‘Thanks,’ she began in an unsteady voice, ‘thanks for coming. I did not expect ...’ She turned a little away and walked along the boulevard. Aratov walked after her.
‘You have, perhaps, thought ill of me,’ she went on, without turning her head; ‘indeed, my conduct is very strange.... But I had heard so much about you ... but no! I ... that was not the reason.... If only you knew.... There was so much I wanted to tell you, my God!... But how to do it ... how to do it!’
Aratov was walking by her side, a little behind her; he could not see her face; he saw only her hat and part of her veil ... and her long black shabby cape. All his irritation, both with her and with himself, suddenly came back to him; all the absurdity, the awkwardness of this interview, these explanations between perfect strangers in a public promenade, suddenly struck him.
‘I have come on your invitation,’ he began in his turn. ‘I have come, my dear madam’ (her shoulders gave a faint twitch, she turned off into a side passage, he followed her), ‘simply to clear up, to discover to what strange misunderstanding it is due that you are pleased to address me, a stranger to you ... who ... only guessed, to use your expression in your letter, that it was you writing to him ... guessed it because during that literary matinée, you saw fit to pay him such ... such obvious attention.’
All this little speech was delivered by Aratov in that ringing but unsteady voice in which very young people answer at examinations on a subject in which they are well prepared.... He was angry; he was furious.... It was just this fury which loosened his ordinarily not very ready tongue.
She still went on along the walk with rather slower steps.... Aratov, as before, walked after her, and as before saw only the old cape and the hat, also not a very new one. His vanity suffered at the idea that she must now be thinking: ‘I had only to make a sign—and he rushed at once!’
Aratov was silent ... he expected her to answer him; but she did not utter a word.
‘I am ready to listen to you,’ he began again, ‘and shall be very glad if I can be of use to you in any way ... though I am, I confess, surprised ... considering the retired life I lead....’
At these last words of his, Clara suddenly turned to him, and he beheld such a terrified, such a deeply-wounded face, with such large bright tears in the eyes, such a pained expression about the parted lips, and this face was so lovely, that he involuntarily faltered, and himself felt something akin to terror and pity and softening.
‘Ah, why ... why are you like that?’ she said, with an irresistibly genuine and truthful force, and how movingly her voice rang out! ‘Could my turning to you be offensive to you?... is it possible you have understood nothing?... Ah, yes! you have understood nothing, you did not understand what I said to you, God knows what you have been imagining about me, you have not even dreamed what it cost me—to write to you!... You thought of nothing but yourself, your own dignity, your peace of mind!... But is it likely I’ ... (she squeezed her hands raised to her lips so hard, that the fingers gave a distinct crack).... ‘As though I made any sort of demands of you, as though explanations were necessary first....