The little garden theater was beginning to awaken.
The curtain arose with a creaking sound and there appeared a
barefooted and disheveled boy, clad only in a smock, who began to
sweep the temple of art. The dust floated out in large clouds on the
garden, settling on the red cloth coverings of the chairs and on the
leaves of a few consumptive chestnut trees.
The waiters and servants of the restaurant began to put things to
order under the large veranda. One could hear the clatter of washed
glasses, the beating of rugs, the moving of chairs and the subdued
whispers of the buffet-tender who arranged with a certain unction
her rows of bottles, platters containing sandwiches, and huge
bouquets a la Makart, resembling dried brooms. The glaring rays of
the sun peered in at the sides of the garden and a throng of black
sparrows swayed on the branches and perched on the chairs, clamoring
for crumbs.
The clock over the buffet was slowly and solemnly striking the hour
of ten, when a tall slim boy rushed in on the veranda; a torn cap
was perched on the top of his touseled red hair, his freckled face
wore a mischievous smile, and his nose was upturned. He ran straight
to the buffet.
"Be careful, Wicek, or you'll lose your shoes!" . . . called the
barmaid.
"I don't care; I'll get them remodeled!" he retorted jovially,
gazing down at his shoes which clung miraculously to his feet
despite the fact that they were minus both soles and tops.
"Please, miss, let me have a thimbleful of beer!" he cried bowing
ostentatiously.
"Have you the price?" asked the barmaid, extending her palm.
"This evening, I'll pay you. I give you my word, I'll pay you for it
without fail," he begged.
The barmaid merely shrugged her shoulders.
"O come on, let me have it, miss. . . . I'll recommend you to the
Shah of Persia. . . . Such a broad dame ought to have quite a pull
with him. . . ."
The waiters burst out laughing, while the barmaid banged her metal
tray against the counter.
"Wicek!" called someone from the entrance.
"At your service, Mr. Manager."
"Are they all here for the rehearsal?"
"Oh! They'll all be here without fail!" he answered, laughing
roguishly.
"Did you notify them? . . . Did you go to them with the circular?"
"Yes, they all signed it."
"Did you take the play-bill to the director?"
"The director was still behind the scenes: he was lying in bed and
gazing at his toes."
"You should have given it to his wife."
"But Mrs. Directress was in the midst of a tussle with her children;
it was a little too noisy there."
"You will go with this letter to Comely Street. . . . Do you know
where it is?"
"A few times over, 'She's quite a respectable dame,' as a certain
man in the front row said of Miss Nicolette the other day."
"You will take this, wait for an answer, and come right back."
"But Mr. Manager, will I get something for going?"
"Didn't I give you something on account only last night?"
"Oh . . . only a copper! I spent it for beer and sardines, paid the
balance of my rent, gave my shoemaker a deposit for a new pair of
shoes, and now I'm dead broke!"
"You're a monkey! Here, take this . . . ."
"Blessed are the hands that dispense forty-cent pieces!" he cried
with a comical grimace, shuffled his shoes, and ran out.
"Set the stage for the rehearsal!" called the manager, seating
himself on the veranda.
The members of the company assembled slowly. They greeted each other
in silence and scattered over the garden.
"Dobek," called the stage-manager to a tall man who was making
straight for the buffet. "You guzzle from morn till night, and at
the rehearsals I cannot hear a word you say. . . . Your prompting
isn't worth a bean!"
"Mr. Manager, I had a bad dream that ran something like this:
Night . . . a well . . . I stumbled and fell into it . . . I was
frozen stiff with fear . . . I called for help . . . no help was
near . . . splash! . . . and I was up to my neck in water. . . .
Brr! . . . I still feel so cold that nothing will warm me."
"Oh, hang your dreams! You drink from morn till night."
"That's because I can't drink like others: from night till morn.
Brr! I feel so beastly chilled!"
"I'll order some hot tea for you."
"Thank you, I'm quite well Mr. Topolski, and use herbs only when I'm
sick. Must, the extracted juice, the constituent of rye, that's the
only stuff that is worthy of the complete man that I have the honor
to consider myself, Mr. Manager."
The director entered and Dobek went to the bar.
"Did you assign all the roles of Nitouche?" the director asked.
"Not quite," answered Topolski, "those women . . . there are three
candidates for Nitouche."
"Good morning, Mr. Director!" called one of the pillars of the
theater, Majkowska, a handsome actress dressed in a light gown, a
silken wrap, and a white hat with a big ostrich feather. She was all
rosy from a good night's sleep and from an invisible layer of rouge.
She had large, dark-blue eyes, full and carmined lips, classical
features, and a proud bearing. She played the principle roles.
"Come here a minute, Mr. Director . . . there is a little matter I
would like to speak to you about."
"Always at your service, madame. Perhaps you need some money?"
ventured the director with a troubled mien.
"For the present . . . no. What will you have to drink, Mr.
Director?"
"Ho! Ho! Somebody's blood is going to be shed!" he cried with a
comical gesture.
"I asked what will you drink, Mr. Director?"
"Oh, I don't know. I'd take a glass of cognac, but . . ."
"You're afraid of your wife? She does not appear in Nitouche, does
she?"
"No, but . . ."
"Waiter! Two cognacs and sandwiches. . . . You will give the role of
Nitouche to Nicolette, will you not, Mr. Director? Please do so, for
I have a good reason for asking it. Remember, Mr. Cabinski, that I
never ask for a thing in vain, and do this for me . . ."
"That's already the fourth candidate for the part! . . . God! all
that I have to stand because of these women!"
"Which of them wants this part?"
"Well, Kaczkowska, my wife, Mimi, and now, Nicolette. . . ."
"Waiter! Two more cognacs," she called, rapping on the tray with her
glass. "You will give the part to Nicolette, Mr. Director, I know
for a certainty that she will not accept it, for with her wooden
voice she could dance, but not sing. But you see, Mr. Director, this
is the very reason for giving it to her."
"Well . . . not to mention my own wife, Mimi and Kaczkowska will
tear off my head if I do!"
"You'll not lose much by that! I'll explain the matter to them. We
will have a splendid farce, for you see that gentleman friend of
hers will be present at to-day's rehearsal. Yesterday she boasted to
him that you had her in mind when you announced in the papers that
the role of Nitouche will be played by the beautiful and dashing
Mme. X.X."
Cabinski began to laugh quietly.
"Only don't breathe a word about it. You'll see what will happen.
Before him she will pretend to accept the part to show off. Halt
will immediately begin to rehearse her and will make a fool of her
before everyone. You will then take away her part and give it to
whomever you like."
"You women are terrible in your malice."
"Bah, therein lies our strength."
They went out into the garden hall where several members of the
company were already waiting for the rehearsal to begin. They sat
about on chairs in little groups laughing, joking, telling tales,
and complaining while the tuning of the orchestra furnished an
accompaniment to the buzz of voices.
On the veranda an increasing number of guests was assembling and the
hum of voices, the clatter of plates and the noisy shifting of
chairs grew ever louder. The smoke of cigarettes ascended in clouds
to the iron roof beams.
Janina Orlowska entered. She sat down at one of the tables and
inquired of the waiter:
"Can you tell me if the director of the theater has already
arrived?"
"There he is!"
"Which one of them."
"What will you have, madame?"
"I beg your pardon, which of those gentlemen is Mr. Cabinski?"
"A seven! . . . four whiskies!" someone called to the waiter from a
nearby table.
"Just a minute, just a minute!"
"Beer!" came another voice.
"Which of those gentlemen is the director?" patiently asked Janina
for the second time.
"I will serve you in a minute, madam!" said the waiter bowing on all
sides.
To Janina it seemed that they were all staring at her and that the
waiters, as they passed with their hands full of beer-glasses and
plates, cast such strange glances that she blushed in spite of
herself.
Presently the waiter returned, bringing the coffee she had ordered.
"Do you wish to see the director, madame?"
"Yes."
"He is sitting there in the first row of seats. That short man in a
white vest . . . there! Do you see him?"
"I do. Thank you!"
"Shall I tell him you wish to speak to him?"
"No. Anyway he seems to be busy."
"He is only chatting."
"And who are those gentlemen with whom he is talking?"
"They are also members of our company--actors."
She paid for the coffee, giving the waiter a ruble. He fumbled about
a long time, as though looking for change, but, seeing that she was
gazing in another direction, he bowed and thanked her.
Having finished her coffee, Janina went into the hall. She passed by
the director and took a cursory look at him. All that she saw was a
large, pale, anaemic face, covered with grayish splotches.
A few actors standing near him impressed her as handsome people. She
noticed in their gestures, their smooth shaven faces, their easy,
smiling airs something so superior to the men whom she had hitherto
known, that she listened to their conversation with rapt attention.
The uncurtained stage, wrapt in darkness, drew her with its hidden
mystery.
For the first time Janina saw the theater at close range and the
actors off stage. The theater seemed to her like a Grecian temple
and those people, whose profiles she had before her, and whose
eloquent voices sounded in her ears, seemed like true priests of
art.
She was regarding everything about her with interest, when she
suddenly noticed that the waiter who had served her was whispering
something to the director and pointing to her with a slight gesture.
There ran through Janina a tremor of fear, strange and depressing.
She did not look up again, but felt that someone was approaching,
that someone's glances were resting on her head and encircling her
figure.
She was still at a loss how to begin and what to say, but felt that
she must speak.
She arose when she noticed Cabinski standing before her.
"I am Mr. Cabinski, the director."
She stood there unable to utter a word.
"You deigned to ask for me, madame?" he queried with a courteous
bow, signifying that he was ready to listen to her.
"Yes . . . if you please . . . Mr. Director. I wished to ask
you . . . perhaps you could," she stuttered, unable for the moment
to find the right words to express what she wished to say.
"Pray rest a little, madame, and calm yourself. Is it something very
important?" he whispered, bending toward her and at the same time
winking significantly to the actors who were looking on.
"Oh, it is very important!" she answered, meeting his gaze. "I wish
to ask you, Mr. Director, if you would accept me as a member of your
company."
This last sentence she uttered quickly as though fearing that her
courage and voice might fail her ere it was spoken.
"Ah! . . . is that all? . . . You wish to be engaged, miss?" He
stiffened suddenly, studying her with a critical gaze.
"I journeyed here especially for that purpose. You will not refuse
me, Mr. Director, will you?"
"With whom did you appear before?"
"Pardon me, but I don't quite understand."
"With what company? . . . Where?"
"I have never before appeared in the theater. I came here straight
from the country for the express purpose of joining it."
"You have never appeared before? . . . Then, I have no place for
you!" and he turned to go.
Janina was seized with a desperate fear that her quest would fail,
so with courage and a tone of strong entreaty in her voice she began
to speak hurriedly:
"Mr. Director! I journeyed here especially to join your company. I
love the theater so ardently that I cannot live without it! . . . Do
not refuse me! I do not know anyone here in Warsaw. I came to you
because I had read so much about you in the papers. I feel that I
could play . . . I have memorized so many roles! . . . You will see,
Mr. Director . . . if you only let me appear . . . you will see!"
Cabinski was silent.
"Or perhaps you would prefer to have me call to-morrow? . . . I can
wait a few days, if you wish," she added, seeing that he did not
answer, but was observing her intently.
Her voice trembled with entreaty; it modulated with ease and there
was so much originality and warmth in her tone that Cabinski
listened to her with pleasure.
"Now I have no time, but after the rehearsal we can discuss the
matter more thoroughly," he said.
She wanted impulsively to press his hand and thank him for the
promise, but her courage failed her, for she noticed that an
increasing number of people were curiously observing them.
"Hey there, Cabinski!"
"Man alive!"
"Director! What's that . . . a rendezvous? In broad daylight, before
the eyes of all, and scarcely three flights away from Pepa?"
Such were the bantering remarks hurled at him from every direction
after his parting with Janina.
"Who is the charmer?"
"Director, it's rather careless to carry on such an affair right
there in the limelight."
"Ha! ha! now we've got you! . . . You posed as a flawless crystal,
my muddy amber!" called one of the company, a fleshless individual
with habitually contorted lips that seemed to spew gall and malice.
"Go to the devil, my dear! This is the first time I saw her,"
retorted Cabinski.
"A pretty woman! What does she want?"
"A novice of some kind . . . she's seeking an engagement."
"Take her, Director. There are never too many pretty women on the
stage."
"The director has enough of those calves."
"Don't fear, Wladek, they do not encumber the budget, for Cabinski
has a custom of failing to pay his actors, particularly the young
and pretty ladies."
Thereat they all began laughing.
"Treat us to a whiskey, Director, and I will tell you something,"
Glas began anew.
"Well, what is it?"
"That the manager will treat us to another. . . ."
"My funny sir, your belly grows at the expense of your wit . . . you
are beginning to prate like a fool," remarked Wladek.
"Only for fools . . ." Glas maliciously thrust back at Wladek and
retired behind the scenes.
"John!" came the voice of the director's wife from the veranda.
Cabinski went out to meet her.
She was a tall, stout woman with a face that still retained traces
of great beauty, now carefully preserved with paint; she had coarse
features, large eyes, narrow lips, and a very low forehead. Her
dress was of an exaggerated youthful style and color, so that from
afar she gave the impression of being a young woman.
She was very proud of her director-husband, of her dramatic talent,
and of her children, of which she had four. In real life she was
fond of playing the role of a matron occupied only with her home and
the upbringing of her children, while in truth she was nothing but a
comedienne, both in life and behind the scenes. On the stage she
impersonated dramatic mothers and all the elder, unhappy women,
never understanding her parts, but acting them, nevertheless, with
fervor and pathos.
She was a terror to her servants, to her own children, and to young
actresses whom she suspected of possessing talents. She had a
shrewish temper which she masked before others with an exaggerated
calm and feigned weakness.
"Good morning, gentlemen!" . . . she called, leaning with a careless
attitude on her husband's arm.
The company thronged around her, Majkowska greeting her with an
effusive kiss.
"How charming Madame Directress looks to-day," remarked Glas.
"Your vision must have improved, for the directress always looks
charming!" interposed Wladek.
"How is your health? . . . Yesterday's performance must have taxed
your strength."
"You played superbly! . . . We all stood behind the scenes in rapt
attention."
"The critics were all weeping. I saw Zarski wiping his eyes with his
handkerchief."
"After sneezing . . . he has a bad catarrh," called someone from the
side.
"The public was fascinated and swept off its feet in the third
act . . . they arose in their chairs."
"That's because they wanted to run away from such a treat," came the
mocking voice again.
"How many bouquets did you receive, Madame Directress?"
"Ask the director, he paid the bill."
"Ah, Mr. Counselor, you are unbearable to-day!" cried the directress
in a sweet voice, although almost pale with rage, for all the actors
were growing red in the face in their effort to keep from laughing.
"It's intended as a kindness. . . . All the rest of them are saying
pretty things, let me say something sensible."
"You are an impertinent man, Mr. Counselor! . . . How can you say
such things? . . ."
"Moreover, what do I care about the theater! If I played well, I owe
it to my husband; if I played badly it's the fault of the director
for forcing me to appear continually in new roles! If I had my way,
I would lock myself up with my children and confine myself to
domestic affairs. . . . My God! art is such a big thing and we are
all, compared with it, so small, so small that I tremble with fear
before each new performance!" she declaimed.
"Please let me have a word with you in private," called Majkowska.
"Do you see? . . . there is not even time to talk of art!" she
sighed deeply and departed.
"An old scarecrow!"
"An everlasting cow! . . . She thinks she is an artist!"
"Yesterday she bellowed terribly."
"She flung herself around the stage as though she had St. Vitus'
dance!"
"Hush! . . . according to her that is realism!"
On the veranda Majkowska was concluding her conversation with Mrs.
Cabinska.
"Will you give me your word of honor, Madame Directress?"
"Of course, I'll see to it right away."
"It must be done. Nicolette has made herself impossible in this
company. Why, she even dares to criticize your own playing!
Yesterday I saw her making disparaging remarks to that editor,"
Majkowska whispered.
"What! she dares to meddle with me?"
"I never indulge in gossip, nor do I want to sow hatred, but--"
"What did she say? . . . in the presence of the editor, did you say?
Ah, the vile coquette!"
Majkowska smothered a smile, but hastily replied, "No, I'll not tell
you . . . I do not like to repeat gossip!"
"Well, I'll pay her back for it! . . . Wait, we'll teach her a
lesson!" hissed the directress.
"Dobek, prompter! . . . get into your box!"
"Ladies and gentlemen, the rehearsal commences!"
"To the stage! to the stage!" was the cry that went up all over the
hall as the actors hurried behind the scenes.
"Mr. Director!" called Majkowska, "you can give the role to
Nicolette . . . your wife agrees to it."
"Very well, my dears, very well . . . ."
He went out on the veranda where Nicolette was already seated with a
young gentleman, very fastidiously dressed.
"We request your presence at the rehearsal, Miss Nicolette. . . ."
"What are you rehearsing?" asked Nicolette.
"Nitouche . . . why, don't you know that you are to appear in the
title role? . . . I have already advertised it in the papers."
Kazckowska, who had at that moment entered and was looking at them,
hastily covered her face with her parasol, so as not to burst out
laughing at the comical look of embarrassment on Nicolette's face.
"I am too indisposed at present to take part in the rehearsal," she
said, scrutinizing Cabiniski and Kaczkowska.
Evidently she suspected some ruse, but Cabinski, with the solemnest
mien in the world, handed her the role.
"Here is your part, madame. . . . We begin immediately," he said,
going away.
"But Mr. Director! my dear Director, I pray you, go on with the
rehearsal without me! . . . I have such a headache that I doubt I
could sing," she pleaded.
"It can't be done. We begin immediately."
"Oh, please do sing, Miss Nicolette! I'm crazy to hear you sing!"
begged the squire.
"Director!"
"What is it, my soprano?"
And the directress appeared, pointing to Janina who was standing
behind the scenes.
"A novice," answered Cabinski.
"Are you going to engage her?"
"Yes, we need chorus girls. The sisters from Prague have left, for
they made nothing but scandals."
"She looks rather homely," opined Mrs. Cabinska.
"But she has a very scenic face! . . . and also a very nice, though
strange voice."
Janina did not lose a word of this conversation, carried on in an
undertone; she had also heard the chorus of praise that went up on
the directress's appearance, and later, the chorus of derision. She
gazed with a bewildered look on that whole company.
"Clear the stage! clear the stage!"
Those standing on the stage hastily moved back behind the scenes,
for at the moment the entire chorus rushed out in a gallop: a throng
of women, chiefly young women, but with painted faces, faded and
blighted by their feverish life. There were blondes and brunettes,
small and tall, thin and stout a motley gathering from all spheres
of life. There were among them the faces of madonnas with defiant
glances, and the smooth, round faces, expressionless and
unintelligent, of peasant girls. And all were boredly cynical, or,
at least, appeared so.
They began to sing.
"Halt! Start over again!" roared the director of the orchestra, an
individual with a big red face and huge mutton-chop whiskers.
The chorus retired and came back again with heavy step, carrying on
a sort of collective can-canade, but every minute there was heard
the sharp bang of the conductor's baton against his desk and the
hoarse yell--"Halt! Start over again!" And swinging his baton he
would mutter under his nose: "You cattle!"
The chorus rehearsal dragged on interminably. The actors, scattered
about in the seats, yawned wearily and those who took part in the
evening's performance paced up and down behind the scenes,
indifferently waiting for their turn to rehearse.
In the men's dressing-room Wicek was shining the shoes of the
stage-manager and giving him a hasty account of his mission to
Comely Street.
"Did you deliver the letter? . . . Have you an answer?"
"I should smile!" and he handed Topolski a long pink envelope.
"Wicek! . . . If you squeal a word of this to anyone, you clown, you
know what awaits you!"
"That's stale news! . . . The lady said just that, too. Only she
added a ruble to her warning."
"Maurice!" called Majkowska sharply, appearing at the door of the
dressing-room.
"Wait a minute. . . . I can't go with only one shoe shined, can I!"
"Why didn't you have the maid shine them?"
"The maid is always at your service and I can't get a single thing
from her."
"Well, go and hire another."
"All right, but it will be for myself alone."
"Nicolette, to the stage!"
"Call her!" cried Cabinski from the stage to those sitting around in
the chairs.
"Come, Maurice," whispered Majkowska. "It'll be worth seeing."
"Nicolette, to the stage!" cried those in the chairs.
"In a moment! Here I am . . ." and Nicolette, with a sandwich in her
mouth and a box of candy under her arm, rushed for the stage
entrance with such violence that the floor creaked under her steps.
"What the devil do you mean by appearing so late! This is a
rehearsal . . . we are all waiting," angrily muttered the conductor
of the orchestra. .
"I am not the only one you are waiting for," she retorted.
"Precisely, we are waiting only for you, madame, and you know we
have not come here to argue. . . . On with the rehearsal!"
"But I have not yet learned a single line. Let Kaczkowska sing . . .
that is a part for her!"
"The part was given to you, wasn't it? . . . Well, then there's no
use arguing! Let us begin."
"Oh, director! Can't we postpone it till this afternoon? Just now,
it . . ."
"Begin!"
"Try it, Miss Nicolette . . . that part is well adapted to your
voice. . . . I myself asked the director to give it to you,"
encouraged Mrs. Cabinska with a friendly smile.
Nicolette listened, scanning the faces of the whole company, but
they were all immobile. Only the young gentleman smiled amorously at
her from the chairs.
The conductor raised his baton, the orchestra began to play, and the
prompter gave her the first words of her part.
Nicolette, who was noted for never being able to learn her role, now
tripped up in the very first line and sang it as falsely as
possible.
They began over again; it went a little better, but "Halt," as they
called the conductor, intentionally skipped a measure, causing her
to make an awful mess of it.
A chorus of laughter arose on the stage.
"A musical cow!"
"To the ballet with such a voice and such an ear!"
Nicolette, on the verge of tears, approached Cabinski.
"I told you that I could not sing just now. . . . I had not even
time to glance at my part."
"Aha, so you cannot, madame? . . . Please hand me the role! . . .
Kaczkowska will sing it."
"I can sing, but just now I am unable to . . . I don't want to
flunk!"
"To turn the heads of gentlemen, to make intrigues, to slander
others before the press reporters, to go gallivanting all about
town . . . for that you have time!" hissed Mrs. Cabinska.
"Oh, go and mind your children . . . but don't you dare to meddle
with my affairs."
"Director! She insults me, that . . ."
"Hand me the part," ordered Cabinski. "You can sing in the chorus,
madame, since you are unable to sing a role."
"Oh no! . . . Just for that I am going to sing it! . . . I don't
care a snap for these vile intrigues!"
"Who are you saying that to?" cried Cabinska, jumping up from her
chair. "Well, to you, if you like."
"You are dismissed from the company!" interposed Cabinski.
"Oh, go to the devil, all of you!" shouted Nicolette throwing the
role into Cabinski's face. "It's known long ago that in your company
there is no place for a respectable woman!"
"Get out of here, you adventuress!"
Cabinska sprang at her, but halfway across she stopped short and
burst into tears.
"On the right there is a sofa . . . it will be more comfortable for
you to faint on, Madame Directress!" called someone from the chairs.
The company smiled with set faces.
"Pepa! . . . my wife! . . . calm yourself. . . . For God's sake
can't we ever do any thing without these continual rumpuses!"
"Am I the cause of it?"
"I'm not blaming you . . . but you could at least calm yourself . . .
there's no reason for you acting this way!"
"So that is the kind of husband and father you are! . . . that is
the kind of director!" she shouted in fury.
"Hold out only one hour, and you'll go straight to heaven, you
martyr!" someone called to Cabinski.
"Sir," queried a spectator, holding up one of the actors by the
button of his coat. "Sir, are they playing something new?"
"First of all, that is a button from my coat which you have pulled
off!" cried the actor, "and that, my dear sir, is the first act of a
moving farce entitled Behind the Scenes; it is given each day with
great success."
The stage became deserted. The orchestra was tuning its instruments;
"Halt" went for a drink of beer, and the company scattered about the
garden. Cabinski, holding his head with both hands, paced up and
down the stage like a madman, complaining half in anger, half in
commiseration, for his wife was still quietly continuing her spasms.
"Oh what people! What people! What scandals!"
Janina, startled by the brutality of the spectacle she had just
witnessed, retreated behind the farthermost scene. She felt that it
was now impossible to speak with the director.
"So these are artists! . . . this is the theater!" she was thinking.
The rehearsal, after a short intermission, began anew with
Kaczkowska as the titular heroine.
Majkowska was in a splendid humor, being so successfully rid of her
rival.
The director, after his wife's departure, rubbed his hands in glee
and motioned to Topolski. They went out to the buffet for a drink.
Without a doubt he must have made something on his break with
Nicolette.
Stanislawski, the oldest member of the company, walked up and down
the dressing-room, spitting with disgust and muttering to Mirowska,
who was sitting on a chair with her feet curled up under her.
"Scandals . . . nothing but scandals! . . . how can we expect to
have any success! . . ."
Mirowska nodded her assent, smiling faintly and keeping steadily on
with the crocheting of a handkerchief.
After the rehearsal Janina boldly approached Cabinski.
"Mr. Director--" she began.
"Ah, it is you, miss? . . . I will accept you. Come to-morrow before
the performance, and we will talk it over. I have not the time now."
"Thank you ever so much, sir!" she answered overjoyed.
"Have you any kind of a voice?"
"A voice?"
"Do you sing?"
"At home I used to sing a little . . . but I do not think I have a
stage voice . . . however, I . . ."
"Only come a little earlier and we shall try you out. . . . I shall
speak to the musical director."