And lo! one day as he was skimming over some not quite
fresh numbers of the Moscow News, Aratoff hit
upon the following correspondence:
“With great sorrow,” wrote a certain local
literary man from Kazan, “we insert in our theatrical
chronicle the news of the sudden death of our gifted
actress, Clara Militch, who had succeeded in the brief
space of her engagement in becoming the favourite
of our discriminating public. Our sorrow is all
the greater because Miss Militch herself put an end
to her young life, which held so much of promise,
by means of poison. And this poisoning is all
the more dreadful because the actress took the poison
on the stage itself! They barely got her home,
where, to universal regret, she died. Rumours
are current in the town to the effect that unrequited
love led her to that terrible deed.”
Aratoff softly laid the newspaper on the table.
To all appearances he remained perfectly composed
... but something smote him simultaneously in his
breast and in his head, and then slowly diffused itself
through all his members. He rose to his feet,
stood for a while on one spot, and again seated himself,
and again perused the letter. Then he rose once
more, lay down on his bed and placing his hands under
his head, he stared for a long time at the wall like
one dazed. Little by little that wall seemed
to recede ... to vanish ... and he beheld before him
the boulevard beneath grey skies and her in
her black mantilla ... then her again on the platform
... he even beheld himself by her side.—That
which had smitten him so forcibly in the breast at
the first moment, now began to rise up ... to rise
up in his throat.... He tried to cough, to call
some one, but his voice failed him, and to his own
amazement, tears which he could not restrain gushed
from his eyes.... What had evoked those tears?
Pity? Regret? Or was it simply that his nerves
had been unable to withstand the sudden shock?
Surely, she was nothing to him? Was not that
the fact?
“But perhaps that is not true,” the thought
suddenly occurred to him. “I must find
out! But from whom? From the Princess?—No,
from Kupfer ... from Kupfer? But they say he
is not in Moscow.—Never mind! I must
apply to him first!”
With these ideas in his head Aratoff hastily dressed
himself, summoned a cab and dashed off to Kupfer.
He had not hoped to find him ... but he did.
Kupfer actually had been absent from Moscow for a
time, but had returned about a week previously and
was even preparing to call on Aratoff again. He
welcomed him with his customary cordiality, and began
to explain something to him ... but Aratoff immediately
interrupted him with the impatient question:
“Hast thou read it?—Is it true?”
“Is what true?” replied the astounded
Kupfer.
“About Clara Militch?”
Kupfer’s face expressed compassion.—“Yes,
yes, brother, it is true; she has poisoned herself.
It is such a misfortune!”
