ABSTRACT
Tortsov came in, looked at us intently and said: ‘Marya, go up onstage.’ I couldn’t begin to describe the terror which gripped the poor girl. She
started rushing about the place, her feet slipping on the polished parquet floor like a young puppy. Finally we caught hold of her and carried her to Tortsov who was laughing like a schoolboy. She covered her face with her hands and babbled over and over again:
‘My little darlings, please, I can’t! My dears, I’m scared, I’m scared!’
