in the boulevard, and he asked himself, Had he really shown contempt for
Clara? 'No,' he decided,... 'it was another feeling ... a feeling of doubt
... lack of confidence, in fact!' 'Unhappy Clara!' was again ringing in his
head. 'Yes, unhappy,' he decided again.... 'That's the most fitting word.
And, if so, I was unjust. She said truly that I did not understand her. A
pity! Such a remarkable creature, perhaps, came so close ... and I did not
take advantage of it, I repulsed her.... Well, no matter! Life's all before
me. There will be, very likely, other meetings, perhaps more interesting!

'But on what grounds did she fix on _me_ of all the world?' He glanced into
a looking-glass by which he was passing. 'What is there special about me?
I'm not a beauty, am I? My face ... is like any face.... She was not a
beauty either, though.

'Not a beauty ... and such an expressive face! Immobile ... and yet
expressive! I never met such a face.... And talent, too, she has ... that
is, she had, unmistakable. Untrained, undeveloped, even coarse, perhaps ...
but unmistakable talent. And in that case I was unjust to her.' Aratov was
carried back in thought to the literary musical matinee ... and he observed
to himself how exceedingly clearly he recollected every word she had sung
of recited, every intonation of her voice.... 'That would not have been so
had she been without talent. And now it is all in the grave, to which she
has hastened of herself.... But I've nothing to do with that ... I'm not to
blame! It would be positively ridiculous to suppose that I'm to blame.'

It again occurred to Aratov that even if she had had 'anything of the sort'
in her mind, his behaviour during their interview must have effectually
disillusioned her.... 'That was why she laughed so cruelly, too, at
parting. Besides, what proof is there that she took poison because of
unrequited love? That's only the newspaper correspondents, who ascribe