Dream Tales and Prose Poems | Page 9

house?'
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.
VII
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