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colored playbills follow after; even the letters on the bills leap out of their lines and dash away. The fantastic perspective in the Kingdom of Roles is changing every second. But Stern is still holding the book forgotten by Burbage. Now there’s no reason to delay: the time has come to take its meaning by force, to reveal its secret. But the book is fitted with strong brass clasps. Stern tries to pry the covers apart. The book resists, clenching its pages. In a final fit of rage Stern, bloodying his fingers, breaks open the strongbox of words. On the unclenched pages, he reads:
    â€œActus morbi. History of the illness. Patient number. Hmm … Schizophrenia. Development normal. Attack. Fever. Recurrent. Delusional idea: some man named Burbage. Stomach normal. Process becoming chronic. Incura—”
    Stern looks up to see: a long, vaulted hospital corridor. Down its length are numbered doors flanked with armchairs for duty nurses and visitors. In the depths of the corridor absorbed in a book, envelb9 oped in a loose white garment, sits an orderly. He doesn’t notice when the door in the depths of the perspective flies opens and two people race in: a man and a woman. The man turns to his companion. “I don’t care how sick he is, you could at least have let me get out of my costume and make up.”
    Glancing around at the voices, the orderly is stunned: the visitors have thrown off their coats to reveal the costumes of Hamlet and Ophelia.
    â€œThere now, you see: I knew people would stare. Why did we have to rush?”
    â€œDarling, but what if we hadn’t gotten here in time? Because if he won’t forgive me—”
    â€œDon’t be silly.”
    The orderly is completely confused. But Stern, his face bright, rises to greet the visitors. “Burbage, finally. And you, my one and only! Oh, how I’ve been waiting for you, and for you. I even dared suspect you, Burbage. I thought you’d stolen her from me, and the role too, I wanted to rob you of your words: they avenged themselves by calling me a ‘madman.’ But those are only words, after all, the role’s words. If I have to play a madman, fine, so be it—I’ll play him. Only why did they change the set: this one is from some other play. But never mind: we’ll go from role to role and play to play, farther and farther into the depths of the boundless Kingdom of Roles. But, Ophelia, why aren’t you wearing your garland? You know you need marjoram and rue for the mad scene. * Where are they?”
    â€œI took them off, Stern.”
    â€œYou did? Or perhaps you’ve drowned and don’t know that you are not, and your garland is floating on the ripples among the reeds and lilies, and no one hears …”
    â€œI think I’ll leave off there. Without any unnecessary flourishes.”
    Rar rose.
    â€œBut allow me to ask,” Das’s round glasses bore down on Rar, “does he die or not? And then it’s not clear to me—”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter what’s not clear to you. I stopped all the pipe’s vents. All of them. The pipe player doesn’t ask what happens next: he should know himself. After every gist comes the rest. On this point I agree with Hamlet: ‘The rest is silence.’ Curtain .”
    Rar went to the door, turned the key twice to the left and, bowing, disappeared. The conceivers departed in silence. Our host, retaining my hand in his, apologized for the “unexpected unpleasantness” that had spoiled the evening, and reminded me about the next Saturday.
    Issuing out into the street, I caught sight of Rar far ahead; he soon disappeared down a side street. I walked quickly—from crossroad to crossroad—trying to untangle my feelings. The evening seemed like a black wedge driven into my life. I had to unwedge it. But how?
    [1] History of an illness. ( Lat .)

3
    T HE FOLLOWING SATURDAY , toward dusk, I was again