Clara Mílitch by Ivan Turgenev

Russian Literature – Children Books – Russian Poetry – Ivan Turgenev – Clara Mílitch – Contents

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Platonída Ivánova was unspeakably delighted at the return of her nephew. She had thought all sorts of things during his absence!—”At the very least he has gone to Siberia!” she whispered, as she sat motionless in her little chamber: “for a year at the very least!”—Moreover the cook had frightened her by imparting the most authentic news concerning the disappearance of first one, then another young man from the neighbourhood. Yásha’s complete innocence and trustworthiness did not in the least serve to calm the old woman.—”Because … much that signifies!—he busies himself with photography … well, and that is enough! Seize him!” And now here was her Yáshenka come back to her safe and sound! She did notice, it is true, that he appeared to have grown thin, and his face seemed to be sunken—that was comprehensible … he had had no one to look after him. But she did not dare to question him concerning his trip. At dinner she inquired:

“And is Kazán a nice town?”

“Yes,” replied Arátoff.

“Tatárs live there, I believe?”

“Not Tatárs only.”

“And hast not thou brought a khalát[65] thence?”

“No, I have not.”

And there the conversation ended.

But as soon as Arátoff found himself alone in his study he immediately felt as though something were embracing him round about, as though he were again in the power,—precisely that, in the power of another life, of another being. Although he had told Anna—in that outburst of sudden frenzy—that he was in love with Clara, that word now seemed to him devoid of sense and whimsical.—No, he was not in love; and how could he fall in love with a dead woman, whom, even during her lifetime he had not liked, whom he had almost forgotten?—No! But he was in the power of … in her power … he no longer belonged to himself. He had been taken possession of. Taken possession of to such a point that he was no longer trying to free himself either by ridiculing his own stupidity, or by arousing in himself if not confidence, at least hope that all this would pass over, that it was nothing but nerves,—or by seeking proofs of it,—or in any other way!—”If I meet him I shall take him” he recalled Clara’s words reported by Anna … and so now he had been taken.

But was not she dead? Yes; her body was dead … but how about her soul?—Was not that immortal … did it require bodily organs to manifest its power? Magnetism has demonstrated to us the influence of the living human soul upon another living human soul…. Why should not that influence be continued after death, if the soul remains alive?—But with what object? What might be the result of this?—But do we, in general, realise the object of everything which goes on around us?

These reflections occupied Arátoff to such a degree that at tea he suddenly asked Platósha whether she believed in the immortality of the soul. She did not understand at first what it was he had asked; but afterward she crossed herself and replied, “of course. How could the soul be otherwise than immortal?”

“But if that is so, can it act after death?” Arátoff put a second question.

The old woman replied that it could … that is to say, it can pray for us; when it shall have passed through all sorts of tribulations, and is awaiting the Last Judgment. But during the first forty days it only hovers around the spot where its death occurred.

“During the first forty days?”

“Yes; and after that come its tribulations.”[66]

Arátoff was surprised at his aunt’s erudition, and went off to his own room.—And again he felt the same thing, that same power upon him. The power was manifested thus—that the image of Clara incessantly presented itself to him, in its most minute details,—details which he did not seem to have observed during her lifetime; he saw … he saw her fingers, her nails, the bands of hair on her cheeks below her temples, a small mole under the left eye; he saw the movement of her lips, her nostrils, her eyebrows … and what sort of a gait she had, and how she held her head a little on the right side … he saw everything!—He did not admire all this at all; he simply could not help thinking about it and seeing it.—Yet he did not dream about her during the first night after his return … he was very weary and slept like one slain. On the other hand, no sooner did he awake than she again entered his room, and there she remained, as though she had been its owner; just as though she had purchased for herself that right by her voluntary death, without asking him or requiring his permission.

He took her photograph; he began to reproduce it, to enlarge it. Then it occurred to him to arrange it for the stereoscope. It cost him a great deal of trouble, but at last he succeeded. He fairly started when he beheld through the glass her figure which had acquired the semblance of bodily substance. But that figure was grey, as though covered with dust … and moreover, the eyes … the eyes still gazed aside, as though they were averting themselves. He began to gaze at them for a long, long time, as though expecting that they might, at any moment, turn themselves in his direction … he even puckered up his eyes deliberately … but the eyes remained motionless, and the whole figure assumed the aspect of a doll. He went away, threw himself into an arm-chair, got out the leaf which he had torn from her diary, with the underlined words, and thought: “They say that people in love kiss the lines which have been written by a beloved hand; but I have no desire to do that—and the chirography appears to me ugly into the bargain. But in that line lies my condemnation.”—At this point there flashed into his mind the promise he had made to Anna about the article. He seated himself at his table, and set about writing it; but everything he wrote turned out so rhetorical … worst of all, so artificial … just as though he did not believe in what he was writing, or in his own feelings … and Clara herself seemed to him unrecognisable, incomprehensible! She would not yield herself to him.

“No,” he thought, throwing aside his pen, “either I have no talent for writing in general, or I must wait a while yet!”

He began to call to mind his visit to the Milovídoffs, and all the narration of Anna, of that kind, splendid Anna…. The word she had uttered: “unsullied!” suddenly struck him. It was exactly as though something had scorched and illuminated him.

“Yes,” he said aloud, “she was unsullied and I am unsullied…. That is what has given her this power!”

Thoughts concerning the immortality of the soul, the life beyond the grave, again visited him. “Is it not said in the Bible: ‘O death, where is thy sting?’ And in Schiller: ‘And the dead also shall live!’ (Auch die Todten sollen leben!)—Or here again, in Mickiewicz, ‘I shall love until life ends … and after life ends!’—While one English writer has said: ‘Love is stronger than death!'”—The biblical sentence acted with peculiar force on Arátoff. He wanted to look up the place where those words were to be found…. He had no Bible; he went to borrow one from Platósha. She was astonished; but she got out an old, old book in a warped leather binding with brass clasps, all spotted with wax, and handed it to Arátoff. He carried it off to his own room, but for a long time could not find that verse … but on the other hand, he hit upon another:

“Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life
for his friends”…. (the Gospel of John, Chap. XV, verse 13).

He thought: “That is not properly expressed.—It should read: ‘Greater power hath no man!'”….

“But what if she did not set her soul on me at all? What if she killed herself merely because life had become a burden to her?—What if she, in conclusion, did not come to that tryst with the object of obtaining declarations of love at all?”

But at that moment Clara before her parting on the boulevard rose up before him…. He recalled that sorrowful expression on her face, and those tears, and those words:—”Akh, you have understood nothing!”

No! He could not doubt for what object and for what person she had laid down her life….

Thus passed that day until nightfall.

[65] The long Tatár coat, with large sleeves, and flaring, bias skirts.—-TRANSLATOR.

[66] See note on page 24.—TRANSLATOR.

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Chapter XV > > >

Russian Literature – Children Books – Russian Poetry – Ivan Turgenev – Clara Mílitch – Contents

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