herself--is incomprehensible! And the way she did it!...'

'In what part had she the greatest success?'... Aratov wanted to know in
what part she had appeared for the last time, but for some reason he asked
a different question.

'In Ostrovosky's _Gruna_, as far as I remember. But I tell you again she'd
no love affairs! You may be sure of that from one thing. She lived in her
mother's house.... You know the sort of shopkeeper's houses: in every
corner a holy picture and a little lamp before it, a deadly stuffiness,
a sour smell, nothing but chairs along the walls in the drawing-room, a
geranium in the window, and if a visitor drops in, the mistress sighs and
groans, as if they were invaded by an enemy. What chance is there for
gallantry or love-making? Sometimes they wouldn't even admit me. Their
servant, a muscular female, in a red sarafan, with an enormous bust, would
stand right across the passage, and growl, "Where are you coming?" No,
I positively can't understand why she poisoned herself. Sick of life, I
suppose,' Kupfer concluded his cogitations philosophically.

Aratov sat with downcast head. 'Can you give me the address of that house
in Kazan?' he said at last.

'Yes; but what do you want it for? Do you want to write a letter there?'

'Perhaps.' 'Well, you know best. But the old lady won't answer, for she
can't read and write. The sister, though, perhaps ... Oh, the sister's a
clever creature! But I must say again, I wonder at you, my dear boy! Such
indifference before ... and now such interest! All this, my boy, comes from
too much solitude!'