‘I tell you, a wonder of wonders!’ cried
Kupfer, hurrying to the door. ‘Wait till
to-morrow.’
‘Has she black eyes?’ Aratov called after
him.
‘Black as coal!’ Kupfer shouted cheerily,
as he vanished.
Aratov went away to his room, while Platonida Ivanovna
stood rooted to the spot, repeating in a whisper,
‘Lord, succour us! Succour us, Lord!’
The big drawing-room in the private house in Ostozhonka
was already half full of visitors when Aratov and
Kupfer arrived. Dramatic performances had sometimes
been given in this drawing-room, but on this occasion
there was no scenery nor curtain visible. The
organisers of the matinee had confined themselves
to fixing up a platform at one end, putting upon it
a piano, a couple of reading-desks, a few chairs,
a table with a bottle of water and a glass on it,
and hanging red cloth over the door that led to the
room allotted to the performers. In the first
row was already sitting the princess in a bright green
dress. Aratov placed himself at some distance
from her, after exchanging the barest of greetings
with her. The public was, as they say, of mixed
materials; for the most part young men from educational
institutions. Kupfer, as one of the stewards,
with a white ribbon on the cuff of his coat, fussed
and bustled about busily; the princess was obviously
excited, looked about her, shot smiles in all directions,
talked with those next her ... none but men were sitting
near her. The first to appear on the platform
was a flute-player of consumptive appearance, who
most conscientiously dribbled away—what
am I saying?—piped, I mean—a
piece also of consumptive tendency; two persons shouted
bravo! Then a stout gentleman in spectacles, of
an exceedingly solid, even surly aspect, read in a
bass voice a sketch of Shtchedrin; the sketch was
applauded, not the reader; then the pianist, whom Aratov
had seen before, came forward and strummed the same
fantasia of Liszt; the pianist gained an encore.
He bowed with one hand on the back of the chair, and
after each bow he shook back his hair, precisely like
Liszt! At last after a rather long interval the
red cloth over the door on to the platform stirred
and opened wide, and Clara Militch appeared. The
room resounded with applause. With hesitating
steps, she moved forward on the platform, stopped
and stood motionless, clasping her large handsome ungloved
hands in front of her, without a courtesy, a bend
of the head, or a smile.
She was a girl of nineteen, tall, rather broad-shouldered,
but well-built. A dark face, of a half-Jewish
half-gipsy type, small black eyes under thick brows
almost meeting in the middle, a straight, slightly
turned-up nose, delicate lips with a beautiful but
decided curve, an immense mass of black hair, heavy
even in appearance, a low brow still as marble, tiny
ears ... the whole face dreamy, almost sullen.
A nature passionate, wilful—hardly good-tempered,
hardly very clever, but gifted—was expressed
in every feature.
