“I do not feel well,” repeated Aratoff,
freeing himself from Kupfer’s hands and going
his way. Only at that moment did it become clear
to him that he had gone to Kupfer with the sole object
of talking about Clara....
“About foolish, about unhappy Clara"....
But on reaching home he speedily recovered his composure
to a certain extent.
The circumstances which had attended Clara’s
death at first exerted a shattering impression upon
him ... but later on that acting “with the poison
inside her,” as Kupfer had expressed it, seemed
to him a monstrous phrase, a piece of bravado, and
he tried not to think of it, fearing to arouse within
himself a feeling akin to aversion. But at dinner,
as he sat opposite Platosha, he suddenly remembered
her nocturnal apparition, recalled that bob-tailed
wrapper, that cap with the tall ribbon (and why should
there be a ribbon on a night-cap?), the whole of that
ridiculous figure, at which all his visions had dispersed
into dust, as though at the whistle of the machinist
in a fantastic ballet! He even made Platosha
repeat the tale of how she had heard him shout, had
taken fright, had leaped out of bed, had not been able
at once to find either her own door or his, and so
forth. In the evening he played cards with her
and went off to his own room in a somewhat sad but
fairly tranquil state of mind.
Aratoff did not think about the coming night, and
did not fear it; he was convinced that he should pass
it in the best possible manner. The thought of
Clara awoke in him from time to time; but he immediately
remembered that she had killed herself in a “spectacular”
manner, and turned away. That “outrageous”
act prevented other memories from rising in him.
Giving a cursory glance at the stereoscope it seemed
to him that she was looking to one side because she
felt ashamed. Directly over the stereoscope on
the wall, hung the portrait of his mother. Aratoff
removed it from its nail, kissed it, and carefully
put it away in a drawer. Why did he do this?
Because that portrait must not remain in the vicinity
of that woman ... or for some other reason—Aratoff
did not quite know. But his mother’s portrait
evoked in him memories of his father ... of that father
whom he had seen dying in that same room, on that
very bed. “What dost thou think about all
this, father?” he mentally addressed him.
“Thou didst understand all this; thou didst also
believe in Schiller’s world of spirits.—Give
me counsel!”
“My father has given me counsel to drop all
these follies,” said Aratoff aloud, and took
up a book. But he was not able to read long, and
feeling a certain heaviness all through his body,
he went to bed earlier than usual, in the firm conviction
that he should fall asleep immediately.
And so it came about ... but his hopes for a peaceful
night were not realised.
Before the clock struck midnight he had a remarkable,
a menacing dream.
