Читать книгу Dream Tales and Prose Poems - Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev - Страница 10

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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....’

But at that very instant he felt that some one had come up and was standing close behind him ... there was a breath of something warm from behind....

He looked round.... She!

He knew her at once, though a thick, dark blue veil hid her features. He instantaneously leapt up from the seat, but stopped short, and could not utter a word. She too was silent. He felt great embarrassment; but her embarrassment was no less. Aratov, even through the veil, could not help noticing how deadly pale she had turned. Yet she was the first to speak.

‘Thanks,’ she began in an unsteady voice, ‘thanks for coming. I did not expect ...’ She turned a little away and walked along the boulevard. Aratov walked after her.

‘You have, perhaps, thought ill of me,’ she went on, without turning her head; ‘indeed, my conduct is very strange.... But I had heard so much about you ... but no! I ... that was not the reason.... If only you knew.... There was so much I wanted to tell you, my God!... But how to do it ... how to do it!’

Aratov was walking by her side, a little behind her; he could not see her face; he saw only her hat and part of her veil ... and her long black shabby cape. All his irritation, both with her and with himself, suddenly came back to him; all the absurdity, the awkwardness of this interview, these explanations between perfect strangers in a public promenade, suddenly struck him.

‘I have come on your invitation,’ he began in his turn. ‘I have come, my dear madam’ (her shoulders gave a faint twitch, she turned off into a side passage, he followed her), ‘simply to clear up, to discover to what strange misunderstanding it is due that you are pleased to address me, a stranger to you ... who ... only guessed, to use your expression in your letter, that it was you writing to him ... guessed it because during that literary matinée, you saw fit to pay him such ... such obvious attention.’

All this little speech was delivered by Aratov in that ringing but unsteady voice in which very young people answer at examinations on a subject in which they are well prepared.... He was angry; he was furious.... It was just this fury which loosened his ordinarily not very ready tongue.

She still went on along the walk with rather slower steps.... Aratov, as before, walked after her, and as before saw only the old cape and the hat, also not a very new one. His vanity suffered at the idea that she must now be thinking: ‘I had only to make a sign—and he rushed at once!’

Aratov was silent ... he expected her to answer him; but she did not utter a word.

‘I am ready to listen to you,’ he began again, ‘and shall be very glad if I can be of use to you in any way ... though I am, I confess, surprised ... considering the retired life I lead....’

At these last words of his, Clara suddenly turned to him, and he beheld such a terrified, such a deeply-wounded face, with such large bright tears in the eyes, such a pained expression about the parted lips, and this face was so lovely, that he involuntarily faltered, and himself felt something akin to terror and pity and softening.

‘Ah, why ... why are you like that?’ she said, with an irresistibly genuine and truthful force, and how movingly her voice rang out! ‘Could my turning to you be offensive to you?... is it possible you have understood nothing?... Ah, yes! you have understood nothing, you did not understand what I said to you, God knows what you have been imagining about me, you have not even dreamed what it cost me—to write to you!... You thought of nothing but yourself, your own dignity, your peace of mind!... But is it likely I’ ... (she squeezed her hands raised to her lips so hard, that the fingers gave a distinct crack).... ‘As though I made any sort of demands of you, as though explanations were necessary first....

“My dear madam,... I am, I confess, surprised,... if I can be of any use” ... Ah! I am mad!—I was mistaken in you—in your face!... when I saw you the first time ...! Here ... you stand.... If only one word. What, not one word?’

She ceased.... Her face suddenly flushed, and as suddenly took a wrathful and insolent expression. ‘Mercy! how idiotic this is!’ she cried suddenly, with a shrill laugh. ‘How idiotic our meeting is! What a fool I am!... and you too.... Ugh!’

She gave a contemptuous wave of her hand, as though motioning him out of her road, and passing him, ran quickly out of the boulevard, and vanished.

The gesture of her hand, the insulting laugh, and the last exclamation, at once carried Aratov back to his first frame of mind, and stifled the feeling that had sprung up in his heart when she turned to him with tears in her eyes. He was angry again, and almost shouted after the retreating girl: ‘You may make a good actress, but why did you think fit to play off this farce on me?’

He returned home with long strides, and though he still felt anger and indignation all the way, yet across these evil, malignant feelings, unconsciously, the memory forced itself of the exquisite face he had seen for a single moment only.... He even put himself the question, ‘Why did I not answer her when she asked of me only a word? I had not time,’ he thought. ‘She did not let me utter the word ... and what word could I have uttered?’

But he shook his head at once, and murmured reproachfully, ‘Actress!’

And again, at the same time, the vanity of the inexperienced nervous youth, at first wounded, was now, as it were, flattered at having any way inspired such a passion....

‘Though by now,’ he pursued his reflections, ‘it’s all over, of course.... I must have seemed absurd to her.’...

This idea was disagreeable to him, and again he was angry ... both with her ... and with himself. On reaching home, he shut himself up in his study. He did not want to see Platosha. The good old lady came twice to his locked door, put her ear to the keyhole, and only sighed and murmured her prayer.

‘It has begun!’ she thought.... ‘And he only five-and-twenty! Ah, it’s early, it’s early!’