It had not struck midnight, when he had an extraordinary and terrifying
dream.
He dreamed that he was in a rich manor-house of which he was the owner. He
had lately bought both the house and the estate attached to it. And he kept
thinking, ‘It’s nice, very nice now, but evil is coming!’ Beside him moved
to and fro a little tiny man, his steward; he kept laughing, bowing, and
trying to show Aratov how admirably everything was arranged in his house
and his estate. ‘This way, pray, this way, pray,’ he kept repeating,
chuckling at every word; ‘kindly look how prosperous everything is with
you! Look at the horses ... what splendid horses!’ And Aratov saw a row
of immense horses. They were standing in their stalls with their backs to
him; their manes and tails were magnificent ... but as soon as Aratov went
near, the horses’ heads turned towards him, and they showed their teeth
viciously. ‘It’s very nice,’ Aratov thought! ‘but evil is coming!’ ‘This
way, pray, this way,’ the steward repeated again, ‘pray come into the
garden: look what fine apples you have!’ The apples certainly were fine,
red, and round; but as soon as Aratov looked at them, they withered and
fell ... ‘Evil is coming,’ he thought. ‘And here is the lake,’ lisped the
steward, ‘isn’t it blue and smooth? And here’s a little boat of gold ...
will you get into it?... it floats of itself.’ ‘I won’t get into it,’
thought Aratov, ‘evil is coming!’ and for all that he got into the boat. At
the bottom lay huddled up a little creature like a monkey; it was holding
in its paws a glass full of a dark liquid. ‘Pray don’t be uneasy,’ the
steward shouted from the bank ... ‘It’s of no consequence! It’s death!
Good luck to you!’ The boat darted swiftly along ... but all of a sudden
a hurricane came swooping down on it, not like the hurricane of the
night before, soft and noiseless--no; a black, awful, howling hurricane!
Everything was confusion. And in the midst of the whirling darkness Aratov
saw Clara in a stage-dress; she was lifting a glass to her lips, listening
to shouts of ‘Bravo! bravo!’ in the distance, and some coarse voice shouted
in Aratov’s ear: ‘Ah! did you think it would all end in a farce? No; it’s a
tragedy! a tragedy!’
Trembling all over, Aratov awoke. In the room it was not dark.... A faint
light streamed in from somewhere, and showed every thing in the gloom and
stillness. Aratov did not ask himself whence this light came.... He felt
one thing only: Clara was there, in that room ... he felt her presence ...
he was again and for ever in her power!
The cry broke from his lips, ‘Clara, are you here?’
‘Yes!’ sounded distinctly in the midst of the lighted, still room.
Aratov inaudibly repeated his question....
‘Yes!’ he heard again.
‘Then I want to see you!’ he cried, and he jumped out of bed.
For some instants he stood in the same place, pressing his bare feet on
the chill floor. His eyes strayed about. ‘Where? where?’ his lips were
murmuring....
Nothing to be seen, not a sound to be heard.... He looked round him, and
noticed that the faint light that filled the room came from a night-light,
shaded by a sheet of paper and set in a corner, probably by Platosha while
he was asleep. He even discerned the smell of incense ... also, most
likely, the work of her hands.
He hurriedly dressed himself: to remain in bed, to sleep, was not to be
thought of. Then he took his stand in the middle of the room, and folded
his arms. The sense of Clara’s presence was stronger in him than it had
ever been.
And now he began to speak, not loudly, but with solemn deliberation, as
though he were uttering an incantation.
‘Clara,’ he began, ‘if you are truly here, if you see me, if you hear
me--show yourself!... If the power which I feel over me is truly your
power, show yourself! If you understand how bitterly I repent that I did
not understand you, that I repelled you--show yourself! If what I have
heard was truly your voice; if the feeling overmastering me is love; if
you are now convinced that I love you, I, who till now have neither loved
nor known any woman; if you know that since your death I have come to love
you passionately, inconsolably; if you do not want me to go mad,--show
yourself, Clara!’
Aratov had hardly uttered this last word, when all at once he felt that
some one was swiftly approaching him from behind--as that day on the
boulevard--and laying a hand on his shoulder. He turned round, and
saw no one. But the sense of _her_ presence had grown so distinct, so
unmistakable, that once more he looked hurriedly about him....
What was that? On an easy-chair, two paces from him, sat a woman, all in
black. Her head was turned away, as in the stereoscope.... It was she! It
was Clara! But what a stern, sad face!
Aratov slowly sank on his knees. Yes; he was right, then. He felt neither
fear nor delight, not even astonishment.... His heart even began to beat
more quietly. He had one sense, one feeling, ‘Ah! at last! at last!’
‘Clara,’ he began, in a faint but steady voice, ‘why do you not look at me?
I know that it is you ... but I may fancy my imagination has created an
image like _that one_ ... ‘--he pointed towards the stereoscope--‘prove to
me that it is you.... Turn to me, look at me, Clara!’
Clara’s hand slowly rose ... and fell again.
‘Clara! Clara! turn to me!’
And Clara’s head slowly turned, her closed lids opened, and her dark eyes
fastened upon Aratov.
He fell back a little, and uttered a single, long-drawn-out, trembling
‘Ah!’
Clara gazed fixedly at him ... but her eyes, her features, retained their
former mournfully stern, almost displeased expression. With just that
expression on her face she had come on to the platform on the day of the
literary matinée, before she caught sight of Aratov. And, just as then,
she suddenly flushed, her face brightened, her eyes kindled, and a joyful,
triumphant smile parted her lips....
‘I have come!’ cried Aratov. ‘You have conquered.... Take me! I am yours,
and you are mine!’
He flew to her; he tried to kiss those smiling, triumphant lips, and he
kissed them. He felt their burning touch: he even felt the moist chill of
her teeth: and a cry of triumph rang through the half-dark room.
Platonida Ivanovna, running in, found him in a swoon. He was on his knees;
his head was lying on the arm-chair; his outstretched arms hung powerless;
his pale face was radiant with the intoxication of boundless bliss.
Platonida Ivanovna fairly dropped to the ground beside him; she put her
arms round him, faltered, ‘Yasha! Yasha, darling! Yasha, dearest!’ tried to
lift him in her bony arms ... he did not stir. Then Platonida Ivanovna fell
to screaming in a voice unlike her own. The servant ran in. Together they
somehow roused him, began throwing water over him--even took it from the
holy lamp before the holy picture....
He came to himself. But in response to his aunt’s questions he only smiled,
and with such an ecstatic face that she was more alarmed than ever, and
kept crossing first herself and then him.... Aratov, at last, put aside her
hand, and, still with the same ecstatic expression of face, said: ‘Why,
Platosha, what is the matter with you?’
‘What is the matter with you, Yasha darling?’
‘With me? I am happy ... happy, Platosha ... that’s what’s the matter with
me. And now I want to lie down, to sleep....’ He tried to get up, but felt
such a sense of weakness in his legs, and in his whole body, that he could
not, without the help of his aunt and the servant, undress and get into
bed. But he fell asleep very quickly, still with the same look of blissful
triumph on his face. Only his face was very pale.