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.