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!