"And now all that is in the grave, where she has thrust herself.... But I have nothing to do with that.... I am not to blame! It would even be absurd to think that I am to blame."--Again it flashed into Aratoff's mind that even had she had "anything of that sort" about her, his conduct during the interview would indubitably have disenchanted her. That was why she had broken into such harsh laughter at parting.--And where was the proof that she had poisoned herself on account of an unhappy love? It is only newspaper correspondents who attribute every such death to unhappy love!--But life easily becomes repulsive to people with character, like Clara ... and tiresome. Yes, tiresome. Kupfer was right: living simply bored her. "In spite of her success, of her ovations?"--Aratoff meditated.--The psychological analysis to which he surrendered himself was even agreeable to him. Unaccustomed as he had been, up to this time, to all contact with women, he did not suspect how significant for him was this tense examination of a woman's soul. "Consequently," he pursued his meditations, "art did not satisfy her, did not fill the void of her life. Genuine artists exist only for art, for the theatre.... Everything else pales before that which they regard as their vocation.... She was a dilettante!" 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! XI 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.