Dream Tales and Prose Poems

by Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

X

The following day Aratov spent, however, fairly quietly. He was even able to give his mind to his ordinary occupations. But there was one thing: both during his work and during his leisure he was continually thinking of Clara, of what Kupfer had told him the evening before. It is true that his meditations, too, were of a fairly tranquil character. He fancied that this strange girl interested him from the psychological point of view, as something of the nature of a riddle, the solution of which was worth racking his brains over. ‘Ran away with an actress living as a kept mistress,’ he pondered, ‘put herself under the protection of that princess, with whom she seems to have lived—and no love affairs’? It’s incredible!... Kupfer talked of pride! But in the first place we know’ (Aratov ought to have said: we have read in books),...‘we know that pride can exist side by side with levity of conduct; and secondly, how came she, if she were so proud, to make an appointment with a man who might treat her with contempt ... and did treat her with it ... and in a public place, moreover ... in a boulevard!’ At this point Aratov recalled all the scene in the boulevard, and he asked himself, Had he really shown contempt for Clara? ‘No,’ he decided,... ‘it was another feeling ... a feeling of doubt ... lack of confidence, in fact!’ ‘Unhappy Clara!’ was again ringing in his head. ‘Yes, unhappy,’ he decided again.... ‘That’s the most fitting word. And, if so, I was unjust. She said truly that I did not understand her. A pity! Such a remarkable creature, perhaps, came so close ... and I did not take advantage of it, I repulsed her.... Well, no matter! Life’s all before me. There will be, very likely, other meetings, perhaps more interesting!

‘But on what grounds did she fix on me of all the world?’ He glanced into a looking-glass by which he was passing. ‘What is there special about me? I’m not a beauty, am I? My face ... is like any face.... She was not a beauty either, though.

‘Not a beauty ... and such an expressive face! Immobile ... and yet expressive! I never met such a face.... And talent, too, she has ... that is, she had, unmistakable. Untrained, undeveloped, even coarse, perhaps ... but unmistakable talent. And in that case I was unjust to her.’ Aratov was carried back in thought to the literary musical matinée ... and he observed to himself how exceedingly clearly he recollected every word she had sung of recited, every intonation of her voice.... ‘That would not have been so had she been without talent. And now it is all in the grave, to which she has hastened of herself.... But I’ve nothing to do with that ... I’m not to blame! It would be positively ridiculous to suppose that I’m to blame.’

It again occurred to Aratov that even if she had had ‘anything of the sort’ in her mind, his behaviour during their interview must have effectually disillusioned her.... ‘That was why she laughed so cruelly, too, at parting. Besides, what proof is there that she took poison because of unrequited love? That’s only the newspaper correspondents, who ascribe every death of that sort to unrequited love! People of a character like Clara’s readily feel life repulsive ... burdensome. Yes, burdensome. Kupfer was right; she was simply sick of life.

‘In spite of her successes, her triumphs?’ Aratov mused. He got a positive pleasure from the psychological analysis to which he was devoting himself. Remote till now from all contact with women, he did not even suspect all the significance for himself of this intense realisation of a woman’s soul.

‘It follows,’ he pursued his meditations, ‘that art did not satisfy her, did not fill the void in her life. Real artists exist only for art, for the theatre.... Everything else is pale beside what they regard as their vocation.... She was a dilettante.’

At this point Aratov fell to pondering again. ‘No, the word dilettante did not accord with that face, the expression of that face, those eyes....’

And Clara’s image floated again before him, with eyes, swimming in tears, fixed upon him, with clenched hands pressed to her lips....

‘Ah, no, no,’ he muttered, ‘what’s the use?’

So passed the whole day. At dinner Aratov talked a great deal with Platosha, questioned her about the old days, which she remembered, but described very badly, as she had so few words at her command, and except her dear Yasha, had scarcely ever noticed anything in her life. She could only rejoice that he was nice and good-humoured to-day; towards evening Aratov was so far calm that he played several games of cards with his aunt.

So passed the day ... but the night!