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.