ociety manners, to be unconstrained and
at her ease, and so seemed artificial and strange. She had lost
simplicity and sweetness.

"I told father just now that I was going to the rehearsal," she
began, coming up to me, "and he shouted that he would not give me
his blessing, and actually almost struck me. Only fancy, I don't
know my part," she said, looking at her manuscript. "I am sure to
make a mess of it. So be it, the die is cast," she went on in intense
excitement. "The die is cast. . . ."

It seemed to her that everyone was looking at her, and that all
were amazed at the momentous step she had taken, that everyone was
expecting something special of her, and it would have been impossible
to convince her that no one was paying attention to people so petty
and insignificant as she and I were.

She had nothing to do till the third act, and her part, that of a
visitor, a provincial crony, consisted only in standing at the door
as though listening, and then delivering a brief monologue. In the
interval before her appearance, an hour and a half at least, while
they were moving about on the stage reading their parts, drinking
tea and arguing, she did not leave my side, and was all the time
muttering her part and nervously crumpling up the manuscript. And
imagining that everyone was looking at her and waiting for her
appearance, with a trembling hand she smoothed back her hair and
said to me:

"I shall certainly make a mess of it. . . . What a load on my heart,
if only you knew! I feel frightened, as though I were just going
to be led to execution."

At last her turn came.

"Kleopatra Alexyevna, it's your cue!" said the stage manager.

She came forward into the middle of the stage with an expression
of horror on her face, looking ugly and angular, and for half a
minute stood as though in a trance, perfectly motionless, and only
her big earrings shook in her ears.

"The first time you can read it," said someone.

It was clear to me that she was trembling, and trembling so much
that she could not speak, and could not unfold her manuscript, and
that she was incapable of acting her part; and I was already on the
point of going to her and saying something, when she suddenly dropped
on her knees in the middle of the stage and broke into loud sobs.

All was commotion and hubbub. I alone stood still, leaning against
the side scene, overwhelmed by what had happened, not understanding
and not knowing what to do. I saw t