make a mess of it. So be it, the die is cast," she went on in intense
excitement. "The die is cast. . . ."

It seemed to her that everyone was looking at her, and that all
were amazed at the momentous step she had taken, that everyone was
expecting something special of her, and it would have been impossible
to convince her that no one was paying attention to people so petty
and insignificant as she and I were.

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