The Lazienki Park in Warsaw was athrob with the breath of spring.
The roses bloomed and the jasmines diffused their heavy odor through
the park. It was so quiet and lovely there, that Janina sat for a
few hours near the lake, forgetting everything.
The swans with spreading wings, like white cloudlets, floated over
the azure bosom of the water; the marble statues glowed with
immaculate whiteness; the fresh and luxuriant foliage was like a
vast sea of emerald steeped in golden sunlight; the red blossoms of
the chestnut trees floated down on the ground, the waters and the
lawns, and flickered like rosy sparks among the shadows of the
trees.
The noisy hum of the city reached here in a subdued echo and lost
itself among the bushes.
Janina had come here straight from the theater. What she had seen
disquieted her; she felt within herself a dull pain of disillusionment
and hesitation.
She did not wish to remember anything, but only kept repeating to
herself, "I'm in the theater! . . . I'm in the theater!"
There passed before her mind the figures of her future companions.
Instinctively she felt that in those faces there was nothing
friendly, only, envy and hypocrisy.
Presently she proceeded to her hotel at which she had stopped on the
advice of her fellow-travelers, on the train to Warsaw. It was a
cheap affair on the outskirts of the city and frequented chiefly by
petty farm officials and the actors of small provincial theaters.
She was given a small room on the third floor, with a window looking
out upon the red roofs of the old city, extending in crooked and
irregular lines. It was such an ugly view that, on returning from
Lazienki, with her eyes and soul still full of the green of the
verdure and the golden sunlight, she immediately pulled down the
shades and began to unpack her trunk.
She had not yet had time to think of her father. The city, the
hubbub and bustle which engulfed her immediately upon her arrival at
the station, the weariness caused by the journey and by the last
moments at Bukowiec, and afterwards those feverish hours at the
theater, the rehearsal, the park, the waiting for evening and her
own coming rehearsal all this had so completely absorbed her that
she forgot almost entirely about home.
She dressed carefully, for she wished to appear at her best.
When she arrived at the garden-theater the lights were already
turned on and the public was beginning to assemble. She went boldly
behind the scenes. The stage hands were arranging the decorations;
of the company, no one was as yet present.
In the dressing-rooms the gaslights flared brightly. The costumer
was preparing gaudy costumes, and the make-up man sat whistling and
combing a wig with long, bright tresses.
In the ladies' dressing-room an old woman was standing under the
gaslight, sewing something.
Janina explored all the corners, examining everything, emboldened by
the fact that no one paid the slightest attention to her. The walls
behind the huge canvas decorations were dirty, with their plaster
broken off, and covered with sticky dampness. The floors, the
moldings, the shabby furniture and decorations, that seemed to her
like beggarly rags, were thick with dust and filth. The odor of
mastic, cosmetics, and burnt hair, floating over the stage,
nauseated her.
She viewed the canvas scenes of what were supposed to be magnificent
castles, the chambers of the kings of operetta, gorgeous landscapes
and beheld at close view a cheap smear of colors which could satisfy
only the grossest of senses and then only from a distance. In the
storeroom she saw cardboard crowns; the satin robes were poor
imitations, the velvets were cheap taffeta, the ermines were painted
cambric, the gold was gilded paper, the armor was of cardboard, the
swords and daggers of wood.
She gazed at that future kingdom of hers as though wishing to
convince herself of its worthiness. And, though it was sham, tinsel,
lies, and comedy she tried to see above it all something infinitely
higher--art.
The stage was not yet set, and was only dimly lighted. Janina
crossed it a few times with the stately stride of a heroine, then
again, with the light, graceful airiness of an ingenue, or with the
quick feverish step of a woman who carries with her death and
destruction; and with each new impersonation, her face assumed the
appropriate expression, her eyes glowed with the flame of the
Eumenides, with storm, desire, conflict, or, kindling with the mood
of love, longing, anxiety they shone like stars on a spring night.
She passed through these various transformations unconsciously,
impelled by the memory of the plays and roles she had read, and so
great was her abstraction, that she forgot about everything and paid
no attention to the stagehands, who were moving about her.
"My Al used to act the same way . . . the same way!" said a quiet
voice from behind the scenes near the ladies' dressing-room.
Janina paused in confusion. She saw standing there a middle-aged
woman of medium height, with a withered face and stern demeanor.
"You have joined our company, miss?" she inquired with a sharp
energetic voice, piercing Janina with her round, owl-like eyes.
"Not quite. . . . I am about to have a trial with the musical
director. Ah, yes, Mr. Cabinski even said that it was to take place
before the performance! . . ." she cried, recalling what he had told
her.
"Aha! with that drunkard . . ."
Janina glanced at her, surprised.
"Have you set your heart on being with us, miss?"
"In the theater? . . . yes! . . . I journeyed here for that very
purpose."
"From whence?" asked the elderly woman abruptly.
"From home," answered Janina, but more quietly and with a certain
hesitation.
"Ah . . . I see . . . you are entirely new to the profession! . . .
Well, well! that is curious! . . ."
"Why? . . . why should it be so strange for one who loves the
theater to try to join it? . . ."
"Oh, that's what all of them say! . . . while in truth, each of them
runs away either from something . . . or for something. . . ."
Janina was conscious of an accent of hidden malice in her voice. "Do
you know, madam, how soon the musical director will arrive?" she
asked.
"I don't!" snapped back the elderly woman, and walked away.
Janina moved back a little, for just then the workmen were spreading
a huge waxed canvas over the stage. She was gazing at this
absent-mindedly, when the elderly woman reappeared and addressed her
in a milder tone, "I will give you a piece of advice, miss. . . . It
is necessary for you to win over the musical director."
"But how am I to do it?"
"Have you money?"
"I have, but--"
"If you will listen to me, I will advise you."
"Certainly."
"You must get him a little drunk, then the rehearsal will come off
splendidly."
Janina glanced at her in amazement.
"Ha! ha!" laughed the other quietly. "Ha! ha! she is a real
moon-calf!"
After a moment she whispered, "Let us go to the dressing-room. I
will enlighten you a little . . ."
She pulled Janina after her, and afterwards, busying herself with
pinning a dress on a mannikin, she remarked, "We must get
acquainted."
"Tell me, madam, how about that musical director?" asked Janina.
"It's necessary to buy him some cognac. Yes!" she added after
a moment, "Cognac, beer, and sandwiches will, perhaps, be
sufficient."
"How much would that cost?"
"I think that for three rubles you can give him a decent treat. Let
me have the money and I will order everything for you. I had better
go right away."
Janina gave her the money.
Sowinska left and in about a quarter of an hour returned,
breathless.
"Well, everything is settled! Come along, miss, the director is
waiting."
Behind the restaurant hall there was a room with a piano. "Halt,"
flushed and sleepy, was already waiting there.
"Cabinski spoke to me about you, miss!" he began. "What can you
sing? . . . Whew! how warm I feel! . . . Perhaps you will raise the
window?" he said, turning to Sowinska.
Janina felt disturbed by his hoarse voice and his inflamed, drunken
face, but she sat down to the piano, wondering what she should
select to sing.
"Ah! you also play, miss? . . ." he queried in great surprise.
"Yes," she answered, and began playing the introduction to some
song, without seeing the signs that Sowinska was making to her.
"Please sing something for me," he said, "I want to hear only your
voice. . . . Or perhaps you could sing some solo part?"
"Mr. Director . . . I feel that I have a calling for the drama, or
even for the comedy, but never for the opera."
"But we are not talking about the opera . . ."
"About what, then?"
"About this . . . the operetta!" he cried, striking his knee. "Sing,
Miss! . . . I have only a little time and I am burning up with this
heat."
She began to sing a song of Tosti's. The director listened, but at
the same time gazed at Sowinska and pointed to his parched lips.
When Janina had ended, he cried, "Very well . . . we will accept
you . . . I must hurry out, for I'm roasting."
"Perhaps you will have a drink of something with us, Mr.
Director? . . ." she queried timidly, understanding the signs that
Sowinska gave her.
He pretended to excuse himself, but in the end remained.
Sowinska ordered the waiter to bring half a bottle of cognac, three
beers and some sandwiches, and, having drained her own glass, she
hastily left them, saying that she had forgotten something in the
dressing-room.
"Halt" shoved his chair nearer to Janina's.
"Hm! . . . you have a voice, miss . . . a very nice voice . . ." he
said and laid his big red paw upon her knee, while with the other he
began to pour some brandy into his beer.
She moved back a little, disgusted.
"You can put on a bold front on the stage. . . . I will help
you . . ." he added, draining his glass at one gulp.
"If you will be so kind, Mr. Director . . ." Janina said, drawing
away from him.
"I will see to it . . . I will take care of you!"
And suddenly he took her about the waist and drew her to him.
Janina shoved him back with such force that he fell sprawling upon
the table, and then ran to the door, ready to cry out.
"Whew! . . . wait a minute . . . you're a fool! . . . stay! . . . I
wanted to take care of you, help you, but since you're such a
blooming fool, go and hang yourself! . . ."
He drank the rest of his cognac and left.
On the veranda sat Cabinski with the stage-manager.
"Has she any kind of a voice?" he inquired of "Halt," for he had
seen Janina entering the room. "A soprano?"
"Ho, ho! something unheard of . . . almost an alto!"
Janina sat for about an hour in that room, unable to control the
indignation and rage that shook her. There were lucid moments when
she would spring up as though ready to rush out and away from those
people, but immediately she would sink down again with a moan.
"Where will I go?" she asked herself, and then added with a sudden
determination. "No, I will stay! . . . I will bear all, if it is
necessary . . . I must! . . . I must!"
Janina became set in her stubborn determination. She collected
within herself all her powers for impending battle with misfortune,
with obstacles, with the whole evil and hostile world and for a
moment, she saw herself on some dizzying height where was fame and
the intoxication of triumph.
Presently Sowinska came in.
"Thank you, for your advice . . . and for leaving me with a
pig! . . ." the girl exclaimed, half weeping.
"I was in a hurry . . . he did not eat you, did he? . . . He's a
good man. . . ."
"Then leave your daughter alone with that good man!" retorted Janina
harshly. "My daughter is not an actress," answered Sowinska.
"Oh! . . . It doesn't matter . . . It's only a lesson for me," she
whispered, turning away.
She met Cabinski and, approaching him, asked, "Will you accept me,
Mr. Director?"
"You may consider yourself engaged," he answered. "As for your
salary we shall speak of that another day."
"What am I to play? . . . I should like to take the part of Clara in
The Iron Master."
Cabinski glanced at her sharply and covered his mouth with his hand
so as not to burst out laughing.
"Just a moment . . . just a moment . . . you must first acquaint
yourself with the stage. In the meanwhile, you will appear with the
chorus. Halt told me that you know how to play the piano and read
notes. To-morrow I will give you some scores of the operettas we
play and you can learn the chorus parts."
Janina went to the dressing-room and had scarcely opened the door,
when someone pushed her back, slammed the door in her face and
called out angrily: "Upstairs with you! that is where the chorus
girls belong!"
She set her teeth and went upstairs.
The dressing-room of the chorus was a long, narrow and low
apartment. Rows of unshaded gaslights burned above long bare, board
tables extending along the walls on three sides of the room. The
walls were covered with unbeveled and unpainted boards which were
scribbled all over with names, dates jokes and caricatures, done in
charcoal or rouge paint. On the bare wall hung a whole string of
dresses and costumes.
About twenty women sat undressed before mirrors of various shapes,
and before each one there burned candles.
Janina spying an unoccupied chair, near the door, sat down and began
to look about her.
"I beg your pardon, but that is my seat!" called a stout brunette.
Janina stood aside.
"Did you come to see someone? . . ." asked the same chorus-girl,
rubbing her face with vaseline before applying powder.
"No. I came to the dressing-room. I am one of the company," answered
Janina rather loudly.
"Oh, you are?"
A few heads raised themselves above the tables and a few pairs of
eyes were centered upon Janina.
Janina told the brunette her name.
"Girls! . . . this new one calls herself Orlowska. Get acquainted
with her!" called the brunette.
A few of those sitting nearest her stretched out their hands in
greeting and then proceeded with their make-up.
"Louise, loan me some powder."
"Go buy it!"
"Say Sowinska!" called down one of the girls through the open door
to the lower dressing-room, "I met that same guy . . . you
know! . . . I was walking along Nowy Swiat."
"Tell it to the marines! Who would fall for such a scarecrow as
you!" put in another.
"I've bought a new suit . . . look!" cried a small, very pretty
blonde.
"You mean he bought it for you!"
"Goodness, no! . . . I bought it from my own savings."
"Persian lamb! . . . oh! . . . Do you think we'll believe you? . . .
Come now, you bought it out of that fellow's savings, didn't you?"
"It's pure lily! . . . The waist is low-cut with a yoke of
cream-colored embroidery, the skirt is plain with a shirred hem, the
hat is trimmed with violets," another girl was recounting, as she
slipped her ballet skirts over her head.
"Listen there, you lily-colored kid . . . give me back that ruble
that you owe me . . . ."
"After the play when I get it I'll give it back to you, honest!"
"Ha! ha! Cabinski will give it to you, like fun . . ."
"I tell you, my dear, I'm getting desperate. . . . He coughed a
little . . . but I thought nothing of it . . . until yesterday, when
I looked down his little throat I saw . . . white spots . . . I ran
for the doctor . . . he examined him and said: diphtheria! I sat by
him all night, rubbed his throat every hour . . . he couldn't say a
word, only showed me with his little finger how it hurt . . . and
the tears streamed down his face so pitifully that I thought I'd die
of grief . . . I left the janitress with him, for I must make some
money . . . I left my cloak to cover him with . . . but all, all
that is not enough! . . ." a slim and pretty actress with a face
worn by suffering and poverty was telling her neighbor in a subdued
voice, while she curled her hair, carmined her pale lips, and with
the pencil gave a defiant touch to her eyes dimmed by tears and
sleepiness.
"Helen! your mother asked about you to-day . . ."
"Surely, not about me . . . my mother died long ago."
"Don't tell me that! Majkowska knows you and your mother well and
saw you together on Marshalkowska Street the other day."
"Majkowska ought to buy herself a pair of glasses, if she's so blind
as that . . . I was going downtown with the housekeeper."
The other girls began to laugh at her. The one who had denied her
mother blew out her candle and left in irritation.
"She's ashamed of her own mother. That's true, but such a
mother! . . ."
"A plain peasant woman. She compromises her before everybody. . . .
At least, she could refrain from making a show before other people!"
"How so? Can a girl be ashamed of her mother? . . ." cried Janina,
who had been sitting in silence, until those last words stirred her
to indignation.
"You are a newcomer, so you don't know anything," several answered
her at once.
"May I come in? . . ." called a masculine voice from without.
"You can't! you can't!" chorused the girls energetically.
"Zielinska! your editor has come."
A tall, stout chorus girl, rustling her skirts, passed out of the
room.
"Shepska! take a look out after them."
Shepska went out, but came back immediately.
"They've gone downstairs."
The stage bell rang violently.
"To the stage!" called the stage-director at the door. "We begin
immediately!"
There arose an indescribable hubbub. All the girls began to talk and
shout at the same time; they ran about, tore away hairpins and
curling irons from one another, powdered themselves, quarreled over
trifles, blew out candles, hastily closed their dressing-cases and
rushed down the stairs in crowds, for the second bell had already
sounded.
Janina descended last of all and stood behind the scenes. The
performance began. They were playing some kind of half fairy-like
operetta. Janina could hardly recognize those people or that theater
everything had undergone such a magical transformation and taken on
a new beauty under the influence of powder, paint, and light! . . .
The music, with the quiet caressing tones of the flute, floated
through the silence and stole into Janina's soul, lulling it
sweetly . . . and later, a dance of some kind, soft, voluptuous, and
intoxicating, enveloped her with its charm, lured and rocked her on
the waves of rhythm and held her in an ecstatic lethargy.
She felt herself drawn ever farther into a confused whirl of lights,
tones and colors. Her impulsive and sensuous nature, struggling
hitherto with the drab commonplace of everyday events and people,
was fascinated. It was almost as she had visioned it in her soul;
full of lights, music, thrilling accents, ecstatic swoons, strong
colors, and stormy and overpowering emotions, breaking with the
force of thunderbolts.
The suffocating odor of powder dust floated about her like a cloud,
while from the crowded hall there flowed a stream of hot breaths and
desiring glances that broke against the stage like a magnetic wave,
drowning in forgetfulness all that was not song, music, and
pleasure.
When the act ended and a storm of applause broke loose, she was on
the verge of fainting. She bent her head and eagerly drank in those
murmurs resembling lightning flashes and, like them blinding the
soul. She breathed in those cries of the delighted public with her
full breath and with all the might of her soul that craved for fame.
She closed her eyes, so that that impression, that picture might
last longer.
The enchanting vision had dissolved. Over the stage moved men in
their shirt sleeves and without vests; they were changing the
scenes, arranging the furniture, fastening the props. She saw the
grimy necks, the dirty and ugly faces, the coarse and hardened hands
and the heavy forms.
She went out on the stage and through a slit in the curtain gazed
out on the dim hall packed full of people. She saw hundreds of young
faces, women's faces, smiling and still stirred by the music, while
their owners fanned themselves; the men in their black evening
clothes formed dark spots scattered at regular intervals, upon the
light background of feminine toilettes.
Janina felt a strange disappointment as she realized that the faces
of the public were very much like those of Grzesikiewicz, her
father, her home acquaintances, the principal of her boarding
school, the professors at the academy and the telegrapher at
Bukowiec. For the moment, it seemed to her that that was a sheer
impossibility. How so? . . . She, of course, knew what to think
about those others, whom long ago she had classified as fools,
light-heads, drunkards, gossipers, silly geese and house-hens; small
and shallow souls, a band of common eaters-of-bread, sunk in the
shallow morass of material existence. And these people that filled
the theater and doled out applause, and whom she had once thought of
as demi-gods were they the same as those others? Janina asked
herself, that, wonderingly.
"Madame!" said a voice beside her.
She tore her face away from the curtain. At her side stood a
handsome, elegantly dressed young man who was holding his hand to
his hat, smiling in a conventional manner.
"Just let me look a moment . . ." he said.
Janina moved away a bit.
He glanced through the slit in the curtain and relinquished her
place to her.
"Pardon me, pardon me for disturbing you . . ." he said.
"Oh, I've looked all I wanted to, sir . . ." she answered.
"Not a very interesting sight, is it? . . ." he queried. "The most
authentic Philistia; trade-mongers and shoemakers. . . . Perhaps you
think, madame, that they come to hear, and admire the play? Oh,
no! . . . they come here to display their new clothes, have supper,
and kill time. . . ."
"Well then, who does come for the play itself?" she asked.
"In this place, no one. . . . At the Grand Theater and at the
Varieties . . . there, perhaps, you may yet find a group, a very
small group who love art and who come for the sake of art alone. I
have often touched upon that matter in the papers."
"Mr. Editor, let me have a cigarette!" called an actor from behind
the scenes.
"At your service." He handed the actor a silver cigarette-case.
Janina, moving away, gazed with admiration at the writer, delighted
with the opportunity of observing such a man at close range.
How many times in the country while listening to the everlasting
conversations about farming, politics, rainy and clear weather, she
had dreamed of this other world, of people who would discourse to
her of ideals, art, humanity, progress and poetry, and who
impersonated in themselves all those ideals.
"You must not be very long in this company for I have not had the
pleasure of seeing you before . . ."
"I was engaged only to-day."
"Have you appeared elsewhere before?"
"No, never on the real stage. . . . I took part only in amateur
theatricals."
"That is the way nearly all dramatic talent develops. I know . . . I
happen to know . . . Modrzejewska herself often mentioned that fact
to me," he remarked, with a condescending smile.
"Mr. Editor . . . do your duty!" called Kaczkowska, extending her
hands.
The editor buttoned her gloves, kissed each of her hands a few
times, received a slap on the shoulder in reward and retreated to
the curtain where Janina was standing.
"So this is your first appearance in the theater? . . ." he asked.
"No doubt it's a case of the family opposing . . . inflexible
determination on your part . . . the isolation and dullness of the
countryside . . . your first appearance as an amateur . . . stage
fright . . . success . . . the recognition of the divine spark
within yourself . . . your dreams of the real stage . . .
tears . . . sleepless nights . . . a struggle with an adverse
environment . . . finally, consent . . . or perhaps a secret escape
in the night . . . fear . . . anxiety . . . going the rounds of the
directors . . . seeking an engagement . . . ecstasy . . . art . . .
godliness!" he spoke rapidly, telegraphically.
"You have almost guessed it, Mr. Editor . . . it was the same with
me," said Janina.
"You see, mademoiselle, I knew so from the first. It's intuition
that's all! I'll take care of you, upon my word! . . . I'll insert a
little item about you in our next issue. Later, give a few details
under a sensational headline, next, a longer article about the new
star on the horizon of dramatic art," he sped on. . . . "You will
sweep them off their feet . . . the directors will tear you away
from each other, and in about a year or two . . . you will be in the
Grand Theater at Warsaw! . . ."
"But, Mr. Editor, no one knows me; no one, as yet, knows whether I
have talent . . ."
"You have talent, my word! My intuition tells me that. . . . Do not
believe the testimony of the senses, mademoiselle, hold yourself
aloof from all reasoning, throw to the dogs all calculations, but do
not fail to believe intuition! . . ."
"Come here, editor . . . hurry!" called someone to him.
"Au revoir! au revoir!" he said, throwing a kiss to Janina and
touching the brim of his hat as he disappeared.
Janina arose from her seat, but that same intuition which he had
advised her to heed, told her not to take his words seriously. He
seemed to her a light-headed individual given to hasty judgments.
That promise of notices and articles in the papers and his
extravagant praises of her talent seemed to her merely insincere
twaddle. Even his face, gestures, and manner of speaking reminded
her of a certain notorious braggart living in the vicinity of
Bukowiec.
The second act of the play commenced.
Janina looked on, but it did not carry her away as the first had
done.
"How do you like our theater? . . ." asked the brunette chorus girl,
whom she had met in the dressing-room.
"Very well!" answered Janina.
"Bah! the theater is like a plague; when it infects anyone, you
might as well say amen! . . ." whispered the brunette, her voice
hard.
Behind the scenes, in the almost dark passages between the
decorations there was a great number of people. The actors stood in
the passages and certain pairs were crouched in the darkness;
whispers and discreet laughs sounded on all sides.
The stage-director, an old, bald man without a collar and dressed
only in a vest, with a scenario in one hand and a bell in the other,
ran up and down at the back.
"To the stage! You enter immediately, madame! . . . enter!" he cried
all perspired and flushed, and ran on again, gathered from the
dressing-rooms those who were needed on the stage, and at the
appropriate moment whispered: "Enter!"
Janina saw how the actors suddenly interrupted their conversations,
left each other in the midst of some sentence, stood down half-empty
glasses, and rushed for the entrances, waiting for their turn,
immovable and silent or nervously whispering the words of their
roles, and entering into their characters; she saw the quivering of
lips and eyelids, the trembling of legs, the sudden paleness beneath
the layer of paint, and the feverish glances of stage fright . . .
"Enter!" sounded a voice like the crack of a whip.
Almost everyone started violently, hastily assumed the required
facial expression, crossed himself a few times and went on.
Each time the stage door opened a thrill went through Janina at that
wave of strange fire, that streamed toward her from the public.
She began again to lose herself in the play. That mysterious gloom,
those garish hues and forms, emerging from the shadows and suddenly
flooded with light, the strains of invisible music, the echo of
singing, the sound of subdued footfalls and strange whispers in the
darkness, the feverish rapture of the public, the glowing eyes, the
excitement, the thundering applause, like a far-away storm, streams
of dazzling light alternating with darkness, the throng of people,
the pathetic ring of words, tragic cries, heart-rending sobs, moans,
weeping, a whole melodrama, pompously and noisily acted all this
filled Janina with a fervor different from the one she had felt in
the first act, the fervor of energy and action. She went through the
playing with all the actors, suffered together with those paper
heroes and heroines, feared with them and loved with them; she felt
their nervousness before entering the stage, trembled with emotion
in the pathetic moments of the play, while certain words and cries
sent so strange and painful a tremor through her that they brought
the tears to her eyes and a faint cry to her lips.
An increasing number of people from the audience began to come
behind the scenes. Boxes of candy, bouquets, and single flowers
circulated freely from hand to hand. Beer, whisky, and cognac were
drunk and cakes were snatched from a huge tray. Gusts of laughter
broke out here and there, jokes exploded like fireworks in the air.
Some of the chorus girls had dressed and were going out into the
garden.
Janina saw actors in their negligee only, parading up and down
before their dressing-rooms; women, in white petticoats with naked
shoulders and with half of their stage make-up removed, were
strolling about the stage and peeping through the curtain at the
public. On noticing some stranger, they would retreat uttering
little shrieks, smiling coquettishly, and darting significant
glances.
Waiters from the restaurant, maids, and stage hands went flying
about like hunting hounds.
"Sowinska!"
"Tailor!"
"Costumer!"
"A pair of pants and a cape!"
"A cane for the stage and a letter!"
"Wicek! run to the director and tell him that it is time for him to
dress for the last act!"
"Set the stage!"
"Wicek! send me some rouge, beer, and sandwiches! . . ." called one
actress across the stage.
In the dressing-rooms reigned chaos, forced and hurried changing of
dress, feverish make-up with cosmetics that were almost melting from
the heat, and quarrels . . . .
"If you pass before me again on the stage, sir, I'll kick your
shins, as I live!"
"Go kick your dog! My part calls for that . . . here, read it!"
"You intentionally hide me from view!"
"What did I tell you!" said another. "I merely popped out and
immediately there arose a murmur of applause."
"It was only the wind and that fellow thinks it was applause,"
answered another voice.
"There was a murmur of disgust, because you bungled your part."
"How the deuce can one keep from bungling when Dobek prompts like a
consumptive nag?"
"Speak yourself, and I will then stop . . . we'll see what a fool
you'll make of yourself! . . . I put word after word into his ear as
with a shovel and . . . nothing doing! . . . I shout out so loudly
that Halt kicks at the stage for silence . . . but that fellow still
stands there like a dummy!" retorted Dobek.
"I always know my part; you trip me up intentionally."
"Tailor! a belt, a sword and a hat . . . hurry!"
"Mary! if you tell me to go, there will go with me night and
suffering, loneliness and tears . . . Mary! do you not hear me?
I . . . It is the voice of the heart that loves you . . . the
voice . . ." repeated Wladek, pacing up and down the dressing-room
with his role and gesticulating wildly, deaf to all that was going
on about him.
"Hey there, Wladek . . . put on the soft pedal. . . . You'll have
enough opportunity to roar and groan on the stage until our ears are
sore," called someone.
"Gentlemen! haven't you perhaps seen Peter?" inquired an actress,
poking her head through the door.
"Gentlemen, see if Peter isn't sitting somewhere under the table,"
mocked someone.
"Milady . . . Peter went upstairs with a very pretty little dame."
"Murder him, madame! he's unfaithful!"
Such were the remarks, punctuated with laughter, that greeted her.
The actress vanished and from the other side of the stage one could
hear her asking everyone, "Have you seen Peter?"
"She will go crazy some day from jealousy over him! . . ." remarked
someone.
"A respectable woman!"
"But that doesn't prevent her from being a fool."
"How are you, Editor!"
"Oh, it's the editor, is it! . . . that means we'll have beer and
cigarettes."
"And here comes the counselor! . . ."
"Good evening Counselor!"
"What news at the box office?"
"Fine! . . . The theater is sold out, for I saw Gold smoking a
cigar."
"Praised be the gods! The advances on our salaries will be larger."
"How do you do, Bolek! . . . Don't come in here, or you will melt
like butter . . . we have a little Africa here to-day . . ."
"We'll cool ourselves immediately, for I've ordered the beer . . ."
"To the stage, everybody! . . . The people to the stage! The priests
to the stage! The soldiers to the stage!" shouted the stage-director,
rushing from one dressing-room to the other.
After a moment, all had vanished.
It was well after ten o'clock, the next morning at her hotel when
Janina awoke, worn-out completely; for the moment, she could not
understand, where she was.
She no longer felt any of yesterday's feverish raptures, but rather
a quiet gladness that she was already in the theater. At moments,
the bright tone of her mood was overcast by some shadow, some
presentiment, or unconscious memory from the past; it was the
glimmering of something unpleasant which, although it quickly
vanished, left traces of uneasiness.
She hastily drank her tea and was about to go out, when someone
gently rapped at the door.
"Come in!" she called.
There entered an old Jewish woman, neatly dressed, with a big box
under her arm.
"Good morning, miss!"
"Good morning," she answered, surprised by the visit.
"Perhaps you will buy something, miss? . . . I have good, cheap
wares. Perhaps you need some jewelry? Perhaps some gloves or
hairpins, they are pure silver. I have all kinds of articles at
different prices and all are genuine Parisian goods! . . ." she
chattered on rapidly, spreading the contents of her box on the
table, while her little black eyes with heavy red lids, like the
eyes of a hawk, wandered about the room and took stock of
everything.
Janina kept silent.
"It won't harm you to look at them . . ." insisted the Jewess. "I
have cheap things and pretty things! Perhaps you will have some
ribbons, or laces, or stockings? . . . or will you have some of
these silk handkerchiefs? . . ."
Janina began to examine the collection spread out on the table and
selected a few yards of some ribbon.
"Perhaps your mother will also buy something? . . ." ventured the
Jewess, looking at her intently.
"I am alone."
"Alone?" she drawled, with an inquisitive contraction of her
eyebrows.
"Yes, but I don't intend to live here," explained Janina, as though
justifying herself.
"Perhaps I might recommend a boarding house to you? . . . I know a
certain widow who . . ."
"Very well," interrupted the girl, "you might find me a room with
some private family on Nowy Swiat, near the theater . . ."
"You belong to the theater, miss? . . . ah! . . ."
"Yes."
"Perhaps you need something else? . . . I have beautiful things for
the theater."
"No, I have all I want."
"I will sell them cheap . . . as I'm an honest woman . . . cheap!
They are just what you want for the theater."
"I don't need anything."
"May I die, if they are not dirt cheap! . . . These are such hard
times."
She replaced all her wares in the box and drew closer to Janina.
"Perhaps you will give me a chance to make something? . . ."
"I won't buy anything else, for I don't need it!" answered Jane,
growing impatient.
"I don't mean that!"
The old woman began to whisper hurriedly "I know nice young
men . . . do you understand, miss? . . . rich young men! . . . That
is not my business, but they asked me to . . . They'll come to see
you themselves . . . Nice, rich, young men."
"What? . . . What?" cried Janina.
"Why are you so excited, Miss?"
"Get out of here, or I'll call the servant!" shouted Janina.
"Goodness, what a temper! . . . I knew at least ten ladies, who were
the same as you in the beginning and afterwards they were ready to
kiss my hands, if only I would introduce them to some gentleman . . ."
She did not finish, for Janina opened the door, and pushed her out.
At the theater she met Sowinska on the veranda, and immediately, in
the politest manner, asked her if she did not know of some room she
could rent with a private family.
"Ah, that just fits in fine! . . . If you wish, there is a room in
our house that you may have. We can let you have it cheap, together
with your meals. It is a very nice room on the lower floor, with
windows facing the south, and a separate entrance from the hall."
They agreed on the price and Janina said she would pay her a month's
rent in advance.
"So that all's settled!" said Sowinska. "You will find our house
very quiet, for my daughter has no children. . . . Come, I will show
you the room."
"Not until after the rehearsal; and if you haven't the time to wait,
leave me the address and I will find the place myself."
Sowinska gave her the address and went away.
Janina was handed her notes and took part in the rehearsal, singing
from them.
Kaczkowska wanted Halt to accompany her at the piano.
"Give me a rest, madame! I have no time!" he answered.
"If you wish, madame, I will accompany you, providing it is from
notes . . ." proposed Janina.
Kaczkowska drew her eagerly away to the room with the piano and kept
her busy for about an hour; but the whole company at once became
interested in this chorus girl who could play the piano.
Afterward Cabinska spoke with Janina a long time, and requested her
to come to her home the following day after the rehearsal.
Janina went straight from the theater to Sowinska's house to look at
her room.