"HAMLET" was being played.
All tickets had been sold out before the morning of the performance. The play was more than usually attractive to the public because the principal part was to be taken by the famous Kostromsky, who, ten years before, had begun his artistic1 career with a simple walking-on part in this very theatre, and since then had played in all parts of Russia, and gained a resounding3 fame such as no other actor visiting the provinces had ever obtained. It was true that, during the last year, people had gossiped about him, and there had even appeared in the Press certain vague and only half-believed rumours4 about him. It was said that continual drunkenness and debauch5 had unsettled and ruined Kostromsky's gigantic talent, that only by being "on tour" had he continued to enjoy the fruit of his past successes, that impresarios6 of the great metropolitan7 theatres had begun to show less of their former slavish eagerness to agree to his terms. Who knows, there may have been a certain amount of truth in these rumours? But the name of Kostromsky was still great enough to draw the public. For three days in succession, in spite of the increased prices of seats, there had been a long line of people waiting at the box office. Speculative8 buyers had resold tickets at three, four, and even five times their original value.
The first scene was omitted, and the stage was being prepared for the second. The footlights had not yet been turned up. The scenery of the queen's palace was hanging in strange, rough, variegated9 cardboard. The stage carpenters were hastily driving in the last nails.
The theatre had gradually filled with people. From behind the curtain could be heard a dull and monotonous10 murmur11.
Kostromsky was seated in front of the mirror in his dressing-room. He had only just arrived, but was already dressed in the traditional costume of the Danish prince; black-cloth buckled12 shoes, short black velvet13 jacket with wide lace collar. The theatrical14 barber stood beside him in a servile attitude, holding a wig15 of long fair hair.
"He is fat and pants for breath," declaimed Kostromsky, rubbing some cold cream on his palm and beginning to smear16 his face with it.
The barber suddenly began to laugh.
"What's the matter with you, fool?" asked the actor, not taking his eyes from the mirror.
"Oh, I ... er ... nothing ... er...."
"Well, it's evident you're a fool. They say that I'm too fat and flabby. And Shakspeare himself said that Hamlet was fat and panted for breath. They're all good-for-nothings, these newspaper fellows. They just bark at the wind."
Having finished with the cold cream, Kostromsky put the flesh tints17 on to his face in the same manner, but looking more attentively18 into the mirror.
"Yes, make-up is a great thing; but all the same, my face is not what it used to be. Look at the bags under my eyes, and the deep folds round my mouth ... cheeks all puffed19 out ... nose lost its fine shape. Ah, well, we'll struggle on a bit longer.... Kean drank, Mochalof drank ... hang it all. Let them talk about Kostromsky and say that he's a bloated drunkard. Kostromsky will show them in a moment ... these youngsters ... these water-people ... he'll show them what real talent can do."
"You, Ethiop, have you ever seen me act?" he asked, turning suddenly on the barber.
The man trembled all over with pleasure.
"Mercy on us, Alexander Yevgrafitch.... Yes, I ... O Lord!... is it possible for me not to have seen the greatest, one may say, of Russian artists? Why, in Kazan I made a wig for you with my own hands."
"The devil may know you. I don't remember," said Kostromsky, continuing to make long and narrow lines of white down the length of his nose, "there are so many of you.... Pour out something to drink!"
The barber poured out half a tumblerful of vodka from the decanter on the marble dressing-table, and handed it to Kostromsky.
The actor drank it off, screwed up his face, and spat20 on the floor.
"You'd better have a little something to eat, Alexander Yevgrafitch," urged the barber persuasively21. "If you take it neat ... it goes to your head...."
Kostromsky had almost finished his make-up; he had only to put on a few streaks22 of brown colouring, and the "clouds of grief" overshadowed his changed and ennobled countenance23.
"Give me my cloak!" said he imperiously to the barber, getting up from his chair.
From the theatre there could already be heard, in the dressing-room, the sounds of the tuning24 of the instruments in the orchestra.
The crowds of people had all arrived. The living stream could be heard pouring into the theatre and flowing into the boxes stalls and galleries with the noise and the same kind of peculiar25 rumble26 as of a far-off sea.
"It's a long time since the place has been so full," remarked the barber in servile ecstasy27; "there's n-not an empty seat!"
Kostromsky sighed.
He was still confident in his great talent, still full of a frank self-adoration28 and the illimitable pride of an artist, but, although he hardly dared to allow himself to be conscious of it, he had an uneasy feeling that his laurels29 had begun to fade. Formerly30 he had never consented to come to the theatre until the director had brought to his hotel the stipulated31 five hundred roubles, his night's pay, and he had sometimes taken offence in the middle of a play and gone home, swearing with all his might at the director, the manager, and the whole company.
The barber's remark was a vivid and painful reminder32 of these years of his extraordinary and colossal33 successes. Nowadays no director would bring him payment in advance, and he could not bring himself to contrive34 to demand it.
"Pour out some more vodka," said he to the barber.
There was no more vodka left in the decanter. But the actor had received sufficient stimulus35. His eyes, encircled by fine sharp lines of black drawn36 along both eyelids37, were larger and more full of life, his bent38 body straightened itself, his swollen39 legs, in their tight-fitting black, looked lithe40 and strong.
He finished his toilet by dusting powder over his face, with an accustomed hand, then slightly screwing up his eyes he regarded himself in the mirror for the last time, and went out of the dressing-room.
When he descended41 the staircase, with his slow self-reliant step, his head held high, every movement of his was marked by that easy gracious simplicity42 which had so impressed the actors of the French company, who had seen him when he, a former draper's assistant, had first appeared in Moscow.
II
The stage manager had already rushed forward to greet Kostromsky.
The lights in the theatre blazed high. The chaotic43 disharmony of the orchestra tuning their instruments suddenly died down. The noise of the crowd grew louder, and then, as it were, suddenly subsided44 a little.
Out broke the sounds of a loud triumphal march. Kostromsky went up to the curtain and looked through a little round hole made in it at about a man's height. The theatre was crowded with people. He could only see distinctly the faces of those in the first three rows, but beyond, wherever his eye turned, to left, to right, above, below, there moved, in a sort of bluish haze45, an immense number of many-coloured human blobs. Only the side boxes, with their white and gold arabesques46 and their crimson47 barriers, stood out against all this agitated48 obscurity. But as he looked through the little hole in the curtain, Kostromsky did not experience in his soul that feeling—once so familiar and always singularly fresh and powerful—of a joyous49, instantaneous uplifting of his whole moral being. It was just a year since he had ceased to feel so, and he explained his indifference50 by thinking he had grown accustomed to the stage, and did not suspect that this was the beginning of paralysis51 of his tired and worn-out soul.
The manager rushed on to the stage behind him, all red and perspiring52, with dishevelled hair.
"Devil! Idiocy53! All's gone to the devil! One might as well cut one's throat," he burst out in a voice of fury, running up to Kostromsky. "Here you, devils, let me come to the curtain! I must go out and tell the people at once that there will be no performance. There's no Ophelia. Understand! There's no Ophelia."
"How do you mean there's no Ophelia?" said the astonished Kostromsky, knitting his brows. "You're joking, aren't you, my friend?"
"There's no joking in me," snarled54 the manager. "Only just this moment, five minutes before she's wanted, I receive this little billet-doux from Milevskaya. Just look, look, what this idiot writes! 'I'm in bed with a feverish55 cold and can't play my part.' Well? Don't you understand what it means? This is not a pound of raisins56, old man, pardon the expression, it means we can't produce the play."
"Someone else must take her place," Kostromsky flashed out. "What have her tricks to do with me?"
"Who can take her place, do you think? Bobrova is Gertrude, Markovitch and Smolenskaya have a holiday and they've gone off to the town with some officers. It would be ridiculous to make an old woman take the part of Ophelia. Don't you think so? Or there's someone else if you like, a young girl student. Shall we ask her?"
He pointed57 straight in front of him to a young girl who was just walking on to the stage; a girl in a modest coat and fur cap, with gentle pale face and large dark eyes.
The young girl, astonished at such unexpected attention, stood still.
"Who is she?" asked Kostromsky in a low voice, looking with curiosity at the girl's face.
"Her name's Yureva. She's here as a student. She's smitten58 with a passion for dramatic art, you see," answered the manager, speaking loudly and without any embarrassment59.
"Listen to me, Yureva. Have you ever read 'Hamlet'?" asked Kostromsky, going nearer to the girl.
"Of course I have," answered she in a low confused voice.
"Could you play Ophelia here this evening?"
"I know the part by heart, but I don't know if I could play it."
Kostromsky went close up to her and took her by the hand.
"You see ... Milevskaya has refused to play, and the theatre's full. Make up your mind, my dear! You can be the saving of us all!"
Yureva hesitated and was silent, though she would have liked to say much, very much, to the famous actor. It was he who, three years ago, by his marvellous acting61, had unconsciously drawn her young heart, with an irresistible62 attraction, to the stage. She had never missed a performance in which he had taken part, and she had often wept at nights after seeing him act in "Cain," in "The Criminal's Home," or in "Uriel da Costa." She would have accounted it her greatest happiness, and one apparently63 never to be attained64 ... not to speak to Kostromsky; no, of that she had never dared to dream, but only to see him nearer in ordinary surroundings.
She had never lost her admiration65 of him, and only an actor like Kostromsky, spoilt by fame and satiated by the attentions of women, could have failed to notice at rehearsals66 the two large dark eyes which followed him constantly with a frank and persistent67 adoration.
"Well, what is it? Can we take your silence for consent?" insisted Kostromsky, looking into her face with a searching, kindly68 glance, and putting into the somewhat nasal tones of his voice that irresistible tone of friendliness69 which he well knew no woman could withstand.
Yureva's hand trembled in his, her eyelids drooped70, and she answered submissively:
"Very well. I'll go and dress at once."
III
The curtain rose, and no sooner did the public see their favourite than the theatre shook with sounds of applause and cries of ecstasy.
Kostromsky standing71 near the king's throne, bowed many times, pressed his hand to his heart, and sent his gaze over the whole assembly.
At length, after several unsuccessful attempts, the king, taking advantage of a moment when the noise had subsided a little, raised his voice and began his speech:
"Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother's death
The memory be green, and that it us befitted
To bear our hearts in grief, and our whole kingdom
To be contracted in one brow of woe72;
Yet so far hath discretion73 fought with nature
That we with wisest sorrow think on him...."
The enthusiasm of the crowd had affected74 Kostromsky, and when the king turned to him, and addressed him as "brother and beloved son," the words of Hamlet's answer:
"A little more than kin2 and less than kind,"
sounded so gloomily ironical75 and sad that an involuntary thrill ran through the audience.
And when the queen, with hypocritical words of consolation76, said:
"Thou knowst 'tis common; all that Uvea must die,
Passing through nature to eternity,"
he slowly raised his long eyelashes, which he had kept lowered until that moment, looked reproachfully at her, and then answered with a slight shake of the head:
"Ay, madam, it is common."
After these words, expressing so fully77 his grief for his dead father, his own aversion from life and submission78 to fate, and his bitter scorn of his mother's light-mindedness, Kostromsky, with the special, delicate, inexplicable79 sensitiveness of an experienced actor, felt that now he had entirely80 gripped his audience and bound them to him with an inviolable chain.
It seemed as if no one had ever before spoken with such marvellous force that despairing speech of Hamlet at the exit of the king and queen:
"O, that this too too solid flesh would melt,
Thaw82, and resolve itself into a dew!"
The nasal tones of Kostromsky's voice were clear and flexible. Now it rang out with a mighty83 clang, then sank to a gentle velvety84 whisper or burst into hardly restrained sobs85.
And when, with a simple yet elegant gesture, Kostromsky pronounced the last words:
"But break my heart, for I must hold my tongue!"
the audience roared out its applause.
"Yes, the public and I understand one another," said the actor as he went off the stage into the wings after the first act. "Here, you crocodile, give me some vodka!" he shouted at once to the barber who was coming to meet him.
IV
"Well, little father, don't you think he's fine?" said a young actor-student to Yakovlef, the patriarch of provincial86 actors, who was taking the part of the king.
The two were standing together on the staircase which led from the dressing-rooms to the stage. Yakovlef pursed and bit his full thick lips.
"Fine! Fine! But all the same, he acts as a boy. Those who saw Mochalof play Hamlet wouldn't marvel60 at this. I, brother, was just such a little chap as you are when I had the happiness of seeing him first. And when I come to die, I shall look back on that as the most blessed moment of my life. When he got up from the floor of the stage and said:
"'Let the stricken deer go weep'
the audience rose as one man, hardly daring to breathe. And now watch carefully how Kostromsky takes that very scene."
"You're very hard to please, Valerie Nikolaitch."
"Not at all. But you watch him; to tell, you the truth, I can't. Do you think I am watching him?"
"Well, who then?"
"Ah, brother, look at Ophelia. There's an actress for you!"
"But Valerie Nikolaitch, she's only a student."
"Idiot! Don't mind that. You didn't notice how she said the words:
"'He spoke81 to me of love, but was so tender,
So timid, and so reverent87.'[1]
Of course you didn't. And I've been nearly thirty years on the stage, and I tell you I've never heard anything like it. She's got talent. You mark my words, in the fourth act she'll have such a success that your Kostromsky will be in a fury. You see!"
[1] Perhaps—"He hath, my lord, of late made many
tenders
Of his affection to me."
The Russian lines do not clearly correspond to any of Shakespeare's.—ED.
V
The play went on. The old man's prophecy was abundantly fulfilled. The enthusiasm of Kostromsky only lasted out the first act. It could not be roused again by repeated calls before the curtain, by applause, or by the gaze of his enormous crowd of admirers, who thronged88 into the wings to look at him with gentle reverence89. There now remained in him only the very smallest store of that energy and feeling which he had expended90 with such royal generosity92 three years ago on every act.
He had wasted his now insignificant93 store in the first act, when he had been intoxicated94 by the loud cries of welcome and applause from the public. His will was weakened, his nerves unbraced, and not even increased doses of alcohol could revive him. The imperceptible ties which had connected him with his audience at first were gradually weakening, and, though the applause at the end of the second act was as sincere as at the end of the first, yet it was clear that the people were applauding, not him, but the charm of his name and fame.
Meanwhile, each time she appeared on the stage, Ophelia—Yureva—progressed in favour. This hitherto unnoticed girl, who had previously95 played only very minor96 parts, was now, as it were, working a miracle. She seemed a living impersonation of the real daughter of Polonius, a gentle, tender, obedient daughter, with deep hidden feeling and great love in her soul, empoisoned by the venom97 of grief.
The audience did not yet applaud Yureva, but they watched her, and whenever she came on the stage the whole theatre calmed down to attention. She herself had no suspicion that she was in competition with the great actor, and taking from him attention and success, and even the spectators themselves were unconscious of the struggle.
The third act was fatal for Kostromsky. His appearance in it was preceded by the short scene in which the king and Polonius agree to hide themselves and listen to the conversation between Hamlet and Ophelia, in order to judge of the real reason of the prince's madness. Kostromsky came out from the wings with slow steps, his hands crossed upon his breast, his head bent low, his stockings unfastened and the right one coming down.
"To be or not to be--that is the question."
He spoke almost inaudibly, all overborne by serious thought, and did not notice Ophelia, who sat at the back of the stage with an open book on her knee.
This famous soliloquy had always been one of Kostromsky's show places. Some years ago, in this very town and this very theatre, after he had finished this speech by his invocation to Ophelia, there had been for a moment that strange and marvellous silence which speaks more eloquently98 than the noisiest applause. And then everyone in the theatre had gone into an ecstasy of applause, from the humblest person in the back row of the gallery to the exquisites99 in the private boxes.
Alas100, now both Kostromsky himself and his audience remained cold and unmoved, though he was not yet conscious of it.
"Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue101 of resolution.
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought
And enterprises of great pith and moment.
With this regard their currents turn awry102,
And lose the name of action,"
he went on, gesticulating and changing his intonation103 from old memory. And he thought to himself that when he saw Ophelia he would go down on his knees in front of her and say the final words of his speech, and that the audience would weep and cry out with a sweet foolishness.
And there was Ophelia. He turned to the audience with a cautious warning "Soft you, now!" and then walking swiftly across the stage he knelt down and exclaimed:
"—Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd,"
and then got up immediately, expecting a burst of applause.
But there was no applause. The public were puzzled, quite unmoved, and all their attention was turned on Ophelia.
For some seconds he could think of nothing; it was only when he heard at his side a gentle girl's voice asking, "Prince, are you well?"—a voice which trembled with the tears of sorrow for a love destroyed—that, in a momentary104 flash, he understood all.
It was a moment of awful enlightenment. Kostromsky recognised it clearly and mercilessly—the indifference of the public; his own irrevocable past; the certainty of the near approach of the end to his noisy but short-lived fame.
Oh, with what hatred105 did he look upon this girl, so graceful106, beautiful, innocent, and—tormenting thought—so full of talent. He would have liked to throw himself upon her, beat her, throw her on the ground and stamp with his feet upon that delicate face, with its large dark eyes looking up at him with love and pity. But he restrained himself, and answered in lowered tones:
"I humbly107 thank you; well, well, well."
After this scene Kostromsky was recalled, but he heard, much louder than his own name, the shouts from the gallery, full with students, for Yureva, who, however, refused to appear.
VI
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 forth108 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 daunted109. "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 irritation110 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.
VII
The fourth act commenced. As soon as Ophelia came on to the stage in her white dress, adorned111 with flowers and straw, her eyes wide open and staring, a confused murmur ran through the audience, and was followed by an almost painful silence.
And when Ophelia sang her little songs about her dear love, in gentle, na?ve tones, there was a strange breathing among the audience as if a deep and general sigh had burst from a thousand breasts:
"How should I your true love know,
From another one?
By his cockle hat and staff,
And his sandal shoon."
"Oh, poor Ophelia! What are you singing?" asked the queen sympathetically.
The witless eyes of Ophelia were turned on the queen in wonder, as if she had not noticed her before.
"What am I singing?" she asked in astonishment112.
"Listen to my song:
"'He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone;
At his head a grass-green turf,
At his heels a stone.'"
No one in the theatre could look on with indifference, all were in the grip of a common feeling, all sat as if enchanted113, never moving their eyes from the stage.
But more persistently114, and more eagerly than anyone else, Kostromsky stood in the wings and watched her every movement. In his soul, his sick and proud soul, which had never known restraint or limit to its own desires and passions, there now blazed a terrible and intolerable hatred. He felt that this poor and modest girl-student had definitely snatched from his hands the evening's success. His drunkenness had, as it were, quite gone out of his head. He did not yet know how this envious115 spite which boiled in him could expend91 itself, but he awaited impatiently the time when Ophelia would come off the stage.
"I hope all will be well. We must be patient; but I cannot choose but weep to think they should lay him in the cold ground,"
he heard Ophelia say, in a voice choked with the madness of grief.
"My brother shall know of it, and so I thank you for your good counsel. Come, my coach! Good-night, ladies; good-night, sweet ladies; good-night, good-night."
Yureva came out in the wings, agitated, breathing deeply, pale even under her make-up. She was followed by deafening116 cries from the audience. In the doorway117 she stumbled up against Kostromsky. He purposely made no way for her, but she, even when her shoulder brushed against his, did not notice him, so excited was she by her acting and the rapturous applause of the public.
"Yureva! Yureva! Brav-o-o!"
She went back and bowed.
As she returned again to the wings she again stumbled against Kostromsky, who would not allow her to pass. Yureva looked at him with a terrified glance, and said timidly:
"Please allow me to pass!"
"Be more careful please, young person!" answered he, with malicious118 haughtiness119. "If you are applauded by a crowd of such idiots, it doesn't mean you can push into people with impunity120." And seeing her silent and frightened, he became still more infuriated, and taking her roughly by the arm he pushed her on one side and cried out:
"Yes, you can pass, devil take you, blockhead that you are!"
VIII
When Kostromsky had quieted down a little after this rude outburst of temper, he at once became weaker, slacker and more drunken than before; he even forgot that the play had not yet finished. He went into his dressing-room, slowly undressed, and began lazily to rub the paint from his face with vaseline.
The manager, puzzled by his long absence, ran into his room at last and stared in amazement121.
"Alexander Yevgrafitch! Please! What are you doing? It's time for you to go on!"
"Go away, go away!" muttered Kostromsky tearfully, speaking through his nose, and wiping his face with the towel. "I've finished everything ... go away and leave me in peace!"
"What d'you mean, go away? Have you gone out of your mind? The audience is waiting!"
"Leave me alone!" cried Kostromsky.
The manager shrugged122 his shoulders and went out. In a few moments the curtain was raised, and the public, having been informed of Kostromsky's sudden illness, began to disperse123 slowly and silently as if they were going away from a funeral.
They had indeed been present at the funeral of a great and original talent, and Kostromsky was right when he said that he had "finished." He had locked the door, and sat by himself in front of the mirror in his dressing-room between two gas burners, the flames of which flared124 with a slight noise. From old habit he was carefully wiping his face, all smeared125 over with drunken but bitter tears. His mind recalled, as through a mist, the long line of splendid triumphs which had accompanied the first years of his career. Wreaths ... bouquets126 ... thousands of presents ... the eternal raptures127 of the crowd ... the flattery of newspapers ... the envy of his companions ... the fabulous128 benefits ... the adoration of the most beautiful of women.... Was it possible that all this was past? Could his talent really have gone—vanished? Perhaps it had left him long ago, two or three years back! And he, Kostromsky, what was he now? A theme for dirty theatrical gossip; an object of general mockery and ill-will; a man who had alienated129 all his friends by his unfeeling narrow-mindedness, his selfishness, his impatience130, his unbridled arrogance131.... Yes, it was all past!
"And if the Almighty"—the well-known lines flashed into his memory—"had not fixed132 his canon 'gainst self-slaughter.... Oh, my God, my God!" The burning, helpless tears trickled133 down his erstwhile beautiful face and mingled134 with the colours of the paint.
All the other actors had left the theatre when Kostromsky came out of his dressing-room. It was almost dark on the stage. Some workmen were wandering about, removing the last decorations. He walked along gropingly, with quiet footfalls, avoiding the heaps of property rubbish which were scattered135 everywhere about, and making his way towards the street.
Suddenly he was arrested by the sound of the restrained sobbing136 of a woman.
"Who is there?" he cried, going into a corner, with an undefined impulse of pity.
The dark figure made no answer; the sobs increased.
"Who's crying there?" he asked again, in fear, and at once recognised that it was Yureva who was sobbing there.
The girl was weeping, her thin shoulders heaving with convulsive shudders137.
It was strange. For the first time in his life Kostromsky's hard heart suddenly overflowed138 with a deep pity for this unprotected girl, whom he had so unjustifiably insulted. He placed his hand on her head and began to speak to her in an impressive and affectionate voice, quite naturally and unaffectedly.
"My child! I was dreadfully rude to you to-day. I won't ask your forgiveness; I know I could never atone139 for your tears. But if you could have known what was happening in my soul, perhaps you would forgive me and be sorry for me.... To-day, only to-day, I have understood that I have outlived my fame. What grief is there to compare with that? What, in comparison with that, would mean the loss of a mother, of a beloved child, of a lover? We artists live by terrible enjoyments140; we live and feel for those hundreds and thousands of people who come to look at us. Do you know ... oh, you must understand that I'm not showing off, I'm speaking quite simply to you.... Yes. Do you know that for the last five years there's not been an actor in the world whose name was greater than mine? Crowds have lain at my feet, at the feet of an illiterate141 draper's assistant. And suddenly, in one moment, I've fallen headlong from those marvellous heights...." He covered his face with his hands. "It's terrible!"
Yureva had stopped weeping, and was looking at Kostromsky with deep compassion142.
"You see, my dear," he went on, taking her cold hands in his. "You have a great and undoubted talent. Keep on the stage. I won't talk to you about such trivialities as the envy and intrigues143 of those who cannot act, or about the equivocal protection afforded by patrons of dramatic art, or about the gossip of that marsh144 which we call Society. All these are trifles, and not to be compared with those stupendous joys which a contemptible145 but adoring crowd can give to us. But"—Kostromsky's voice trembled nervously—"but do not outlive your fame. Leave the stage directly you feel that the sacred flame in you is burning low. Do not wait, my child, for the public to drive you away."
And turning quickly away from Yureva, who was trying to say something and even holding out her hands to him, he hurriedly walked off the stage.
"Wait a moment, Alexander Yevgrafitch," the manager called after him as he went out into the street, "come into the office for your money."
"Get away!" said Kostromsky, waving his hand, in vexation, irritably146. "I have finished. I have finished with it all."
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1
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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3
resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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debauch
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| v.使堕落，放纵 | |
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impresarios
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| n.（演出的）主办人，经理( impresario的名词复数 ) | |
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metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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8
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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9
variegated
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| adj.斑驳的，杂色的 | |
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10
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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11
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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12
buckled
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| a. 有带扣的 | |
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13
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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14
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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15
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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16
smear
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| v.涂抹；诽谤，玷污；n.污点；诽谤，污蔑 | |
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17
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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18
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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19
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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20
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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21
persuasively
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| adv.口才好地；令人信服地 | |
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22
streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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23
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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24
tuning
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| n.调谐，调整，调音v.调音( tune的现在分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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25
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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26
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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27
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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28
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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29
laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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30
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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31
stipulated
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| vt.& vi.规定；约定adj.[法]合同规定的 | |
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32
reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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33
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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34
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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35
stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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36
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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37
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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38
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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39
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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40
lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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41
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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42
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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43
chaotic
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| adj.混沌的，一片混乱的，一团糟的 | |
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44
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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45
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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46
arabesques
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| n.阿拉伯式花饰( arabesque的名词复数 )；错综图饰；阿拉伯图案；阿拉贝斯克芭蕾舞姿（独脚站立，手前伸，另一脚一手向后伸） | |
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47
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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48
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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49
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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50
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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51
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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52
perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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53
idiocy
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| n.愚蠢 | |
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54
snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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55
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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56
raisins
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| n.葡萄干( raisin的名词复数 ) | |
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57
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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58
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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59
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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60
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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61
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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62
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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63
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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64
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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65
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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66
rehearsals
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| n.练习( rehearsal的名词复数 )；排练；复述；重复 | |
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67
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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68
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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69
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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70
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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72
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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73
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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74
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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75
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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76
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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77
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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78
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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79
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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80
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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81
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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82
thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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83
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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84
velvety
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| adj. 像天鹅绒的, 轻软光滑的, 柔软的 | |
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85
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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86
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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87
reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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88
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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90
expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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91
expend
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| vt.花费，消费，消耗 | |
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92
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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93
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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94
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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95
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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96
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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97
venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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98
eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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99
exquisites
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| n.精致的( exquisite的名词复数 )；敏感的；剧烈的；强烈的 | |
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100
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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101
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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102
awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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103
intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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104
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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105
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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106
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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107
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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108
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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109
daunted
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| 使（某人）气馁，威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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111
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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112
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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113
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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114
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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115
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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116
deafening
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| adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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117
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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118
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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119
haughtiness
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| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
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120
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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121
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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122
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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123
disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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124
Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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125
smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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126
bouquets
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| n.花束( bouquet的名词复数 )；（酒的）芳香 | |
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127
raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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128
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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129
alienated
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| adj.感到孤独的，不合群的v.使疏远( alienate的过去式和过去分词 )；使不友好；转让；让渡（财产等） | |
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130
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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131
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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132
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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133
trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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134
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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135
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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136
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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137
shudders
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| n.颤动，打颤，战栗( shudder的名词复数 )v.战栗( shudder的第三人称单数 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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138
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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139
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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140
enjoyments
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| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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141
illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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142
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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143
intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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144
marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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145
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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146
irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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