(We might ask why on earth miserable old Mikhailov, of all people—everyone knows he’s not a great man, he’s jealous and disparaging of others, a total stranger to sympathy and compassion, an egotist—had the genius to create such a masterpiece? Although he lacked any moral qualities, he had been given a gift. What kind of dart might we compare him to? Or is it the case that the artist is the opposite of the dart, and what makes it fly so well are the defects in his personality, the ugliness of his character?)

But back to Clementine. Her history is a patchwork of scraps from various workshops. She was raised among seamstresses, sewing from the age of four or five—under duress—in the company of other seamstresses’ children. She was cut from good cloth, unlike Mikhailov; she made a first-class sail, capable of withstanding stormy winds. And unlike Mikhailov, she was never an opportunist, never put her own interests first, and was never motivated by jealousy, ill will, or contempt.

For our purposes, what matters is that Clementine has no one to share her memories, to treasure her past, because her mother died young, and she never knew her father. When she was twelve, she got her own workbench because she was so skilled, and she had a grandmother and two little brothers who would show up asking for money; they were her responsibility, one she assumed without complaint. After all, they were her flesh and blood and the source of her strength. But they didn’t last long; age and illness quickly did away with them.

Not long thereafter, Clementine organized the whole workshop—all the seamstresses, and without putting her needle down—to fight for their rights. She linked up with the heads of other workshops. By the time she was fourteen, the police had come to pay her a visit and taken her away. That’s when she met Vladimir.

Vladimir’s a different story. As a child he was a watchmaker’s assistant. Later he became a footman, but the church priest wanted him to be able to make a decent living. So instead of serving a nobleman, he serves Gapon. He’s his confidante, messenger, scribe (he learned to read and write as a boy, with the aforementioned priest), deputy, a jack-of-all-trades. When Clementine, the leader of the seamstresses, was about to be eaten alive by the tsar’s people, the organization defended her; she was a great leader, and she was a woman. Vladimir was her contact; that’s how they met. Vladimir is the feather to Clementine’s dart, giving her life stability, meaning. He keeps her on the straight and narrow. He puts wind in her sails. He makes her fly true.