Clara Mílitch by Ivan Turgenev

Russian Literature – Children Books – Russian Poetry – Ivan Turgenev – Clara Mílitch – Contents

IV

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, thanks,” hastily replied Arátoff, and set off homeward almost at a run.

[57] M. E. Saltikóff wrote his famous satires under the name of Shtchedrín.—TRANSLATOR.

[58] The Little Russians (among other peculiarities of pronunciation attached to their dialect) use the guttural instead of the clear i.—TRANSLATOR.

[59] A bishop or priest in the Russian Church is not supposed to speak loudly, no matter how fine a voice he may possess. The deacon, on the contrary, or the proto-deacon (attached to a cathedral) is supposed to have a huge voice, and, especially at certain points, to roar at the top of his lungs. He sometimes cracks his voice—which is what the sympathetic neighbour was hinting at here.—TRANSLATOR.

< < < Chapter III
Chapter V > > >

Russian Literature – Children Books – Russian Poetry – Ivan Turgenev – Clara Mílitch – Contents

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