XI
It began well; he promptly fell asleep, and when his aunt entered his room on tiptoe for the purpose of making the sign of the cross over him thrice as he slept—she did this every night—he was lying and breathing as quietly as a child.—But before daybreak he had a vision.
He dreamed that he was walking over the bare steppes, sown with stones, beneath a low-hanging sky. Between the stones wound a path; he was advancing along it.
Suddenly there rose up in front of him something in the nature of a delicate cloud. He looked intently at it; the little cloud turned into a woman in a white gown, with a bright girdle about her waist. She was hurrying away from him. He did not see either her face or her hair … a long piece of tissue concealed them. But he felt bound to overtake her and look into her eyes. Only, no matter how much haste he made, she still walked more quickly than he.
On the path lay a broad, flat stone, resembling a tomb-stone. It barred her way. The woman came to a halt. Arátoff ran up to her. She turned toward him—but still he could not see her eyes … they were closed. Her face was white,—white as snow; her arms hung motionless. She resembled a statue.
Slowly, without bending a single limb, she leaned backward and sank down on that stone…. And now Arátoff was lying beside her, outstretched like a mortuary statue,—and his hands were folded like those of a corpse.
But at this point the woman suddenly rose to her feet and went away. Arátoff tried to rise also … but he could not stir, he could not unclasp his hands, and could only gaze after her in despair.
Then the woman suddenly turned round, and he beheld bright, vivacious eyes in a living face, which was strange to him, however. She was laughing, beckoning to him with her hand … and still he was unable to move.
She laughed yet once again, and swiftly retreated, merrily nodding her head, on which a garland of tiny roses gleamed crimson.
Arátoff strove to shout, strove to break that frightful nightmare…. Suddenly everything grew dark round about … and the woman returned to him.
But she was no longer a statue whom he knew not … she was Clara. She halted in front of him, folded her arms, and gazed sternly and attentively at him. Her lips were tightly compressed, but it seemed to Arátoff that he heard the words:
"If thou wishest to know who I am, go thither!"
"Whither?" he asked.
"Thither!"—the moaning answer made itself audible.—"Thither!"
Arátoff awoke.
He sat up in bed, lighted a candle which stood on his night-stand, but did not rise, and sat there for a long time slowly gazing about him. It seemed to him that something had taken place within him since he went to bed; that something had taken root within him … something had taken possession of him. "But can that be possible?" he whispered unconsciously. "Can it be that such a power exists?"
He could not remain in bed. He softly dressed himself and paced his chamber until daylight. And strange to say! He did not think about Clara for a single minute,—and he did not think about her because he had made up his mind to set off for Kazán that very day!
He thought only of that journey, of how it was to be made, and what he ought to take with him,—and how he would there ferret out and find out everything,—and regain his composure.
"If thou dost not go," he argued with himself, "thou wilt surely lose thy reason!" He was afraid of that; he was afraid of his nerves. He was convinced that as soon as he should see all that with his own eyes, all obsessions would flee like a nocturnal nightmare.—"And the journey will occupy not more than a week in all," he thought…. "What is a week? And there is no other way of ridding myself of it."
The rising sun illuminated his room; but the light of day did not disperse the shades of night which weighed upon him, did not alter his decision.
Platósha came near having an apoplectic stroke when he communicated his decision to her. She even squatted down on her heels … her legs gave way under her. "To Kazán? Why to Kazán?" she whispered, protruding her eyes which were already blind enough without that. She would not have been any more astounded had she learned that her Yásha was going to marry the neighbouring baker's daughter, or depart to America.—"And shalt thou stay long in Kazán?"
"I shall return at the end of a week," replied Arátoff, as he stood half-turned away from his aunt, who was still sitting on the floor.
Platósha tried to remonstrate again, but Arátoff shouted at her in an utterly unexpected and unusual manner:
"I am not a baby," he yelled, turning pale all over, while his lips quivered and his eyes flashed viciously.—"I am six-and-twenty years of age. I know what I am about,—I am free to do as I please!—I will not permit any one…. Give me money for the journey; prepare a trunk with linen and clothing … and do not bother me! I shall return at the end of a week, Platósha," he added, in a softer tone.
Platósha rose to her feet, grunting, and, making no further opposition, wended her way to her chamber. Yásha had frightened her.—"I have not a head on my shoulders," she remarked to the cook, who was helping her to pack Yásha's things,—"not a head—but a bee-hive … and what bees are buzzing there I do not know! He is going away to Kazán, my mother, to Ka-zá-án!"
The cook, who had noticed their yard-porter talking for a long time to the policeman about something, wanted to report this circumstance to her mistress, but she did not dare, and merely thought to herself: "To Kazán? If only it isn't some place further away!"—And Platonída Ivánovna was so distracted that she did not even utter her customary prayer.—In such a catastrophe as this even the Lord God could be of no assistance!
That same day Arátoff set off for Kazán.
XII
No sooner had he arrived in that town and engaged a room at the hotel, than he dashed off in search of the widow Milovídoff's house. During the whole course of his journey he had been in a sort of stupor, which, nevertheless, did not in the least prevent his taking all proper measures,—transferring himself at Nizhni Nóvgorod from the railway to the steamer, eating at the stations, and so forth. As before, he was convinced that everything would be cleared up there, and accordingly he banished from his thoughts all memories and speculations, contenting himself with one thing,—the mental preparation of the speech in which he was to set forth to Clara Mílitch's family the real reason of his trip.—And now, at last, he had attained to the goal of his yearning, and ordered the servant to announce him. He was admitted—with surprise and alarm—but he was admitted.
The widow Milovídoff's house proved to be in fact just as Kupfer had described it; and the widow herself really did resemble one of Ostróvsky's women of the merchant class, although she was of official rank; her husband had been a Collegiate Assessor.[64] Not without some difficulty did Arátoff, after having preliminarily excused himself for his boldness, and the strangeness of his visit, make the speech which he had prepared, to the effect that he wished to collect all the necessary information concerning the gifted actress who had perished at such an early age; that he was actuated not by idle curiosity, but by a profound sympathy for her talent, of which he was a worshipper (he said exactly that—"a worshipper"); that, in conclusion, it would be a sin to leave the public in ignorance of the loss it had sustained,—and why its hopes had not been realized!
Madame Milovídoff did not interrupt Arátoff; it is hardly probable that she understood very clearly what this strange visitor was saying to her, and she merely swelled a little with pride, and opened her eyes widely at him on perceiving that he had a peaceable aspect, and was decently clad, and was not some sort of swindler … and was not asking for any money.
"Are you saying that about Kátya?" she asked, as soon as Arátoff ceased speaking.
"Exactly so … about your daughter."
"And you have come from Moscow for that purpose?"
"Yes, from Moscow."
"Merely for that?"
"Merely for that."
Madame Milovídoff suddenly took fright.—"Why, you—are an author? Do you write in the newspapers?"
"No, I am not an author,—and up to the present time, I have never written for the newspapers."
The widow bent her head. She was perplexed.
"Consequently … it is for your own pleasure?" she suddenly inquired.
Arátoff did not immediately hit upon the proper answer.
"Out of sympathy, out of reverence for talent," he said at last.
The word "reverence" pleased Madame Milovídoff. "Very well!" she ejaculated with a sigh…. "Although I am her mother, and grieved very greatly over her…. It was such a catastrophe, you know!… Still, I must say, that she was always a crazy sort of girl, and ended up in the same way! Such a disgrace…. Judge for yourself: what sort of a thing is that for a mother? We may be thankful that they even buried her in Christian fashion…." Madame Milovídoff crossed herself.—"From the time she was a small child she submitted to no one,—she abandoned the paternal roof … and finally, it is enough to say that she became an actress! Every one knows that I did not turn her out of the house; for I loved her! For I am her mother, all the same! She did not have to live with strangers,—and beg alms!…" Here the widow melted into tears.—"But if you, sir," she began afresh, wiping her eyes with the ends of her kerchief, "really have that intention, and if you will not concoct anything dishonourable about us,—but if, on the contrary, you wish to show us a favour,—then you had better talk with my other daughter. She will tell you everything better than I can…." "Ánnotchka!" called Madame Milovídoff:—"Ánnotchka, come hither! There's some gentleman or other from Moscow who wants to talk about Kátya!"
There was a crash in the adjoining room, but no one appeared.—"Ánnotchka!" cried the widow again—"Anna Semyónovna! come hither, I tell thee!"
The door opened softly and on the threshold appeared a girl no longer young, of sickly aspect, and homely, but with very gentle and sorrowful eyes. Arátoff rose from his seat to greet her, and introduced himself, at the same time mentioning his friend Kupfer.—"Ah! Feódor Feódoritch!" ejaculated the girl softly, as she softly sank down on a chair.
"Come, now, talk with the gentleman," said Madame Milovídoff, rising ponderously from her seat: "He has taken the trouble to come expressly from Moscow,—he wishes to collect information about Kátya. But you must excuse me, sir," she added, turning to Arátoff…. "I shall go away, to attend to domestic affairs. You can have a good explanation with Ánnotchka—she will tell you about the theatre … and all that sort of thing. She's my clever, well-educated girl: she speaks French and reads books quite equal to her dead sister. And she educated her sister, I may say…. She was the elder—well, and so she taught her."
Madame Milovídoff withdrew. When Arátoff was left alone with Anna Semyónovna he repeated his speech; but from the first glance he understood that he had to deal with a girl who really was cultured, not with a merchant's daughter,—and so he enlarged somewhat, and employed different expressions;—and toward the end he became agitated, flushed, and felt conscious that his heart was beating hard. Anna Semyónovna listened to him in silence, with her hands folded; the sad smile did not leave her face … bitter woe which had not ceased to cause pain, was expressed in that smile.
"Did you know my sister?" she asked Arátoff.
"No; properly speaking, I did not know her," he replied. "I saw and heard your sister once … but all that was needed was to hear and see your sister once, in order to…."
"Do you mean to write her biography?" Anna put another question.
Arátoff had not expected that word; nevertheless, he immediately answered "Why not?" But the chief point was that he wished to acquaint the public….
Anna stopped him with a gesture of her hand.
"To what end? The public caused her much grief without that; and Kátya had only just begun to live. But if you yourself" (Anna looked at him and again smiled that same sad smile, only now it was more cordial … apparently she was thinking: "Yes, thou dost inspire me with confidence") … "if you yourself cherish such sympathy for her, then permit me to request that you come to us this evening … after dinner. I cannot now … so suddenly…. I will collect my forces…. I will make an effort…. Akh, I loved her too greatly!"
Anna turned away; she was on the point of bursting into sobs.
Arátoff rose alertly from his chair, thanked her for her proposal, said that he would come without fail … without fail! and went away, bearing in his soul an impression of a quiet voice, of gentle and sorrowful eyes—and burning with the languor of anticipation.
XIII
Arátoff returned to the Milovídoffs' house that same day, and conversed for three whole hours with Anna Semyónovna. Madame Milovídoff went to bed immediately after dinner—at two o'clock—and "rested" until evening tea, at seven o'clock. Arátoff's conversation with Clara's sister was not, properly speaking, a conversation: she did almost the whole of the talking, at first with hesitation, with confusion, but afterward with uncontrollable fervour. She had, evidently, idolised her sister. The confidence wherewith Arátoff had inspired her waxed and strengthened; she was no longer embarrassed; she even fell to weeping softly, twice, in his presence. He seemed to her worthy of her frank revelations and effusions. Nothing of that sort had ever before come into her own dull life!… And he … he drank in her every word.
This, then, is what he learned … much of it, as a matter of course, from what she refrained from saying … and much he filled out for himself.
In her youth Clara had been, without doubt, a disagreeable child; and as a young girl she had been only a little softer: self-willed, hot-tempered, vain, she had not got on particularly well with her father, whom she despised for his drunkenness and incapacity. He was conscious of this and did not pardon it in her. Her musical faculties showed themselves at an early age; her father repressed them, recognising painting as the sole art,—wherein he himself had had so little success, but which had nourished him and his family. Clara had loved her mother … in a careless way, as she would have loved a nurse; she worshipped her sister, although she squabbled with her, and bit her…. It is true that afterward she had been wont to go down on her knees before her and kiss the bitten places. She was all fire, all passion, and all contradiction: vengeful and kind-hearted, magnanimous and rancorous; "she believed in Fate, and did not believe in God" (these words Anna whispered with terror); she loved everything that was beautiful, and dressed herself at haphazard; she could not endure to have young men pay court to her, but in books she read only those pages where love was the theme; she did not care to please, she did not like petting and never forgot caresses as she never forgot offences; she was afraid of death, and she had killed herself! She had been wont to say sometimes, "I do not meet the sort of man I want—and the others I will not have!"—"Well, and what if you should meet the right sort?" Anna had asked her.—"If I do … I shall take him."—"But what if he will not give himself?"—"Well, then … I will make an end of myself. It will mean that I am good for nothing."
Clara's father … (he sometimes asked his wife when he was drunk: "Who was the father of that black-visaged little devil of thine?—I was not!")—Clara's father, in the endeavour to get her off his hands as promptly as possible, undertook to betroth her to a wealthy young merchant, a very stupid fellow,—one of the "cultured" sort. Two weeks before the wedding (she was only sixteen years of age), she walked up to her betrothed, folded her arms, and drumming with her fingers on her elbows (her favourite pose), she suddenly dealt him a blow, bang! on his rosy cheek with her big, strong hand! He sprang to his feet, and merely gasped,—it must be stated that he was dead in love with her…. He asked: "What is that for?" She laughed and left the room.—"I was present in the room," narrated Anna, "and was a witness. I ran after her and said to her: 'Good gracious, Kátya, why didst thou do that?'—But she answered me: 'If he were a real man he would have thrashed me, but as it is, he is a wet hen!' And he asks what it is for, to boot. If he loved me and did not avenge himself, then let him bear it and not ask: 'what is that for?' He'll never get anything of me, unto ages of ages!' And so she did not marry him. Soon afterward she made the acquaintance of that actress, and left our house. My mother wept, but my father only said: 'Away with the refractory goat from the flock!' and would take no trouble, or try to hunt her up. Father did not understand Clara. On the eve of her flight," added Anna, "she almost strangled me in her embrace, and kept repeating: 'I cannot! I cannot do otherwise!… My heart may break in two, but I cannot! our cage is too small … it is not large enough for my wings! And one cannot escape his fate'"….
"After that," remarked Anna, "we rarely saw each other…. When father died she came to us for a couple of days, took nothing from the inheritance, and again disappeared. She found it oppressive with us…. I saw that. Then she returned to Kazán as an actress."
Arátoff began to interrogate Anna concerning the theatre, the parts in which Clara had appeared, her success…. Anna answered in detail, but with the same sad, although animated enthusiasm. She even showed Arátoff a photographic portrait, which represented Clara in the costume of one of her parts. In the portrait she was looking to one side, as though turning away from the spectators; the ribbon intertwined with her thick hair fell like a serpent on her bare arm. Arátoff gazed long at that portrait, thought it a good likeness, inquired whether Clara had not taken part in public readings, and learned that she had not; that she required the excitement of the theatre, of the stage … but another question was burning on his lips.
"Anna Semyónovna!" he exclaimed at last, not loudly, but with peculiar force, "tell me, I entreat you, why she … why she made up her mind to that frightful step?"
Anna dropped her eyes.—"I do not know!" she said, after the lapse of several minutes.—"God is my witness, I do not know!" she continued impetuously, perceiving that Arátoff had flung his hands apart as though he did not believe her…. "From the very time she arrived here she seemed to be thoughtful, gloomy. Something must infallibly have happened to her in Moscow, which I was not able to divine! But, on the contrary, on that fatal day, she seemed … if not more cheerful, at any rate more tranquil than usual. I did not even have any forebodings," added Anna with a bitter smile, as though reproaching herself for that.
"You see," she began again, "it seemed to have been written in Kátya's fate, that she should be unhappy. She was convinced of it herself from her early youth. She would prop her head on her hand, meditate, and say: 'I shall not live long!' She had forebodings. Just imagine, she even saw beforehand,—sometimes in a dream, sometimes in ordinary wise,—what was going to happen to her! 'I cannot live as I wish, so I will not live at all,' … was her adage.—'Our life is in our own hands, you know!' And she proved it."
Anna covered her face with her hands and ceased speaking.
"Anna Semyónovna," began Arátoff, after waiting a little: "perhaps you have heard to what the newspapers attributed…."
"To unhappy love?" interrupted Anna, removing her hands from her face with a jerk. "That is a calumny, a calumny, a lie!… My unsullied, unapproachable Kátya … Kátya! … and an unhappy, rejected love? And would not I have known about that?… Everybody, everybody fell in love with her … but she…. And whom could she have fallen in love with here? Who, out of all these men, was worthy of her? Who had attained to that ideal of honour, uprightness, purity,—most of all, purity,—which she constantly held before her, in spite of all her defects?… Reject her … her…."
Anna's voice broke…. Her fingers trembled slightly. Suddenly she flushed scarlet all over … flushed with indignation, and at that moment—and only at that moment—did she resemble her sister.
Arátoff attempted to apologise.
"Listen," broke in Anna once more:—"I insist upon it that you shall not believe that calumny yourself, and that you shall dissipate it, if possible! Here, you wish to write an article about her, or something of that sort:—here is an opportunity for you to defend her memory! That is why I am talking so frankly with you. Listen: Kátya left a diary…."
Arátoff started.—"A diary," he whispered.
"Yes, a diary … that is to say, a few pages only.—Kátya was not fond of writing … for whole months together she did not write at all … and her letters were so short! But she was always, always truthful, she never lied…. Lie, forsooth, with her vanity! I … I will show you that diary! You shall see for yourself whether it contains a single hint of any such unhappy love!"
Anna hastily drew from the table-drawer a thin copy-book, about ten pages in length, no more, and offered it to Arátoff. The latter grasped it eagerly, recognised the irregular, bold handwriting,—the handwriting of that anonymous letter,—opened it at random, and began at the following lines:
"Moscow—Tuesday … June. I sang and recited at a literary morning. To-day is a significant day for me. It must decide my fate." (These words were doubly underlined.) "Once more I have seen…." Here followed several lines which had been carefully blotted out.—And then: "No! no! no!… I must return to my former idea, if only…."
Arátoff dropped the hand in which he held the book, and his head sank quietly on his breast.
"Read!" cried Anna.—"Why don't you read? Read from the beginning…. You can read the whole of it in five minutes, though this diary extends over two whole years. In Kazán she wrote nothing…."
Arátoff slowly rose from his chair, and fairly crashed down on his knees before Anna!
She was simply petrified with amazement and terror.
"Give … give me this diary," said Arátoff in a fainting voice.—"Give it to me … and the photograph … you must certainly have another—but I will return the diary to you…. But I must, I must…."
In his entreaty, in the distorted features of his face there was something so despairing that it even resembled wrath, suffering…. And in reality he was suffering. It seemed as though he had not been able to foresee that such a calamity would descend upon him, and was excitedly begging to be spared, to be saved….
"Give it to me," he repeated.
"But … you … you were not in love with my sister?" said Anna at last.
Arátoff continued to kneel.
"I saw her twice in all … believe me!… and if I had not been impelled by causes which I myself cannot clearly either understand or explain … if some power that is stronger than I were not upon me…. I would not have asked you…. I would not have come hither…. I must … I ought … why, you said yourself that I was bound to restore her image!"
"And you were not in love with my sister?" asked Anna for the second time.
Arátoff did not reply at once, and turned away slightly, as though with pain.
"Well, yes! I was! I was!—And I am in love with her now…." he exclaimed with the same desperation as before.
Footsteps became audible in the adjoining room.
"Rise … rise …" said Anna hastily. "My mother is coming."
Arátoff rose.
"And take the diary and the picture. God be with you!—Poor, poor Kátya!… But you must return the diary to me," she added with animation.—"And if you write anything, you must be sure to send it to me…. Do you hear?"
The appearance of Madame Milovídoff released Arátoff from the necessity of replying.—He succeeded, nevertheless, in whispering:—"You are an angel! Thanks! I will send all that I write…."
Madame Milovídoff was too drowsy to divine anything. And so Arátoff left Kazán with the photographic portrait in the side-pocket of his coat. He had returned the copy-book to Anna, but without her having detected it, he had cut out the page on which stood the underlined words.
On his way back to Moscow he was again seized with a sort of stupor. Although he secretly rejoiced that he had got what he went for, yet he repelled all thoughts of Clara until he should reach home again. He meditated a great deal more about her sister Anna.—"Here now," he said to himself, "is a wonderful, sympathetic being! What a delicate comprehension of everything, what a loving heart, what absence of egoism! And how comes it that such girls bloom with us, and in the provinces,—and in such surroundings into the bargain! She is both sickly, and ill-favoured, and not young,—but what a capital wife she would make for an honest, well-educated man! That is the person with whom one ought to fall in love!…" Arátoff meditated thus … but on his arrival in Moscow the matter took quite another turn.
XIV
Platonída Ivánova was unspeakably delighted at the return of her nephew. She had thought all sorts of things during his absence!—"At the very least he has gone to Siberia!" she whispered, as she sat motionless in her little chamber: "for a year at the very least!"—Moreover the cook had frightened her by imparting the most authentic news concerning the disappearance of first one, then another young man from the neighbourhood. Yásha's complete innocence and trustworthiness did not in the least serve to calm the old woman.—"Because … much that signifies!—he busies himself with photography … well, and that is enough! Seize him!" And now here was her Yáshenka come back to her safe and sound! She did notice, it is true, that he appeared to have grown thin, and his face seemed to be sunken—that was comprehensible … he had had no one to look after him. But she did not dare to question him concerning his trip. At dinner she inquired:
"And is Kazán a nice town?"
"Yes," replied Arátoff.
"Tatárs live there, I believe?"
"Not Tatárs only."
"And hast not thou brought a khalát[65] thence?"
"No, I have not."
And there the conversation ended.
But as soon as Arátoff found himself alone in his study he immediately felt as though something were embracing him round about, as though he were again in the power,—precisely that, in the power of another life, of another being. Although he had told Anna—in that outburst of sudden frenzy—that he was in love with Clara, that word now seemed to him devoid of sense and whimsical.—No, he was not in love; and how could he fall in love with a dead woman, whom, even during her lifetime he had not liked, whom he had almost forgotten?—No! But he was in the power of … in her power … he no longer belonged to himself. He had been taken possession of. Taken possession of to such a point that he was no longer trying to free himself either by ridiculing his own stupidity, or by arousing in himself if not confidence, at least hope that all this would pass over, that it was nothing but nerves,—or by seeking proofs of it,—or in any other way!—"If I meet him I shall take him" he recalled Clara's words reported by Anna … and so now he had been taken.
But was not she dead? Yes; her body was dead … but how about her soul?—Was not that immortal … did it require bodily organs to manifest its power? Magnetism has demonstrated to us the influence of the living human soul upon another living human soul…. Why should not that influence be continued after death, if the soul remains alive?—But with what object? What might be the result of this?—But do we, in general, realise the object of everything which goes on around us?
These reflections occupied Arátoff to such a degree that at tea he suddenly asked Platósha whether she believed in the immortality of the soul. She did not understand at first what it was he had asked; but afterward she crossed herself and replied, "of course. How could the soul be otherwise than immortal?"
"But if that is so, can it act after death?" Arátoff put a second question.
The old woman replied that it could … that is to say, it can pray for us; when it shall have passed through all sorts of tribulations, and is awaiting the Last Judgment. But during the first forty days it only hovers around the spot where its death occurred.
"During the first forty days?"
"Yes; and after that come its tribulations."[66]
Arátoff was surprised at his aunt's erudition, and went off to his own room.—And again he felt the same thing, that same power upon him. The power was manifested thus—that the image of Clara incessantly presented itself to him, in its most minute details,—details which he did not seem to have observed during her lifetime; he saw … he saw her fingers, her nails, the bands of hair on her cheeks below her temples, a small mole under the left eye; he saw the movement of her lips, her nostrils, her eyebrows … and what sort of a gait she had, and how she held her head a little on the right side … he saw everything!—He did not admire all this at all; he simply could not help thinking about it and seeing it.—Yet he did not dream about her during the first night after his return … he was very weary and slept like one slain. On the other hand, no sooner did he awake than she again entered his room, and there she remained, as though she had been its owner; just as though she had purchased for herself that right by her voluntary death, without asking him or requiring his permission.
He took her photograph; he began to reproduce it, to enlarge it. Then it occurred to him to arrange it for the stereoscope. It cost him a great deal of trouble, but at last he succeeded. He fairly started when he beheld through the glass her figure which had acquired the semblance of bodily substance. But that figure was grey, as though covered with dust … and moreover, the eyes … the eyes still gazed aside, as though they were averting themselves. He began to gaze at them for a long, long time, as though expecting that they might, at any moment, turn themselves in his direction … he even puckered up his eyes deliberately … but the eyes remained motionless, and the whole figure assumed the aspect of a doll. He went away, threw himself into an arm-chair, got out the leaf which he had torn from her diary, with the underlined words, and thought: "They say that people in love kiss the lines which have been written by a beloved hand; but I have no desire to do that—and the chirography appears to me ugly into the bargain. But in that line lies my condemnation."—At this point there flashed into his mind the promise he had made to Anna about the article. He seated himself at his table, and set about writing it; but everything he wrote turned out so rhetorical … worst of all, so artificial … just as though he did not believe in what he was writing, or in his own feelings … and Clara herself seemed to him unrecognisable, incomprehensible! She would not yield herself to him.
"No," he thought, throwing aside his pen, "either I have no talent for writing in general, or I must wait a while yet!"
He began to call to mind his visit to the Milovídoffs, and all the narration of Anna, of that kind, splendid Anna…. The word she had uttered: "unsullied!" suddenly struck him. It was exactly as though something had scorched and illuminated him.
"Yes," he said aloud, "she was unsullied and I am unsullied…. That is what has given her this power!"
Thoughts concerning the immortality of the soul, the life beyond the grave, again visited him. "Is it not said in the Bible: 'O death, where is thy sting?' And in Schiller: 'And the dead also shall live!' (Auch die Todten sollen leben!)—Or here again, in Mickiewicz, 'I shall love until life ends … and after life ends!'—While one English writer has said: 'Love is stronger than death!'"—The biblical sentence acted with peculiar force on Arátoff. He wanted to look up the place where those words were to be found…. He had no Bible; he went to borrow one from Platósha. She was astonished; but she got out an old, old book in a warped leather binding with brass clasps, all spotted with wax, and handed it to Arátoff. He carried it off to his own room, but for a long time could not find that verse … but on the other hand, he hit upon another:
"Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life
for his friends"…. (the Gospel of John, Chap. XV, verse 13).
He thought: "That is not properly expressed.—It should read: 'Greater power hath no man!'"….
"But what if she did not set her soul on me at all? What if she killed herself merely because life had become a burden to her?—What if she, in conclusion, did not come to that tryst with the object of obtaining declarations of love at all?"
But at that moment Clara before her parting on the boulevard rose up before him…. He recalled that sorrowful expression on her face, and those tears, and those words:—"Akh, you have understood nothing!"
No! He could not doubt for what object and for what person she had laid down her life….
Thus passed that day until nightfall.
XV
Arátoff went early to bed, without feeling particularly sleepy; but he hoped to find rest in bed. The strained condition of his nerves caused him a fatigue which was far more intolerable than the physical weariness of the journey and the road. But great as was his fatigue, he could not get to sleep. He tried to read … but the lines got entangled before his eyes. He extinguished his candle, and darkness took possession of his chamber.—But he continued to lie there sleepless, with closed eyes…. And now it seemed to him that some one was whispering in his ear…. "It is the beating of my heart, the rippling of the blood," he thought…. But the whisper passed into coherent speech. Some one was talking Russian hurriedly, plaintively, and incomprehensibly. It was impossible to distinguish a single separate word…. But it was Clara's voice!
Arátoff opened his eyes, rose up in bed, propped himself on his elbows…. The voice grew fainter, but continued its plaintive, hurried, unintelligible speech as before….
It was indubitably Clara's voice!
Some one's fingers ran over the keys of the piano in light arpeggios…. Then the voice began to speak again. More prolonged sounds made themselves audible … like moans … always the same. And then words began to detach themselves….
"Roses … roses … roses."….
"Roses," repeated Arátoff in a whisper.—
"Akh, yes! The roses which I saw on the head of that woman in my dream…."
"Roses," was audible again.
"Is it thou?" asked Arátoff, whispering as before.
The voice suddenly ceased.
Arátoff waited … waited—and dropped his head on his pillow. "A hallucination of hearing," he thought. "Well, and what if … what if she really is here, close to me?… What if I were to see her, would I be frightened? But why should I be frightened? Why should I rejoice? Possibly because it would be a proof that there is another world, that the soul is immortal.—But, however, even if I were to see anything, that also might be a hallucination of the sight"….
Nevertheless he lighted his candle, and shot a glance over the whole room not without some trepidation … and descried nothing unusual in it. He rose, approached the stereoscope … and there again was the same grey doll, with eyes which gazed to one side. The feeling of alarm in Arátoff was replaced by one of vexation. He had been, as it were, deceived in his expectations … and those same expectations appeared to him absurd.—"Well, this is downright stupid!" he muttered as he got back into bed, and blew out his light. Again profound darkness reigned in the room.
Arátoff made up his mind to go to sleep this time…. But a new sensation had cropped up within him. It seemed to him as though some one were standing in the middle of the room, not far from him, and breathing in a barely perceptible manner. He hastily turned round, opened his eyes…. But what could be seen in that impenetrable darkness?—He began to fumble for a match on his night-stand … and suddenly it seemed to him as though some soft, noiseless whirlwind dashed across the whole room, above him, through him—and the words: "'Tis I!" rang plainly in his ears. "'Tis I! 'Tis I!…"
Several moments passed before he succeeded in lighting a match.
Again there was no one in the room, and he no longer heard anything except the violent beating of his own heart. He drank a glass of water, and remained motionless, with his head resting on his hand.
He said to himself: "I will wait. Either this is all nonsense … or she is here. She will not play with me like a cat with a mouse!" He waited, waited a long time … so long that the hand on which he was propping his head became numb … but not a single one of his previous sensations was repeated. A couple of times his eyes closed…. He immediately opened them … at least, it seemed to him that he opened them. Gradually they became riveted on the door and so remained. The candle burned out and the room became dark once more … but the door gleamed like a long, white spot in the midst of the gloom. And lo! that spot began to move, it contracted, vanished … and in its place, on the threshold, a female form made its appearance. Arátoff looked at it intently … it was Clara! And this time she was gazing straight at him, she moved toward him…. On her head was a wreath of red roses…. It kept undulating, rising….
Before him stood his aunt in her nightcap, with a broad red ribbon, and in a white wrapper.
"Platósha!" he enunciated with difficulty.—"Is it you?"
"It is I," replied Platonída Ivánovna…. "It is I, Yashyónotchek, it is
I."
"Why have you come?"
"Why, thou didst wake me. At first thou seemedst to be moaning all the while … and then suddenly thou didst begin to shout: 'Save me! Help me!'"
"I shouted?"
"Yes, thou didst shout, and so hoarsely: 'Save me!'—I thought: 'O Lord!
Can he be ill?' So I entered. Art thou well?"
"Perfectly well."
"Come, that means that thou hast had a bad dream. I will fumigate with incense if thou wishest—shall I?"
Again Arátoff gazed intently at his aunt, and burst into a loud laugh…. The figure of the kind old woman in nightcap and wrapper, with her frightened, long-drawn face, really was extremely comical. All that mysterious something which had surrounded him, had stifled him, all those delusions dispersed on the instant.
"No, Platósha, my dear, it is not necessary," he said.—"Forgive me for having involuntarily alarmed you. May your rest be tranquil—and I will go to sleep also."
Platonída Ivánovna stood a little while longer on the spot where she was, pointed at the candle, grumbled: "Why dost thou not extinguish it? … there will be a catastrophe before long!"—and as she retired, could not refrain from making the sign of the cross over him from afar.
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.