The strolling players were playing "The Murder of Gonzago." Kostromsky
was half sitting, half lying on the floor opposite to the court, his
head on Ophelia's knees. Suddenly he turned his face upward to her,
and giving forth an overwhelming odour of spirit, whispered in drunken
tones:
"Listen, madam. What's your name? Listen!"
She bent down a little towards him, and said in an answering whisper:
"What is it?"
"What pretty feet you have!" said he. "Listen! You must be pretty ...
everywhere."
Yureva turned away her face in silence.
"I mean it, by heaven!" Kostromsky went on, nothing daunted. "No doubt
you have a lover here, haven't you?"
She made no reply.
Kostromsky wanted to insult her still more, to hurt her, and her
silence was a new irritation to him.
"You have? Oh, that's very very foolish of you. Such a face as yours is
... is your whole capital.... You will pardon my frankness, but you're
no actress. What are you doing on the stage?"
Fortunately, it was necessary for him to take part in the acting.
Yureva was left in peace, and she moved a little away from him. Her
eyes filled with tears. In Kostromsky's face she had seen a spiteful
and merciless enemy.
But Kostromsky became less powerful in each scene, and when the act was
finished there was very slight applause to gratify him. But no one else
was clapped.