The artiste was having one of her evil, black days today. Yesterday morning some misunderstandings with the management had arisen; while in the evening the public had received her not as triumphantly as she would have desired, or, perhaps, this had simply appeared so to her; while today in a newspaper a fool of a reviewer, who understood just as much of art as a cow does of astronomy, had praised up her rival, Titanova, in a big article. And so Ellena Victorovna had persuaded herself that her head was aching; that there was a nervous tic in her temples; and that her heart, time and again, seemed suddenly to fall through somewheres.
“How do you do, my dear!” she said, a trifle nasally, in a weak, wan voice, with pauses, as heroines on the stage speak when dying from love and from consumption. “Sit down here … I am glad to see you … Only don’t be angry—I am almost dying from migraine, and from my miserable heart. Pardon my speaking with difficulty; I think I sang too much and tired my voice …”
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, nightmarish 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 individualistically 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. Today is Sunday; perhaps they’ll postpone it until tomorrow, and in the meanwhile something may be done for her …”
“I can’t tell you, dear … Wait! … Haven’t I some friend among the professors, in the medical world? … I will look later in my memo-books. Perhaps we will succeed in doing something.”
“Besides that,” continued Tamara, “I want to bury her … At my expense … I was attached to her with all my heart during her life.”
“I will help you with pleasure in this, materially …”
“No, no! … A thousand thanks! … I’ll do everything myself. I would not hesitate to have recourse to your kind heart, but this … you will understand me … this is something in the nature of a vow, that a person gives to one’s self and to the memory of a friend. The main difficulty is in how we may manage to bury her with Christian rites. She was, it seems, an unbeliever, or believed altogether poorly. And it’s only by chance that I, also, will cross my forehead. But I don’t want them to bury her just like a dog, somewhere beyond the enclosure of the cemetery; in silence, without words, without singing … I don’t know, will they permit burying her properly—with choristers, with priests? For that reason I’m asking you to assist me with your advice. Or, perhaps, you will direct me somewhere? …”
Now the artiste had little by little become interested and was already beginning to forget about her fatigue, and migraine, and the consumptive heroine dying in the fourth act. She was already picturing the role of an intercessor, the beautiful figure of genius merciful to a fallen woman. This was original, extravagant, and at the same time so theatrically touching! Rovinskaya, like many of her confreres, did not let one day pass by—and, if it were possible, she would not have let pass even one hour—without standing out from the crowd, without compelling people to talk about her: today she
