with her, drank it before the first act, and went through all that act
afterwards. With the poison inside her! Isn't that something like strength
of will? Character, eh? And, they say, she never acted her part with such
feeling, such passion! The public suspected nothing, they clapped, and
called for her.... And directly the curtain fell, she dropped down there,
on the stage. Convulsions ... and convulsions, and within an hour she was
dead! But didn't I tell you all about it? And it was in the papers too!'

Aratov's hands had grown suddenly cold, and he felt an inward shiver.

'No, you didn't tell me that,' he said at last. 'And you don't know what
play it was?

Kupfer thought a minute. 'I did hear what the play was ... there is a
betrayed girl in it.... Some drama, it must have been. Clara was created
for dramatic parts.... Her very appearance ... But where are you off to?'
Kupfer interrupted himself, seeing that Aratov was reaching after his hat.

'I don't feel quite well,' replied Aratov. 'Good-bye ... I'll come in
another time.'

Kupfer stopped him and looked into his face. 'What a nervous fellow you
are, my boy! Just look at yourself.... You're as white as chalk.'

'I'm not well,' repeated Aratov, and, disengaging himself from Kupfer's
detaining hands, he started homewards. Only at that instant it became
clear to him that he had come to Kupfer with the sole object of talking of
Clara...

'Unhappy Clara, poor frantic Clara....'