death (Clara Milich)” was written by Turgenev in early September (in October according to other sources) 1882 in Bougival, and less than a year later he died at the age of 65 from a terrible illness that baffled the best doctors in Paris - it was a cancerous inflammation in the dorsal bone. Annensky writes about this: “...that morning, when Turgenev was finishing his “Klara Milich,” autumn was probably looking out the window, southern, maybe golden, but still autumn, and the last one at that, and he felt it. - In flowers, but already condemned; still charming, but already without the heat... Not yet death, but already a dream that knows about it and which it will cover - this autumn was his last story: now gray, now pink, still diligently clear and in soft, but already frozen contours. With Klara Milich, a new and some kind of ringing note entered the music of Turgenev’s work, not for long. It was a note of physical suffering."19 But Turgenev knew that this illness could only end in a painful death, he wrote: “Who knows - I may be writing this a few days before my death. The thought is sad. Insignificance scares me - and I still want to live... although... Well, what will be will be”20. It should also be noted that Turgenev’s last story was no longer perceived by readers in the same way as all of his “mysterious” prose: “By the time the story “After Death” was published, Russian readers and critics had already learned under the legendary and fantastic cover of the later of Turgenev's works to guess new, socially significant content. The story met with the most positive reviews and retained the friendly attitude of subsequent generations.”21 Thus, our story under study is the dying, and perhaps the most mystical work of Turgenev, so it is undoubtedly very interesting for research.

Turgenev Ivan

After death (Klara Milic)

Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

After death (Klara Milic)

Current page: 1 (book has 4 pages in total)

Turgenev Ivan
After death (Klara Milic)

Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

After death (Klara Milic)

In the spring of 1878, a young man, about twenty or five years old, named Yakov Aratov, lived in Moscow, in a small wooden house on Shabolovka. His aunt, an old maid of over fifty years old, his father’s sister, Platonvda Ivanovna, lived with him. She managed his household and managed his expenses, something Aratov was completely incapable of doing. He had no other relatives. Several 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 called her the same way. Having left the village in which they had all lived permanently until then, the old man Aratov settled in the capital with the goal of placing his son in the university for which he himself had prepared him; I bought a house for next to nothing from one of the remote streets and settled in it with all my books and “medicines.” And he had a lot of books and medicines - for he was not a man devoid of learning... “a supernatural eccentric,” according to his neighbors. He was even known among them as a warlock; He even received the nickname “insect observer.” He studied chemistry, mineralogy, entomology, botany and medicine; treated voluntary patients with herbs and metal powders of his own invention, according to the Paracelsius method. With these very powders, he brought to the grave his young, pretty, but too thin wife, whom he loved passionately and with whom he had his only son. With the same metal powders, he also seriously 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 received the name “warlock” because he considered himself the great-grandson - not in a direct line, of course - of the famous Bruce, in whose honor he named his son Jacob. He was, as they say, the “kindest” person, but of a melancholic disposition, smoky, timid, prone to everything mysterious, mystical... In a half-whisper he said: “Ah!” was his usual exclamation; he died with this exclamation on his lips, two years after moving to Moscow.

The great help of his entire existence, his constant comrade and friend, was his aunt, that Platosha, with whom he hardly exchanged ten words a day, but without whom he could not take a step. It was a long-faced, long-toothed creature, with pale eyes on a pale face, with a constant expression of either sadness or anxious fear. Always dressed in a gray dress and a gray shawl that smelled of camphor, she wandered around the house like a shadow, with silent steps; sighed, whispered prayers - one special, beloved one, consisting of just two words: “Lord, help!” - and managed the housework very efficiently, saved every penny and purchased everything herself. She adored her nephew; she was constantly worried about everything, she was afraid of everything - not for herself, but for him - and sometimes, just as she thought, she would quietly come up and put a cup of breast tea on his desk or stroke him on the back with her soft, cotton-like hands . Yakov was not burdened by this courtship - however, he did not drink breast tea - and only shook his head approvingly. He was very impressionable, nervous, suspicious, suffered from palpitations and 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, but impossible to comprehend, he believed in the presence of certain forces and trends, sometimes supportive, 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 she was taking was very disturbing to the old aunt - again, not for herself, but for Yasha, for his chest; but, for all his gentle disposition, he had a lot of tenacity - and he persistently continued the activity he loved. Platosha submitted and only sighed more than ever and whispered: “Lord, help me!”, looking at his iodine-painted fingers.

Yakov, as already said, was alienated from his comrades; however, I became quite close with one of them and saw him often, even after this comrade, having left the university, entered service, which, however, was not obligatory: he, in his words, “perched” on the construction of the Temple of the Savior, nothing Of course, I don’t know anything about architecture. It’s a strange thing: this only friend of Aratov, by the name of Kupfer, a German who had become so Russified that he didn’t know a single word of German and even swore “German” - this friend apparently had nothing in common with him. He was a black-haired, red-cheeked fellow, a merry fellow, a talker, and a great lover of that very female society that Aratov so avoided. True, Kupfer often had breakfast and lunch with him - and even, being a poor man, he borrowed small sums from him; but this was not what forced the cheeky German to diligently visit the secluded house on Shabolovka. He fell in love with Yakov’s spiritual purity and “ideality,” perhaps as a contradiction to what he met and saw every day; or, perhaps, in this very attraction to the “ideal” young man his German blood was still reflected. 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 into which Yakov did not dare to penetrate - secretly occupied and even excited the young hermit, without, however, arousing any desire in him experience all this with your own experience. And Platosha favored 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 the noisy guest, but also favored him.

At the time we are talking about, there was a certain widow in Moscow, a Georgian princess - an indeterminate, almost suspicious person. She was already nearly forty years old; in her youth she probably bloomed with that special oriental beauty that fades so quickly; Now she bleached, blushed and dyed her hair yellow. There were various rumors about her, not entirely favorable and not entirely clear; No one knew her husband - and she did not live in any city for a long time. She had neither children nor fortune; but she lived openly - in debt or otherwise; kept, as they say, a salon and received a rather mixed society - mostly young people. Everything in her house, from her own toilet, furniture, table and ending with the carriage and servants, bore the stamp of something of poor quality, fake, temporary... but also The princess herself and her guests, apparently, did not demand anything better. The princess was known as a lover of music, literature, and patroness of artists and painters; and she was really interested in all these “issues” 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, kind, in essence, very kind, kind-hearted and forgiving... Qualities are rare and even more expensive - precisely in this kind of personality! “An empty woman! As one wise man put it about her, she will certainly go to heaven! Because: she forgives everything - and everything will be forgiven to her!” They also said about her that when she disappeared from some city, she always left in it as many creditors as there were people who had benefited from her. A soft heart bends in any direction you want.

Kupfer, as one would expect, ended up in her house and became close to her... evil tongues assured: too close a person. He himself always spoke of her not only in a friendly manner, but with respect - he called her a golden woman - no matter what you interpret! – and firmly believed in her love of art and her understanding of art! So one day, after dinner at the Aratovs, having talked about the princess and her evenings, he began to convince Yakov to break his anchorite life for once and allow him, Kupfer, to introduce him to his friend. At first Yakov didn’t want to listen.

- What do you think? – Kupfer finally exclaimed, “what kind of performance are we talking about?” I’ll just take you, like you’re sitting now, in a frock coat, and take you to her for the evening. There are no ethics there, brother! You are a scientist, and you love literature, and music (Aratov actually had a piano in his office, on which he occasionally played chords with a diminished seventh) - and she has plenty of all this stuff in her house! And you will meet sympathetic people there, without any pretensions! And, finally, it’s impossible at your age, with your appearance (Aratov lowered his eyes and waved his hand) - yes, yes, with your appearance, to be so aloof from society and the world! After all, I’m not taking you to the generals! However, I don’t know the generals myself! Don't resist, my dear! Morality is a good, respectable matter... But why go into asceticism? You are not preparing yourself to be a monk!

Aratov, however, continued to resist; but Platonida Ivanovna unexpectedly appeared to help Kupfer. Although she didn’t understand well what kind of word this was: asceticism? - however, I also found that Yashenka could use some fun, looking at people - and showing herself off. “Moreover,” she added, “I am confident in Fyodor Fedorovich! He will not take you to a bad place...” - “In all integrity, I will present him back to you!” - cried Kupfer, at whom Platonida Ivanovna, despite her confidence, cast worried glances. Aratov blushed to his ears - but stopped objecting.

It ended up that the next day Kupfer took him to the princess for the evening. But Aratov did not stay there long. Firstly, he found about twenty guests with her, men and women, let’s say, sympathetic ones, but still strangers; and this embarrassed him, although he had to talk very little and this was what 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: her painted face, her fluffy curls, her hoarse-sweet voice, her shrill laugh, her way of rolling her eyes under her forehead, her excessive cleavage—and those plump, glossy fingers with many rings! Huddled in a corner, he either quickly ran his eyes over all the faces of the guests, somehow not even distinguishing them, or stubbornly looked at his feet. When finally one visiting artist with a worn-out face, long hair and a piece of glass under a shrunken eyebrow sat down at the piano and, striking the keys with a flourish and kicking the pedal with his feet, began to play out Liszt’s fantasy on Wagnerian themes - Aratov could not contain himself and slipped away, taking him to a vague and heavy impression on his soul, through which, however, something incomprehensible to himself was breaking through - but significant and even alarming.

Kupfer came to dinner the next day; however, he did not dwell on the previous evening, did not even reproach Aratov for his hasty flight - and only regretted that he did not wait for dinner, at which champagne was served! (Nizhny Novgorod product, we note in parentheses.) Kupfer probably realized that it was in vain that he decided to stir up his friend and that Aratov was decidedly “not suitable” for that society and way of life. For his part, Aratov also did not talk about the princess or last night. 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 could have suffered from such trips, and she calmed down. Kupfer left immediately after lunch and didn’t show up for a whole week afterwards. And it’s not that he was sulking at Aratov for the failure of his recommendation - the good man was not capable of this - but he obviously found some occupation that absorbed all his time, all his thoughts - because subsequently he rarely appeared to the Aratovs, he looked absent-minded, spoke little and soon disappeared... Aratov continued to live as before; but some kind of, so to speak, squiggle stuck in his soul. He kept remembering something, without knowing exactly what it was, and the light, part of which he saw outside in her house, repulsed him more than ever. So six weeks passed

And then one morning Kupfer appeared before him again, this time with a somewhat embarrassed face.

“I know,” he began with a forced laugh, “that you didn’t like your visit then; but I hope that you will still agree to my proposal... you will not refuse my request!

- What's the matter? – asked Aratov.

“You see,” Kupfer continued, becoming more and more animated, there is one society of amateurs, artists, which from time to time organizes readings, concerts, even theatrical performances for charitable purposes...

- And the princess is participating? - Aratov interrupted

“The princess always takes part in good deeds, but that’s okay.” We started a literary and musical morning... and this morning you can hear a girl... an extraordinary girl. We don’t yet know well: is she Rachelle or Viardot?... because she sings excellently, and recites, and plays... Talent, my brother, is first-class! I say this without exaggeration. So... would you like to 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... Lately she has taken refuge with the princess. The princess, you know, patronizes everyone like that... Yes, you probably saw her at that evening.

Aratov trembled - internally, weakly... but said nothing

“She even played somewhere in the provinces,” Kupfer continued, “and in general she was created for the theater.” You'll see for yourself!

- What is her name? – asked Aratov.

- Clara...

- Clara? – Aratov interrupted again. - Can't be!

- Why: it can’t be? Clara... Clara Milic; That's not her real name... but that's what they call her. She will sing Glinka's romance. and Tchaikovsky; and then he will read the letter from Eugene Onegin. Well? are you taking a ticket?

– When will this 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 poster. I'm one of the stewards.

Aratov thought about it. Platonvda Ivanovna came in at that moment and, looking into his face, suddenly became alarmed.

“Yasha,” she exclaimed, “what’s wrong with you?” Why are you so embarrassed? Fyodor Fedorych, what did you say to him?

But Aratov did not allow his friend to answer his aunt’s question - and, hastily snatching the ticket extended to him, he ordered Platonida Ianovna to immediately give Kupfer five rubles.

She was surprised and blinked her eyes... However, she handed Kupfer the money silently. Yashenka shouted at her very sternly.

– I told you, miracle of miracles! - Kupfer exclaimed and rushed to the door - Wait for me tomorrow!

- She has black eyes! - Aratov said after him

- Like coal! – Kupfer barked cheerfully and disappeared.

Aratov went to his room, and Platonida Ivanovna remained in place, repeating in a whisper: “Help, Lord! Lord, help!”

The large hall in a private house on Ostozhenka was already half full of visitors when Aratov and Kupfer arrived there. Sometimes theatrical performances were given in this hall, but this time neither the scenery nor the curtain were visible. The founders of the "morning" limited themselves to erecting a stage at one end, placing on it a piano, a couple of music stands, several chairs, a table with a decanter of water and a glass - and hanging a red cloth over the door that led to the room provided to the artists. The princess in a bright green dress was already sitting in the first row; Aratov placed himself at some distance from her, barely exchanging a bow with her. The audience was what is called a motley crowd; more and more young people from educational institutions. Kupfer, like one of the stewards, with a white bow on the cuff of his coat, fussed and fussed with all his might; The princess was apparently worried, looked around, sent smiles in all directions, started talking to her neighbors... there were only men around her. The first to appear on the stage was a consumptive-looking flutist and diligently spat... that is to say! whistled a play, also of a consumptive nature; two people shouted: "Bravo!" Then some fat gentleman in glasses, very respectable-looking and even gloomy, read Shchedrin’s essay in a deep voice; they clapped for the essay, not for him; then a piano player, already familiar to Aratov, appeared and drummed out the same Liszt fantasy; the piano player was honored with the challenge. He bowed, leaning his hand on the back of the chair, and after each bow he waved his hair, just like Leaf! Finally, after a rather long interval, the red cloth on the door behind the stage began to move, opened wide - and Klara Milich appeared. The hall resounded with applause. With hesitant steps, she approached the front of the stage, stopped and remained motionless, folding her large, beautiful hands without gloves in front of her, without curtsying, without bowing her head, and without smiling.

She was a girl of about nineteen, tall, somewhat broad-shouldered, but well-built. The face is dark, either Jewish or Gypsy type, small, black eyes, 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 stone, forehead, tiny ears... the whole face is thoughtful, almost stern. A passionate, self-willed nature - and hardly kind, hardly very smart - but gifted, it showed in everything.

She did not raise her eyes for some time, but suddenly she perked up and passed her intent but inattentive gaze through the rows of spectators, as if looking deeply into herself... “What tragic eyes she has!” - a certain gray-haired veil with the face of a cocotte from Revel, a well-known Moscow employee and spy, noticed sitting behind Aratov. Fat was stupid and wanted to say something stupid... but Aratov, who had not taken his eyes off her since Clara’s appearance, only then remembered that he had actually seen her at the princess’s; and not only saw her, but even noticed that she looked at him several times with particular insistence with her dark, intent gases. And even now... or did he imagine it? - She, seeing him in the first row, seemed to be delighted, as if she blushed - and again looked insistently at him. Then, without turning around, she retreated two steps 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 sonorous and soft - contralto, she pronounced the words clearly and weightily, she sang monotonously, without nuances, but with strong expression. “The girl sings with conviction,” said the same fop sitting behind Aratov, and again he told the truth. Shouts: "Bis! Bravo!" were heard all around... but she cast 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 extended hand. She was called. She did not appear soon, with the same hesitant steps she approached the piano and, whispering two words to the accompanist, who had to take out and put in front of her not the prepared notes, but other notes, she began Tchaikovsky’s romance: “No, only the one who knew the thirst for a date... “She sang this romance differently than the first, in a low voice, as if tired... and only on the penultimate verse: “She will understand how I suffered,” a ringing, hot cry escaped her. The last verse, “And how I suffer...” she almost whispered, sadly 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: by folding his palms when striking in a special manner, in the shape of a barrel, he produced an unusually booming sound. The princess handed him a large, disheveled bouquet so that he could present it to the singer; but she didn’t seem to notice Kupfer’s bent figure, his outstretched hand with a bouquet, she turned and left, again without waiting for the pianist, who jumped up more quickly than before to see her off, and, having nothing to do with it, waved his hair like Liszt himself probably did never waved!

During the entire singing, Aratov watched Clara’s face. It seemed to him. that her eyes, through her narrowed eyelashes, were again turned to him, but he was especially struck by the immobility of this face, forehead, eyebrows - and only with her passionate cry did he notice how a row of white, closely set teeth sparkled warmly through her barely open lips . Kupfer approached him:

- Well, brother. how do you find it? – he asked, beaming with pleasure.

Kupfer was surprised

“There’s no school,” he repeated with emphasis... “Well, that’s it.” She can still learn. But what a soul! Just wait: you’ll 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 held and moved as if magnetized, like a somnambulist. And at the same time, she undoubtedly... yes! definitely looking at him.

Meanwhile, the “morning” continued. The fat man with glasses appeared again; Despite his serious appearance, he imagined himself to be a comedian - and read a scene from Gogol, without arousing a single sign of approval this time. 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, was singing some variations on the violin. It might seem strange that during the intervals of reading and music, the abrupt sounds of a horn were occasionally heard from the artists’ room; Meanwhile, this instrument remained unused. It later turned out that the amateur who volunteered to play it became timid the moment he went out in front of the public. Finally, Klara Milich appeared again.

She was holding a volume of Pushkin in her hand; however, while reading, she never looked into it... She was clearly timid; the small book trembled slightly in her fingers. Aratov also noticed the expression of despondency now spread across all her stern features. First verse: “I am writing to you, what more?” - she said extremely simply, almost naively - and with a naive, sincere, helpless gesture, she extended both hands forward. Then she herded a little in a hurry; but starting with the verses: “Another! No! I wouldn’t give my heart to anyone in the world!” - she took control of herself, perked up - and when she came to the words: “My whole life was the guarantee of a faithful meeting with you,” her until then rather dull voice rang out enthusiastically and boldly - and her eyes just as boldly and directly stared at Aratov . She continued with the same enthusiasm, and only towards the end her voice dropped again - and the 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 hurriedly left

The audience began to applaud desperately, calling out One seminarian from the Little Russians, by the way, shouted so loudly: “Mylych! Mylych” - that his neighbor politely, with compassion, asked him to “spare the future archdeacon in himself!” But Aratov immediately stood up and headed towards the exit. Kupfer caught up with him...

- For mercy, where are you going? - he cried, - do you want me to introduce you to Clara?

“No, thank you,” Aratov objected hastily, and almost ran home.

Strange sensations, unclear to him, worried him. In fact, he didn’t quite like Clara’s reading either... although he couldn’t explain to himself: why exactly? It bothered him, this reading, it seemed to him harsh, inharmonious... It seemed to violate something in him, it was some kind of violence. And these intense, persistent, almost obsessive glances - what are they for? What do they mean?

Aratov’s modesty did not allow him even the instant thought that this strange girl could like him, could instill in her a feeling similar to love, like passion! And this is not at all how he imagined that still unknown woman, that girl to whom he would give himself entirely, who would love him too, who would become his bride, his wife... He rarely dreamed of this: he was a virgin in body and soul ; but the pure image that then arose in his imagination was inspired by another image - the image of his late mother, whom he barely remembered, but whose portrait he preserved as a shrine. This portrait was painted in watercolor, quite skillfully, by a neighbor friend; but the resemblance, as everyone was sure, was striking. The same gentle profile, such kind, bright eyes, the same silky hair, the same smile, the same clear expression should have been had by that woman, that girl, whom he had not even dared to expect yet. ..

And this dark-skinned, dark-skinned one, with coarse hair, with a mustache on her lip, she is probably unkind, eccentric... “Gypsy” (Aratov could not think of a worse expression), what does she mean to him?

And yet Aratov was unable to get out of his head this dark-skinned gypsy, whose singing and reading and whose very appearance he did not like. He was perplexed, he was angry with himself. Not long before, he 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 Mobray. The poet of the forties, Krasov, wrote a poem about it, ending with the words:

Poor Clara! crazy Clara! Poor Clara Mobray!

Aratov also knew this poem. And now these words constantly came to his mind... “Unhappy Clara! crazy Clara!” (That’s why he was so surprised when Kupfer named Klara Milich to him.) Platosha herself noticed - not that there was a change in Yakov’s mood, in fact, no change occurred in him, but that something was wrong in his views, in his speeches . She asked him cautiously 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 palms on her thighs, she exclaimed:

- Well, Yasha! I see what's wrong!

- What's happened? – asked Aratov.

– You probably met one of these tail-women this morning... (Platonida Ivanovna called all the ladies wearing fashionable dresses that way.) She has a pretty face - and this way she breaks and makes faces this way (Platosha imagined everything it’s in faces), and describes such circles with her eyes (and she imagined this, drawing large circles through the air with her index finger)... Out of habit, it seemed to you... but it’s nothing, Yasha... nothing Means! Drink some tea at night... and that's it! Lord, help me!

Platosha fell silent and walked away... She had hardly ever made such a long and lively speech... and Aratov thought: “Auntie, tea, she’s right... Out of habit, all this... (He really had to excite the attracting the attention of a female person... in any case, he had not noticed this before.) There is no need to pamper 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 delivery boy 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 it doesn’t bore you, come to Tverskoy Boulevard tomorrow afternoon - about five o’clock - and wait. You won’t be detained for long. But this is very important. Come.”

There was no signature. Aratov immediately guessed who his correspondent was, and this is precisely what outraged him. “What nonsense!” he said almost out loud, this was still missing. Of course, I won’t go.” He, however, ordered the messenger to be called, from whom he only learned that the letter had been handed to him by a maid on the street. Having let 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 letters on the floor, but hid them in a box. Aratov set about his usual activities, now one thing, now another; but things were going wrong for him and were not going well. He suddenly noticed to himself that he was waiting for Kupfer! Did he want to question him or, perhaps, even inform him... But Kupfer did not appear. Then Aratov took out 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 to his piano, somehow unconsciously lifted its lid, tried to find the melody of Tchaikovsky’s romance from memory; but immediately, with annoyance, he slammed the piano 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, whatnots, benches, pillows and various upholstered furniture that an unusual person and it was difficult to turn around in this room and it was difficult to breathe. Platonida Ivanovna sat under the window with knitting needles in her hands (she was knitting a scarf for Yashenka, the thirty-eighth in his life!) - and was very amazed. Aratov rarely came to see her and, if he needed anything, every time he shouted in a thin voice from his office: “Aunt Platosha!” However, she sat him down and, waiting for his first words, became wary, looking at him with one eye through round glasses, the other above them. She did not inquire about his health and did not offer him tea, because she saw that he had not come for that. Aratov hesitated a little... then he spoke... he started 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 exactly this. Unfortunately for him, Platosha didn’t know how to talk at all; She answered very briefly, as if she suspected that this was not what Yasha had come for.