es riveted themselves on Aratoff with a boldness and
directness to match. She went on with the same enthusiasm, and only
toward the close did her voice again fall, and in it and in her face her
previous dejection was again depicted. She made a complete muddle, as
the saying is, of the last four lines,--the little volume of Pushkin
suddenly slipped from her hands, and she beat a hasty retreat.

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

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

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

V

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

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