For Cabinski all days on which there was a performance were
important days, but only three days were extraordinary: Christmas
Eve, Easter Day, and . . . the name day of his wife which fell on
the 19th of July, sacred to St. Vincent de Paul. On those three days
the director and his wife would hold a reception on a grand scale.
Cabinski the miser would vanish, and in his place would appear
Cabinski the munificent, dispensing hospitality after the ancient
custom of the Polish nobility, while certain deeply hidden
hereditary cells of lavishness opened up in his ego. The guests were
received and feted generously and no expense was spared. And, if
later, as a result of this, advances on salaries were smaller for a
month or so, their deferment more frequent, and the director's
complaints of a deficit more numerous, hardly anyone minded, for all
enjoyed themselves to the utmost, particularly on the name day of
the directress.
Cabinska's Christian name was Vincentine, but none bothered their
heads about why her husband called her "Pepa," for nobody was
interested to that extent.
In accordance with the announcement of Topolski, the company
assembled punctually for the rehearsal. They were to play The Martyr
by D'Ennery, in which the title role, one of the showiest and most
lachrymose in her repertory, was invariably acted each year by the
directress. She played it really well, putting into it her entire
store of tears and vocal lamentations, and had the deep satisfaction
of thrilling the public.
Those name day performances were usually a real benefit for all
kinds of novices, for the caste was purposely made up of the poorest
players so that the acting of Pepa might thereby shine forth more
effectively.
Cabinska went direct to the stage without speaking to anyone and
during the entire rehearsal wore on her face an expression of tender
emotion and absorption. At the end of the rehearsal the entire
company gathered about her and Topolski came forward. Cabinska
modestly lowered her eyes and, pretending to be surprised, waited.
"Allow me, esteemed Directress to extend to you in the name of your
fellow-actors and actresses their most cordial felicitations on the
occasion of your name day and to wish you with all our hearts that
you may continue to remain for a long time the ornament of our stage
and a blessing to your husband and children. In grateful
appreciation of your artistic services and your companionship, the
company begs you, my dear madame, to accept this humble token of our
affection which is only a poor return for your goodness and
kind-heartedness."
Topolski ended and handed her an open case in which was a set of
sapphire gems bought from the contributions of the whole company. He
kissed her hand and stepped aside.
Then all began to approach Cabinska separately; the men kissed her
hands, while the women threw themselves on her neck with
protestations of friendship and good wishes.
Wladek, who had been the first to pay his tribute at hand-kissing,
drew Topolski aside behind the scenes.
"Spit out the dregs of that congratulatory tommyrot, or you'll
poison yourself with such a big dose of hypocrisy."
"But it won't poison her."
"Bah! the sapphires cost one hundred and twenty rubles; for so much
money she can listen a whole week."
"Thank you, thank you with my whole heart! You put me to shame my
dear comrades, for in truth I do not know what I have done to merit
so much kindness," said Cabinska with emotion. Really, the sapphires
were very pretty.
The director smiled, rubbed his hands, and invited all to his home
after the performance.
The directress singled out for a particularly effusive kiss Janina
who, led by sympathy, had brought her a lovely bouquet of roses,
explaining that she had not contributed to the fund for the general
gift as it was collected before her advent into the company.
Cabinska would not part with Janina and took her along with her to
dinner.
"Truly, they must be very good people and must love you," said
Janina at the table.
"Once a year will not ruin them," answered Cabinska merrily.
Together they went to the pastry shop so as not to interfere with
the preparations that were being made for the evening reception. She
sat there relating to Janina the history of her past name day
celebrations with a tender pathos which could not, however, disguise
a certain feeling of bitterness and uneasiness over the fact that
the editor had not even sent her a card of greeting.
The performance was a real ovation. From the public she received a
mass of flowers, while the editor sent her a big basket of them
together with an imposing bracelet.
That overwhelmed her. As soon as he appeared behind the scenes, she
drew him into the darkest corner and kissed him with fiery passion.
The Cabinski home presented an unusual appearance. In the first
room, in the middle of a huge rug that completely covered the dirty
floor, was a circular stand bearing a fan-shaped palm, while two
mirrors with marble consoles stood in the corners. Heavy,
cherry-colored, velvet portieres were draped over the windows and
the doors. A clump of azaleas and rhododendrons between the windows
formed an oasis of gorgeous greenery, accentuating the beautiful
lines of a yellowish plaster statue of Venus de Milo which stood on
a pedestal draped with purple cloth.
The piano at the further end of the room, decked with a garland of
artificial flowers, bore upon it a huge golden tray stacked with
visiting cards. Four little tables with little blue chairs
surrounding them were placed in the most brilliantly lighted parts
of the room. The tarnished and chipped gilded frames of the mirrors
were skillfully masked with red muslin, pinned artistically with
flowers. The torn wall paper was covered with pictures. The whole
salon presented so elegant and artistic an appearance, that
Cabinska, on returning from the theater stood amazed and cried out
enthusiastically: "A splendid scene! . . . John you are a
master-decorator!"
"Heavens! . . . it's as beautiful as in a comedy!" added the nurse,
crossing the salon on tiptoe.
The second and larger room which ordinarily served the purpose of a
store room, crammed with scenic odds and ends, had now been
transformed into a dining room and dazzled with its restaurant-like
splendor: the whiteness of its table covers, its polished trays, its
bouquets of flowers, its mass of burnished dishes, and its
formality.
Cabinska hardly had time to dress herself in a stately lily-colored
gown in which her faded complexion, ruined by cosmetics, took on a
youthful expression and freshness, when the company began thronging
in. The ladies retired to Cabinska's room adjoining the boudoir,
while the gentlemen left their street attire in the kitchen divided
in two by a French wall painted in the style of Louis XV, which had
been brought from the stage.
Wicek, in theatrical livery that consisted of boots with yellow,
cardboard tops, a blue spencer a few sizes too big for him, decked
with red cord and a mass of gold buttons, helped the actors to lay
aside their wraps with a grave and stiff mien, like a real groom
from an English comedy; but his roguish disposition could not long
endure the mood.
"What a monkey the director has made of me, eh? My own mother
wouldn't know me in these duds. No doubt I'll have to pay for it all
by going without supper or absolution!" he whispered, smiling.
The ladies all in gala array, rouged and charming, began to fill the
room with a stiff and icy atmosphere, sitting about immovable and
shy.
Janina arrived rather late, for she had a long distance to come from
her hotel, and wished to dress carefully. She greeted everyone, and
her eyes wandered with a look of surprise over the room, struck by
the tone of solemnity that reigned over all. Dressed in a
cream-colored silk gown shading off into heliotrope, with gentians
in her hair and corsage, tall and lithe, with her rosy complexion
and reddish-golden hair, she looked very original and beautiful. She
possessed a great deal of grace and natural distinction, and moved
about with ease, as though accustomed to the atmosphere of the
salon, while the rest of the company felt unnatural and constrained
by the theatrical elegance of their surroundings. They walked about,
conversed and smiled, as though they were on the stage, playing some
very difficult role that demanded continual attention. One could see
that the very carpet under their feet restrained them, that they sat
down with a certain fear on the silk-lined chairs, that they seemed
to be merely passing through the room, afraid to touch any of the
objects about them.
It was a festive reception with wine served by the restaurant
waiters, and with trays of cakes and liqueurs circulating about in
ponderous bottles. This only added to the restraint of the ladies.
They knew not how to eat or drink gracefully, they feared to stain
their dresses and the furniture and feared also to serve as the butt
of ridicule for a few gentlemen who were not at all impressed with
this sham elegance, and were gazing at them and making spiteful
remarks.
Majkowska, who to-day presented a truly stately appearance in her
light yellow dress with a border of roses, with her black, almost
ebony hair, olive complexion, and classically beautiful face--a
typical Veronese--took Janina by the arm and gracefully promenaded
about the salon with her, casting proud glances at those about them.
On the other hand, her mother, whom some mischievous person had
seated on a little tabouret, was undergoing agonies. She had in one
hand a glassful of wine, in the other a tart and a cake in her lap.
She drank the wine and was at a loss what to do with the glass. She
gazed pleadingly at her daughter, grew red in the face, and finally
asked Zielinska, who was sitting near her: "My dear lady, what shall
I do with this glass?"
"Stand it under the chair."
The old woman did as she was advised. Everyone began to laugh at
her, so she picked it up again and held it in her hand.
Old Mrs. Niedzielska, the mother of Wladek and the owner of a house
on Piwna Street, who was always honored by the Cabinskis, sat under
the shade of the palm grove with Kaczkowska, and continually
followed her son with her eyes.
The men in the dining room were, meanwhile, storming the buffet.
"Where do you get your everlasting humor, Glas?" asked Razowiec,
who, although he was the gloomiest actor in the company, played the
parts of the merriest rakes and the funniest uncles.
"That is a public secret. I do not worry, and I have a good
digestion," answered Glas.
"You have precisely that which I am lacking. . . . Do you know I
tried the recipe which you recommended, but got no results . . .
nothing will help me any more. I feel certain that I shall not
outlive this winter for if my stomach does not pain me it is my
back, if it isn't my back then it's my heart, or else this dreadful
pain passes into my neck and racks my spine as with an iron rod."
"Imagination! Drink a cognac to me. . . . Don't think of your
illness and you'll be well."
"You laugh, but I tell you truly that I can no longer sleep for
whole nights at a time . . . ."
"Imagination, I tell you! Drink a cognac to me!"
"It is easy for those who have never suffered to ridicule."
"I have suffered, my God, I have suffered. | . . Drink a cognac to
me! I once ate in the restaurant 'Under the Star' such a cutlet that
I lay in bed a whole week after it and writhed like an eel with
pain."
They retired to the further end of the buffet near the window and
continued their conversation. The one complained and lamented, the
other ceaselessly laughed, saying every minute, "Drink a cognac to
me!"
"Maurice," called Majkowska in a whisper, lifting the portieres.
Topolski bent over toward her and she murmured into his ear: "I love
you! . . . do you know? . . ." and she passed on, conversing with
Janina.
Throughout the salon formed small groups of people conversing.
Cabinski kept running about continually, inviting the guests to
drink, pouring out the liquors for them, and kissing everybody.
Pepa sat in the salon with the editor and Kotlicki, who was one of
the steady patrons of the theater. She was relating something in a
lively and jovial tone, for the editor would every now and then
burst out in a discreet laugh, while Kotlicki would contort into a
smile, his long equine face, and gather about him his coat-tails.
All that was known about him was that he was rich and ennuied.
Kotlicki listened patiently enough, but, at last, bending toward
Cabinska, he asked in a wooden, expressionless voice, "When does the
culminating act of to-day's performance begin--the supper?"
"Immediately . . . we are waiting only for the owner of the house to
arrive."
"No doubt the rent for the last quarter must be unpaid, if you show
her so much consideration," he whispered ironically.
"You always see everything in the worst light!" she answered,
throwing a flower at him.
"To-day I merely see that the directress is fascinating, that
Majkowska has the mien of a lioness, and that the lady who is
walking with her . . . but who is she?"
"A newly engaged chorus girl."
"Well, I see that yonder aspirant to the dramatic art is beautiful
by virtue of her originality and alone possesses more distinction
than all the rest of them taken together. Furthermore, I see that
Mimi to-day resembles a freshly baked roll, white and round and
rosy; that Rosinska has the face of a black poodle who has fallen
into a bin of flour and not yet succeeded in shaking it off, and
that her Sophie looks like a freshly washed and combed little
greyhound. Kaczkowska looks like a frying pan covered with melted
butter; Mrs. Piesh like a hen seeking her strayed chicks; and Mrs.
Glas like a calf enveloped in a rainbow. Where the dickens did she
get all those colors she wears?"
"You are a merciless mocker!"
"You can make me relent, Directress, by hurrying the supper . . ."
he answered and became silent.
The directress began telling in detail about a new joke that
Majkowska had played on Topolski. Kotlicki, listening to it, frowned
impatiently.
"It is too bad that there is not a law which would compel you ladies
to pierce your tongues instead of your ears," he said derisively,
enveloping himself in a cloud of cigar smoke and observing Janina
who was still promenading with Majkowska.
Both beamed with satisfaction, realizing the attention they
attracted. Janina's eyes were joyous, and her crimson lips smiled
charmingly revealing her pearly teeth.
Wladek was engaged in some lengthy conversation with his mother and
also followed Janina with his eyes. Meeting the glances of Kotlicki
he turned away.
Shortly they were joined by Sophie Rosinska, a fourteen-year old
typical actor's child with the long, thin mouth of a greyhound, a
pale complexion, and the large eyes of a madonna. Her short, curled
hair shook with every motion of her head and her thin, narrow lips
fairly bit with their spitefulness as she related something to
Majkowska in her lively voice.
"Sophie!" energetically called Mrs. Rosinska.
Sophie left them and sat down beside her mother, gloomy and sulky.
"I constantly keep telling you not to have anything to do with
Majkowska!" whispered Rosinska, adjusting the curls on her
daughter's head.
"Don't bother me with your nonsense. Mamma! . . . I'm sick and tired
of listening to it! I like Miss Mela because she isn't a scarecrow
like those others," saucily prattled Sophie and smiled with childish
naivete at Niedzielska, who was looking at her.
"Wait till we get home. I'll fix you!"
"All right, all right . . . we'll see about that, Mother!"
Mrs. Rosinska turned to Stanislawski, who sat beside her all the
while and chatted without drinking anything. She began to make
remarks about Majkowska, with whom she was always on a war footing,
for they had almost the same repertory and Majkowska had, in
addition, talent, youth, and beauty, none of which Rosinska
possessed. Rosinska hated all young women, for in each she now saw a
rival and a thief stealing her roles and her favor with the public.
Lately she had become intimate with Stanislawski for she felt that
something similar was happening to him. He never spoke to her about
it, nor ever complained, but now, when he bent toward her his thin,
waxen face all seamed with wrinkles as fine as hairs, his yellowish
eyes glowed gloomily.
"Did you notice how Cabinska played to-day?" she asked him.
"Did I notice?" answered Stanislawski, "I see that every day. I know
long ago what they are . . . long ago! What is Cabinski
himself? . . . A clown and tightrope walker who in our days would
not even have been permitted to play the part of a lackey! . . . And
Wladek! he's an artist, is he? . . . A beast who makes a public
house of the stage! . . . He plays only for his mistresses! His
noblemen are shoemakers and barbers, while his barbers and
shoemakers are loafers from the water front . . . What do they
introduce on the stage? . . . Hooligans, the street, slang and
mud. . . . And what is Glas? . . . A drunkard in life, which is a
minor consideration, but it is not permissible for a true artist to
wander about taverns with the most disgusting hoodlums; it is not
permissible for a true artist to introduce on the stage the
hiccoughs of a drunkard and vulgar brutality. . . . Take
Ziolkowski's The Master and the Apprentice for instance: there you
have a type, a finished type of a drunkard presented in broad and
classical outlines; there is gesture and pose and mimicry, but there
is also nobility. What does Glas make of that role? . . . He makes a
filthy, repulsive, drunken shoemaker of the lowest order. That is
their art! . . . And Piesh? . . . Piesh is also not much better,
although he bears the stamp of a good artist . . . but his acting is
a miserable and an everlasting botch; he has a humor on the stage,
like that of fighting dogs, but not human and noble . . . and not
ours! . . ."
He became silent a moment and rubbed his eyes with his long skinny
hand with thin, knotty fingers.
"And Krzykiewicz? . . . and Wawrzecki? . . . and Razowiec? . . .
perhaps they are artists, eh? . . . Artists! . . . Do you remember
Kalacinski? . . . He was an artist! Or Krzensinski, Stobinski,
Felek, and Chelchowski? . . . Those were artists who could bring
down the house! . . . What are our actors compared with them? . . ."
he asked encompassing with an inimical glance the company about
them. "What is this band of shoemakers, tailors, paper hangers,
barbers? . . . Comedians, ragamuffins, and clowns! . . . Bah! art is
going to the dogs. In a few more years when we are gone, they will
make of the stage a barroom, a circus, or a storage warehouse.
"Do you hear? . . . they give me half-sheet roles of old men and old
nincompoops, to me! . . . do you hear? . . . to me, who for forty
years have upheld the entire classical repertory to me! Oh! oh!" he
hissed quietly tearing his finger nails convulsively.
"Topolski! . . . Topolski alone has a talent, but what does he do
with it? . . . A bandit, a Singalese, who goes into epileptic fits
on the stage, who is ready to put a barn on the stage if those new
authors require it. They call that realism, while in truth it is
nothing but roguery! . . ."
"And the women? . . . you forget the women, sir! . . . Who plays the
parts of sweethearts and heroines? . . . Who is in the chorus? . . .
scrub-women and barmaids, who have made of the theater a screen for
their licentiousness. But that's nothing . . . the directors want
that; what do they care if these women possess neither talent,
intelligence nor beauty! . . . They give them the most important
roles. They act the parts of heroines and look like chambermaids or
like those who walk the streets! . . . But what do the directors
care as long as the business keeps going and the box office is sold
out . . . that's all they care about!" She spoke rapidly and the
blood rushed to her face so violently that she became all red, in
spite of the thick layer of powder and cream.
The stage-director, who was once the celebrated hero of a few
theaters, and old Mirowska who was still retained only as a favor
because of her old age and brilliant past completed the camp of the
veterans of the old actors' guard, who had fought in other times,
and looked upon the present with gloomy eyes. They stood beneath the
bridge of a sinking ship, hence no one even heard their cries of
despair.
Kotlicki beckoned to Wladek and made room for him beside himself.
Wladek in passing Janina cast a glance of fiery passion at her, and
then sat down near Kotlicki, rubbing his knee which bothered him
whenever he sat for any length of time.
"Rheumatism is already there, eh? . . . while fame and money are
still far away! . . ." Kotlicki began mockingly.
"Oh, the deuce take fame! . . . Money I wouldn't mind having . . ."
"Do you think you will ever get it?"
"I will . . . my faith in that is unfailing! At times it seems to me
as though I already felt it in my pocket."
"That's true. Your mother owns a house."
"And six children and a pile of debts as high as the chimney! . . .
No, not that! . . . I will get the money elsewhere . . ."
"In the meanwhile, according to your old custom you borrow it
wherever you can, eh?" Kotlicki mocked on.
"Oh, don't fear. I'll return yours this month yet, without fail."
"I will wait even until the reappearance of the comet of 1812; it
will pass this way again in about a year. . . ."
"Don't mock me. . . . You'd not hurt people as much with a club as
you do with your cynicism."
"That's my weapon!" answered Kotlicki, contracting his brows.
"Perhaps, before long, I shall marry and then I will pay up all my
debts. . . ."
Kotlicki turned violently towards him, glanced straight into his
eyes and began to laugh with his quiet, neighing voice, screwing his
face into a grimace.
"That is the finest piece of invention that I have ever heard!"
"No, I seriously intend to marry and have already selected
something: a brownstone house and a girl of twenty, a light blonde,
plump, graceful and resolute. . . . If my mother helps me, I shall
marry before this season is over."
"And what of the theater?"
"I will organize a company of my own."
Kotlicki laughed again.
"Your mother is too sensible and I am sure that she will not let
herself be caught on that hook, my dear! . . . Why are you ogling
that beauty in the cream-colored dress so persistently, eh?"
"Oh she's a cocoanut of a woman!"
"Yes, but that cocoanut is too hard for your weak teeth. You won't
crack it, and you're likely to lose a tooth in trying. . . ."
"Do you know what the savages do? . . . When they haven't a knife or
a stone handy, they light a fire, put the cocoanut in it, and the
heat bursts it open . . ."
"And when there is no fire to be had, what then? . . . You don't
answer me, my clever chap? . . . Then I'll tell you: when there is
no fire to be had, they content themselves with gazing on the
cocoanut, consoling themselves with the thought that someone else
will show them how to do it."
Their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the owner of
the house. A confused murmur arose from those assembled. Cabinska
went forward to greet her with extended hand and the mien of
resplendent majesty.
"It is a pleasure to meet you! . . a real pleasure!" she announced
with a faint smile, condescendingly extending her hand to the
persons whom Cabinska introduced to her. She sought to appear coldly
indifferent, while in reality she had been dying from curiosity ever
since the morning to view these noted women about whom she had heard
so much.
Cabinski approached her smiling, with wine and cakes in his hand,
but Pepa was already inviting all to sit down to supper.
The landlady excused herself for being late, but her thin voice was
drowned amid the hubbub of the guests seating themselves at the
table. She was given an honorary place between Pepa, Majkowska, and
the editor. Kotlicki seated himself at the end of the table
alongside of Janina, while Wladek wedged himself in between Janina
and Zielinska.
After a toast pronounced by the editor in honor of the celebrant,
conversation burst forth like a cascade and with unrestrained flow
filled the entire room. All began to talk at the same time, to laugh
and to joke. Inebriation began to envelop all brains in a rosy mist
of merriment and to weave joy around all hearts.
In the middle of the supper the doorbell rang violently.
"Who can that be?" asked Cabinska. "Nurse, go and open the door!"
The nurse was busy about a side table where the children were
eating; she went immediately to open the door.
"Who came?" inquired Cabinska.
"Oh, nobody! Only that unchristened little goldfish!" she answered
scornfully.
Those sitting nearest burst out laughing.
"Ah, yes. Our dear and invaluable Gold!"
Gold entered and bowed to the company, tugging at his sparse, yellow
little beard.
"How are you, goldfish?"
"Hey there, Treasurer! Oh pearl of treasurers, come over to us."
The treasurer bowed, paying no attention to the jibes that were
hurled at him.
"Mrs. Directress will pardon me for coming late, but my family lives
in the Jewish quarter and I really had to stay with them till the
end of the Sabbath," he explained to Cabinska.
"Have a seat, sir. If you can't eat, you're at least allowed to
drink," invited Cabinski, making room for Gold alongside himself.
Gold located himself carefully and began to eat. When the company
had forgotten him a bit, he ventured to address them:
"I have brought you the latest news, for I see no one knows it, as
yet. . . ."
He took a newspaper from his side pocket and began to read aloud:
"Miss Snilowska, the noted and talented artist of the provincial
theaters, playing under the pseudonym of 'Nicolette' has received
permission to make her debut in the Warsaw Theater. She will make
her first appearance next Tuesday in Sardou's Odette. We hope that
the management, in engaging Miss Snilowska, has added a very
valuable acquisition to the stage."
He folded away the paper and calmly continued to eat. The company
was struck dumb with amazement.
"Nicolette on the Warsaw stage! . . . Nicolette making her
debut! . . . Nicolette! . . ." they whispered with subdued voices.
Everybody began to look at Majkowska and Pepa, but both were silent.
Majkowska's face wore a scornful expression while Pepa, unable to
conceal the anger that raged within her, tore distractedly at the
lace on her sleeves.
"No doubt she is now blessing that intrigue that caused her to leave
us, for it helped instead of harming her," said someone.
"Or else it was her talent that helped her!" intentionally added
Kotlicki.
"Talent?" cried Cabinska, "Nicolette and talent! Ha! ha! ha! Why she
could not even play a chambermaid on our stage!"
"Nevertheless in the Warsaw Theater she will play the second-best
roles," interposed Kotlicki.
"The Warsaw Theater! The Warsaw Theater! That is a still poorer show
than ours!" added Glas.
"Ho! ho! what do the Warsaw Theater and its actors amount to! . . .
Nothing great, to be sure!" shouted Krzykiewicz, all flushed with
drinking as he filled the landlady's glass with wine.
"Only pay us such salaries as their actors get, and you will see who
we are!" called Piesh.
"That's true! Piesh is right. Who can think only of art when his
rent is in arrears?"
"That's a falsehood! That would mean that you could make an artist
of any swineherd whom you fed," called Stanislawski across the
table.
"Poverty is a fire that burns rubbish, but the true metal only comes
out of it all the purer," quickly said Topolski.
"Nonsense! It comes out not purer, but only more sooty, and
afterwards the rust devours it all the more quickly. A bottle is
worth something not because it may have once contained the choicest
Tokay, but because it's now full of brandy!" stammered Glas in a
drunken voice.
"The Warsaw Theater! My God! with the exception of two or three
persons it's full of the scum of the profession which the provinces
no longer could stand."
"Just let the press give us the support it gives them, let it insert
half a column daily about us and round up the public for us each day
as it does for them! . . ."
"Well, what then? . . . Even at that you'd remain nothing but
Wawrzecki!" sneered Kotlicki.
"Yes, but the public would come and see that Wawrzecki is not a bit
worse and perhaps a great deal better actor than those patented
celebrities."
"Let me speak!" whimpered Glas, vainly trying to rise from his chair
and steady himself.
"The public! . . . the public is a flock of sheep which runs where
it is driven by the shepherds."
"Don't say that, Topolski . . ."
"Don't try to deny it, Kotlicki! I tell you that the public is a
pack of fools, but its leaders are even greater fools!"
"Let me speak," mumbled Glas in a voice that was already growing
inaudible, while he leaned on the table and gazed at the candles
with hazy eyes.
"Glas, go to sleep, for you're drunk," said Topolski sharply.
"I am drunk? . . . I am drunk? . . ." stuttered Glas, his face as
ruddy as the dawn.
The wine and liquors circulated more freely, and the guests began
shifting their seats.
Wladek seated himself between Majkowska and the landlady, embarking
on a flirtation with the latter. Mimi, growing exhilarated,
approached Kaczkowska, with whom she had already exchanged glances
and friendly words across the table. They now sat close together,
holding each other about the waist like the sincerest friends.
Janina, who had been answering Kotlicki only in brief sentences,
preoccupied with what she saw and heard about her glanced at him
with an amazed and questioning look.
"You are surprised?" he asked.
"Yes, for not so long ago they were so angry at one another."
"Bosh! that was only a little comedy, played fairly well in their
momentary mood . . ."
"A comedy? . . . and I thought that . . ."
"That they would begin to pull each other's hair, no doubt . . . for
even that sometimes happens behind the stage between the best of
friends and actors. From what planet have you dropped down that
these people surprise you so greatly? . . ."
"I came from the country where one hears hardly anything about
artists, only about the theater itself," she answered straightforwardly.
"Ah, in that case, I beg your pardon. . . . Now I understand your
amazement and I will presume to enlighten you that all those
quarrels, rumpuses, intrigues, envies, and even fights are nothing
but nerves, nerves, nerves! They vibrate in all of these people at
the slightest touch, like the strings of an old piano. Their tears,
their angers, and their hatreds are all momentary, and their loves
last about a week, at the longest. It is the comedy of life of
nervous individuals, acted a hundredfold better than that which they
present on the stage, for it is played instinctively. I might
describe it thus: all women in the theater are hysterical, and the
men, whether great or small, are neurasthenics. Here you will find
everything but real human beings. Have you been long in the
theater?"
"This is my first month."
"No wonder that everything amazes you; but in a month or so you'll
no longer see anything surprising; everything will then appear to
you natural and commonplace."
"In other words, you infer that I also will become a subject to
hysteria," she gaily added.
"Yes. I give you my word that I am speaking with absolute sincerity.
You think you can live with impunity in this environment without
becoming like all the rest of them; while I tell you that that is a
natural necessity. Suppose we expatiate on that a bit . . . will you
allow me?"
"Certainly."
"In the country you must know the woods. . . . Now please recall to
your mind the woodsmen. Have they not in themselves something of
that wood which they are continually chopping? They become stiff and
stalwart, gloomy and indifferent. And what of the butcher? Does not
a man who is continually occupied in killing, who breathes in the
odor of raw meat and steaming blood, in time become stamped with the
same characteristics as those beasts which he has slain? He does,
and I would say that he is himself a beast. And what of the peasant?
Do you know the village well?"
Janina nodded.
"Imagine for a moment the green fields in springtime, golden in the
summer, russet-gray and mournful in the autumn, white and hard like
a desert in the winter. Now behold the peasant as he is from his
birth until his death . . . the average, normal peasant. The peasant
boy is like a wild, unbridled colt, like the irresistible urge of
the spring. In the prime of his manhood he is like the summer, a
physical potentate, hard as the earth baked by the July sun, gray as
his fallows and pastures, slow as the ripening of the grain. Autumn
corresponds entirely to the old age of the peasant that desperate,
ugly old age with its bleared eyes and earthy complexion, like the
ground beneath the plow; it lacks strength and goes about in
beggars' garments like the earth that has been reft of the bulk of
its fruits with only a few dried and yellow stalks sticking out here
and there in the potato fields; the peasant is already slowly
returning to the earth from whence he sprung, the earth which itself
becomes dumb and silent after the harvest and lies there in the pale
autumn sunlight, quiet, passive, and drowsy. . . . Afterwards comes
winter: the peasant in his white coffin, in his new boots and clean
shirt, lies down to rest in that earth which has, like him, arrayed
itself in a white shroud of snow and fallen to sleep that earth
whose life he was a part of, which he unconsciously loved, and with
which he dies together, as cold and hard as those ice-covered
furrows that nourished him. . . ."
Kotlicki meditated a moment and then continued: "And yet you think
that you can remain in the theater without becoming a hysterical
type? That's impossible! This phantom life, this daily portrayal of
new characters, feelings and thoughts upon that shifting plane of
impressions, amid artificial stimulants this must metamorphose every
human being, demolish his former personality and recast or rather
disintegrate his soul so that you can put almost any stamp upon it.
You must become a chameleon; on the stage, for art's sake, in life,
from necessity."
"In other words, one must degenerate to become an artist," added
Janina.
"Well, what of that? . . . Even though you fall, others will surely
reach the goal and convince themselves that it wasn't worth reaching
that it isn't worth striving for, nor shedding a single tear, nor
bearing a single pang . . . for everything is illusion, illusion,
illusion . . . ."
They became silent. Janina felt a sudden chill depression. That
former fear of the unknown, experienced at Bukowiec, now took
possession of her.
Kotlicki leaned with one elbow on the table and looked absently into
the crystal carafes containing the arrack. He poured out and drank
glass after glass. The conversation with Janina had wearied him; he
continued to speak to her, but felt vexed at himself for having said
so much. His yellow face, covered with freckles and short reddish
hair, hard and seamed with deep lines, resembled a horse's face as
it was reflected in the red glass of the carafe.
Gazing at Janina he saw so much strength and inner health, so many
desires, dreams, and hopes, that he muttered to himself in a hollow,
dissatisfied tone: "What for? . . . What for? . . ."
Then he gulped down another glass of wine and became absorbed in the
general conversation. Voices sounded harshly, faces were red, and
eyes glowed through a mist of alcoholic intoxication, while many
lips were already mumbling indistinctly and incoherently. All were
talking at once, arguing heatedly and quarreling volubly,
unceremoniously swearing, shouting or laughing.
The candles, almost burnt out, were replaced by new ones. Gray dawn,
filtering in through the reed shades in thin streaks, dimmed the
glare of the lights.
The guests rose from the table and scattered about the adjoining
rooms. Cabinska, followed by a few ladies, repaired to the boudoir
for tea. In the first room a few tables were arranged and a game of
cards commenced.
Only Gold still sat at the festal board and ate, relating something
to Glas, who was now quite drunk.
"They are poor people. . . . My sister is a widow with six children;
I help her as much as I can, but that doesn't amount to much. . . .
And, in the meanwhile, the children are growing up and need ever
more . . ." Gold was saying.
"Then cheat us more, you dog's face! . . ."
"The elder is about to take up a medical course, the next in age is
a store clerk and the rest of them are such small and weak and
sickly tots that it pains one to look at them!"
"Then drown them, like puppies! . . . Drown them and be done with
it!" mumbled Glas.
"You are very drunk . . ." whispered Gold scornfully, "you have no
idea what children are! . . ."
"Get married and you'll have kids of your own . . ." stuttered Glas.
"I can't . . . I must first see that these are provided for,"
replied Gold quietly grasping a cup of tea in both hands and sipping
it in little gulps, "I must first make men of them . . ." he added,
his eyes glowing.
All around there was a hum of voices as in a beehive when the swarm
of young bees is ready to fly out into the world. The hidden
desires, envies, feuds, and troubles broke out irresistibly. The
talking grew louder, people were denounced without pardon, slandered
without mercy, reviled and derided without pity. Those assembled
there had now become their natural selves: no one masked himself any
longer nor confined himself within the bounds of one role. All
played a thousand different roles. The hidden comedy of souls now
found its stage, its audience, and its actors, often very talented
ones.
Janina exhilarated by the wine, conversed with Wawrzecki about the
theater. Afterwards she strayed about the rooms, watched the men
playing cards, and listened to a variety of conversations and
arguments.
Janina roused herself from her meditations, for Kotlicki stood
before her with a cup of tea in his hand and with his sharp ennuied
voice began to speak: "You are observing the company, mademoiselle?
Truly, what remarkable energy there is in all their actions, what
strong souls they now appear to be!"
"Your malice also has strength . . ." she replied slowly.
"And is wasted on slander and ridicule, you wished to add, didn't
you?"
"Almost so."
"We shall see, we shall see . . ." he said slowly, standing his cup
upon the table and then, taking leave of Janina he left quietly.
In the anteroom where the sleepy Wicek handed him his overcoat, he
heard the monotonous whispering of the children's voices behind the
screen. He raised the curtain and saw Cabinski's four little boys
kneeling in their nightgowns and repeating their prayers after the
nurse.
A small night-lamp, glowing before a holy picture above the nurse's
bed, faintly illumined that group of children and the old,
gray-haired woman, who humbly bowed to the ground, struck her breast
with her hand and whispered in a tearful voice: "O Lamb of God, who
purgest the sins of the world!"
The children repeated the words after her with drowsy voices and
beat their breasts with their little hands.
Kotlicki withdrew quietly and without a smile. Only when he had
reached the stairs, he whispered: "Well, well! We shall see, we
shall see. . . ."
Janina started for the boudoir, but Niedzielska stopped her and drew
her into a conversation; later Wladek joined them.
The company began to break up.
"Do you live far away?" Niedzielska asked Janina.
"On Podwal Street, but in a week at most I am moving to Widok
Street."
"Ah, that's good, for we live on Piwna Street, so we can go
together. . . ."
They left immediately. Niedzielska took Janina by the arm, while
Wladek walked alongside, a little angry because he had to accompany
his mother; he swore to himself, while aloud he made melancholy
remarks about the weather.
The streets were deserted and silent. Dawn was already illumining
the dark depths of the horizon and the outlines of the houses became
distinct. The gas lamps extended like an endless golden chain with
their links of pale flames diffusing a mist of light upon the dew
covered sidewalks and the gray walls of the houses. The fresh brisk
breeze of a July morning swept down the streets with a strange charm
and tranquility. The houses stood silent, still wrapt in slumber.
Arrived at her hotel Niedzielska kissed Janina with a sudden
friendliness and they parted.