Aratov made no reply, and went back to his study.
Platonida Ivanovna looked after him, shook her head,
put on her spectacles again, and again took up her
comforter ... but more than once sank into thought,
and let her knitting-needles fall on her knees.
Aratov up till very night kept telling himself, no!
no! but with the same irritation, the same exasperation,
he fell again into musing on the note, on the ‘gipsy
girl,’ on the appointed meeting, to which he
would certainly not go! And at night she gave
him no rest. He was continually haunted by her
eyes—at one time half-closed, at another
wide open—and their persistent gaze fixed
straight upon him, and those motionless features with
their dominating expression....
The next morning he again, for some reason, kept expecting
Kupfer; he was on the point of writing a note to him
... but did nothing, however,... and spent most of
the time walking up and down his room. He never
for one instant admitted to himself even the idea
of going to this idiotic rendezvous ... and at half-past
three, after a hastily swallowed dinner, suddenly
throwing on his cloak and thrusting his cap on his
head, he dashed out into the street, unseen by his
aunt, and turned towards the Tversky boulevard.
Aratov found few people walking in it. The weather
was damp and rather cold. He tried not to reflect
on what he was doing, to force himself to turn his
attention to every object that presented itself, and,
as it were, persuaded himself that he had simply come
out for a walk like the other people passing to and
fro.... The letter of the day before was in his
breast-pocket, and he was conscious all the while of
its presence there. He walked twice up and down
the boulevard, scrutinised sharply every feminine
figure that came near him—and his heart
throbbed.... He felt tired and sat down on a
bench. And suddenly the thought struck him:
’What if that letter was not written by her,
but to some one else by some other woman?’ In
reality this should have been a matter of indifference
to him ... and yet he had to admit to himself that
he did not want this to be so. ’That would
be too silly,’ he thought, ‘even sillier
than this!’ A nervous unrest began to
gain possession of him; he began to shiver—not
outwardly, but inwardly. He several times took
his watch out of his waistcoat pocket, looked at the
face, put it back, and each time forgot how many minutes
it was to five. He fancied that every passer-by
looked at him in a peculiar way, with a sort of sarcastic
astonishment and curiosity. A wretched little
dog ran up, sniffed at his legs, and began wagging
its tail. He threatened it angrily. He was
particularly annoyed by a factory lad in a greasy smock,
who seated himself on a seat on the other side of the
boulevard, and by turns whistling, scratching himself,
and swinging his feet in enormous tattered boots,
persistently stared at him. ‘And his master,’
thought Aratov, ’is waiting for him, no doubt,
while he, lazy scamp, is kicking up his heels here....’
