he would have called attention to himself; if he had shouted, perhaps he would have shouted Krista. He felt delight—unembittered delight.
Then the delight began to be embittered. A singer stepped forward, and here Krista was already not alone upon the stage. This singer pledged his love to her, and she pledged her love to him. Then they embraced and kissed each other. Already Venik was pretty well awakened from his dreaming and well nigh stricken to the ground. Here already he was not on a bed of roses, here he began to feel only its thorns. Here his heart began to beat differently, but his face grew pale and wan.
Then they sang together, the singer and Krista, and they sang about their love, continually about their love; when people after this again clapped and shouted, Venik neither clapped nor shouted, then if he had wished to shout he would have called out “a theatrical princess.” And after that he would have burst into a mocking laugh.
It was Krista. And now began to drum in his head the words “It is not Krista, that being yonder was, it is she no more.” The path to her had taken three years to traverse, it went through sorrow, tears, and sighs, and now that he had reached the goal at last, he said to himself, “I have found her and it is not she.”
It was Krista and it was not.
