. . . no love affairs of any kind. . . . And indeed how should there be with her pride! She was proud — as Satan himself — and unapproachable! A headstrong creature! Hard as rock! You'll hardly believe it — though I knew her so well — I never saw a tear in her eyes!'
'But I have,' Aratov thought to himself.
'But there's one thing,' continued Kupfer, 'of late I noticed a great change in her: she grew so dull, so silent, for hours together there was no getting a word out of her. I asked her even, "Has any one offended you, Katerina Semyonovna?" For I knew her temper; she could never swallow an affront! But she was silent, and there was no doing anything with her! Even her triumphs on the stage didn't cheer her up; bouquets fairly showered on her . . . but she didn't even smile! She gave one look at the gold inkstand — and put it aside! She used to complain that no one had written the real part for her, as she conceived it. And her singing she'd given up altogether. It was my fault, my dear boy! . . . I told her that you thought she 'd no musical knowledge. But for all that . . . why she poisoned herself — is incomprehensible ! And the way she did it! . . .'
'In what part had she the greatest success?'
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