Behind the scenes the members of the company kept aloof from Kostovsky, and no one wanted to be on intimate terms with him; the chorus-singers “drank,” too, but considered themselves of a higher breed than the workman-decorator, and did not want him in their society, and the chorus-girls and ballet-dancers treated him like some sexless being, kept aloof from him, and looked at him with a grimace of disgust. He, on his part, also took little interest in them. He admired only Julia, a little ballet-dancer, and even her he loved only as an artist, when she danced on the stage enveloped in the electric rays of the reflector which he himself manipulated. He liked the turn of her pretty little head, and he admired her, distinguishing her in the crowd of the other ballet-dancers by an exceptionally bright ray. “In life” he never spoke to her, and she pretended that she did not notice his attentions at all. Living in a strange solitude, without love or friends, not having the sympathy of any one in the company, but being at the same time “indispensable” to it, he experienced an immeasurable feeling of “offense,” and caroused, as happened now when he was so badly “needed.” The stout stage-manager stood on the stage after the rehearsal and spoke about Kostovsky with the business-manager of the troupe, an elegant, dark-complexioned man of the Hebrew type. The broad, fat face of the stage-manager expressed restrained wrath, anxiety, and sorrow. “Well, just tell me, please,” he spoke tearfully, while in his heart a storm was raging, “what am I to do now? What am I to do n-o-w?” And, crossing his fat hands helplessly on his paunch, he wrathfully and sorrowfully looked at his companion. “Hoggishness, that is all!” replied the business-manager. “He started to drink on the steamer when we were coming here and has not sobered up yet. And do you know, he fell into the sea on the way here! That was a joke. I was suddenly awakened by the cry: ‘Man overboard!’ I sprang to my feet. ‘Who is it?’ ‘Kostovsky!’ ‘Ah, Kostovsky, and I thought it was--some one else!’ And I again went to bed as if nothing had happened, because, in my opinion, Kostovsky is not a man, but a pig.” “How did he come to fall into the water? Was he drunk?” “Of course he must have been drunk. He fell asleep on the deck and was forgotten. The vessel lurched and he rolled over.” “Ho-ho-ho!” the stage-manager’s deep laugh rang out. “He-he-he!” chorused the business-manager in his thin, piping laugh. “But what is still funnier, the sea would have none of him, and he was fished out even before he had time to become entirely awake. A wonderful accident, really! The sea even refused to swallow such a rascal!” “But where is he now?” inquired the stage-manager after he had ceased laughing, and a little softened by the story of Kostovsky’s mishap at sea.