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The first to make his appearance on the platform was a flute-player of consumptive aspect, who spat out … that is to say, piped out a piece which was consumptive like himself. Two persons shouted “Bravo!” Then a fat gentleman in spectacles, very sedate and even grim of aspect, recited in a bass voice a sketch by Shtchedrin;[57] the audience applauded the sketch, not him.–Then the pianist, who was already known to Aratoff, presented himself, and pounded out the same Liszt fantasia; the pianist was favoured with a recall. He bowed, with his hand resting on the back of a chair, and after each bow he tossed back his hair exactly like Liszt! At last, after a decidedly long intermission, the red cloth over the door at the rear of the platform moved, was drawn widely apart, and Clara Militch made her appearance. The hall rang with applause. With unsteady steps she approached the front of the platform, came to a halt, and stood motionless, with her large, red, ungloved hands crossed in front of her, making no curtsey, neither bending her head nor smiling.

FOOTNOTE:
[57]
M. E. Saltikoff wrote his famous satires
under the name of Shtchedrin.–TRANSLATOR.

She was a girl of nineteen, tall, rather broad-shouldered, but well built. Her face was swarthy, partly Hebrew, partly Gipsy in type; her eyes were small and black beneath thick brows which almost met, her nose was straight, slightly up-turned, her lips were thin with a beautiful but sharp curve; she had a huge braid of black hair, which was heavy even to the eye, a low, impassive, stony brow, tiny ears … her whole countenance was thoughtful, almost surly. A passionate, self-willed nature,–not likely to be either kindly or even intelligent,–but gifted, was manifested by everything about her.

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 Aratoff, 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! Aratoff, 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 Aratoff,–and again he spoke the truth.

Shouts of “Bis!” “Bravo!” resounded all about, but she merely darted a swift glance at Aratoff, 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 Tchaikovsky’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!