Chapter 15

Arátoff fell asleep immediately, and slept until morning. He rose in a fine frame of mind ... although he regretted something.... He felt light and free. "What romantic fancies one does devise," he said to himself with a smile. He did not once glance either at the stereoscope or the leaf which he had torn out. But immediately after breakfast he set off to see Kupfer.

What drew him thither ... he dimly recognised.

XVI

Arátoff found his sanguine friend at home. He chatted a little with him, reproached him for having quite forgotten him and his aunt, listened to fresh laudations of the golden woman, the Princess, from whom Kupfer had just received,--from Yaroslávl,--a skull-cap embroidered with fish-scales ... and then suddenly sitting down in front of Kupfer, and looking him straight in the eye, he announced that he had been to Kazán.

"Thou hast been to Kazán? Why so?"

"Why, because I wished to collect information about that ... Clara Mílitch."

"The girl who poisoned herself?"

"Yes."

Kupfer shook his head.--"What a fellow thou art! And such a sly one! Thou hast travelled a thousand versts there and back ... and all for what? Hey? If there had only been some feminine interest there! Then I could understand everything! every sort of folly!"--Kupfer ruffled up his hair.--"But for the sake of collecting materials, as you learned men put it.... No, I thank you! That's what the committee of statistics exists for!--Well, and what about it--didst thou make acquaintance with the old woman and with her sister? She's a splendid girl, isn't she?"

"Splendid," assented Arátoff.--"She communicated to me many curious things."

"Did she tell thee precisely how Clara poisoned herself?"

"Thou meanest ... what dost thou mean?"

"Why, in what manner?"

"No.... She was still in such affliction.... I did not dare to question her too much. But was there anything peculiar about it?"

"Of course there was. Just imagine: she was to have acted that very day--and she did act. She took a phial of poison with her to the theatre, drank it before the first act, and in that condition played through the whole of that act. With the poison inside her! What dost thou think of that strength of will? What character, wasn't it? And they say that she never sustained her role with so much feeling, with so much warmth! The audience suspected nothing, applauded, recalled her.... But as soon as the curtain fell she dropped down where she stood on the stage. She began to writhe ... and writhe ... and at the end of an hour her spirit fled! But is it possible I did not tell thee that? It was mentioned in the newspapers also."

Arátoff's hands suddenly turned cold and his chest began to heave. "No, thou didst not tell me that," he said at last.--"And dost thou not know what the piece was?"

Kupfer meditated.--"I was told the name of the piece ... a young girl who has been betrayed appears in it.... It must be some drama or other. Clara was born for dramatic parts. Her very appearance.... But where art thou going?" Kupfer interrupted himself, perceiving that Arátoff was picking up his cap.

"I do not feel quite well," replied Arátoff. "Good-bye.... I will drop in some other time."

Kupfer held him back and looked him in the face.--"What a nervous fellow thou art, brother! Just look at thyself.... Thou hast turned as white as clay."

"I do not feel well," repeated Arátoff, freeing himself from Kupfer's hands and going his way. Only at that moment did it become clear to him that he had gone to Kupfer with the sole object of talking about Clara....

"About foolish, about unhappy Clara"....

But on reaching home he speedily recovered his composure to a certain extent.

The circumstances which had attended Clara's death at first exerted a shattering impression upon him ... but later on that acting "with the poison inside her," as Kupfer had expressed it, seemed to him a monstrous phrase, a piece of bravado, and he tried not to think of it, fearing to arouse within himself a feeling akin to aversion. But at dinner, as he sat opposite Platósha, he suddenly remembered her nocturnal apparition, recalled that bob-tailed wrapper, that cap with the tall ribbon (and why should there be a ribbon on a night-cap?), the whole of that ridiculous figure, at which all his visions had dispersed into dust, as though at the whistle of the machinist in a fantastic ballet! He even made Platósha repeat the tale of how she had heard him shout, had taken fright, had leaped out of bed, had not been able at once to find either her own door or his, and so forth. In the evening he played cards with her and went off to his own room in a somewhat sad but fairly tranquil state of mind.

Arátoff did not think about the coming night, and did not fear it; he was convinced that he should pass it in the best possible manner. The thought of Clara awoke in him from time to time; but he immediately remembered that she had killed herself in a "spectacular" manner, and turned away. That "outrageous" act prevented other memories from rising in him. Giving a cursory glance at the stereoscope it seemed to him that she was looking to one side because she felt ashamed. Directly over the stereoscope on the wall, hung the portrait of his mother. Arátoff removed it from its nail, kissed it, and carefully put it away in a drawer. Why did he do this? Because that portrait must not remain in the vicinity of that woman ... or for some other reason--Arátoff did not quite know. But his mother's portrait evoked in him memories of his father ... of that father whom he had seen dying in that same room, on that very bed. "What dost thou think about all this, father?" he mentally addressed him. "Thou didst understand all this; thou didst also believe in Schiller's world of spirits.--Give me counsel!"

"My father has given me counsel to drop all these follies," said Arátoff aloud, and took up a book. But he was not able to read long, and feeling a certain heaviness all through his body, he went to bed earlier than usual, in the firm conviction that he should fall asleep immediately.

And so it came about ... but his hopes for a peaceful night were not realised.

XVII

Before the clock struck midnight he had a remarkable, a menacing dream.

It seemed to him that he was in a sumptuous country-house of which he was the owner. He had recently purchased the house, and all the estates attached to it. And he kept thinking: "It is well, now it is well, but disaster is coming!" Beside him was hovering a tiny little man, his manager; this man kept making obeisances, and trying to demonstrate to Arátoff how admirably everything about his house and estate was arranged.--"Please, please look," he kept reiterating, grinning at every word, "how everything is flourishing about you! Here are horses ... what magnificent horses!" And Arátoff saw a row of huge horses. They were standing with their backs to him, in stalls; they had wonderful manes and tails ... but as soon as Arátoff walked past them the horses turned their heads toward him and viciously displayed their teeth.

"It is well," thought Arátoff, "but disaster is coming!"

"Please, please," repeated his manager again; "please come into the garden; see what splendid apples we have!"

The apples really were splendid, red, and round; but as soon as Arátoff looked at them, they began to shrivel and fall.... "Disaster is coming!" he thought.

"And here is the lake," murmurs the manager: "how blue and smooth it is! And here is a little golden boat!... Would you like to have a sail in it?... It moves of itself."

"I will not get into it!" thought Arátoff; "a disaster is coming!" and nevertheless he did seat himself in the boat. On the bottom, writhing, lay a little creature resembling an ape; in its paws it was holding a phial filled with a dark liquid.

"Pray do not feel alarmed," shouted the manager from the shore.... "That is nothing! That is death! A prosperous journey!"

The boat darted swiftly onward ... but suddenly a hurricane arose, not like the one of the day before, soft and noiseless--no; it is a black, terrible, howling hurricane!--Everything is in confusion round about;--and amid the swirling gloom Arátoff beholds Clara in theatrical costume: she is raising the phial to her lips, a distant "Bravo! bravo!" is audible, and a coarse voice shouts in Arátoff's ear:

"Ah! And didst thou think that all this would end in a comedy?--No! it is a tragedy! a tragedy!"

Arátoff awoke all in a tremble. It was not dark in the room.... A faint and melancholy light streamed from somewhere or other, impassively illuminating all objects. Arátoff did not try to account to himself for the light.... He felt but one thing: Clara was there in that room ... he felt her presence ... he was again and forever in her power!

A shriek burst from his lips: "Clara, art thou here?"

"Yes!" rang out clearly in the middle of the room illuminated with the motionless light.

Arátoff doubly repeated his question....

"Yes!" was audible once more.

"Then I want to see thee!" he cried, springing out of bed.

For several moments he stood in one spot, treading the cold floor with his bare feet. His eyes roved: "But where? Where?" whispered his lips....

Nothing was to be seen or heard.

He looked about him, and noticed that the faint light which filled the room proceeded from a night-light, screened by a sheet of paper, and placed in one corner, probably by Platósha while he was asleep. He even detected the odour of incense also, in all probability, the work of her hands.

He hastily dressed himself. Remaining in bed, sleeping, was not to be thought of.--Then he took up his stand in the centre of the room and folded his arms. The consciousness of Clara's presence was stronger than ever within him.

And now he began to speak, in a voice which was not loud, but with the solemn deliberation wherewith exorcisms are uttered:

"Clara,"--thus did he begin,--"if thou art really here, if thou seest me, if thou hearest me, reveal thyself!... If that power which I feel upon me is really thy power,--reveal thyself! If thou understandest how bitterly I repent of not having understood thee, of having repulsed thee,--reveal thyself!--If that which I have heard is really thy voice; if the feeling which has taken possession of me is love; if thou art now convinced that I love thee,--I who up to this time have not loved, and have not known a single woman;--if thou knowest that after thy death I fell passionately, irresistibly in love with thee, if thou dost not wish me to go mad--reveal thyself!"

No sooner had Arátoff uttered this last word than he suddenly felt some one swiftly approach him from behind, as on that occasion upon the boulevard--and lay a hand upon his shoulder. He wheeled round--and saw no one. But the consciousness of _her_ presence became so distinct, so indubitable, that he cast another hasty glance behind him....

What was that?! In his arm-chair, a couple of paces from him, sat a woman all in black. Her head was bent to one side, as in the stereoscope.... It was she! It was Clara! But what a stern, what a mournful face!

Arátoff sank down gently upon his knees.--Yes, he was right, then; neither fear, nor joy was in him, nor even surprise.... His heart even began to beat more quietly;--The only thing in him was the feeling: "Ah! At last! At last!"

"Clara," he began in a faint but even tone, "why dost thou not look at me? I know it is thou ... but I might, seest thou, think that my imagination had created an image like _that one_...." (He pointed in the direction of the stereoscope).... "Prove to me that it is thou.... Turn toward me, look at me, Clara!"

Clara's hand rose slowly ... and fell again.

"Clara! Clara! Turn toward me!"

And Clara's head turned slowly, her drooping lids opened, and the dark pupils of her eyes were fixed on Arátoff.

He started back, and uttered a tremulous, long-drawn: "Ah!"

Clara gazed intently at him ... but her eyes, her features preserved their original thoughtfully-stern, almost displeased expression. With precisely that expression she had presented herself on the platform upon the day of the literary morning, before she had caught sight of Arátoff. And now, as on that occasion also, she suddenly flushed scarlet, her face grew animated, her glance flashed, and a joyful, triumphant smile parted her lips....

"I am forgiven!"--cried Arátoff.--"Thou hast conquered.... So take me! For I am thine, and thou art mine!"

He darted toward her, he tried to kiss those smiling, those triumphant lips,--and he did kiss them, he felt their burning touch, he felt even the moist chill of her teeth, and a rapturous cry rang through the half-dark room.

Platonída Ivánovna ran in and found him in a swoon. He was on his knees; his head was lying on the arm-chair; his arms, outstretched before him, hung powerless; his pale face breathed forth the intoxication of boundless happiness.

Platonída Ivánovna threw herself beside him, embraced him, stammered: "Yásha! Yáshenka! Yashenyónotchek!!"[67] tried to lift him up with her bony arms ... he did not stir. Then Platonída Ivánovna set to screaming in an unrecognisable voice. The maid-servant ran in. Together they managed somehow to lift him up, seated him in a chair, and began to dash water on him--and water in which a holy image had been washed at that....

He came to himself; but merely smiled in reply to his aunt's queries, and with such a blissful aspect that she became more perturbed than ever, and kept crossing first him and then herself.... At last Arátoff pushed away her hand, and still with the same beatific expression on his countenance, he said:--

"What is the matter with you, Platósha?"

"What ails thee, Yáshenka?"

"Me?--I am happy ... happy, Platósha ... that is what ails me. But now I want to go to bed and sleep."

He tried to rise, but felt such a weakness in his legs and in all his body that he was not in a condition to undress and get into bed himself without the aid of his aunt and of the maid-servant. But he fell asleep very quickly, preserving on his face that same blissfully-rapturous expression. Only his face was extremely pale.

XVIII

When Platonída Ivánovna entered his room on the following morning he was in the same condition ... but his weakness had not passed off, and he even preferred to remain in bed. Platonída Ivánovna did not like the pallor of his face in particular.

"What does it mean, O Lord!" she thought. "There isn't a drop of blood in his face, he refuses his beef-tea; he lies there and laughs, and keeps asserting that he is quite well!"

He refused breakfast also.--"Why dost thou do that, Yásha?" she asked him; "dost thou intend to lie like this all day?"

"And what if I do?" replied Arátoff, affectionately.

This very affection also did not please Platonída Ivánovna. Arátoff wore the aspect of a man who has learned a great secret, which is very agreeable to him, and is jealously clinging to it and reserving it for himself. He was waiting for night, not exactly with impatience but with curiosity.

"What comes next?" he asked himself;--"what will happen?" He had ceased to be surprised, to be perplexed; he cherished no doubt as to his having entered into communication with Clara; that they loved each other ... he did not doubt, either. Only ... what can come of such a love?--He recalled that kiss ... and a wondrous chill coursed swiftly and sweetly through all his limbs.--"Romeo and Juliet did not exchange such a kiss as that!" he thought. "But the next time I shall hold out better.... I shall possess her.... She will come with the garland of tiny roses in her black curls....

"But after that what? For we cannot live together, can we? Consequently I must die in order to be with her? Was not that what she came for,--and is it not in _that_ way she wishes to take me?

"Well, and what of that? If I must die, I must. Death does not terrify me in the least now. For it cannot annihilate me, can it? On the contrary, only _thus_ and _there_ shall I be happy ... as I have never been happy in my lifetime, as she has never been in hers.... For we are both unsullied!--Oh, that kiss!"

* * * * *

Platonída Ivánovna kept entering Arátoff's room; she did not worry him with questions, she merely took a look at him, whispered, sighed, and went out again.--But now he refused his dinner also.... Things were getting quite too bad. The old woman went off to her friend, the medical man of the police-district, in whom she had faith simply because he did not drink and was married to a German woman. Arátoff was astonished when she brought the man to him; but Platonída Ivánovna began so insistently to entreat her Yáshenka to permit Paramón Paramónitch (that was the medical man's name) to examine him--come, now, just for her sake!--that Arátoff consented. Paramón Paramónitch felt his pulse, looked at his tongue, interrogated him after a fashion, and finally announced that it was indispensably necessary to "auscultate" him. Arátoff was in such a submissive frame of mind that he consented to this also. The doctor delicately laid bare his breast, delicately tapped it, listened, smiled, prescribed some drops and a potion, but chief of all, advised him to be quiet, and refrain from violent emotions.

"You don't say so!" thought Arátoff.... "Well, brother, thou hast bethought thyself too late!"

"What ails Yásha?" asked Platonída Ivánovna, as she handed Paramón Paramónitch a three-ruble bank-note on the threshold. The district doctor, who, like all contemporary doctors,--especially those of them who wear a uniform,--was fond of showing off his learned terminology, informed her that her nephew had all the dioptric symptoms of nervous cardialgia, and that febris was present also.

"But speak more simply, dear little father," broke in Platonída Ivánovna; "don't scare me with Latin; thou art not in an apothecary's shop!"

"His heart is out of order," explained the doctor;--"well, and he has fever also," ... and he repeated his advice with regard to repose and moderation.

"But surely there is no danger?" sternly inquired Platonída Ivánovna, as much as to say: "Look out and don't try your Latin on me again!"

"Not at present!"

The doctor went away, and Platonída Ivánovna took to grieving.... Nevertheless she sent to the apothecary for the medicine, which Arátoff would not take, despite her entreaties. He even refused herb-tea.

"What makes you worry so, dear?" he said to her. "I assure you I am now the most perfectly healthy and happy man in the whole world!"

Platonída Ivánovna merely shook her head. Toward evening he became slightly feverish; yet he still insisted upon it that she should not remain in his room, and should go away to her own to sleep. Platonída Ivánovna obeyed, but did not undress, and did not go to bed; she sat up in an arm-chair and kept listening and whispering her prayer.

She was beginning to fall into a doze, when suddenly a dreadful, piercing shriek awakened her. She sprang to her feet, rushed into Arátoff's study, and found him lying on the floor, as upon the night before.

But he did not come to himself as he had done the night before, work over him as they would. That night he was seized with a high fever, complicated by inflammation of the heart.

A few days later he died.

A strange circumstance accompanied his second swoon. When they lifted him up and put him to bed, there proved to be a small lock of woman's black hair clutched in his right hand. Where had that hair come from? Anna Semyónovna had such a lock, which she had kept after Clara's death; but why should she have given to Arátoff an object which was so precious to her? Could she have laid it into the diary, and not noticed the fact when she gave him the book?

In the delirium which preceded his death Arátoff called himself Romeo ... after the poison; he talked about a marriage contracted, consummated;--said that now he knew the meaning of delight. Especially dreadful for Platonída Ivánovna was the moment when Arátoff, recovering consciousness, and seeing her by his bedside, said to her:

"Aunty, why art thou weeping? Is it because I must die? But dost thou not know that love is stronger than death?... Death! O Death, where is thy sting? Thou must not weep, but rejoice, even as I rejoice...."

And again the face of the dying man beamed with that same blissful smile which had made the poor old woman shudder so.

POEMS IN PROSE

(1878-1882)

_From the Editor of the "European Messenger_"

In compliance with our request, Iván Sergyéevitch Turgénieff has given his consent to our sharing now with the readers of our journal, without delay, those passing comments, thoughts, images which he had noted down, under one impression or another of current existence, during the last five years,--those which belong to him personally, and those which pertain to society in general. They, like many others, have not found a place in those finished productions of the past which have already been presented to the world, and have formed a complete collection in themselves. From among these the author has made fifty selections.

In the letter accompanying the pages which we are now about to print, I. S. Turgénieff says, in conclusion:

"... Let not your reader peruse these 'Poems in Prose' at one sitting; he will probably be bored, and the book will fall from his hands. But let him read them separately,--to-day one, to-morrow another,--and then perchance some one of them may leave some trace behind in his soul...."

The pages have no general title; the author has written on their wrapper: "Senilia--An Old Man's Jottings,"--but we have preferred the words carelessly dropped by the author in the end of his letter to us, quoted above,--"Poems in Prose"--and we print the pages under that general title. In our opinion, it fully expresses the source from which such comments might present themselves to the soul of an author well known for his sensitiveness to the various questions of life, as well as the impression which they may produce on the reader, "leaving behind in his soul" many things. They are, in reality, poems in spite of the fact that they are written in prose. We place them in chronological order, beginning with the year 1878.

M. S.[68]

October 28, 1882.

I

(1878)

THE VILLAGE

The last day of July; for a thousand versts round about lies Russia, the fatherland.

The whole sky is suffused with an even azure; there is only one little cloud in it, which is half floating, half melting. There is no wind, it is warm ... the air is like new milk!

Larks are carolling; large-cropped pigeons are cooing; the swallows dart past in silence; the horses neigh and munch, the dogs do not bark, but stand peaceably wagging their tails.

And there is an odour of smoke abroad, and of grass,--and a tiny whiff of tan,--and another of leather.--The hemp-patches, also, are in their glory, and emit their heavy but agreeable fragrance.

A deep but not long ravine. Along its sides, in several rows, grow bulky-headed willows, stripped bare at the bottom. Through the ravine runs a brook; on its bottom tiny pebbles seem to tremble athwart its pellucid ripples.--Far away, at the spot where the rims of earth and sky come together, is the bluish streak of a large river.