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Our sorrow is all the greater because Miss Mílitch 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.
Our regret is the more poignant from the fact that Miss Militch by her own act cut short her young life, so full of promise, by means of poison. And this dreadful deed was the more awful through the talented actress taking the fatal drug in the theatre itself. She had scarcely been taken home when to the universal grief, she expired.
'You have been to Kazan; what for? 'Oh, I wanted to collect some facts about that ... Clara Militch. 'The one that poisoned herself? 'Yes. Kupfer shook his head. 'Well, you are a chap! And so quiet about it! Toiled a thousand miles out there and back ... for what? Eh? If there'd been some woman in the case now! Then I can understand anything! anything! any madness! Kupfer ruffled up his hair.
"Thou hast been to Kazán? Why so?" "Why, because I wished to collect information about that ... Clara Mílitch." "The girl who poisoned herself?" "Yes." Kupfer shook his head. "What a fellow thou art! And such a sly one! Thou hast travelled a thousand versts there and back ... and all for what? Hey? If there had only been some feminine interest there!
In his latter days, sketches such as Clara Militch, The Song of Triumphant Love, The Dream, and the incomparable Phantoms, he showed that he could equal Edgar Poe, Hofmann, and Dostoevsky in the mastery of the fantastical, the horrible, the mysterious, and the incomprehensible, which live somewhere in human nerves, though not to be defined by reason.
"Is what true?" replied the astounded Kupfer. "About Clara Mílitch?" Kupfer's face expressed compassion. "Yes, yes, brother, it is true; she has poisoned herself. It is such a misfortune!" Arátoff held his peace for a space. "But hast thou also read it in the newspaper?" he asked: "Or perhaps thou hast been to Kazán thyself?"
He bowed with one hand on the back of the chair, and after each bow he shook back his hair, precisely like Liszt! At last after a rather long interval the red cloth over the door on to the platform stirred and opened wide, and Clara Militch appeared. The room resounded with applause.
So at last, Clara Mílitch appeared again. She held in her hand a small volume of Púshkin; but during her reading she never once glanced at it.... She was obviously frightened; the little book shook slightly in her fingers. Arátoff also observed the expression of dejection which now overspread her stern features.
What seemed strange was that in the intervals of the reading and music, from the performers' room, sounds were heard from time to time of a French horn; and yet this instrument never was brought into requisition. In the sequel it appeared that the amateur, who had been invited to perform on it, had lost courage at the moment of facing the public. At last Clara Militch made her appearance again.
'She has even played somewhere in the provinces, Kupfer continued, 'and altogether she's created for the theatre. There! you'll see for yourself! 'What's her name? asked Aratov. 'Clara... 'Clara? Aratov interrupted a second time. 'Impossible! 'Why impossible? Clara ... Clara Militch; it's not her real name ... but that's what she's called.
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