My sister came after dinner on Sunday and had tea with me.
"I read a great deal now," she said, showing me the books which she
had fetched from the public library on her way to me. "Thanks to
your wife and to Vladimir, they have awakened me to self-realization.
They have been my salvation; they have made me feel myself a human
being. In old days I used to lie awake at night with worries of all
sorts, thinking what a lot of sugar we had used in the week, or
hoping the cucumbers would not be too salt. And now, too, I lie
awake at night, but I have different thoughts. I am distressed that
half my life has been passed in such a foolish, cowardly way. I
despise my past; I am ashamed of it. And I look upon our father now
as my enemy. Oh, how grateful I am to your wife! And Vladimir! He
is such a wonderful person! They have opened my eyes!"
"That's bad that you don't sleep at night," I said.
"Do you think I am ill? Not at all. Vladimir sounded me, and said
I was perfectly well. But health is not what matters, it is not so
important. Tell me: am I right?"
She needed moral support, that was obvious. Masha had gone away.
Dr. Blagovo was in Petersburg, and there was no one left in the
town but me, to tell her she was right. She looked intently into
my face, trying to read my secret thoughts, and if I were absorbed
or silent in her presence she thought this was on her account, and
was grieved. I always had to be on my guard, and when she asked me
whether she was right I hastened to assure her that she was right,
and that I had a deep respect for her.
"Do you know they have given me a part at the Azhogins'?" she went
on. "I want to act on the stage, I want to live--in fact, I mean
to drain the full cup. I have no talent, none, and the part is only
ten lines, but still this is immeasurably finer and loftier than
pouring out tea five times a day, and looking to see if the cook
has eaten too much. Above all, let my father see I am capable of
protest."
After tea she lay down on my bed, and lay for a little while with
her eyes closed, looking very pale.
"What weakness," she said, getting up. "Vladimir says all city-bred
women and girls are anæmic from doing nothing. What a clever man
Vladimir is! He is right, absolutely right. We must work!"
Two days later she came to the Azhogins' with her manuscript for
the rehearsal. She was wearing a black dress with a string of coral
round her neck, and a brooch that in the distance was like a pastry
puff, and in her ears earrings sparkling with brilliants. When I
looked at her I felt uncomfortable. I was struck by her lack of
taste. That she had very inappropriately put on earrings and
brilliants, and that she was strangely dressed, was remarked by
other people too; I saw smiles on people's faces, and heard someone
say with a laugh: "Kleopatra of Egypt."
She was trying to assume society 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 them lift her up and lead her
away. I saw Anyuta Blagovo come up to me; I had not seen her in the
room before, and she seemed to have sprung out of the earth. She
was wearing her hat and veil, and, as always, had an air of having
come only for a moment.
"I told her not to take a part," she said angrily, jerking out each
word abruptly and turning crimson. "It's insanity! You ought to
have prevented her!"
Madame Azhogin, in a short jacket with short sleeves, with cigarette
ash on her breast, looking thin and flat, came rapidly towards me.
"My dear, this is terrible," she brought out, wringing her hands,
and, as her habit was, looking intently into my face. "This is
terrible! Your sister is in a condition. . . . She is with child.
Take her away, I implore you. . . ."
She was breathless with agitation, while on one side stood her three
daughters, exactly like her, thin and flat, huddling together in a
scared way. They were alarmed, overwhelmed, as though a convict had
been caught in their house. What a disgrace, how dreadful! And yet
this estimable family had spent its life waging war on superstition;
evidently they imagined that all the superstition and error of
humanity was limited to the three candles, the thirteenth of the
month, and to the unluckiness of Monday!
"I beg you. . . I beg," repeated Madame Azhogin, pursing up her
lips in the shape of a heart on the syllable "you." "I beg you to
take her home."