Dream Tales and Prose Poems

by Иван Тургенев

  'Roses,' repeated Aratov in a whisper. 'Ah, yes! it's the roses I saw on that woman's head in the dream.'… 'Roses,' he heard again.

  'Is that you?' Aratov asked in the same whisper. The voice suddenly ceased.

  Aratov waited … and waited, and dropped his head on the pillow. 'Hallucinations of hearing,' he thought. 'But if … if she really were here, close at hand?… If I were to see her, should I be frightened? or glad? But what should I be frightened of? or glad of? Why, of this, to be sure; it would be a proof that there is another world, that the soul is immortal. Though, indeed, even if I did see something, it too might be a hallucination of the sight….'

  He lighted the candle, however, and in a rapid glance, not without a certain dread, scanned the whole room … and saw nothing in it unusual. He got up, went to the stereoscope … again the same grey doll, with its eyes averted. The feeling of dread gave way to one of annoyance. He was, as it were, cheated in his expectations … the very expectation indeed struck him as absurd.

  'Well, this is positively idiotic!' he muttered, as he got back into bed, and blew out the candle. Profound darkness reigned once more.

  Aratov resolved to go to sleep this time…. But a fresh sensation started up in him. He fancied some one was standing in the middle of the room, not far from him, and scarcely perceptibly breathing. He turned round hastily and opened his eyes…. But what could be seen in impenetrable darkness? He began to feel for a match on his little bedside table … and suddenly it seemed to him that a sort of soft, noiseless hurricane was passing over the whole room, over him, through him, and the word 'I!' sounded distinctly in his ears….

  'I!… I!'…

  Some instants passed before he succeeded in getting the candle alight.

  Again there was no one in the room; and he now heard nothing, except the uneven throbbing of his own heart. He drank a glass of water, and stayed still, his head resting on his hand. He was waiting.

  He thought: 'I will wait. Either it's all nonsense … or she is here. She is not going to play cat and mouse with me like this!' He waited, waited long … so long that the hand on which he was resting his head went numb … but not one of his previous sensations was repeated. Twice his eyes closed…. He opened them promptly … at least he believed that he opened them. Gradually they turned towards the door and rested on it. The candle burned dim, and it was once more dark in the room … but the door made a long streak of white in the half darkness. And now this patch began to move, to grow less, to disappear … and in its place, in the doorway appeared a woman's figure. Aratov looked intently at it … Clara! And this time she was looking straight at him, coming towards him…. On her head was a wreath of red roses…. He was all in agitation, he sat up….

  Before him stood his aunt in a nightcap adorned with a broad red ribbon, and in a white dressing-jacket.

  'Platosha!' he said with an effort. 'Is that you?'

  'Yes, it's I,' answered Platonida Ivanovna … 'I, Yasha darling, yes.'

  'What have you come for?'

  'You waked me up. At first you kept moaning as it were … and then you cried out all of a sudden, "Save me! help me! "'

  'I cried out?'

  'Yes, and such a hoarse cry, "Save me!" I thought, Mercy on us! He's never ill, is he? And I came in. Are you quite well?'

  'Perfectly well.'

  'Well, you must have had a bad dream then. Would you like me to burn a little incense?'

  Aratov once more stared intently at his aunt, and laughed aloud…. The figure of the good old lady in her nightcap and dressing-jacket, with her long face and scared expression, was certainly very comic. All the mystery surrounding him, oppressing him—everything weird was sent flying instantaneously.

  'No, Platosha dear, there's no need,' he said. 'Please forgive me for unwittingly troubling you. Sleep well, and I will sleep too.'

  Platonida Ivanovna remained a minute standing where she was, pointed to the candle, grumbled, 'Why not put it out … an accident happens in a minute?' and as she went out, could not refrain, though only at a distance, from making the sign of the cross over him.

  Aratov fell asleep quickly, and slept till morning. He even got up in a happy frame of mind … though he felt sorry for something…. He felt light and free. 'What romantic fancies, if you come to think of it!' he said to himself with a smile. He never once glanced either at the stereoscope, or at the page torn out of the diary. Immediately after breakfast, however, he set off to go to Kupfer's.

  What drew him there … he was dimly aware.

  XVI

  Aratov found his sanguine friend at home. He chatted a little with him, reproached him for having quite forgotten his aunt and himself, listened to fresh praises of that heart of gold, the princess, who had just sent Kupfer from Yaroslav a smoking-cap embroidered with fish-scales … and all at once, sitting just opposite Kupfer and looking him straight in the face, he announced that he had been a journey to Kazan.

  'You have been to Kazan; what for?'

  'Oh, I wanted to collect some facts about that … Clara Militch.'

  'The one that poisoned herself?'

  'Yes.'

  Kupfer shook his head. 'Well, you are a chap! And so quiet about it! Toiled a thousand miles out there and back … for what? Eh? If there'd been some woman in the case now! Then I can understand anything! anything! any madness!' Kupfer ruffled up his hair. 'But simply to collect materials, as it's called among you learned people…. I'd rather be excused! There are statistical writers to do that job! Well, and did you make friends with the old lady and the sister? Isn't she a delightful girl?'

  'Delightful,' answered Aratov, 'she gave me a great deal of interesting information.'

  'Did she tell you exactly how Clara took poison?'

  'You mean … how?'

  'Yes, in what manner?'

  'No … she was still in such grief … I did not venture to question her too much. Was there anything remarkable about it?'

  'To be sure there was. Only fancy; she had to appear on the stage that very day, and she acted her part. She took a glass of poison to the theatre with her, drank it before the first act, and went through all that act afterwards. With the poison inside her! Isn't that something like strength of will? Character, eh? And, they say, she never acted her part with such feeling, such passion! The public suspected nothing, they clapped, and called for her…. And directly the curtain fell, she dropped down there, on the stage. Convulsions … and convulsions, and within an hour she was dead! But didn't I tell you all about it? And it was in the papers too!'

  Aratov's hands had grown suddenly cold, and he felt an inward shiver.

  'No, you didn't tell me that,' he said at last. 'And you don't know what play it was?

  Kupfer thought a minute. 'I did hear what the play was … there is a betrayed girl in it…. Some drama, it must have been. Clara was created for dramatic parts…. Her very appearance … But where are you off to?' Kupfer interrupted himself, seeing that Aratov was reaching after his hat.

  'I don't feel quite well,' replied Aratov. 'Good-bye … I'll come in another time.'

  Kupfer stopped him and looked into his face. 'What a nervous fellow you are, my boy! Just look at yourself…. You're as white as chalk.'

  'I'm not well,' repeated Aratov, and, disengaging himself from Kupfer's detaining hands, he started homewards. Only at that instant it became clear to him that he had come to Kupfer with the sole object of talking of Clara…

  'Unhappy Clara, poor frantic Clara….'

  On reaching home, however, he quickly regained his composure to a certain degree.

  The circumstances accompanying Clara's death had at first given him a violent shock … but later on this performance 'with the poison inside her,' as Kupfer had expressed it, struck him as a kind of monstrous pose, a piece of bravado, and he was already trying not to think about it, fearing to arouse a feeling in himself, not unlike repugnance. And at dinner, as he sat facing Platosha, he suddenly recalled her midnight a
ppearance, recalled that abbreviated dressing-jacket, the cap with the high ribbon—and why a ribbon on a nightcap?—all the ludicrous apparition which, like the scene-shifter's whistle in a transformation scene, had dissolved all his visions into dust! He even forced Platosha to repeat her description of how she had heard his scream, had been alarmed, had jumped up, could not for a minute find either his door or her own, and so on. In the evening he played a game of cards with her, and went off to his room rather depressed, but again fairly composed.

  Aratov did not think about the approaching night, and was not afraid of it: he was sure he would pass an excellent night. The thought of Clara had sprung up within him from time to time; but he remembered at once how 'affectedly' she had killed herself, and turned away from it. This piece of 'bad taste' blocked out all other memories of her. Glancing cursorily into the stereoscope, he even fancied that she was averting her eyes because she was ashamed. Opposite the stereoscope on the wall hung a portrait of his mother. Aratov took it from its nail, scrutinised it a long while, kissed it and carefully put it away in a drawer. Why did he do that? Whether it was that it was not fitting for this portrait to be so close to that woman … or for some other reason Aratov did not inquire of himself. But his mother's portrait stirred up memories of his father … of his father, whom he had seen dying in this very room, in this bed. 'What do you think of all this, father?' he mentally addressed himself to him. 'You understand all this; you too believed in Schiller's world of spirits. Give me advice!'

  'Father would have advised me to give up all this idiocy,' Aratov said aloud, and he took up a book. He could not, however, read for long, and feeling a sort of heaviness all over, he went to bed earlier than usual, in the full conviction that he would fall asleep at once.

  And so it happened … but his hopes of a quiet night were not realised.

  XVII

  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.<
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  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.

  XVIII

  When Platonida Ivanovna came in to him next morning, he was still in the same position … but the weakness had not passed off, and he actually preferred to remain in bed. Platonida Ivanovna did not like the pallor of his face at all. 'Lord, have mercy on us! what is it?' she thought; 'not a drop of blood in his face, refuses broth, lies there and smiles, and keeps declaring he's perfectly well!' He refused breakfast too. 'What is the matter with you, Yasha?' she questioned him; 'do you mean to lie in bed all day?' 'And what if I did?' Aratov answered gently. This very gentleness again Platonida Ivanovna did not like at all. Aratov had the air of a man who has discovered a great, very delightful secret, and is jealously guarding it and keeping it to himself. He was looking forward to the night, not impatiently, but with curiosity. 'What next?' he was asking himself; 'what will happen?' Astonishment, incredulity, he had ceased to feel; he did not doubt that he was in communication with Clara, that they loved one another … that, too, he had no doubt about. Only … what could come of such love? He recalled that kiss … and a delicious shiver ran swiftly and sweetly through all his limbs. 'Such a kiss,' was his thought, 'even Romeo and Juliet knew not! But next time I will be stronger…. I will master her…. She shall come with a wreath of tiny roses in her dark curls….