“Leave me alone!” cried Kostromsky.
The manager shrugged 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 disperse 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 flared with a slight noise. From old habit he was carefully wiping his face, all smeared 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 ... bouquets ... thousands of presents ... the eternal raptures of the crowd ... the flattery of newspapers ... the envy of his companions ... the fabulous 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 alienated all his friends by his unfeeling narrow-mindedness, his selfishness, his impatience, his unbridled arrogance.... Yes, it was all past!
“And if the Almighty”—the well-known lines flashed into his memory—“had not fixed his canon ’gainst self-slaughter.... Oh, my God, my God!” The burning, helpless tears trickled down his erstwhile beautiful face and mingled 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 scattered everywhere about, and making his way towards the street.
Suddenly he was arrested by the sound of the restrained sobbing 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 shudders.