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shrieks with terror and steps back] Who are you? What? What do you want? [Stamps his foot] Who are you?

. It is I, sir.

. Who are you?

. [Comes slowly toward him] It is I, sir, the prompter, Nikita Ivanitch. It is I, master, it is I!

. [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?

. I spend my nights here in the dressing-rooms. Only please be good enough not to tell Alexi Fomitch, sir. I have nowhere else to spend the night; indeed, I haven’t.

. Ah! It is you, Nikitushka, is it? Just think, the audience called me out sixteen times; they brought me three wreathes and lots of other things, too; they were all wild with enthusiasm, and yet not a soul came when it was all over to wake the poor, drunken old man and take him home. And I am an old man, Nikitushka! I am sixty-eight years old, and I am ill. I haven’t the heart left to go on. [Falls on neck and weeps] Don’t go away, Nikitushka; I am old and helpless, and I feel it is time for me to die. Oh, it is dreadful, dreadful!

. [Tenderly and respectfully] Dear master! it is time for you to go home, sir!

. I won’t go home; I have no home—none! none!—none!

. Oh, dear! Have you forgotten where you live?

. I won’t go there. I won’t! I am all alone there. I have nobody, Nikitushka! No wife—no children. I am like the wind blowing across the lonely fields. I shall die, and no one will remember me. It is awful to be alone