Russian Literature – Children Books – Russian Poetry – Ivan Turgenev – Clara Mílitch – Contents
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Chapter XII > > >
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.
< < < Chapter X
Chapter XII > > >
Russian Literature – Children Books – Russian Poetry – Ivan Turgenev – Clara Mílitch – Contents
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