prompter’s box, and his desk; the rest is in pitch darkness, a black, bottomless pit, like a grave, in which death itself might be hiding....  Brr....  How cold it is!  The wind blows out of the empty theatre as though out of a stone flue.  What a place for ghosts!  The shivers are running up and down my back. [Calls] Yegorka!  Petrushka!  Where are you both?  What on earth makes me think of such gruesome things here?  I must give up drinking; I’m an old man, I shan’t live much longer.  At sixty-eight people go to church and prepare for death, but here I am—­heavens!  A profane old drunkard in this fool’s dress—­I’m simply not fit to look at.  I must go and change it at once....  This is a dreadful place, I should die of fright sitting here all night. [Goes toward his dressing-room; at the same time Nikita Ivanitch in a long white coat comes out of the dressing-room at the farthest end of the stage.  SVIETLOVIDOFF sees Ivanitch—­shrieks with terror and steps back] Who are you?  What?  What do you want? [Stamps his foot] Who are you?

Ivanitch.  It is I, sir.

SVIETLOVIDOFF.  Who are you?

Ivanitch. [Comes slowly toward him] It is I, sir, the prompter, Nikita
Ivanitch.  It is I, master, it is I!

SVIETLOVIDOFF. [Sinks helplessly onto the stool, breathes heavily and trembles violently] Heavens!  Who are you?  It is you . . . you Nikitushka?  What . . . what are you doing here?

Ivanitch.  I spend my nights here in the dressing-rooms.  Only please be good enough not to tell Alexi Fomitch, sir.  I have nowhere else to spend the night; indeed, I haven’t.

SVIETLOVIDOFF.  Ah!  It is you, Nikitushka, is it?  Just think, the audience called me out sixteen times; they brought me three wreathes and lots of other things, too; they were all wild with enthusiasm, and yet not a soul came when it was all over to wake the poor, drunken old man and take him home.  And I am an old man, Nikitushka!  I am sixty-eight years old, and I am ill.  I haven’t the heart left to go on. [Falls on IVANITCH’S neck and weeps] Don’t go away, Nikitushka; I am old and helpless, and I feel it is time for me to die.  Oh, it is dreadful, dreadful!

Ivanitch. [Tenderly and respectfully] Dear master! it is time for you to go home, sir!

SVIETLOVIDOFF.  I won’t go home; I have no home—­none! none!—­none!

Ivanitch.  Oh, dear!  Have you forgotten where you live?

SVIETLOVIDOFF.  I won’t go there.  I won’t!  I am all alone there.  I have nobody, Nikitushka!  No wife—­no children.  I am like the wind blowing across the lonely fields.  I shall die, and no one will remember me.  It is awful to be alone—­no one to cheer me, no one to caress me, no one to help me to bed when I am drunk.  Whom do I belong to?  Who needs me?  Who loves me?  Not a soul, Nikitushka.

Ivanitch. [Weeping] Your audience loves you, master.