every death of that sort to unrequited love! People of a character like
Clara's readily feel life repulsive ... burdensome. Yes, burdensome. Kupfer
was right; she was simply sick of life.

'In spite of her successes, her triumphs?' Aratov mused. He got a positive
pleasure from the psychological analysis to which he was devoting himself.
Remote till now from all contact with women, he did not even suspect all
the significance for himself of this intense realisation of a woman's soul.

'It follows,' he pursued his meditations, 'that art did not satisfy her,
did not fill the void in her life. Real artists exist only for art, for
the theatre.... Everything else is pale beside what they regard as their
vocation.... She was a dilettante.'

At this point Aratov fell to pondering again. 'No, the word dilettante did
not accord with that face, the expression of that face, those eyes....'

And Clara's image floated again before him, with eyes, swimming in tears,
fixed upon him, with clenched hands pressed to her lips....

'Ah, no, no,' he muttered, 'what's the use?'

So passed the whole day. At dinner Aratov talked a great deal with
Platosha, questioned her about the old days, which she remembered, but
described very badly, as she had so few words at her command, and except
her dear Yasha, had scarcely ever noticed anything in her life. She could
only rejoice that he was nice and good-humoured to-day; towards evening
Aratov was so far calm that he played several games of cards with his aunt.

So passed the day ... but the night!