night, after the lights have been put out. The first time. [Walks up
to the foot-lights] How dark it is! I can't see a thing. Oh, yes, I can
just make out the 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