Rovinskaya, of course, had recalled both the mad escapade of that evening; and the striking, unforgettable face of Tamara; but now, in a bad mood, in the wearisome, prosaic light of an autumn day, this adventure appeared to her as unnecessary bravado; something artificial, imagined, and poignantly shameful.  But she was equally sincere on that strange, night-marish evening when she, through the might of talent, had prostrated the proud Jennka at her feet, as well as now, when she recalled it with fatigue, indolence, and artistic disdain.  She, as well as many distinguished artists, was always playing a role; was always not her own self, and always regarded her words, movements, actions, as though looking at herself from a distance with the eyes and feelings of the spectators.

She languidly raised from the pillow her narrow, slender, beautiful hand, and applied it to her forehead; and the mysterious, deep emeralds stirred as though alive and began to flash with a warm, deep sparkle.

“I just read in your note that this poor ... pardon me, her name has vanished out of my head...”

“Jennie.”

“Yes, yes, thank you!  I recall it now.  She died?  But from what?”

“She hanged herself ... yesterday morning, during the doctor’s inspection...”

The eyes of the artiste, so listless, seemingly faded, suddenly opened, and, as through a miracle, grew animated and became shining and green, just like her emeralds; and in them were reflected curiosity, fear and aversion.

“Oh, my God!  Such a dear, so original, handsome, so fiery ...  Oh, the poor, poor soul! ...  And the reason for this was? ...”

“You know ... the disease.  She told you.”

“Yes, yes ...  I remember, I remember ...  But to hang one’s self! ...  What horror! ...  Why, I advised her to treat herself then.  Medicine works miracles now.  I myself know several people who absolutely ... well, absolutely cured themselves.  Everybody in society knows this and receives them ...  Ah, the poor little thing, the poor little thing! ...”

“And so I’ve come to you, Ellena Victorovna.  I wouldn’t have dared to disturb you, but I seem to be in a forest, and have no one to turn to.  You were so kind then, so touchingly attentive, so tender to us ...  I need only your advice and, perhaps, a little of your influence, your protection...”

“Oh, please, my dear! ...  All I can do, I will ...  Oh, my poor head!  And then this horrible news.  Tell me, in what way can I be of assistance to you?”

“To confess, I don’t know even myself yet,” answered Tamara.  “You see, they carried her away to an anatomical theatre ...  But until they had made the protocol, until they made the journey—­then the time for receiving had gone by also—­in general I think that they have not had a chance to dissect her yet ...  I’d like, if it’s only possible, that she should not be touched.  To-day is Sunday; perhaps they’ll postpone it until to-morrow, and in the meanwhile something may be done for her...”