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him
that he would soon stop crying, that it would pass, everything would be all
right and he would forget all about it.
The doctor was right. Soon the wood across the river looked as it
always did. The weather cleared until every single tree stood out against a
sky which was as blue as before and the river subsided. His injection at
once made Ivan feel less depressed. The poet lay quietly down and gazed at
the rainbow stretched across the sky.
He lay there until evening and did not even notice how the rainbow
dissolved, how the sky faded and saddened, how the wood turned to black.
When he had drunk his hot milk, Ivan lay down again. He was amazed to
notice how his mental condition had changed. The memory of the diabolical
cat had grown indistinct, he was no longer frightened by the thought of the
decapitated head. Ivan started to muse on the fact that the clinic really
wasn't such a bad place, that Stravinsky was very clever and famous and that
he was an extremely pleasant man to deal with. The evening air, too, was
sweet and fresh after the storm.
The asylum was asleep. The white frosted-glass bulbs in the
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