Akatoff was very much out of sorts all the following day.

"What is the matter, Yasha?" Platonida Ivanovna said to him. "Thou seemest to be tousled to-day, somehow."... In the old woman's peculiar language this quite accurately defined Aratoff's moral condition. He could not work, but even he himself did not know what he wanted. Now he was expecting Kupfer again (he suspected that it was precisely from Kupfer that Clara had obtained his address ... and who else could have "talked a great deal" about him?); again he wondered whether his acquaintance with her was to end in that way? ... again he imagined that she would write him another letter; again he asked himself whether he ought not to write her a letter, in which he might explain everything to her,—-as he did not wish to leave an unpleasant impression of himself.... But, in point of fact, what was he to explain?—Now he aroused in himself something very like disgust for her, for her persistence, her boldness; again that indescribably touching face presented itself to him and her irresistible voice made itself heard; and yet again he recalled her singing, her recitation—and did not know whether he was right in his wholesale condemnation.—In one word: he was a tousled man! At last he became bored with all this and decided, as the saying is, "to take it upon himself" and erase all that affair, as it undoubtedly was interfering with his avocations and disturbing his peace of mind.—He did not find it so easy to put his resolution into effect.... More than a week elapsed before he got back again into his ordinary rut. Fortunately, Kupfer did not present himself at all, any more than if he had not been in Moscow. Not long before the "affair" Aratoff had begun to busy himself with painting for photographic ends; he devoted himself to this with redoubled zeal.

Thus, imperceptibly, with a few "relapses" as the doctors express it, consisting, for example in the fact that he once came very near going to call on the Princess, two weeks ... three weeks passed ... and Aratoff became once more the Aratoff of old. Only deep down, under the surface of his life, something heavy and dark secretly accompanied him in all his comings and goings. Thus does a large fish which has just been hooked, but has not yet been drawn out, swim along the bottom of a deep river under the very boat wherein sits the fisherman with his stout rod in hand.

And lo! one day as he was skimming over some not quite fresh numbers of the Moscow News, Aratoff hit upon the following correspondence:

"With great sorrow," wrote a certain local literary man from Kazan, "we insert in our theatrical chronicle the news of the sudden death of our gifted actress, Clara Militch, who had succeeded in the brief space of her engagement in becoming the favourite of our discriminating public. Our sorrow is all the greater because Miss Militch herself put an end to her young life, which held so much of promise, by means of poison. And this poisoning is all the more dreadful because the actress took the poison on the stage itself! They barely got her home, where, to universal regret, she died. Rumours are current in the town to the effect that unrequited love led her to that terrible deed."

Aratoff softly laid the newspaper on the table. To all appearances he remained perfectly composed ... but something smote him simultaneously in his breast and in his head, and then slowly diffused itself through all his members. He rose to his feet, stood for a while on one spot, and again seated himself, and again perused the letter. Then he rose once more, lay down on his bed and placing his hands under his head, he stared for a long time at the wall like one dazed. Little by little that wall seemed to recede ... to vanish ... and he beheld before him the boulevard beneath grey skies and her in her black mantilla ... then her again on the platform ... he even beheld himself by her side.—That which had smitten him so forcibly in the breast at the first moment, now began to rise up ... to rise up in his throat.... He tried to cough, to call some one, but his voice failed him, and to his own amazement, tears which he could not restrain gushed from his eyes.... What had evoked those tears? Pity? Regret? Or was it simply that his nerves had been unable to withstand the sudden shock? Surely, she was nothing to him? Was not that the fact?

"But perhaps that is not true," the thought suddenly occurred to him. "I must find out! But from whom? From the Princess?—No, from Kupfer ... from Kupfer? But they say he is not in Moscow.—Never mind! I must apply to him first!"

With these ideas in his head Aratoff hastily dressed himself, summoned a cab and dashed off to Kupfer.



IX

He had not hoped to find him ... but he did. Kupfer actually had been absent from Moscow for a time, but had returned about a week previously and was even preparing to call on Aratoff again. He welcomed him with his customary cordiality, and began to explain something to him ... but Aratoff immediately interrupted him with the impatient question:

"Hast thou read it?—Is it true?"

"Is what true?" replied the astounded Kupfer.

"About Clara Militch?"

Kupfer's face expressed compassion.—"Yes, yes, brother, it is true; she has poisoned herself. It is such a misfortune!"

Aratoff held his peace for a space.—"But hast thou also read it in the newspaper?" he asked:—"Or perhaps thou hast been to Kazan thyself?"

"I have been to Kazan, in fact; the Princess and I conducted her thither. She went on the stage there, and had great success. Only I did not remain there until the catastrophe.... I was in Yaroslavl."

"In Yaroslavl?"

"Yes; I escorted the Princess thither.... She has settled in Yaroslavl now."

"But hast thou trustworthy information?"

"The most trustworthy sort ... at first hand! I made acquaintance in Kazan with her family.—But stay, my dear fellow ... this news seems to agitate thee greatly.—But I remember that Clara did not please thee that time! Thou wert wrong! She was a splendid girl—only her head! She had an ungovernable head! I was greatly distressed about her!"

Aratoff did not utter a word, but dropped down on a chair, and after waiting a while he asked Kupfer to tell him ... he hesitated.

"What?" asked Kupfer.

"Why ... everything," replied Aratoff slowly.—"About her family, for instance ... and so forth. Everything thou knowest!"

"But does that interest thee?—Certainly!"

Kupfer, from whose face it was impossible to discern that he had grieved so greatly over Clara, began his tale.

From his words Aratoff learned that Clara Militch's real name had been Katerina Milovidoff; that her father, now dead, had been an official teacher of drawing in Kazan, had painted bad portraits and official images, and moreover had borne the reputation of being a drunkard and a domestic tyrant ... "and a cultured man into the bargain!".... (Here Kupfer laughed in a self-satisfied manner, by way of hinting at the pun he had made);[60]—that he had left at his death, in the first place, a widow of the merchant class, a thoroughly stupid female, straight out of one of Ostrovsky's comedies;[61] and in the second place, a daughter much older than Clara and bearing no resemblance to her—a very clever girl and "greatly developed, my dear fellow!" That the two—widow and daughter—lived in easy circumstances, in a decent little house which had been acquired by the sale of those wretched portraits and holy pictures; that Clara ... or Katya, whichever you choose to call her, had astonished every one ever since her childhood by her talent, but was of an insubordinate, capricious disposition, and was constantly quarrelling with her father; that having an inborn passion for the theatre, she had run away from the parental house at the age of sixteen with an actress....

"With an actor?" interjected Aratoff.

"No, not with an actor, but an actress; to whom she had become attached.... This actress had a protector, it is true, a wealthy gentleman already elderly, who only refrained from marrying her because he was already married—while the actress, it appeared, was married also."

Further, Kupfer informed Aratoff that, prior to her arrival in Moscow, Clara had acted and sung in provincial theatres; that on losing her friend the actress (the gentleman had died also, it seems, or had made it up with his wife—precisely which Kupfer did not quite remember ...), she had made the acquaintance of the Princess, "that woman of gold, whom thou, my friend Yakoff Andreitch," the narrator added with feeling, "wert not able to appreciate at her true worth"; that finally Clara had been offered an engagement in Kazan, and had accepted it, although she had previously declared that she would never leave Moscow!—But how the people of Kazan had loved her—it was fairly amazing! At every representation she received bouquets and gifts! bouquets and gifts!—A flour merchant, the greatest bigwig in the government, had even presented her with a golden inkstand!—Kupfer narrated all this with great animation, but without, however, displaying any special sentimentality, and interrupting his speech with the question:—"Why dost thou want to know that?" ... or "To what end is that?" when Aratoff, after listening to him with devouring attention, demanded more and still more details. Everything was said at last, and Kupfer ceased speaking, rewarding himself for his toil with a cigar.

"But why did she poison herself?" asked Aratoff. "The newspaper stated...."

Kupfer waved his hands.—"Well.... That I cannot say.... I don't know. But the newspaper lies, Clara behaved in an exemplary manner ... she had no love-affairs.... And how could she, with her pride! She was as proud as Satan himself, and inaccessible! An insubordinate head! Firm as a rock! If thou wilt believe me,—I knew her pretty intimately, seest thou,—I never beheld a tear in her eyes!"

"But I did," thought Aratoff to himself.

"Only there is this to be said," went on Kupfer:—"I noticed a great change in her of late: she became so depressed, she would remain silent for hours at a time; you couldn't get a word out of her. I once asked her: 'Has any one offended you, Katerina Semyonovna?' Because I knew her disposition: she could not endure an insult. She held her peace, and that was the end of it! Even her success on the stage did not cheer her up; they would shower her with bouquets ... and she would not smile! She gave one glance at the gold inkstand,—and put it aside!—She complained that no one would write her a genuine part, as she conceived it. And she gave up singing entirely. I am to blame, brother!... I repeated to her that thou didst not think she had any school. But nevertheless ... why she poisoned herself is incomprehensible! And the way she did it too...."

"In what part did she have the greatest success?".... Aratoff wanted to find out what part she had played that last time, but for some reason or other he asked something else.

"In Ostrovsky's' Grunya'[62] I believe. But I repeat to thee: she had no love-affairs! Judge for thyself by one thing: she lived in her mother's house.... Thou knowest what some of those merchants' houses are like; a glass case filled with holy images in every corner and a shrine lamp in front of the case; deadly, stifling heat; a sour odour; in the drawing-room nothing but chairs ranged along the wall, and geraniums in the windows;—and when a visitor arrives, the hostess begins to groan as though an enemy were approaching. What chance is there for love-making, and amours in such a place? Sometimes it happened that they would not even admit me. Their maid-servant, a robust peasant-woman, in a Turkey red cotton sarafan,[63] and pendulous breasts, would place herself across the path in the anteroom and roar: 'Whither away?' No, I positively cannot understand what made her poison herself. She must have grown tired of life," Kupfer philosophically wound up his remarks.

Aratoff sat with drooping head.—"Canst thou give me the address of that house in Kazan?" he said at last.

"I can; but what dost thou want of it?—Dost thou wish to send a letter thither?"

"Perhaps so."

"Well, as thou wilt. Only the old woman will not answer thee. Her sister might ... the clever sister!—But again, brother, I marvel at thee! Such indifference formerly ... and now so much attention! All that comes of living a solitary life, my dear fellow!"

Aratoff made no reply to this remark and went away, after having procured the address in Kazan.

Agitation, surprise, expectation had been depicted on his face when he went to Kupfer.... Now he advanced with an even gait, downcast eyes, and hat pulled low down over his brows; almost every one he met followed him with a searching gaze ... but he paid no heed to the passers-by ... it was quite different from what it had been on the boulevard!...

"Unhappy Clara! Foolish Clara!" resounded in his soul.



X

Nevertheless, Aratoff passed the following day in a fairly tranquil manner. He was even able to devote himself to his customary occupations. There was only one thing: both during his busy time and in his leisure moments he thought incessantly of Clara, of what Kupfer had told him the day before. Truth to tell, his thoughts were also of a decidedly pacific nature. It seemed to him that that strange young girl interested him from a psychological point of view, as something in the nature of a puzzle, over whose solution it was worth while to cudgel one's brains,—"She ran away from home with a kept actress," he thought, "she placed herself under the protection of that Princess, in whose house she lived,—and had no love-affairs? It is improbable!... Kupfer says it was pride! But, in the first place, we know" (Aratoff should have said: "we have read in books") ... "that pride is compatible with light-minded conduct; and in the second place, did not she, such a proud person, appoint a meeting with a man who might show her scorn ... and appoint it in a public place, into the bargain ... on the boulevard!"—At this point there recurred to Aratoff's mind the whole scene on the boulevard, and he asked himself: "Had he really shown scorn for Clara?"—"No," he decided.... That was another feeling ... a feeling of perplexity ... of distrust, in short!—"Unhappy Clara!" again rang through his brain.—"Yes, she was unhappy," he decided again ... that was the most fitting word.

"But if that is so, I was unjust. She spoke truly when she said that I did not understand her. 'Tis a pity!—It may be that a very remarkable being has passed so close to me ... and I did not take advantage of the opportunity, but repulsed her.... Well, never mind! My life is still before me. I shall probably have other encounters of a different sort!

"But what prompted her to pick out me in particular?"—He cast a glance at a mirror which he was passing at the moment. "What is there peculiar about me? And what sort of a beauty am I?—My face is like everybody else's face.... However, she was not a beauty either.

"She was not a beauty ... but what an expressive face she had! Impassive ... but expressive! I have never before seen such a face.—And she has talent ... that is to say, she had talent, undoubted talent. Wild, untrained, even coarse ... but undoubted.—And in that case also I was unjust to her."—Aratoff mentally transported himself to the musical morning ... and noticed that he remembered with remarkable distinctness every word she had sung or recited, every intonation.... That would not have been the case had she been devoid of talent.

"And now all that is in the grave, where she has thrust herself.... But I have nothing to do with that.... I am not to blame! It would even be absurd to think that I am to blame."—Again it flashed into Aratoff's mind that even had she had "anything of that sort" about her, his conduct during the interview would indubitably have disenchanted her. That was why she had broken into such harsh laughter at parting.—And where was the proof that she had poisoned herself on account of an unhappy love? It is only newspaper correspondents who attribute every such death to unhappy love!—But life easily becomes repulsive to people with character, like Clara ... and tiresome. Yes, tiresome. Kupfer was right: living simply bored her.

"In spite of her success, of her ovations?"—Aratoff meditated.—The psychological analysis to which he surrendered himself was even agreeable to him. Unaccustomed as he had been, up to this time, to all contact with women, he did not suspect how significant for him was this tense examination of a woman's soul.

"Consequently," he pursued his meditations, "art did not satisfy her, did not fill the void of her life. Genuine artists exist only for art, for the theatre.... Everything else pales before that which they regard as their vocation.... She was a dilettante!"

Here Aratoff again became thoughtful.—No, the word "dilettante" did not consort with that face, with the expression of that face, of those eyes....

And again there rose up before him the image of Clara with her tear-filled eyes riveted upon him, and her clenched hands raised to her lips....

"Akh, I won't think of it, I won't think of it ..." he whispered.... "What is the use?"

In this manner the whole day passed. During dinner Aratoff chatted a great deal with Platosha, questioned her about old times, which, by the way, she recalled and transmitted badly, as she was not possessed of a very glib tongue, and had noticed hardly anything in the course of her life save her Yashka. She merely rejoiced that he was so good-natured and affectionate that day!—Toward evening Aratoff quieted down to such a degree that he played several games of trumps with his aunt.

Thus passed the day ... but the night was quite another matter!



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. Aratoff 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 Aratoff 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. Aratoff 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.

Aratoff 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 Aratoff 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!"

Aratoff 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 Kazan 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.

Platosha 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 Kazan? Why to Kazan?" 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 Yasha was going to marry the neighbouring baker's daughter, or depart to America.—"And shalt thou stay long in Kazan?"

"I shall return at the end of a week," replied Aratoff, as he stood half-turned away from his aunt, who was still sitting on the floor.

Platosha tried to remonstrate again, but Aratoff 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, Platosha," he added, in a softer tone.

Platosha rose to her feet, grunting, and, making no further opposition, wended her way to her chamber. Yasha had frightened her.—"I have not a head on my shoulders," she remarked to the cook, who was helping her to pack Yasha's things,—"not a head—but a bee-hive ... and what bees are buzzing there I do not know! He is going away to Kazan, my mother, to Ka-za-an!"

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 Kazan? If only it isn't some place further away!"—And Platonida Ivanovna 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 Aratoff set off for Kazan.



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 Milovidoff'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 Novgorod 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 Militch'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 Milovidoff's house proved to be in fact just as Kupfer had described it; and the widow herself really did resemble one of Ostrovsky'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 Aratoff, 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 Milovidoff did not interrupt Aratoff; 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 Katya?" she asked, as soon as Aratoff 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 Milovidoff 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. Aratoff 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 Milovidoff. "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 Milovidoff 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...." "Annotchka!" called Madame Milovidoff:—"Annotchka, come hither! There's some gentleman or other from Moscow who wants to talk about Katya!"

There was a crash in the adjoining room, but no one appeared.—"Annotchka!" cried the widow again—"Anna Semyonovna! 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. Aratoff rose from his seat to greet her, and introduced himself, at the same time mentioning his friend Kupfer.—"Ah! Feodor Feodoritch!" ejaculated the girl softly, as she softly sank down on a chair.

"Come, now, talk with the gentleman," said Madame Milovidoff, rising ponderously from her seat: "He has taken the trouble to come expressly from Moscow,—he wishes to collect information about Katya. But you must excuse me, sir," she added, turning to Aratoff.... "I shall go away, to attend to domestic affairs. You can have a good explanation with Annotchka—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 Milovidoff withdrew. When Aratoff was left alone with Anna Semyonovna 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 Semyonovna 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 Aratoff.

"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.

Aratoff 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 Katya 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.

Aratoff 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

Aratoff returned to the Milovidoffs' house that same day, and conversed for three whole hours with Anna Semyonovna. Madame Milovidoff went to bed immediately after dinner—at two o'clock—and "rested" until evening tea, at seven o'clock. Aratoff'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 Aratoff 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, Katya, 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 Kazan as an actress."

Aratoff 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 Aratoff 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. Aratoff 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 Semyonovna!" 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 Aratoff 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 Katya'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 Semyonovna," began Aratoff, 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 Katya ... Katya! ... 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.

Aratoff 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: Katya left a diary...."

Aratoff started.—"A diary," he whispered.

"Yes, a diary ... that is to say, a few pages only.—Katya 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 Aratoff. 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...."

Aratoff 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 Kazan she wrote nothing...."

Aratoff 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 Aratoff 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.

Aratoff 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.

Aratoff 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."

Aratoff rose.

"And take the diary and the picture. God be with you!—Poor, poor Katya!... 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 Milovidoff released Aratoff from the necessity of replying.—He succeeded, nevertheless, in whispering:—"You are an angel! Thanks! I will send all that I write...."

Madame Milovidoff was too drowsy to divine anything. And so Aratoff left Kazan 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!..." Aratoff meditated thus ... but on his arrival in Moscow the matter took quite another turn.



XIV

Platonida Ivanova 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. Yasha'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 Yashenka 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 Kazan a nice town?"

"Yes," replied Aratoff.

"Tatars live there, I believe?"

"Not Tatars only."

"And hast not thou brought a khalat[65] thence?"

"No, I have not."

And there the conversation ended.

But as soon as Aratoff 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 Aratoff to such a degree that at tea he suddenly asked Platosha 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?" Aratoff 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]

Aratoff 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 Milovidoffs, 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 Aratoff. He wanted to look up the place where those words were to be found.... He had no Bible; he went to borrow one from Platosha. 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 Aratoff. 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

Aratoff 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!

Aratoff 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 Aratoff 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 Aratoff, whispering as before.

The voice suddenly ceased.

Aratoff 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 Aratoff 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.

Aratoff 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. Aratoff 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.

"Platosha!" he enunciated with difficulty.—"Is it you?"

"It is I," replied Platonida Ivanovna.... "It is I, Yashyonotchek, 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 Aratoff 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, Platosha, 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."

Platonida Ivanovna 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.

Aratoff 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

Aratoff 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 Yaroslavl,—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 Kazan.

"Thou hast been to Kazan? Why so?"

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

"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 Aratoff.—"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."

Aratoff'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 Aratoff was picking up his cap.

"I do not feel quite well," replied Aratoff. "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 Aratoff, 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 Platosha, 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 Platosha 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.

Aratoff 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. Aratoff 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—Aratoff 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 Aratoff 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 Aratoff 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 Aratoff 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 Aratoff walked past them the horses turned their heads toward him and viciously displayed their teeth.

"It is well," thought Aratoff, "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 Aratoff 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 Aratoff; "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 Aratoff 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 Aratoff's ear:

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

Aratoff 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. Aratoff 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.

Aratoff 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 Platosha 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 Aratoff 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!

Aratoff 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 Aratoff.

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 Aratoff. 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 Aratoff.—"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.

Platonida Ivanovna 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.

Platonida Ivanovna threw herself beside him, embraced him, stammered: "Yasha! Yashenka! Yashenyonotchek!!"[67] tried to lift him up with her bony arms ... he did not stir. Then Platonida Ivanovna 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 Aratoff pushed away her hand, and still with the same beatific expression on his countenance, he said:—

"What is the matter with you, Platosha?"

"What ails thee, Yashenka?"

"Me?—I am happy ... happy, Platosha ... 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 Platonida Ivanovna 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. Platonida Ivanovna 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, Yasha?" she asked him; "dost thou intend to lie like this all day?"

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

This very affection also did not please Platonida Ivanovna. Aratoff 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!"

* * * * *

Platonida Ivanovna kept entering Aratoff'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. Aratoff was astonished when she brought the man to him; but Platonida Ivanovna began so insistently to entreat her Yashenka to permit Paramon Paramonitch (that was the medical man's name) to examine him—come, now, just for her sake!—that Aratoff consented. Paramon Paramonitch felt his pulse, looked at his tongue, interrogated him after a fashion, and finally announced that it was indispensably necessary to "auscultate" him. Aratoff 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 Aratoff.... "Well, brother, thou hast bethought thyself too late!"

"What ails Yasha?" asked Platonida Ivanovna, as she handed Paramon Paramonitch 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 Platonida Ivanovna; "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 Platonida Ivanovna, as much as to say: "Look out and don't try your Latin on me again!"

"Not at present!"

The doctor went away, and Platonida Ivanovna took to grieving.... Nevertheless she sent to the apothecary for the medicine, which Aratoff 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!"

Platonida Ivanovna 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. Platonida Ivanovna 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 Aratoff'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 Semyonovna had such a lock, which she had kept after Clara's death; but why should she have given to Aratoff 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 Aratoff 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 Platonida Ivanovna was the moment when Aratoff, 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, Ivan Sergyeevitch Turgenieff 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. Turgenieff 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.

Along the ravine, on one side are neat little storehouses, and buildings with tightly-closed doors; on the other side are five or six pine-log cottages with board roofs. Over each roof rises a tall pole with a starling house; over each tiny porch is an openwork iron horse's head with a stiff mane.[69] The uneven window-panes sparkle with the hues of the rainbow. Jugs holding bouquets are painted on the shutters. In front of each cottage stands sedately a precise little bench; on the earthen banks around the foundations of the house cats lie curled in balls, with their transparent ears pricked up on the alert; behind the lofty thresholds the anterooms look dark and cool.

I am lying on the very brink of the ravine, on an outspread horse-cloth; round about are whole heaps of new-mown hay, which is fragrant to the point of inducing faintness. The sagacious householders have spread out the hay in front of their cottages: let it dry a little more in the hot sun, and then away with it to the barn! It will be a glorious place for a nap!

The curly heads of children project from each haycock; crested hens are searching in the hay for gnats and small beetles; a white-toothed puppy is sprawling among the tangled blades of grass.

Ruddy-curled youths in clean, low-girt shirts, and heavy boots with borders, are bandying lively remarks as they stand with their breasts resting on the unhitched carts, and display their teeth in a grin.

From a window a round-faced lass peeps out; she laughs, partly at their words, and partly at the pranks of the children in the heaped-up hay.

Another lass with her sturdy arms is drawing a huge, dripping bucket from the well.... The bucket trembles and rocks on the rope, scattering long, fiery drops.

In front of me stands an aged housewife in a new-checked petticoat of homespun and new peasant-shoes.

Large inflated beads in three rows encircle her thin, swarthy neck; her grey hair is bound about with a yellow kerchief with red dots; it droops low over her dimmed eyes.

But her aged eyes smile in cordial wise; her whole wrinkled face smiles. The old woman must be in her seventh decade ... and even now it can be seen that she was a beauty in her day!

With the sunburned fingers of her right hand widely spread apart, she holds a pot of cool, unskimmed milk, straight from the cellar; the sides of the pot are covered with dewdrops, like small pearl beads. On the palm of her left hand the old woman offers me a big slice of bread still warm from the oven. As much as to say: "Eat, and may health be thine, thou passing guest!"

A cock suddenly crows and busily flaps his wings; an imprisoned calf lows without haste, in reply.

"Hey, what fine oats!" the voice of my coachman makes itself heard....

O Russian contentment, repose, plenty! O free village! O tranquillity and abundance!

And I thought to myself: "What care we for the cross on the dome of Saint Sophia in Constantinople, and all the other things for which we strive, we people of the town?"

February, 1878.



A CONVERSATION

"Never yet has human foot trod either the Jungfrau or the Finsteraarhorn."

The summits of the Alps.... A whole chain of steep cliffs.... The very heart of the mountains.

Overhead a bright, mute, pale-green sky. A hard, cruel frost; firm, sparkling snow; from beneath the snow project grim blocks of ice-bound, wind-worn cliffs.

Two huge masses, two giants rise aloft, one on each side of the horizon: the Jungfrau and the Finsteraarhorn.

And the Jungfrau says to its neighbour: "What news hast thou to tell? Thou canst see better.—What is going on there below?"

Several thousand years pass by like one minute. And the Finsteraarhorn rumbles in reply: "Dense clouds veil the earth.... Wait!"

More thousands of years elapse, as it were one minute.

"Well, what now?" inquires the Jungfrau.

"Now I can see; down yonder, below, everything is still the same: party-coloured, tiny. The waters gleam blue; the forests are black; heaps of stones piled up shine grey. Around them small beetles are still bustling,—thou knowest, those two-legged beetles who have as yet been unable to defile either thou or me."

"Men?"

"Yes, men."

Thousands of years pass, as it were one minute.

"Well, and what now?" asks the Jungfrau.

"I seem to see fewer of the little beetles," thunders the Finsteraarhorn. "Things have become clearer down below; the waters have contracted; the forests have grown thinner."

More thousands of years pass, as it were one minute.

"What dost thou see?" says the Jungfrau.

"Things seem to have grown clearer round us, close at hand," replies the Finsteraarhorn; "well, and yonder, far away, in the valleys there is still a spot, and something is moving."

"And now?" inquires the Jungfrau, after other thousands of years, which are as one minute.

"Now it is well," replies the Finsteraarhorn; "it is clean everywhere, quite white, wherever one looks.... Everywhere is our snow, level snow and ice. Everything is congealed. It is well now, and calm."

"Good," said the Jungfrau.—"But thou and I have chattered enough, old fellow. It is time to sleep."

"It is time!"

The huge mountains slumber; the green, clear heaven slumbers over the earth which has grown dumb forever.

February, 1878.



THE OLD WOMAN

I was walking across a spacious field, alone.

And suddenly I thought I heard light, cautious footsteps behind my back.... Some one was following me.

I glanced round and beheld a tiny, bent old woman, all enveloped in grey rags. The old woman's face was visible from beneath them: a yellow, wrinkled, sharp-nosed, toothless face.

I stepped up to her.... She halted.

"Who art thou? What dost thou want? Art thou a beggar? Dost thou expect alms?"

The old woman made no answer. I bent down to her and perceived that both her eyes were veiled with a semi-transparent, whitish membrane or film, such as some birds have; therewith they protect their eyes from too brilliant a light.

But in the old woman's case that film did not move and reveal the pupils ... from which I inferred that she was blind.

"Dost thou want alms?" I repeated my question.—"Why art thou following me?"—But, as before, the old woman did not answer, and merely shrank back almost imperceptibly.

I turned from her and went my way.

And lo! again I hear behind me those same light, measured footsteps which seem to be creeping stealthily up.

"There's that woman again!" I said to myself.—"Why has she attached herself to me?"—But at this point I mentally added: "Probably, owing to her blindness, she has lost her way, and now she is guiding herself by the sound of my steps, in order to come out, in company with me, at some inhabited place. Yes, yes; that is it."

But a strange uneasiness gradually gained possession of my thoughts: it began to seem to me as though that old woman were not only following me, but were guiding me,—that she was thrusting me now to the right, now to the left, and that I was involuntarily obeying her.

Still I continue to walk on ... but now, in front of me, directly in my road, something looms up black and expands ... some sort of pit.... "The grave!" flashes through my mind.—"That is where she is driving me!"

I wheel abruptly round. Again the old woman is before me ... but she sees! She gazes at me with large, evil eyes which bode me ill ... the eyes of a bird of prey.... I bend down to her face, to her eyes.... Again there is the same film, the same blind, dull visage as before....

"Akh!" I think ... "this old woman is my Fate—that Fate which no man can escape!

"I cannot get away! I cannot get away!—What madness.... I must make an effort." And I dart to one side, in a different direction.

I advance briskly.... But the light footsteps, as before, rustle behind me, close, close behind me.... And in front of me again the pit yawns.

Again I turn in another direction.... And again there is the same rustling behind me, the same menacing spot in front of me.

And no matter in what direction I dart, like a hare pursued ... it is always the same, the same!

"Stay!" I think.—"I will cheat her! I will not go anywhere at all!"—and I instantaneously sit down on the ground.

The old woman stands behind me, two paces distant.—I do not hear her, but I feel that she is there.

And suddenly I behold that spot which had loomed black in the distance, gliding on, creeping up to me itself!

O God! I glance behind me.... The old woman is looking straight at me, and her toothless mouth is distorted in a grin....

"Thou canst not escape!"

February, 1878.



THE DOG

There are two of us in the room, my dog and I.... A frightful storm is raging out of doors.

The dog is sitting in front of me, and gazing straight into my eyes.

And I, also, am looking him straight in the eye.

He seems to be anxious to say something to me. He is dumb, he has no words, he does not understand himself—but I understand him.

I understand that, at this moment, both in him and in me there dwells one and the same feeling, that there is no difference whatever between us. We are exactly alike; in each of us there burns and glows the selfsame tremulous flame.

Death is swooping down upon us, it is waving its cold, broad wings....

"And this is the end!"

Who shall decide afterward, precisely what sort of flame burned in each one of us?

No! it is not an animal and a man exchanging glances....

It is two pairs of eyes exactly alike fixed on each other.

And in each of those pairs, in the animal and in the man, one and the same life is huddling up timorously to the other.

February, 1878.



THE RIVAU

I had a comrade-rival; not in our studies, not in the service or in love; but our views did not agree on any point, and every time we met, interminable arguments sprang up.

We argued about art, religion, science, about the life of earth and matters beyond the grave,—especially life beyond the grave.

He was a believer and an enthusiast. One day he said to me: "Thou laughest at everything; but if I die before thee, I will appear to thee from the other world.... We shall see whether thou wilt laugh then."

And, as a matter of fact, he did die before me, while he was still young in years; but years passed, and I had forgotten his promise,—his threat.

One night I was lying in bed, and could not get to sleep, neither did I wish to do so.

It was neither light nor dark in the room; I began to stare into the grey half-gloom.

And suddenly it seemed to me that my rival was standing between the two windows, and nodding his head gently and sadly downward from above.

I was not frightened, I was not even surprised ... but rising up slightly in bed, and propping myself on my elbow, I began to gaze with redoubled attention at the figure which had so unexpectedly presented itself.

The latter continued to nod its head.

"What is it?" I said at last.—"Art thou exulting? Or art thou pitying?—What is this—a warning or a reproach?... Or dost thou wish to give me to understand that thou wert in the wrong? That we were both in the wrong? What art thou experiencing? The pains of hell? The bliss of paradise? Speak at least one word!"

But my rival did not utter a single sound—and only went on nodding his head sadly and submissively, as before, downward from above.

I burst out laughing ... he vanished.

February, 1878.



THE BEGGAR MAN

I was passing along the street when a beggar, a decrepit old man, stopped me.