02 - Dream Tales and Prose Poems by Ivan Turgenev

Step into the mesmerizing world crafted by world-renowned Russian author Ivan Turgenev, as he presents a captivating collection of stories that delve into dreams, lost love, fleeting specters, and ominous premonitions. This anthology also features a selection of sketches and prose poems, all penned in Turgenevs deceptively simple but profoundly articulate style. These aren‚t your typical tales of romance and nature; instead, Turgenev intertwines a thread of cynicism and melancholy that enriches his poetic language, inviting readers to explore the deeper complexities of the human experience. (Summary by Ben Tucker)

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Section two of dream Tales and Prose Poems by Ivan
Turgenyev Clara Militch, chapter eleven. It began well. He soon
fell asleep, and when his aunt went in to him
on tiptoe to make the sign of the cross three
times over him in his sleep, she did so. Every
night He lay breathing as quietly as a child. But

(00:24):
before dawn he had a dream. He dreamed he was
on a bare step strewn with big stones, under a
lowering sky. Among the stones curved a little path. He
walked along it. Suddenly there rose up in front of
him something of the nature of a thin cloud. He
looked steadily at it. The cloud turned into a woman
in a white gown with a bright sash round her waist.

(00:47):
She was hurrying away from him. He saw neither her
face nor her hair. They were covered by a long veil,
but he had an intense desire to overtake her and
to look into her face only. However much he hastened,
she went more quickly than he. On the path lay
a broad flat stone, like a tombstone. It blocked up
the way. The woman stopped. Aretov ran up to her,

(01:10):
but yet he could not see her eyes. They were shut.
Her face was white, white as snow, Her hands hung lifeless,
she was like a statue. Slowly, without bending a single limb,
she fell backwards and sank down upon the tombstone, and
then Aretov lay down beside her, stretched out straight, like
a figure on a monument, his hands folded like a

(01:31):
dead man's. But now the woman suddenly rose and went away.
Aretov tried to get up too, but he could neither
stir nor unclasp his hands, and could only gaze after
her in despair. Then the woman suddenly turned round, and
he saw bright, living eyes and a living but unknown face.
She laughed. She waved her hand to him, and still

(01:51):
he could not move. She laughed once more and quickly retreated, merrily,
nodding her head, on which there was a crimson wreath
of tiny roses. Aretov tried to cry out, tried to
throw off this awful nightmare. Suddenly all was darkness around,
and the woman came back to him. But this was
not the unknown statue. It was Clara. She stood before him,

(02:13):
crossed her arms, and sternly and intently looked at him.
Her lips were tightly pressed together. But Aretov fancied he
heard the words, if you want to know what I am,
come over here? Where? He asked? Here, he heard the
wailing answer here Aretov woke up. He sat up in bed,

(02:34):
lighted the candle that stood on the little table by
his bedside, but did not get up, and sat a
long while, chill all over, slowly looking about him. It
seemed to him as if something had happened to him
since he went to bed, that something had taken possession
of him, something was in control of him. But is
it possible, he murmured unconsciously, Does such a power really exist?

(02:59):
He could not stay in his bed. He quickly dressed.
Until morning he was pacing up and down his room,
and strange to say, of Clara, he never thought for
a moment, and did not think of her, because he
had decided to go next day to Kazan. He thought
only of the journey, of how to manage it, and
what to take with him, and how he would investigate
and find out everything there and would set his mind

(03:20):
at rest. If I don't go, he reasoned with himself,
why I shall go? Out of my mind? He was
afraid of that, afraid of his nerves. He was convinced
that when once he had seen everything there with his
own eyes, every obsession would vanish like that nightmare, and
it will be a week lost over the journey, he thought,

(03:42):
what is a week? Else? I shall never shake it off.
The rising sun shone into his room, but the light
of day did not drive away the shadows of the
night that lay upon him, and did not change his resolution.
Platosha almost had a fit when he informed her of
his intention. She positively sat down on the ground. Her
legs gave way beneath her to Kazan. Why to Kazan,

(04:05):
she murmured, her dim eyes round with astonishment. She would
not have been more surprised if she had been told
that her yasha was going to marry the baker woman
next door, or was starting for America. Will you be
long in Kazan? I shall be back in a week,
answered Aratov, standing with his back half turned to his aunt,
who was still sitting on the floor. Platinita Ivanovna tried

(04:28):
to protest more, but Aratov answered her in an utterly
unexpected and unheard of way. I'm not a child, he shouted,
and he turned pale all over. His lips trembled, and
his eyes glittered wrathfully. I'm twenty six, I know what
I'm about. I'm free to do what I like. I suffer.
No one give me the money for the journey. Pack
my box with my clothes and linen, and don't torture me.

(04:49):
I'll be back in a week, Platosha, he added, in
a somewhat softer tone. Platosha got up, sighing and groaning,
and without further protest, crawled to her room. Yasha had
alarmed her. I've no head on my shoulders, she told
the Kok who was helping her to pack Yasha's things,
No head at all, but a high full of bees,
a labaz and a home. He's going off to Kazan,

(05:12):
my good soul to Kazan. The Kok, who had observed
their Dvornik the previous evening talking for a long time
with a police officer, would have liked to inform her
mistress of this circumstance, but did not dare, and only
reflected to Kazan, if only it's nowhere farther still, Platinida
Ivanovna was so upset that she did not even utter

(05:33):
her usual prayer. In such a calamity, the Lord God
himself cannot aid us. The same day, Aratov set off
for Kazan Chapter twelve. He had no sooner reached that
town and taken a room in a hotel than he
rushed off to find out the house of the widow Milovidov.
During the whole journey he had been in a sort

(05:53):
of benumbed condition, which had not, however, prevented him from
taking all necessary steps, changing at Nizhni Novogorod, from the
railway to the steamer, getting his meals at the stations,
et cetera, et cetera. He was convinced, as before that
there everything would be solved, and therefore he drove away
every sort of memory and reflection, confining himself to one thing,

(06:15):
the mental rehearsal of the speech in which he would
lay before the family of Clara Militch, the real cause
of his visit. And now at last he reached the
goal of his efforts and sent up his name. He
was admitted with perplexity and alarm. Still he was admitted.
The house of the widow Melovidov turned out to be
exactly as Koupefer had described it, and the widow herself

(06:37):
really was like one of the tradesmen's wives and Ostrovsky,
though the widow of an official, her husband had held
his post under government not without some difficulty. Aretov, after
a preliminary apology for his boldness for the strangeness of
his visit, delivered the speech he had prepared, explaining that
he was anxious to collect all the information possible about

(06:58):
the gifted artists so early lost, that he was not
led to this by idle curiosity, but by profound sympathy
for her talent, of which he was the devoted admirer.
He said, that devoted admirer, that in fact, it would
be a sin to leave the public in ignorance of
what it had lost and why its hopes were not realized.

(07:20):
Madame Milovadov did not interrupt Aratov. She did not understand
very well what this unknown visitor was saying to her,
and merely opened her eyes rather wide and rolled them
upon him, thinking, however, that he had a quiet, respectable air,
was well dressed and not a pickpocket. Hadn't come to
beg You are speaking of Katya, she inquired directly. Aratov

(07:42):
was silent, Yes, of your daughter, and you have come
from Moscow for this, Yes, from Moscow only on this account. Yes,
Madame Milovadov gave herself a sudden shake. Why are you
an author? Do you write for the newspapers? No, I'm

(08:02):
not an author, and hitherto I have not written for
the newspapers. The widow bowed her head. She was puzzled.
Then I suppose it's from your own interest in the matter,
she asked. Suddenly. Aritov could not find an answer for
a minute. Through sympathy, from respect for talent, he said.
At last, the word respect pleased Madame Milovadov. Eh, she

(08:27):
pronounced with a sigh. I'm her mother anyway, and terribly.
I'm grieved for her, such a calamity all of a sudden,
But I must say it a crazy girl she always was,
and what a way to meet with her end such
a disgrace. Only fancy what it was for a mother.
We must be thankful, indeed that they gave her a
Christian burial. Madame Milovadov crossed herself from a child up.

(08:50):
She minded no one. She left her parents house, and
at last, sad to say, turned actress. Every one knows.
I never shut my doors upon her. I loved her,
to be sure, I was her mother anyway, she'd no
need to live with strangers or to go begging. Here,
the widow shed tears. But if you, my dear good sir,

(09:10):
she began again, wiping her eyes with the ends of
her kerchief, really have any idea of the kind, And
you are not intending anything dishonorable to us, But on
the contrary, wish to show us respect. You'd better talk
a bit with my other daughter. She'll tell you everything
better than I can. Anoutchka called, Madame Melovadov Anuchka, come here.

(09:31):
Here is a worthy gentleman from Moscow wants to have
a talk about Katya. There was a sound of something
moving in the next room, but no one appeared. Anouchka.
The widow called again, Anna Semyonovna, come here, I tell you.
The door softly opened, and in the doorway appeared a
girl no longer very young, looking ill and plain, but

(09:51):
with very soft and mournful eyes. Arotov got up from
his seat to meet her and introduced himself, mentioning his
friend kopefor Ah Fyodor Fedorovitch. The girl articulated softly and
softly she sank into a chair. Now, then you must
talk to the gentleman, said Madame Milovadov, getting up heavily.
He's taken trouble enough. He's come all the way from

(10:13):
Moscow on purpose. He wants to collect information about Katya,
and will you my good sir, she added, addressing Aratov,
excuse me, I'm going to look after my housekeeping. You
can get a very good account of everything from Anotchka.
She will tell you about the theater and all the
rest of it. She is a clever girl, well educated,
speaks French and reads books as well as her sister did.

(10:35):
One may say, indeed she gave her her education. She
was older, and so she looked after it. Madame Milovadov
withdrew on. Being left alone with Anna Semyonovna. Aratov repeated
his speech to her, but realizing at the first glance
that he had to do with a really cultivated girl,
not a typical tradesman's daughter. He went a little more
into particulars and made use of different expressions, but towards

(10:57):
the end he grew agitated, flushed, and felt that his
heart was throbbing. Anna listened to him in silence, her
hands folded on her lap, a mournful smile never left
her face. Bitter grief, still fresh in its poignancy, was
expressed in that smile. You knew my sister, she asked Aratov. No,
I did not actually know her. He answered, I met

(11:20):
her and heard her once. But one need only hear
and see your sister once to do you wish to
write her biography? Anna questioned him again. Aratov had not
expected this inquiry, however, he replied promptly, why not? But
above all I wanted to acquaint the public. Anna stopped
him by a motion of her hand. What is the

(11:42):
object of that? The public caused her plenty of suffering
as it is, and indeed Katya had only just begun life.
But if you yourself, Anna looked at him and smiled again,
a smile as mournful but more friendly, as though she
were saying to herself, Yes, you make me feel I
can trust you. If you yourself, I feel such interest
in her, let me ask you to come and see

(12:03):
us this afternoon after dinner. I can't just now, so
suddenly I will collect my strength. I will make an effort. Ah,
I loved her too much. Anna turned away. She was
on the point of bursting into sobs. Aretov rose hurriedly
from his seat, thanked her for her offer, said he
should be sure, oh, very sure, to come, and went off,

(12:25):
carrying away with him an impression of a soft voice,
gentle and sorrowful eyes and burning In the Tortures of Expectation,
Chapter thirteen, Aretov went back the same day to the
Milovdovs and spent three whole hours in conversation with Anna Semyonovna.
Madame Milovdov was in the habit of lying down directly
after dinner at two o'clock and resting till evening tea

(12:47):
at seven. Aretov's talk with Claire's sister was not exactly
a conversation. She did almost all the talking, at first
with hesitation, with embarrassment, then with a warmth that refused
to be stifled. It was obvious that she had adored
her sister. The confidence Aritov had inspired in her grew
and strengthened. She was no longer stiff. Twice she even

(13:09):
dropped a few silent tears before him. He seemed to
her to be worthy to hear an unreserved account of
all she knew and felt in her own secluded life.
Nothing of this sort had ever happened before. As for him,
he drank in every word she uttered, This was what
he learned, much of it, of course, half said much
he filled in for himself. In her early years, Clara

(13:30):
had undoubtedly been a disagreeable child, and even as a
girl she had not been much gentler. Self willed, hot tempered, sensitive.
She had never got on with her father, whom she
despised for his drunkenness and incapacity. He felt this and
never forgave her for it. A gift for music showed
itself early in her Her father gave it no encouragement,
acknowledging no art but painting, in which he himself was

(13:52):
so conspicuously unsuccessful, though it was the means of support
of himself and his family. Her mother, Clara loved, but
in a careless way, as though she were her nurse.
Her sister she adored, though she fought with her and
had even bitten her. It is true she fell on
her knees afterwards and kissed the place she had bitten.
She was all fire, all passion, and all contradiction, revengeful

(14:14):
and kind, magnanimous and vindictive. She believed in fate and
did not believe in God. These words, Anna whispered with horror.
She loved everything beautiful, but never troubled herself about her
own looks, and dressed anyhow. She could not bear to
have young men courting her, And yet in books she
only read the pages which treated of love. She did
not care to be liked, did not like caresses, but

(14:37):
never forgot a caress, just as she never forgot a slight.
She was afraid of death and killed herself. She used
to say, sometimes such a one as I want, I
shall never meet, and no other will I have. Well,
but if you meet him, Anna would ask, if I
meet him, I will capture him. And if he won't
let himself be captured, well, then I will make an

(14:59):
end of me myself. It will prove I am no good.
Clara's father he used sometimes, when drunk, to ask his wife,
who got you your black browed? She devil? There not I.
Clara's father, anxious to get her off his hands as
soon as possible, betrothed her to a rich young shopkeeper,
a great blockhead, one of the so called refined sort

(15:20):
a fortnight before the wedding day. She was only sixteen
at the time. She went up to her betrothed, her
arms folded and her fingers drumming on her elbows, her
favorite position, and suddenly gave him a slap on his
rosy cheek with her large, powerful hand. He jumped and
merely gaped. It must be said he was head over
ears in love with her. He asked, what's that for?

(15:41):
She laughed scornfully and walked off. I was there in
the room, Anna related, I saw it all. I ran
after her and said to her, Katya, why did you
do that? Really? And she answered me, if he had
been a real man, he would have punished me. But
he's no more pluck than a drowned hen. And then
he asks what's that for? If he loves me and
doesn't bear malice, he had better put up with it,

(16:03):
not ask what's that for? I will never be anything
to him, never, never, And indeed she did not marry him.
It was soon after that she made the acquaintance of
that actress and left her home. Mother cried, but father
only said a stubborn beast is best away from the flock.
Annie did not bother about her or try to find
her out. My father did not understand Katya. On the

(16:26):
day before her flight, added Anna. She almost smothered me
in her embraces and kept repeating, I can't, I can't
help it. My heart's torn, but I can't help it.
Your cage is too small. It cramps my wings, and
there's no escaping one's fate after that, observed Anna, we
saw each other very seldom. When my father died, she
came for a couple of days, would take nothing of

(16:47):
her inheritance, and vanished again. She was unhappy with us.
I could see that. Afterwards she came to Kazan as
an actress. Aritov began questioning Anna about the theater, about
the parts in which Clara had appeared, about her triumphs
Anna answered in detail, but with the same mournful, though
keen fervor. She even showed Aratov a photograph in which

(17:09):
Clara had been taken in the costume of one of
her parts. In the photograph, she was looking away as
though turning from the spectators. Her thick hair, tied with
a ribbon, fell in a coil on her bare arm.
Aretov looked a long time at the photograph, thought it like,
asked whether Clara had taken part in public recitations, and
learned that she had not that she had needed the

(17:30):
excitement of the theater, the scenery. But another question was
burning on his lips. Anna Sumyonovna, he cried at last,
not loudly, but with a peculiar force. Tell me, I
implore you, tell me. Why did she? What led her
to this fearful step? Anna looked down. I don't know,

(17:52):
she said, after a pause of some instants. By God,
I don't know. She went on, strenuously, posing from Aratov's
gesture that he did not believe her since she came
back here. Certainly she was melancholy, depressed. Something must have
happened to her in Moscow. What I could never guess.
But on the other hand, on that fatal day she seemed,

(18:13):
as it were, if not more cheerful, at least more
serene than usual. Even I had no presentiment, added Anna,
with a bitter smile, as though reproaching herself for it.
You see, she began again. It seemed as though at
Katya's birth that had been decreed that she was to
be unhappy. From her early years. She was convinced of it.

(18:33):
She would lean her head on her hand, sink into thought,
and say, I shall not live long. She used to
have presentiments. Imagine, she used to see beforehand, sometimes in
a dream and sometimes awake. What was going to happen
to her? If I can't live as I want to live,
then I won't live. Was a saying of hers too.
Our life in our own hands, you know, And she

(18:56):
proved that. Anna hid her face in her hands, stopped speaking.
Anna Semyonovna Aratov began after a short pause. You have
perhaps heard to what the newspaper ascribed to an unhappy
love affair. Anna broke in at once, pulling away her
hands from her face. That's a slander, a fabrication, My pure,

(19:18):
unapproachable Katya Katia, and unhappy, unrequited love. And shouldn't I
have known of it? Everyone was in love with her
while she and whom could she have fallen in love with? Here?
Who among all the people here? Who was worthy of her?
Who was up to the standard of honesty, truth, purity? Yes,
above all, a purity which she, with all her faults,

(19:40):
always held up as an ideal before her. She repulsed.
She Anna's voice broke, her fingers were trembling, all at once.
She flushed Crimson. Crimson with indignation and for that instant.
In that instant only she was like her sister. Aretov
was beginning an apology. Listen, Anna broke in again. I

(20:00):
have an intense desire that you should not believe that
slander and should refute it if possible. You want to
write an article or something about her, that's your opportunity
for defending her memory. That's why I talk so openly
with you. Let me tell you. Katya left a diary.
Aratov trembled. A diary, he muttered, Yes, a diary that

(20:21):
is only a few pages. Katya was not fond of writing.
For months at a time, she would write nothing, and
her letters were so short. But she was always always truthful.
She never told a lie. She with her pride, tell
a lie. I I will show you this diary. You
shall see for yourself whether there is the least hint
in it of any unhappy love affair. Anna quickly took

(20:44):
out of the table drawer a thin exercise book, ten
pages no more, and held it out to Aratov. He
seized it, eagerly recognized the irregular, sprawling handwriting, the handwriting
of that anonymous letter, opened it at random, and at
once lighted upon the following lines Moscow, Tuesday, June, saying,
and recited at a literary matinee, to day is a

(21:05):
vital day for me. It must decide my fate. These
words were twice underlined. I saw again here, followed a
few lines carefully erased, and then no, no, no, must
go back to the old way. If only. Aretov dropped
the hand that held the diary, and his head slowly
sank upon his breast. Read it, cried Anna, why don't

(21:26):
you read it? Read it through from the beginning. It
would take only five minutes to read it all, though
the diary extends over two years in Khazan, she used
to write down nothing at all. Aretov got up slowly
from his chair and flung himself on his knees before Anna.
She was simply petrified with wonder and Dismay, give me,
give me that diary. Aretov began with falling voice, and

(21:50):
he stretched out both hands to Anna. Give it me
and the photograph. You are sure to have some other
one and the diary I will return. But I want it, oh,
I want it. In his imploring words, in his contorted features,
there was something so despairing that it looked positively like rage,

(22:12):
like agony, and he was in agony. Truly, he could
not himself have foreseen that such pain could be felt
by him, And in a frenzy he implored forgiveness, deliverance,
Give it me, he repeated. But you you were in
love with my sister, Anna said, at last. Aratov was

(22:33):
still on his knees. I only saw her twice, believe me.
And if I had not been impelled by causes which
I can neither explain nor fully understand myself, if there
had not been some power over me stronger than myself,
I should not be entreating you. I should not have
come here. I want I must you yourself, said, I

(22:57):
ought to defend her memory. And you were not in
love with my sister, Anna asked a second time. Aretov
did not at once reply, and he turned aside a little,
as though in pain. Well then I was, I was,
I'm I'm in love now, he cried, in the same
tone of despair. Steps were heard in the next room.

(23:21):
Get up, Get up, said Anna hurriedly. Mamma is coming,
Aretov rose, and take the diary and the photograph in
God's name, poor poor Katya. But you will give me
back the diary. She added, emphatically, and if you write anything,
be sure to send it me. Do you hear? The
entrance of Madame Milovadov saved Aratov from the necessity of

(23:42):
a reply. He had time, however, to murmur, you are
an angel, thinks I will send anything I write. Madame Milovadov,
half awake, did not suspect anything. So Aratov left Kazan
with the photograph in the breast pocket of his coat.
The diary he gave back to Anna, but unobserved by her,
he cut out the page on which were the words underlined.

(24:03):
On the way back to Moscow, he relapsed again into
a state of petrifaction, though he was secretly delighted that
he had attained the object of his journey. Still, all
thoughts of Clara he deferred till he should be back home.
He thought much more about her sister, Anna, there, he thought,
is an exquisite, charming creature, What delicate comprehension of everything,

(24:25):
What a loving heart, What a complete absence of egoism?
And how girls like that spring up among us in
the provinces and in such surroundings too. She is not strong,
and not good looking, and not young, but what a
splendid helpmate. She would be for a sensible, cultivated man.
That's the girl I ought to have fallen in love with.

(24:45):
Such were Aretov's reflections. But on his arrival in Moscow,
things put on quite a different complexion. Chapter fourteen. Platinida
Ivanovna was unspeakably rejoiced at her nephew's return. There was
no terrible chance she had not imagined during his absence
s Siberia. At least, she muttered, sitting rigidly still in

(25:06):
her little room, at least for a year. The cook, too,
had terrified her by the most well authenticated stories of
the disappearance of this and that young man of the neighborhood.
The perfect innocence and absence of revolutionary ideas in Yasha
did not in the least reassure the old lady. For indeed,
if you come to that, he studies photography, and that's

(25:28):
quite enough for them to arrest him. And behold, here
was her darling Yasha back again, safe and sound. She observed, indeed,
that he seemed thinner and looked hollow in the face,
natural enough, with no one to look after him. But
she did not venture to question him about his journey,
she asked at dinner, and is Kazan a fine town? Yes,

(25:50):
answered Aratov. I suppose they are all Tartars living there,
not only Tartars. And did you get a Kazan dressing
gown while you were there? No? I didn't. With that,
the conversation ended, But as soon as Aratov found himself
alone in his own room, he quickly felt as though
something were enfolding him about, as though he were once

(26:10):
more in the power, Yes, in the power of another life,
another being. Though he had indeed said to Anna in
that sudden, delirious outburst that he was in love with Clara,
that saying struck him even now as senseless and frantic. No,
he was not in love. And how could he be
in love with a dead woman whom he had not

(26:32):
even liked in her lifetime, whom he had almost forgotten. No,
but he was in her power. He no longer belonged
to himself. He was captured, so completely captured that he
did not even attempt to free himself by laughing at
his own absurdity, not by trying to arouse, if not

(26:52):
a conviction, least a hope in himself that it would
all pass. That it was nothing but nerves, nor by
seeking for proof, nor by anything. If I meet him,
I will capture him. He recalled those words of Clara's
Anna had repeated to him. Well, he was captured, but
was not she dead? Yes, her body was dead, but

(27:15):
her soul? Is that not immortal? Does it need corporeal
organs to show its power? Magnetism had proved to us
the influence of one living human soul over another living
human soul. Why should not this influence last after death?
If the soul remains living? But to what end? What
can come of it? What can we as a rule apprehend?

(27:37):
What is the object of all that takes place about us?
These ideas so absorbed Aretov that he suddenly asked Platotia
at tea time whether she believed in the immortality of
the soul. She did not, for the first minute understand
what his question was. Then she crossed herself and answered
she should think so. Indeed, the soul not a mortal

(28:00):
And if so, can it have any influence after death?
Aretov asked again. The old lady replied that it could
pray for us, that is to say, at least when
it had passed through all its ordeals awaiting the last
dread judgment. But for the first forty days the soul
simply hovered about the place where its death had occurred.
The first forty days, yes, and then the ordeals follow.

(28:23):
Aretov was astounded at his aunt's knowledge and went off
to his room, and again he felt the same thing,
the same power over him. The power showed itself in
Claire's image, being constantly before him to the minutest details,
such details as he seemed hardly to have observed in
her lifetime. He saw saw her fingers, her nails, the

(28:45):
little hairs on her cheeks near her temples, the little
mole under her left eye. He saw the slight movement
of her lips, her nostrils, her eyebrows, and her walk,
and how she held her hand a little on the
right side. He saw everything. He did not, by any
means take a delight in it all, only he could
not help thinking of it and seeing it. The first

(29:09):
night after his return, he did, not, however, dream of her.
He was very tired and slept like a log. But
directly he waked up, she came back into his room
again and seemed to establish herself in it, as though
she were the mistress, as though by her voluntary death
she had purchased the right to it without asking him
or needing his permission. He took up her photograph. He

(29:31):
began reproducing it, enlarging it. Then he took it into
his head to fit it to the stereoscope. He had
a great deal of trouble to do it. At last
he succeeded. He fairly shuddered when through the glass he
looked upon her figure with the semblance of corporeal solidity
given it by the stereoscope. But the figure was gray,

(29:52):
as though covered with dust. And moreover, the eyes. The
eyes looked always to one side, as though turning away
long long while he stared at them, as though expecting
them to turn to him. He even half closed his
eyelids on purpose, but the eyes remained immovable, and the
whole figure had the look of some sort of doll.

(30:13):
He moved away, flung himself in an arm chair, took
out the leaf from her diary with the words underlined,
and thought, well, lovers, they say, kiss the words traced
by the hand of the beloved, But I feel no
inclination to do that, And the handwriting I think ugly,
but that line contains my sentence. Then he recalled the

(30:35):
promise he had made Anna about the article. He sat
down to the table and set to work upon it.
But everything he wrote struck him as so false, so rhetorical,
especially so false, as though he did not believe in
what he was writing, nor in his own feelings. And
Clara herself seemed so utterly unknown and uncomprehended. She seemed

(30:56):
to withhold herself from him. No, he thought down the pin,
either authorships altogether, not my line, or I must wait
a little. He fell to recalling his visit to the Melovodovs,
and all Anna had told him, that sweet, delightful Anna,
a word she had uttered, pure suddenly struck him. It

(31:17):
was as though something scorched him and shed light. Yes,
he said aloud, she was pure, and I am pure.
That's what gave her this power. Thoughts of the immortality
of the soul, of the life beyond the grave crowded
upon him Again. Was it not said in the Bible

(31:38):
death where is thy sting? And in Schiller and the
Dead shall live och Dee Totin sullen Libin. And too,
he thought, in Miskovitch, I will love thee to the
end of time and beyond it, and an English writer
had said love is stronger than death. The text from
scripture produced a particular effect on Aritov. He tried the

(32:00):
find a place where the words occurred. He had no bible.
He went to ask Platosha for one, she wondered. She
brought out, however, a very old book and a warped
leather binding with copper clasps covered with candle wax, and
hinded it over to Aretov. He bore it off to
his own room, but for a long time he could
not find the text. He stumbled, however, on another greater

(32:20):
love hath no man than this, that a man lay
down his life for his friends, Saint John fifteen thirteen.
He thought, that's not right. It ought to be greater
power hath no man. But if she did not lay
down her life for me at all, if she made
an end of herself simply because life had become a

(32:41):
burden to her, What if, after all, she did not
come to that meeting for anything to do with love
at all. But at that instant he pictured to himself Clara.
Before their parting on the boulevard, he remembered the look
of pain on her face, and the tears and the words, ah,
you understood nothing. No, he could have no doubt why

(33:03):
and for whom she had laid down her life. So
passed that whole day till night time. Aretov went to
bed early, without feeling especially sleepy, but he hoped to
find repose in bed. The strained condition of his nerves
brought about an exhaustion far more unbearable than the bodily
fatigue of the journey and the railway. However, exhausted as

(33:25):
he was, he could not get to sleep. He tried
to read, but the lines danced before his eyes. He
put out the candle, and darkness reigned in his room,
But he still lay sleepless with his eyes shut, and
it began to seem to him some one was whispering
in his ear, the beating of the heart, the pulse
of the blood, he thought, But the whisper passed into

(33:47):
connected speech. Some one was talking in Russian, hurriedly, plaintively,
and indistinctly. Not one separate word could he catch, But
it was the voice of Clara. Aretov O opened his eyes,
raised himself, leaned on his elbow. The voice grew fainter,
but kept up its plaintive, hurried talk, indistinct as before,

(34:08):
it was unmistakably Clara's voice. Unseen fingers ran light arpeggio's
up and down the keys of the piano. Then the
voice began again. More prolonged sounds were audible, as it
were moans, always the same, over and over again. Then,
apart from the rest, the words began to stand out. Roses, Roses, roses, roses,

(34:31):
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, Aretov asked in the
same whisper. The voice suddenly ceased. Aratov waited and waited,
and dropped his head on the pillow. Hallucinations of hearing,

(34:54):
he thought, But if if she really were here close
at hand, if 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

(35:15):
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 gray doll, with
its eyes averted. The feeling of dread gave way to

(35:36):
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. Aritov resolved to go to sleep this time,

(35:57):
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 an 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

(36:20):
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

(36:43):
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

(37:04):
sensations was repeated. Twice. His eyes closed, he opened them promptly,
at least he believed that he opened them. Gradually. They
turned toward 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,

(37:25):
to grow less, to disappear, and in its place in
the doorway appeared a woman's figure. Aritov 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.

(37:45):
Before him stood his aunt, in a nightcap adorned with
a broad red ribbon, and in a white dressing jacket. Platocia,
he said, with an effort. Is that you? Yes, it's
I answered, Platinita ivanovna, I yasha, darling, Yes, what have
you come for? You waked me up? At first you

(38:06):
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. Honest,
he's never ill, is he? And I came in and
are you quite well? Perfectly well? Well, you must have
had a bad dream. Then would you like me to

(38:26):
burn a little incense? Aritov once more stared intently at
his aunt and laughed aloud. The figure of the good
old lady in her night cap 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,

(38:50):
Please forgive me for unwittingly troubling you. Sleep well, and
I will sleep too. Platinita Ivanovna remained a minute, standing
where she was 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.

(39:12):
Aretov 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

(39:33):
to go to Kupfer's What drew him there, he was
dimly aware. Chapter sixteen, Aratov found his sanguine friend at home.
He chatted a little while 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

(39:56):
fish scales, and all at once sitting just opposite Kopf
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,

(40:16):
Cop first 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, Copper ruffled up his hair. But simply to
collect materials, as it's called among you learned people. I'd

(40:38):
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?

(41:00):
And 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 theater with her, drank it
before the first act and went through all that act

(41:21):
afterwards with the poison in sight her. Isn't that something
like strength of will character? Eh? And they say she
never acted her part with such feelings, 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.

(41:44):
But didn't I tell you all about it? And it
was in the papers too. Aretov's hands had grown suddenly cold,
and he felt an and word shiver. No, you didn't
tell me that, he said, at last, And you don't
know what play it was? Cook a minute, I did
hear what the play was. There is a betrayed girl

(42:04):
in it, some drama, it must have been. Clara was
created for dramatic parts her very appearance. But where are
you off to Coopfer interrupted himself, seeing that Aratov was
reaching after his hat. I don't feel quite well, replied Aratov. Goodbye.
I'll come in another time. Cooephfer stopped him and looked

(42:27):
into his face. What a nervous fellow you are, my boy,
Just look at yourself here as white as chalk. I'm
not well, repeated Arotov, and disengaging himself from Cooepfer's detaining hands,
he started homewards. Only at that instant it became clear
to him that he had come to Coopef with the
sole object of talking of Clara. Unhappy Clara, poor frantic Clara.

(42:50):
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 Copeyer had expressed,
it struck him as a kind of monstrous pose, a
piece of bravado, and he was already trying not to

(43:10):
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 appearance, recalled that abbreviated dressing jacket,
the cap with the high ribbon, and why a ribbon
on a night cap? All the ludicrous apparition, which, like
the scene shifter's whistle in a transformation scene, had dissolved

(43:33):
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,

(43:56):
and was not afraid of it. He was sure he
would pass an exit 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

(44:18):
she was ashamed. Opposite the stereoscope on the wall hung
a portrait of his mother. Aretov took it from its nail,
scrutinized 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

(44:39):
some other reason, Aretov 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.

(45:03):
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 realized. Chapter seventeen. It had not struck midnight when

(45:28):
he had 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 tiny little man his steward.

(45:49):
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 Aretov saw
a row of immense horses. They were standing in their

(46:11):
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, Aretov 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

(46:34):
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 bolt
of gold? Will you get into it? It floats of itself.

(46:54):
I won't get into it, thought Aretov. 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 stewart shouted
from the bank. It's of no consequence, it's death. Good

(47:16):
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, Aretov saw Clara in
a stage dress. She was lifting a glass to her lips,

(47:38):
listening to shouts of Bravo, Bravo in the distance, and
some coarse voice shouted in Aretov's ear, Ah, did you
think it would all end in a farce? No, it's
a tragedy, a tragedy trembling all over. Aretov awoke in
the room. It was not dark. A faint light streamed

(47:58):
in from somewhere showed everything in the gloom and stillness.
Aretov 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 forever in
her power. The cry broke from his lips. Clara, are

(48:19):
you here? Yes, sounded distinctly in the midst of the lighted,
still room. Aretov inaudibly repeated his question. Yes, he heard again.
Then I want to see you, he cried, and he
jumped out of bed. For some instance. He stood in
the same place, pressing his bare feet on the chill floor,

(48:40):
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, even discerned the

(49:00):
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,

(49:21):
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

(49:42):
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.

(50:05):
If you do not want me to go mad, show yourself.
Clara Aretov 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

(50:29):
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.
Aretov slowly sank on his knees. Yes, he was right.

(50:50):
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,

(51:11):
but I may fancy my imagination has created an image
like that one he pointed toward 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,

(51:35):
and her dark eyes fastened upon Aritov. 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

(51:57):
the platform on the day of the literary matinee 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 Arotov,
you have conquered. Take me. I am yours, and you
are mine. He flew to her. He tried to kiss

(52:20):
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. Platinita 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.

(52:42):
His pale face was radiant with the intoxication of boundless bliss.
Platinita 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 did not stir.
Then Platinita Ivanovna fell to screaming in a voice unlike

(53:05):
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.

(53:29):
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

(53:50):
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. Chapter eighteen. When Platinita Ivanovna

(54:14):
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. Platinita 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

(54:38):
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? Aretov answered gently,
This very gentleness again, Platinita Ivanovna did not like at all.
Aretov had the air of a man who had discovered

(54:59):
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

(55:19):
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

(55:42):
next time I will be stronger, I will master her.
She shall come with a wreath of tiny roses and
her dark curls. But what next? We cannot live together?
Can we then? Must I die so as to be
with her? Is it not for that she is? And
is it not so she means to take me captive? Well?

(56:05):
What then? If I must die? Let me die? Death
has no terrors for me now. It cannot then annihilate
me on the contrary. Only thus and there can I
be happy as I have not been happy in life,
as she has not. We are both pure, Oh that kiss.

(56:27):
Platinida Ivanovna was incessantly coming into Aretov's room. She did
not worry him with questions. She merely looked at him, muttered, sighed,
and went out again. But he refused his dinner too.
This was really too dreadful. The old lady set off
to an acquaintance of hers, a district doctor in whom
she placed some confidence, simply because he did not drink

(56:48):
and had a German wife. Aretov was surprised when she
brought him in to see him, but Platinita Ivanovna so
earnestly implored her darling Yashenka to allow Paramon Paramonitch that
was the doctor's name, to examine him, if only for
her sake. That Aretov consented. Paramon Paramonitch felt his pulse

(57:09):
looked at his tongue, asked a question, and announced at
last that it was absolutely necessary for him to oscultate him.
Aretov was in such an amiable frame of mind that
he agreed to this too. The doctor delicately uncovered his chest,
delicately tapped, listened, hummed and hawed, prescribed some drops and
a mixture, and above all, advised him to keep quiet

(57:31):
and avoid any excitement. I dare say, thought Aretov, that
idea is a little too late. My good friend, what
is wrong with yasha? Queried Platinita Ivanovna, as she slipped
a three rouble note into Peraman Paramonitch's hand in the doorway.
The district doctor, who, like all modern physicians, especially those

(57:52):
who weary government uniform, was fond of showing off with
scientific terms, announced that her nephew's diagnosis showed all the
symptoms of neurotic cardial and there were fabrial symptoms. Also
speak plainer, my dear sir, do cut in, Platinita Ivanovna.
Don't terrify me with your Latin. You're not in your surgery.
His heart's not right, the doctor explained, And well, there's

(58:15):
a little fever too, and he repeated his advice as
to perfect quiet and absence of excitement. But there's no danger,
is there, Platinida Ivanovna inquired severely. You dare rush off
into Latin again, she implied, No need to anticipate any
at present. The doctor went away, and Platinida Ivanovna grieved.

(58:37):
She sent to the surgery, though for the medicine, which
Ariotov would not take. In spite of her entreaties. He
refused any. Herb tea too, And why are you so uneasy, dear?
He said to her, I assure you, I am, at
this moment the sanest and happiest man in the whole world.
Platinda Ivanovna could only shake her head. Towards evening, he

(59:00):
grew rather feverish, and still he insisted that she should
not stay in his room, but should go to sleep
in her own. Platinita Ivanovna obeyed, but she did not
undress and did not lie down. She sat in an
arm chair and was all the while listening and murmuring
her prayers. She was just beginning to doze when suddenly
she was awakened by a terrible, piercing shriek. She jumped up,

(59:21):
rushed into Aratov's room, and, as on the night before,
found him lying on the floor, But he did not
come to himself, as on the previous night. In spite
of all they could do, he fell the same night
into a high fever complicated by failure of the heart.
A few days later he passed away a strange circumstance
attended his second fainting fit. When they lifted him up
and laid him on his bed, in his clenched right

(59:43):
hand they found a small tress of a woman's dark hair.
Where did this lock of hair come from? Anna Semyonovna
had such a lock of hair left by Clara, But
what could induce her to give Aritov a relic so
precious to her? Could she have put it somewhere in
the diary and not have noticed it when she lent
the book. In the delirium that preceded his death, Aretov

(01:00:03):
spoke of himself as Romeo after the poison, spoke of
marriage completed and perfect of his knowing now what rapture meant.
Most terrible of all for Platotia was the minute when Aretov,
coming a little to himself, and seeing her beside his bed,
said to her aunt, what are you crying for because
I must die. But don't you know that love is

(01:00:25):
stronger than death. Death, Death, where is thy sting? You
should not weep but rejoice, even as I rejoice. And
once more on the face of the dying man shone
out the rapturous smile which gave the poor old woman
such cruel pain. End of Clara Militch, Part two,