"No; I shall leave things as they are," said Markovitch, "so that he
shall see exactly what I've done. I'll write a note."
He scribbled a note to me in pencil. I have it still. It ran:
Dear Ivan Andreievitch--I looked for a letter from my wife to you. In
doing so I was I suppose contemptible. But no matter. At least you see
me as I am. I clasp your hand, N. Markovitch.
They went away together.
II
I was greatly surprised to receive, a few days later, an invitation from
Baron Wilderling; he asked me to go with him on one of the first
evenings in March to a performance of Lermontov's "Masquerade" at the
Alexandra Theatre. I say Lermontov, but heaven knows that that great
Russian poet was not supposed to be going to have much to say in the
affair. This performance had been in preparation for at least ten years,
and when such delights as Gordon Craig's setting of "Hamlet," or Benois'
dresses for "La Locandiera" were discussed, the Wise Ones said:
"Ah,--all very well--just wait until you see 'Masquerade.'"
These manifestations of the artistic spirit had not been very numerous
of late in Petrograd.
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