Short Fiction by Aleksandr Kuprin (nonfiction book recommendations .txt) 📕

never read the newspapers; in the first place because they soiled her hands and, in the second, because she could not make anything out of the way the news is reported nowadays.

But fate made her open the newspaper sheet almost at the spot where she read the following:

“A mysterious death. Last night at about seven o’clock, an official of the Department of Control, G. S. Zheltkov, committed suicide. According to the information obtained by the coroner, the suicide came as a result of the late Zheltkov’s embezzlement. This fact was mentioned in a letter left by the suicide. In view of the fact that the testimony of the witnesses made it apparent that the act was committed of his own free will, it was decided not to perform an autopsy.”

Reading this, Vera thought to herself:

“Why is it that I felt this was coming, this very, tragic end? And what was it, love or insanity?”

She walked up and down the garden and the orchard paths all day long. Her restlessness would not let her sit down for a moment. All her thoughts were concentrated on this unknown man, whom she had never seen, and whom, perhaps, she would never see.

“Who knows? Perhaps your life path was crossed by a real, self-sacrificing, true love,” she recalled Anosov’s words.

At six o’clock the mail came. Vera readily recognized Zheltkov’s handwriting, and with a tenderness, which she did not herself expect, she opened the letter. It ran as follows:

“It is not my fault, Vera Nikolayevna, that God has willed to send me such great happiness as my love for you. It so happened that nothing in life interests me, neither politics, nor science, nor care for the future happiness of mankind⁠—my whole life was concentrated in my feeling toward you. And now I feel that I cut into your life like an unwelcome wedge. If you can, forgive me for this. I am leaving today never to return, and there will be nothing that will remind you of me.

“I am only infinitely thankful to you because you are in existence. I have subjected myself to all sorts of tests; this is not a disease, a maniacal delusion, but love which God has granted me to reward me for something or other.

“Even if I should appear ludicrous in your eyes and in those of your brother, Nikolay Nikolayevich⁠—going away forever I still repeat in adoration: ‘May your name be holy forevermore.’ ”

“I saw you for the first time eight years ago in the box of a theatre, and I said to myself in the very first second: ‘I love her because there is nothing in the world that is like her, there is nothing better, there is not an animal, not a plant, not a star, not a human being more beautiful and more delicate than she is.’ The whole beauty of the earth seemed to me to have become embodied in you.

“Just think of what I should have done under the circumstances. To run away to another city? My heart would have still been near you and every moment of my life would have been filled with you, with thoughts of you, with dreams about you⁠—with a sweet delirium. I am very much ashamed because of that foolish bracelet, but that was just a mistake of mine. I can imagine what an impression the whole thing made on your guests!

“In ten minutes I shall be gone. I shall only have time to put a stamp on this letter and drop it in the mailbox, for I would not have anyone else do it. Will you please burn this letter? I have just lit a fire in my stove and am burning up everything that was dearest to me in life: your handkerchief which I stole⁠—you left it on your chair at a ball; your note⁠—oh, how I kissed it!⁠—in which you forbade me to write to you; the programme of an art exhibition which you once held in your hands and left on your chair on going out.⁠ ⁠… Everything is finished. I have put an end to everything, but I still think, and I am even sure of it, that you will remember me sometimes. And if you should happen to remember, then.⁠ ⁠… I know that you are musical, for oftenest of all I saw you at the Beethoven concerts⁠—if you should remember, will you please play or have somebody else play for you the Sonata in D-dur, No. 2, Op. 2.

“I do not know how to finish this letter. From the bottom of my heart I thank you because you were the only joy of my life, my only solace, my only thought. May God grant you happiness, may nothing transient and vain trouble your beautiful soul. I kiss your hand. G. S. Z.”

She came to her husband with her eyes red from tears and, showing him the letter, said:

“I do not want to conceal anything from you, but I feel that something terrible has forced itself into our life. You and Nikolay must have done something that should not have been done.”

Prince Sheyin read the letter attentively, folded it carefully, and said, after a long silence:

“I have no doubt that this man was sincere, and what is more, I do not dare to analyze his feelings toward you.”

“Is he dead?” asked Vera.

“Yes, he is dead. I will only say that he did love you and was not mad. I did not take my eyes away from him, and I saw every movement of his face. Life was impossible for him without you. And it seemed to me that I was in the presence of a suffering so colossal, that men die when once stricken by it, and I almost realized that there was a dead man before me. I hardly knew what to do in his presence, how to conduct myself.⁠ ⁠…”

“Would it pain you, Vasya,” interrupted Vera Nikolayevna, “if I should go to the city and see