Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (214 page)

XII

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 of benumbed condition, which had not, however, prevented him from taking all the necessary steps, changing at Nizhni - Novgorod from the railway to the steamer, getting his meals at the stations etc., etc. 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, 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 Milovidov turned out to be exactly as Kupfer had described it; and the widow herself really was like one of the tradesmen’s wives in Ostrovsky, though the widow of an official; her husband had held his post under government. Not without some difficulty, Aratov, 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 the gifted artist 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 realised. Madame Milovidov 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 Katia?’ she inquired, directly Aratov was silent.

‘Yes … of your daughter.’

‘And you have come from Moscow for this?’

‘Yes, from Moscow.’

‘Only on this account?’

‘Yes.’

Madame Milovidov gave herself a sudden shake. ‘Why, are you an author? Do you write for the newspapers?’

‘No, I’m 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. Aratov could not find an answer for a minute.

‘Through sympathy, from respect for talent,’ he said at last.

The word ‘respect’ pleased Madame Milovidov. ‘Eh!’ she pronounced with a sigh … ‘I’m her mother, any way — 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 Milovidov crossed herself. ‘From a child up she minded no one — she left her parent’s 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, any way! she’d no need to live with strangers … or to go begging!…’ Here the widow shed tears … ‘But if you, my good sir,’ 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 dishonourable 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…. Annotchka! called Madame Milovidov, ‘Annotchka, come here! Here is a worthy gentleman from Moscow wants to have a talk about Katia!’

There was a sound of something moving in the next room; but no one appeared. ‘Annotchka!’ 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 with very soft and mournful eyes. Aratov got up from his seat to meet her, and introduced himself, mentioning his friend Kupfer. ‘Ah! Fyodor Fedoritch?’ the girl articulated softly, and softly she sank into a chair.

‘Now, then, you must talk to the gentleman,’ said Madam Milovidov, getting up heavily: ‘he’s taken trouble enough, he’s come all the way from Moscow on purpose — he wants to collect information about Katia. 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 Annotchka; she will tell you about the theatre … and all the rest of it. She is a clever girl, well educated: speaks French, and reads books, as well as her sister did. One may say indeed she gave her her education … she was older — and so she looked after it.’

Madame Milovidov withdrew. On being left alone with Anna Semyonovna, Aratov repeated his speech to her; but realising 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 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 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 object of that? The public caused her plenty of suffering as it is; and indeed Katia 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 feel such interest in her, let me ask you to come and see 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.

Aratov rose hurriedly from his seat, thanked her for her offer, said he should be sure … oh, very sure! — to come — and went off, carrying away with him an impression of a soft voice, gentle and sorrowful eyes, and burning in the tortures of expectation.

XIII

Aratov went back the same day to the Milovidovs and spent three whole hours in conversation with Anna Semyonovna. Madame Milovidov was in the habit of lying down directly after dinner — at two o’clock — and resting till evening tea at seven. Aratov’s talk with Clara’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 Aratov had inspired in her grew and strengthened; she was no longer stiff; twice she even 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 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 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 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 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 end of myself. It will prove I am no good.’ Clara’s father — he used sometimes when drunk to ask his wife, ‘Who got you your blackbrowed 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. 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 favourite 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?’ 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, “Katia, why did you do that, really?” And she answered me: “If he’d 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 and 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!” And he did not bother about her, or try to find her out. My father did not understand Katia. On the 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 her inheritance, and vanished again. She was unhappy with us … I could see that. Afterwards she came to Kazan as an actress.’

Aratov began questioning Anna about the theatre, about the parts in which Clara had appeared, about her triumphs…. Anna answered in detail, but with the same mournful, though keen fervour. She even showed Aratov a photograph, in which 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. Aratov looked a long time at the photograph, thought it like, asked whether Clara had taken part in public recitations, and learnt that she had not; that she had needed the excitement of the theatre, the scenery … but another question was burning on his lips.

‘Anna Semyonovna!’ 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,’ she said, after a pause of some instants. ‘By God, I don’t know!’ she went on strenuously, supposing 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 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 Katia’s birth it had been decreed that she was to be unhappy. From her early years she was convinced of it. 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’s in our own hands, you know.” And she proved that!’

Anna hid her face in her hands and stopped speaking. ‘Anna Semyonovna,’ Aratov began after a short pause, ‘you have perhaps heard to what the newspapers 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, unapproachable Katia … Katia!… and unhappy, unrequited love? And shouldn’t I have known of it?… Every one 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, of purity which she, with all her faults, 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, and that instant only, she was like her sister.

Aratov was beginning an apology.

‘Listen,’ Anna broke in again. ‘I 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 to you. Let me tell you; Katia left a diary …’

Aratov trembled. ‘A diary?’ he muttered.

‘Yes, a diary … that is, only a few pages. Katia 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 out of a table - drawer a thin exercise - book, ten pages, no more, and held it out to Aratov. He seized it eagerly, recognised 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. — Sang and recited at a literary matinée. To - day is a 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 …’

Aratov dropped the hand that held the diary, and his head slowly sank upon his breast.

‘Read it!’ cried Anna. ‘Why don’t 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 Kazan she used to write down nothing at all….’

Aratov 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,’ Aratov began with failing voice, and 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, 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 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 ought to defend her memory!’

‘And you were not in love with my sister?’ Anna asked a second time.

Aratov did not at once reply, and he turned aside a little, as though in pain.

‘Well, then! I was! I was — I’m in love now,’ he cried in the same tone of despair.

Steps were heard in the next room.

‘Get up … get up …’ said Anna hurriedly. ‘Mamma is coming.’

Aratov rose.

‘And take the diary and the photograph, in God’s name! Poor, poor Katia!… 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 Milovidov saved Aratov from the necessity of a reply. He had time, however, to murmur, ‘You are an angel! Thanks! I will send anything I write….’

Madame Milovidov, 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.

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 at home. He thought much more about her sister Anna. ‘There,’ he thought, ‘is an exquisite, charming creature. What delicate comprehension of everything, 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!’ Such were Aratov’s reflections … but on his arrival in Moscow things put on quite a different complexion.