Here Aratoff again became thoughtful.—No,
the word “dilettante” did not consort
with that face, with the expression of that face, of
those eyes....
And again there rose up before him the image of Clara
with her tear-filled eyes riveted upon him, and her
clenched hands raised to her lips....
“Akh, I won’t think of it, I won’t
think of it ...” he whispered.... “What
is the use?”
In this manner the whole day passed. During dinner
Aratoff chatted a great deal with Platosha, questioned
her about old times, which, by the way, she recalled
and transmitted badly, as she was not possessed of
a very glib tongue, and had noticed hardly anything
in the course of her life save her Yashka. She
merely rejoiced that he was so good-natured and affectionate
that day!—Toward evening Aratoff quieted
down to such a degree that he played several games
of trumps with his aunt.
Thus passed the day ... but the night was quite another
matter!
It began well; he promptly fell asleep, and when his
aunt entered his room on tiptoe for the purpose of
making the sign of the cross over him thrice as he
slept—she did this every night—he
was lying and breathing as quietly as a child.—But
before daybreak he had a vision.
He dreamed that he was walking over the bare steppes,
sown with stones, beneath a low-hanging sky.
Between the stones wound a path; he was advancing
along it.
Suddenly there rose up in front of him something in
the nature of a delicate cloud. He looked intently
at it; the little cloud turned into a woman in a white
gown, with a bright girdle about her waist. She
was hurrying away from him. He did not see either
her face or her hair ... a long piece of tissue concealed
them. But he felt bound to overtake her and look
into her eyes. Only, no matter how much haste
he made, she still walked more quickly than he.
On the path lay a broad, flat stone, resembling a
tomb-stone. It barred her way. The woman
came to a halt. Aratoff ran up to her. She
turned toward him—but still he could not
see her eyes ... they were closed. Her face was
white,—white as snow; her arms hung motionless.
She resembled a statue.
Slowly, without bending a single limb, she leaned
backward and sank down on that stone.... And
now Aratoff was lying beside her, outstretched like
a mortuary statue,—and his hands were folded
like those of a corpse.
But at this point the woman suddenly rose to her feet
and went away. Aratoff tried to rise also ...
but he could not stir, he could not unclasp his hands,
and could only gaze after her in despair.
Then the woman suddenly turned round, and he beheld
bright, vivacious eyes in a living face, which was
strange to him, however. She was laughing, beckoning
to him with her hand ... and still he was unable to
move.
She laughed yet once again, and swiftly retreated,
merrily nodding her head, on which a garland of tiny
roses gleamed crimson.
