Russian Literature – Children Books – Russian Poetry – Ivan Turgenev – Clara Mílitch – Contents
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XVII
Before the clock struck midnight he had a remarkable, a menacing dream.
It seemed to him that he was in a sumptuous country-house of which he was the owner. He had recently purchased the house, and all the estates attached to it. And he kept thinking: “It is well, now it is well, but disaster is coming!” Beside him was hovering a tiny little man, his manager; this man kept making obeisances, and trying to demonstrate to Arátoff how admirably everything about his house and estate was arranged.—”Please, please look,” he kept reiterating, grinning at every word, “how everything is flourishing about you! Here are horses … what magnificent horses!” And Arátoff saw a row of huge horses. They were standing with their backs to him, in stalls; they had wonderful manes and tails … but as soon as Arátoff walked past them the horses turned their heads toward him and viciously displayed their teeth.
“It is well,” thought Arátoff, “but disaster is coming!”
“Please, please,” repeated his manager again; “please come into the garden; see what splendid apples we have!”
The apples really were splendid, red, and round; but as soon as Arátoff looked at them, they began to shrivel and fall…. “Disaster is coming!” he thought.
“And here is the lake,” murmurs the manager: “how blue and smooth it is! And here is a little golden boat!… Would you like to have a sail in it?… It moves of itself.”
“I will not get into it!” thought Arátoff; “a disaster is coming!” and nevertheless he did seat himself in the boat. On the bottom, writhing, lay a little creature resembling an ape; in its paws it was holding a phial filled with a dark liquid.
“Pray do not feel alarmed,” shouted the manager from the shore…. “That is nothing! That is death! A prosperous journey!”
The boat darted swiftly onward … but suddenly a hurricane arose, not like the one of the day before, soft and noiseless—no; it is a black, terrible, howling hurricane!—Everything is in confusion round about;—and amid the swirling gloom Arátoff beholds Clara in theatrical costume: she is raising the phial to her lips, a distant “Bravo! bravo!” is audible, and a coarse voice shouts in Arátoff’s ear:
“Ah! And didst thou think that all this would end in a comedy?—No! it is a tragedy! a tragedy!”
Arátoff awoke all in a tremble. It was not dark in the room…. A faint and melancholy light streamed from somewhere or other, impassively illuminating all objects. Arátoff did not try to account to himself for the light…. He felt but one thing: Clara was there in that room … he felt her presence … he was again and forever in her power!
A shriek burst from his lips: “Clara, art thou here?”
“Yes!” rang out clearly in the middle of the room illuminated with the motionless light.
Arátoff doubly repeated his question….
“Yes!” was audible once more.
“Then I want to see thee!” he cried, springing out of bed.
For several moments he stood in one spot, treading the cold floor with his bare feet. His eyes roved: “But where? Where?” whispered his lips….
Nothing was to be seen or heard.
He looked about him, and noticed that the faint light which filled the room proceeded from a night-light, screened by a sheet of paper, and placed in one corner, probably by Platósha while he was asleep. He even detected the odour of incense also, in all probability, the work of her hands.
He hastily dressed himself. Remaining in bed, sleeping, was not to be thought of.—Then he took up his stand in the centre of the room and folded his arms. The consciousness of Clara’s presence was stronger than ever within him.
And now he began to speak, in a voice which was not loud, but with the solemn deliberation wherewith exorcisms are uttered:
“Clara,”—thus did he begin,—”if thou art really here, if thou seest me, if thou hearest me, reveal thyself!… If that power which I feel upon me is really thy power,—reveal thyself! If thou understandest how bitterly I repent of not having understood thee, of having repulsed thee,—reveal thyself!—If that which I have heard is really thy voice; if the feeling which has taken possession of me is love; if thou art now convinced that I love thee,—I who up to this time have not loved, and have not known a single woman;—if thou knowest that after thy death I fell passionately, irresistibly in love with thee, if thou dost not wish me to go mad—reveal thyself!”
No sooner had Arátoff uttered this last word than he suddenly felt some one swiftly approach him from behind, as on that occasion upon the boulevard—and lay a hand upon his shoulder. He wheeled round—and saw no one. But the consciousness of her presence became so distinct, so indubitable, that he cast another hasty glance behind him….
What was that?! In his arm-chair, a couple of paces from him, sat a woman all in black. Her head was bent to one side, as in the stereoscope…. It was she! It was Clara! But what a stern, what a mournful face!
Arátoff sank down gently upon his knees.—Yes, he was right, then; neither fear, nor joy was in him, nor even surprise…. His heart even began to beat more quietly;—The only thing in him was the feeling: “Ah! At last! At last!”
“Clara,” he began in a faint but even tone, “why dost thou not look at me? I know it is thou … but I might, seest thou, think that my imagination had created an image like that one….” (He pointed in the direction of the stereoscope)…. “Prove to me that it is thou…. Turn toward me, look at me, Clara!”
Clara’s hand rose slowly … and fell again.
“Clara! Clara! Turn toward me!”
And Clara’s head turned slowly, her drooping lids opened, and the dark pupils of her eyes were fixed on Arátoff.
He started back, and uttered a tremulous, long-drawn: “Ah!”
Clara gazed intently at him … but her eyes, her features preserved their original thoughtfully-stern, almost displeased expression. With precisely that expression she had presented herself on the platform upon the day of the literary morning, before she had caught sight of Arátoff. And now, as on that occasion also, she suddenly flushed scarlet, her face grew animated, her glance flashed, and a joyful, triumphant smile parted her lips….
“I am forgiven!”—cried Arátoff.—”Thou hast conquered…. So take me!
For I am thine, and thou art mine!”
He darted toward her, he tried to kiss those smiling, those triumphant lips,—and he did kiss them, he felt their burning touch, he felt even the moist chill of her teeth, and a rapturous cry rang through the half-dark room.
Platonída Ivánovna ran in and found him in a swoon. He was on his knees; his head was lying on the arm-chair; his arms, outstretched before him, hung powerless; his pale face breathed forth the intoxication of boundless happiness.
Platonída Ivánovna threw herself beside him, embraced him, stammered: “Yásha! Yáshenka! Yashenyónotchek!!”[67] tried to lift him up with her bony arms … he did not stir. Then Platonída Ivánovna set to screaming in an unrecognisable voice. The maid-servant ran in. Together they managed somehow to lift him up, seated him in a chair, and began to dash water on him—and water in which a holy image had been washed at that….
He came to himself; but merely smiled in reply to his aunt’s queries, and with such a blissful aspect that she became more perturbed than ever, and kept crossing first him and then herself…. At last Arátoff pushed away her hand, and still with the same beatific expression on his countenance, he said:—
“What is the matter with you, Platósha?”
“What ails thee, Yáshenka?”
“Me?—I am happy … happy, Platósha … that is what ails me. But now I want to go to bed and sleep.”
He tried to rise, but felt such a weakness in his legs and in all his body that he was not in a condition to undress and get into bed himself without the aid of his aunt and of the maid-servant. But he fell asleep very quickly, preserving on his face that same blissfully-rapturous expression. Only his face was extremely pale.
[67] Diminutives of Yákoff, implying great affection.—TRANSLATOR.
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Chapter XVIII > > >
Russian Literature – Children Books – Russian Poetry – Ivan Turgenev – Clara Mílitch – Contents
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