"Please miss, here's the circular!" cried Wicek, entering Janina's
room.
"What is the news? . . ."
"The reading of that new play, or something like that!" he replied
prying about the room.
Janina signed her name to the circular in which the stage-manager
summoned the entire company to appear at noon for the reading of
Glogowski's play The Churls.
"A fine bouquet!" exclaimed Wicek, eyeing the flowers standing in
the vase. "You might still melt it. . . ."
"Speak like a human being!" said Janina, handing back the signed
paper.
"That means I could still sell that bouquet for you."
"But who sells such bouquets and who buys them? . . ."
"Pardon me, miss, but I see you are still green! Some ladies as soon
as they receive flowers, sell them to the old woman who peddles
flowers in the evening at the theater. I could get a ruble easy for
that. If you would give it to me . . ."
"You can't have it. . . . But here's something else for you."
Wicek humbly kissed Janina's hand, overjoyed with the ruble she gave
him.
After Wicek's departure Janina changed the water in the vase with
the flowers and was just standing it on the table when Sowinska
entered with her breakfast.
Sowinska was to-day all radiant: her gray, owlish eyes were beaming
with unaccustomed friendliness.
The old woman stood the coffee on the table and, pointing to the
bouquet, remarked with a smile: "What beautiful flowers! Are they
from that gentleman who was here yesterday?"
"Yes," came the curt reply.
"I know someone who would be very pleased to send you the same kind
every day. . . ." Sowinska spoke in a tone of pretended
indifference, as she tidied the room.
"Flowers?" asked Janina.
"Well . . . and something more, if it were accepted."
"That person would have to be quite a fool."
"Don't you know that love makes fools of everyone?"
"That may be," answered Janina curtly.
"Don't you surmise who it is?"
"I'm not at all curious."
"Yet, you know him very well."
"Thank you, but I don't need any information."
"Don't get angry. . . . What is there wrong in it? . . ." slowly
drawled Sowinska.
"Ah, so it is you who presume to tell me that? . . ."
"Yes I, and you know that I wish you as well as I wish my own
daughter."
"You wish me as well as your own daughter?" slowly repeated Janina,
looking straight into the other's face.
Sowinska dropped her eyes and silently left the room, but behind the
door she paused and shook her fist threateningly.
"You saint! Wait!" she hissed.
When Janina reached the theater she found only Piesh, Topolski, and
Glogowski present.
Glogowski approached her with a smile, extending his hand.
"Good morning. I was thinking about you yesterday; you must
unfailingly thank me for that. . . ."
"I do thank you! But I'm curious to know . . ."
"I assure you I didn't think ill about you. . . . I didn't think
about you as others of my sex would think about such beautiful women
as you, no! May I croak if I did! I thought . . . 'Where does your
strength come from?'"
"No doubt from the same source as weakness comes from; it's
inherent," answered Janina seating herself.
"You must have some nice little dogma and with your mind fixed on
that you go forward. That dogma has reddish-yellow hair, a yearly
income of about ten thousand rubles, he wears binoculars and . . ."
jested Topolski.
"And . . . forget the rest of it! It's always time enough for
nonsense, that never grows old," Glogowski interrupted Topolski.
"You'll also drink with us, won't you, Miss Janina?"
"Thank you! I don't drink."
"But you must . . . if it be only to moisten your lips. It is the
beginning of the funeral celebration over my play," joked Glogowski.
"Exaggeration!" mumbled Piesh.
"Well, we shall see! Come on, Mr. Piesh, Mr. Topolski, let's have
another," cried Glogowski, pouring out the cognac.
He smiled and joked continually, led the arriving actors to the
buffet and seemed very lively, but one could see that under his
forced gayety there was a hidden anxiety and doubt regarding the
success of his play.
On the veranda a noisy little revel had begun, where Glogowski was
treating everybody, but the humors of all those present seemed to be
partially dampened by the drizzling weather. Cabinski every now and
then gazed up at the sky, took off his top hat and scratched his
head with dissatisfaction. Pepa walked about as glum as an autumn
day . . . Majkowska glared at Topolski with fiery eyes and seemed to
have a great desire to create a scene, for her lips were pale and
her eyes red, either from crying or sleeplessness. Glas also stalked
about like a poisoned man after yesterday's fiasco and failed to
utter a single one of his usual jokes. Razowiec was examining his
tongue in a mirror and lamenting to Mrs. Piesh. Even Wawrzecki was
not "in the proper situation," as he chose to describe his
indisposition.
"It is half-past twelve. . . . Come, let's begin to read the play,"
said Topolski, the stage-manager.
A table was pushed out into the center of the stage, chairs were
placed around it and Topolski, armed with a pencil, began to read.
Glogowski did not sit down, but kept walking about in big circles
and every time he passed Janina he would whisper some remark at
which she laughed quietly, while he continued to pace about, rumple
his hair, throw his hat into the air and smoke one cigarette after
another, all the time, however, listening attentively to the
reading.
Outside the rain continued to drizzle and the water dripped
monotonously down the drainpipes. The drab, dull daylight streamed
in upon the stage. Glas amused himself by throwing cigarette butts
at Dobek's nose, while Wladek gently blew at the head of the dozing
Mirowska. From the dressing-room came the buzz of a saw cutting wood
and the hammering of nails it was the stage mechanician preparing
his props for the evening performance.
"Mr. Glogowski, we shall have to cut out a little here," remarked
Topolski occasionally.
"Go ahead!" Glogowski would reply, continuing his promenade.
The whispers grew louder.
"Kaminska will you go downtown with me? I want to buy some material
for a dress."
"All right, we shall look over some autumn capes while we're at it."
"What is that going to be? . . . an insertion?" Rosinska asked Mrs.
Piesh who was busily crocheting something.
"Yes, do you see what a nice design it is? I got a sample from the
directress."
Again there followed a moment of complete silence in which was heard
nothing but the even voice of the stage-manager, the dripping of the
rain and the buzz of the saw in the dressing-room.
"Let me have a cigarette," said Wawrzecki turning to Wladek. "Did
you win anything at cards yesterday?"
"I lost, as usual, just as I was on the point of making a big haul
of three hundred rubles. Some luck, eh? . . . A certain plan has
occurred to my mind! . . ." Wladek leaned over toward Wawrzecki and
began to whisper secretly into his ear.
"What have you done about your living quarters?" Krzykiewicz asked
Glas, handing him a cigarette.
"Oh, nothing, I'm still living in the same place."
"Are you paying your rent?"
"Not yet, but soon!" answered the comedian, winking one of his eyes.
"Listen Glas! I heard that Cabinski is buying a house on Leszno
Street."
"What are you trying to tell me! By Gad, I'd immediately move into
it to make up for the salary he owes me. Where would he get the
money?"
"Ciepieszewski saw him with the agents who have the house for sale."
"Nurse!" called Cabinska.
The nurse hastily entered carrying a letter under her apron.
"It wasn't I, it was Felka who broke that looking-glass. She threw a
champagne bottle aiming at the chandelier, but struck the mirror
instead. Bang! and immediately thirty rubles were added to the bill.
That fat guy of hers merely frowned," one of the chorus girls was
relating.
"Don't lie! I was not drunk and I remember exactly who broke it,"
retorted Felka.
"You remember do you? Do you also remember how you jumped off the
table and then took off your shoes and . . . ha! ha! ha! ha!"
"Be quiet there!" sharply called Topolski to the chorus girls.
They subdued their voices, but Mimi began almost aloud to tell
Kaczkowska about a new style of hat she had seen on Long Street.
"If it goes on that way much longer, I won't be able to stand it!
The landlord has ordered me to move. Yesterday I pawned almost the
last rag, for I had to buy my Johnnie some wine. The poor little
fellow is convalescing so slowly. He already wants to get out of bed
and is getting restless and peevish. If Ciepieszewski doesn't engage
me and pay me in advance, the landlord will throw me out into the
street," whispered Wolska to one of her companions of the chorus.
"But are you sure Ciepieszewski is organizing a company?" asked her
listener.
"He is, undoubtedly. I am to see him in a few days to sign a
contract."
"So you're not going to stay with Cabinski?"
"No, he doesn't want to pay the overdue salary he owes me."
Thirty years were written plainly on Wolska's wearied face on which
worry had left its deep marks. The thick layer of powder and rouge
could not conceal those wrinkles, nor the unrest that glowed in her
eyes. She had a six-year-old son who had been ill since the spring.
She defended him desperately, at the expense of starving herself.
"Counselor! Welcome to our company!" cried Glas, spying the old man,
who for a few weeks had not been seen in the theater.
The counselor entered and began greeting everybody. The reading of
the play was interrupted, for all sprang up from their seats.
"Good morning! Good morning! Am I interrupting you?"
"No, no!" chorused the actors.
"Have a seat, Counselor. We shall listen together," cried Cabinska.
"Ah, young master! my regards to you!" called the counselor to
Glogowski.
"An old idiot!" growled Glogowski, nodding his head and hiding
behind the scenes, for he was already exasperated at those continual
interruptions and conversations.
"Silence! For goodness' sake, this is getting to be like a real
synagogue!" cried the irritated Topolski and began to read on. But
no one listened any longer. The directress left with the counselor
and, one by one, the others quietly slipped out after her. The rain
began to pour heavily and beat so noisy a tattoo upon the tin roof
of the theater that it drowned out all other sounds. It became so
dark, that Topolski could not see to read.
The entire company removed to the men's dressing-room. It was
lighter and warmer there, so they began to chat.
Janina stood together with Glogowski in the doorway and was saying
something in an enthusiastic voice about the theater when Rosinska
interrupted her with derision: "Goodness, you seem to be obsessed by
the theater! . . . Well, well, I would never have believed such a
thing possible had I not heard it . . . ."
"Why, it's simple enough; the theater holds everything that I
desire."
"I, on the other hand, only begin to live outside of the theater."
"Then why don't you abandon the stage?"
"If I only could break away. I'd not stay here another hour!" she
answered with bitterness.
"That's merely talk! Each one of us could break away from the
theater, if we only would," said Wolska quietly. "For me this life
is harder than for any of you and I know that if I forsook the stage
my lot would be much better, but whenever I think that I shall have
to quit the stage some day, so great a fear besets me that it seems
as though I should die without it."
"The theater is a slow poisoning, a dying by inches each day!"
complained Razowiec.
"Don't you whine, for your sickness comes not from the theater, but
from your stomach," remarked Wawrzecki.
"That continual dying and poisoning is, nevertheless, a kind of
ecstasy!" began Janina anew.
"Oh, a splendid ecstasy! If you want to call hunger, continual envy,
and the inability to live otherwise, an ecstasy!" sneered Rosinska.
"Happy are they who have not fallen a prey to that disease, or
escaped it in time" added Razowiec.
"But isn't it better to live and suffer and die in that way, as long
as you have art as your goal. A thousand times would I prefer to
live that way than to be my husband's servant, the slave of my
children, and a household chattel!" exclaimed Janina with a
passionate outburst.
Wladek began to declaim with a comical pathos:
"Oh priestess, most elect! To thee, in this temple of art, High
altars I'll erect!
"Please forgive me that," continued Wladek. "I myself say that
outside of art there is nothing! If it were not for the
theater . . ."
"You would have become a cobbler!" interposed Glas.
"Only a very young and a very naive woman can talk like that,"
spitefully exclaimed Kaczkowska.
"Or one who does not yet know what Cabinski's salary tastes like,"
added Rosinska.
"Oh, thou art worthy of pity! You have enthusiasm . . . poverty will
rob you of it; you have inspiration . . . poverty will rob you of
it; you have youth, talent, and beauty . . . poverty will rob you of
it all!" declaimed Piesh in the stern tones of an oracle.
"No, all that is nothing! . . . But such a company, such artists,
such plays as these will ruin everything. And if you are able to
endure such a hell then you will become a great artist!" whispered
Stanislawski sourly.
"A master has proclaimed it, so bow your heads, oh multitude, and
say that it must be so!" jeered Wawrzecki.
"Fool! . . ." snarled Stanislawski.
"Mummy!" retorted Wawrzecki.
"I'll tell you how I began my career," said Wladek. "I was in the
fourth grade at school when I saw Rossi in Hamlet and from that
moment the theater claimed me entirely! I pilfered cash from my
father to buy tragedies and attended the theater. I spent whole days
and nights in learning roles, and dreamed that I would conquer the
whole world . . ."
"And you're nothing but a tyro in Cabinski's company," jeered Dobek.
"I learned that Richter had come to Warsaw and intended to open a
school of dramatic art," continued Wladek. "I went to see him, for I
felt that I had talent and wished to learn. He lived on St. John's
Street. I came to his house and rang the bell. He opened the door
himself, let me in and then locked it. I began to perspire with fear
and didn't know how to begin. I stood first on one foot and then on
the other. He was calmly washing a saucepan. Then, he poured some
oil into an oil-stove, took off his coat, put on a house-jacket and
began to peel potatoes.
"After a long silence, seeing that I would not get him to respond in
that way, I began to stammer something about my calling, my love of
art, my desire to learn and so forth. . . . He continued to peel his
potatoes. Finally, I asked him to give me lessons. He glanced at me
and grumbled: 'How old are you, my boy?' I stood there dumbfounded
like a mummy and he continued to question: 'Did you come with your
mother?' Tears began to fill my eyes, while he spoke again: 'Your
father will give you a walloping, and they'll expel you from
school.' I felt so distressed and humiliated that I could not utter
a word 'Recite some verse for me, young man,' he said quietly, all
the while systematically peeling his potatoes."
"So your inclination to roar on the stage harks away back to those
days, eh?" jeered Glas.
"Glas, don't interrupt me. . . . Ha! thought I, I'll have to show
him! And although I was all trembling with emotion I assumed a
tragic pose and began to recite. . . . I writhed, shouted, burst out
in a fit of passion like Othello, seethed with hatred, like a
samovar and finally finished, all covered with perspiration. 'Some
more,' said Richter, continually peeling the potatoes, while not a
single muscle of his face betrayed what he thought of it all. I
thought that everything was going fine, so I selected 'Hagar.' I
despaired like Niobe, cursed like Lear, pleaded, threatened, and
ended up, all exhausted and breathless. He said: 'Still more!' He
stopped peeling the potatoes and began to chop meat. Enraptured by
the tone of encouragement I selected from Slowacki's Mazeppa that
prison-scene from the fourth act and recited the whole of it. I put
into it so much feeling and force that I became hoarse; my hair
stood on end, I trembled, forgot my surroundings, inspiration
carried me away, fire blazed from me as from a stove, my voice
melted in tears. Tragedy swept me off my feet, the room began to
dance about me, a colored mist swam before my eyes, my breath was
beginning to fail, I began to grow weak and to choke with emotion,
and I seemed about to faint . . . when he sneezed and began to wipe
tears from his eyes with his coat-sleeve. I stopped reciting. He
laid down the onion that he was slicing, put a pitcher into my hand
and calmly said to me: 'Go and bring me some water.' I brought it.
He spilled the potatoes into it, stood them on the oil-stove and lit
the wick. I timidly asked him whether I could come to take lessons
from him. 'Yes, come' he answered, 'you can sweep the floor and
carry water for me. Do you know how to speak Chinese?' 'No,' I
answered, not knowing what he was driving at. 'Well, then learn
it and come back to me and we shall then speak about the
theater!' . . . I shall never forget that moment as long as I live."
"Don't get mawkish over it, for Glogowski won't treat you to any
more beer anyway," remarked Glas.
"Say what you will, but it is art alone that makes life worth
something," persisted Wladek.
"And didn't you see Richter again?" asked Janina curiously.
"How could he . . . he hasn't learned Chinese yet," interposed Glas.
"No, I didn't go to see him; and moreover, when they expelled me
from school I immediately ran away from home and joined
Krzyzanowski's company," answered Wladek.
"You were with Krzyzanowski?" asked someone.
"For a whole year I walked with him, his wife, his son, the immortal
Leo and one other actress. I say that I 'walked' because in those
days we seldom used other means of locomotion. Very often there was
nothing to eat, but I could act and declaim as much as I liked. I
had an enormous repertoire. With a cast of four persons we presented
Shakespeare and Schiller, most wonderfully made over for our own use
by Krzyzanowski, who besides that had a great many plays of his own
with double or quadruple titles."
While the rain continued interminably, they drew together in a still
closer circle and chatted. Suddenly their conversation was
interrupted by loud cries from the stage.
"Quiet! what is that?" asked everybody.
"Aha! Majkowska versus Topolski in a scene of free love."
Janina went out to see what was happening. On the almost totally
dark stage the heroic pair were engaged in a quarrel.
"Where were you?" cried Majkowska, springing at Topolski with
clenched fists.
"Let me alone, Mela."
"Where were you all last night?"
"I tell you, please go away. . . . If you are ill, go home."
"You were playing cards again, weren't you? And I haven't even
enough money for a dress! I couldn't even buy myself a supper last
night!"
"Why didn't you want the money when you could have had it?"
"Oh, yes, you'd want me to have money so that you could gamble it
away. You would even help me to get the money for that purpose . . .
you base scoundrel!"
She sprang at him with nervous fury. Her beautiful, statuesque face
glowed with rage. She grasped his arm, pinched him and shook him,
without herself knowing what she was doing.
Topolski, losing his patience, struck her violently away from him.
Majkowska with almost a roar so little did her voice seem to have in
it anything human and with spasmodic laughter, and crying, and
tragic wringing of hands, fell on her knees before him.
"Maurice, my soul's beloved, forgive me! . . . Light of my life! Ha!
ha! ha! you damned scoundrel, you! . . . My dearest, my dearest,
forgive me! . . ."
She groveled to his feet, grasped his hands and began rapturously to
kiss them.
Topolski stood there gloomily. He felt ashamed of his own anger, so
he merely chewed his cigarette and whispered quietly: "Come, get up
from the floor and stop playing that comedy. . . . Have you no
shame! . . . In a minute you will have everybody in here looking at
you."
Majkowska's mother, an old woman, resembling a witch, came running
up to her and tried to raise her from the floor.
"Mela, my daughter!" she cried.
"Mother, take that crazy woman away from here; she is continually
creating scandals," said Topolski and went out into the hall.
"My dear daughter! Do you see! I told you and begged you not to go
with such a poor fool! . . . See what your love has brought you to,
my Mela! Come, get up, my child!"
"Go to the devil, mother!" cried Majkowska, pushing away her mother.
Then she sprang up from the floor and began to pace rapidly up and
down the stage. In this violent motion she must have spent the rest
of her anger, for she began to hum and smile to herself and
afterwards called to Janina in the most natural voice: "Perhaps you
will take a walk with me? . . ."
"Very well, it has even stopped raining . . ." answered the younger
woman, glancing at her face.
"I have a fine lover, haven't I? . . . Did you see what was going
on?"
"I saw and cannot yet calm my indignation."
"Oh, nonsense!"
"How can you stand such a thing?"
"I love him too much to pay attention to such trifles."
Janina began to laugh nervously, and said: "Such things are to be
seen only in the operetta . . . well, and behind the scenes."
"Bah, I will avenge myself for it!"
"You will avenge yourself? I'm very curious to know how. . . ."
"I will marry him . . . I will make him marry me!"
"So that will be your vengeance?" inquired Janina in amazement.
"There couldn't be a better one. Oh, I'll make his life warm for
him! . . . Come, I have to buy some chocolate."
"You didn't have money for supper?" cried Janina involuntarily.
"Ha! ha! ha! How naive you still are! You saw the gentlemen who
sends me bouquets and yet, you think that I have no money! Where
were you brought up?"
Suddenly, she changed the tone of her voice and asked Janina
inquisitively: "Tell me, have you also someone? . . ."
"I have art!" answered Janina gravely, not even offended by her
question.
"You are either very ambitious or very wise . . . I did not know you
before . . ." said Majkowska and began to listen more attentively.
"Ambitious . . . perhaps, for I have only one object in belonging to
the theater and that is art."
"Come, don't try to play a farce with me! Ha! ha! Art, as an aim of
life! That is a theme for a fine couplet, but it is an old trick."
"That depends on the person in question."
Majkowska became silent and began gloomily to ponder.
"It was hard to catch up with you!" called someone behind them.
"Oh, what brings you here, Counselor? So you are off duty?"
spitefully whispered Majkowska, for she knew that the counselor
always attended Cabinska.
"I want to change my mistress. . . . I am seeking a new position."
"In my service the duties are very exacting."
"Oh, in that case, thank you! I am already too old . . . I know
someone who would be more considerate for my age." And he bowed to
Janina with studied courtesy.
"Will you come with us, Counselor?" asked Majkowska.
"Certainly, but you must permit me to lead the way, ladies."
"Very well, we'll agree to whatever you suggest."
"I propose that we have breakfast at Versailles. '"
"I must return to the theater," said Janina.
"They've not yet finished reading the play."
"They'll finish it without you. Come, let us go," urged Majkowska.
They walked slowly, for the rain had stopped entirely and the July
sun was drying the mud in the streets. The counselor wiggled about,
gazed into Janina's eyes and smiled significantly; he bowed to
acquaintances he met on the way and before the younger ones he
assumed the pose of a conquerer.
The "Versailles Restaurant" was empty. They seated themselves near
the balcony and the counselor ordered a very choice breakfast.
It was after three o'clock when they returned to the theater. The
rehearsal of the day's performance was in full swing. Cabinski was
about to grumble at them for coming late, but Majkowska gave him
such a crushing look that he merely frowned and walked away.
Her mother approached her with a letter. Majkowska read it,
immediately scribbled a few words in reply and handed them to the
old woman.
"Deliver this right away, mother," she said.
"Mela, but suppose I don't find him in?" asked her mother.
"Then wait, but do not give it to anyone else but him! Here's
something for your trouble, mother . . ." and tapping her throat
with her fingers after the custom of drinkers she gave her a forty
copeck piece.
The greenish eyes of the old woman gleamed with gratitude and she
hurried away with the message.
Janina looked for Glogowski, but he had already left, so she went
out into the hall to the counselor who had returned with them, for
she remembered that he had promised to tell her what he had read in
her palm.
"Mr. Counselor, you owe me something," she began, sitting down
beside him.
"Upon my word I don't remember that I owe you anything."
"You promised to tell me what you had read in my palm not so long
ago."
"Yes, but not here. Come, we had better go to the dressing-room so
that it won't attract anyone's attention."
They went to the dressing-room of the chorus.
The counselor spent quite a while examining both her hands very
minutely and finally said with some embarrassment: "Upon my word,
this is the first time that I see such strange hands!"
"Oh, please tell me everything!"
"I can't. . . . And I don't know whether it's true."
"It makes no difference whether it is true or not, you must tell me
by all means, my dear Counselor!" coaxed Janina.
"A mental disorder of some kind, it seems. . . . Of course I don't
know and I don't believe it. I tell you only what I see But . . .
but . . ."
"And what of the theater?" Janina asked.
"You will be famous . . . you will be very famous!" he whispered
hurriedly without looking at her.
"That isn't true; you didn't see that there!" she exclaimed, reading
the falsehood in his eyes.
"My word! my word of honor all that is written there! You will
achieve fame, but through so much suffering, through so many
tears. . . . Beware of dreaming!"
And he kissed her hand.
The noisy buzz of voices merged with tones of music broke the
stillness in which both of them had become rapt.
For a little while Janina sat alone, after her companion withdrew,
torn by dim forebodings.
"You are going to be very famous! Beware of dreaming!" she kept
repeating to herself.
That evening the counselor sent to Janina a bouquet, a box of candy,
and a letter inviting her to supper at the "Idyl," mentioning that
Topolski and Majkowska were also to be there.
She read it and, not knowing what to do, asked Sowinska.
"Sell the bouquet, eat the candy, and go to the supper."
"So that is your advice? . . ." asked Janina.
Sowinska scornfully shrugged her shoulders.
Janina angrily threw the bouquet in a corner, distributed the candy
among the chorus girls, and after the performance went straight
home, highly indignant at the counselor whom she had looked upon as
a very serious and honest man.
On the next day at the rehearsal Majkowska remarked tauntingly to
Janina: "You are an immaculate romanticist."
"No, only I respect myself," answered Janina.
"Get thee to a nunnery!" declaimed Majkowska.
In the afternoon Janina went as usual to Cabinska's home to give
Yadzia her piano lesson, but she could not forget that scornful
shrug of Sowinska's shoulders and Majkowska's words.
She finished the lesson and then sat for a long time playing
Chopin's Nocturnes, finding in their melancholy strains a balm for
her own sorrows.
"Miss Janina . . . My husband has left a role here for you!" called
Cabinska from the other room.
Janina closed the piano and began to peruse the role. It consisted
of a few words from Glogowski's new play and did not satisfy her in
the least, for it was nothing but a short little episode.
Nevertheless, this was to be her first real appearance in the drama.
The play had been postponed until the following Thursday and
rehearsals of it were to be held every afternoon, for Glogowski had
earnestly requested that and generously treated the entire cast each
day to get them to learn their roles well.
A few days after receiving her first role Janina's first month at
Sowinska's expired. The old woman reminded her of it in the morning,
asking for the money as soon as possible.
Janina gave her ten rubles, solemnly promising to pay the balance in
a few days. She had only a few rubles left of her entire capital.
She thought in astonishment how she had spent the two hundred rubles
which she had brought with her from Bukowiec.
"What am I going to do?" Janina asked herself, determining as soon
as possible to ask Cabinski for her overdue salary.
She did so at the very next rehearsal.
"I haven't the money!" cried Cabinski at once. "Moreover, I never
pay beginners in my company for the first month. It's strange that
no one informed you about that. Others are already here a whole
season and they don't bother me about their salaries."
Janina listened in consternation and finally said frankly: "Mr.
Director, in a week's time I will not have a penny left to live on."
"And that old . . . counselor . . . can't he give it to you? . . .
Surely, everyone knows that . . ."
"Oh, Mr. Director!" whispered Janina, blushing deeply.
"A pretty deceiver!" he muttered with a cynical twist of his lips.
Janina forcibly suppressed her indignation and said: "In the
meantime I need ten rubles, for I must buy myself a costume for the
new play."
"Ten rubles! Ha! ha! ha! That's great! Even Majkowska does not ask
for so much at one time! Ten rubles! what delightful simplicity!"
Cabinski laughed heartily and then, turning to go, he said: "Remind
me of it this evening and I will give you an order to the
treasurer."
That evening Janina received one ruble.
Janina knew that the chorus girls even after the most profitable
performance received only fifty copecks on account and usually only
two gold pieces or forty groszy. Only now, did she recall those sad
and worn faces of the elder actresses. There were revealed to her
now many things that she had never seen before, or seeing them, had
never understood. Her own want opened wide her eyes to the poverty
that oppressed everyone in the theater and those hidden daily
struggles with it that they often disguised under a glittering veil
of gayety.
That daily standing before the treasurer's window and fairly begging
for money, which she was now compelled to do, cast a shadow over
Janina's soul and filled her with bitterness. It made her all the
more eager to get a larger role so that she might get out of that
hated chorus, but Cabinski steadily put her off.
Kotlicki hovered about Janina incessantly, but did not renew his
proposal and seemed to be waiting his chance.
Wladek was, the most companionable of all in regard to Janina and
told everyone that she visited his mother. Niedzielska continually
spied on Wladek, for she already suspected him of liking Janina.
The girl received Wladek's attentions with the same indifference
that she received Kotlicki's, with the same indifference that she
received the bouquets and candy which the counselor sent her every
day. None of these three silent admirers interested her in the least
and she kept them at a respectable distance from herself by her
coolness.
The other actresses ridiculed Janina's inflexibility, but in their
hearts they sincerely envied her. She ignored their spiteful
remarks, for she knew that to answer them would be merely to invite
a greater avalanche of ridicule.
Janina liked only Glogowski, who because of the coming presentation
of his play would spend whole days at the theater. He openly singled
her out as an object of his special regard from among all the women,
spoke only with her on weighty subjects and treated her alone as a
human being. She felt highly flattered and grateful. She liked him
especially because he never mentioned love to her, nor boasted.
Often they would go together for walks in Lazienki Park. Janina
associated with him on a footing of sincere friendship.
After the final rehearsal of The Churls, Glogowski and Janina left
the theater together. He seemed to be more gloomy than usual. He was
racked with anxiety over his play that was to be given that evening,
yet he laughed aloud.
"Suppose we take a ride to the Botanical Gardens. Do you agree?" he
suggested.
Janina assented and they started off.
They found an unoccupied seat near one of the pools, under a huge
plane tree and for a time sat there in silence.
The garden was fairly empty. A few persons seated here and there
upon the benches appeared like shadows in the sultry air. The last
roses of summer gleamed with their bright hues through the foliage
of the low-hanging branches; the stocks in the central flower-bed
diffused a heavy fragrance. The birds twittered only at rare
intervals with somnolent voices. The trees stood motionless as
though listening to the sunlit tranquility of that August day. Only
now and then some leaf or withered twig would float down in a spiral
line upon the lawns. The golden splashes of sunlight filtering
through the branches formed a shifting mosaic upon the grass and
gleamed like strips of pale platinum.
"Let the devil take it all!" Glogowski occasionally flung out into
the silence and distractedly rumpled his hair.
Janina merely glanced at him, loath to mar with words the silence
that enveloped her that calm of nature lulled to sleep by the
excessive warmth. She also was lulled by some unknown tenderness
that had no connection with any particular thing, but seemed to
float down out of space, from the blue sky, from the transparent
whiteness of the slowly sailing clouds from the deep verdure of the
trees.
"For goodness' sake, say something, or I'll go crazy, or get
hydrophobia! . . ." he suddenly exclaimed.
Janina burst out laughing, "Well, let us talk about this evening, if
about nothing else," ventured the girl.
"Do you want to drive me crazy altogether? May the deuce take me,
but I fear I won't endure till this evening!"
"But haven't you told me that this is not your first play, so . . ."
"Yes, but at the presentation of each new one the ague always shakes
me, for always at the last moment I see that I have written rubbish,
tommyrot, cheap trash . . ."
"I don't pretend to be a judge, but I liked the play immensely. It
is so frank."
"What? Do you mean that seriously?" he cried.
"Of course."
"For you see, I told myself that if this play fails, I shall . . ."
"Will you give up writing?"
"No, but I shall vanish from the horizon for a few months and write
another one. I will write a second, a third . . . I will write until
I produce a perfectly good one! I must!"
"Tell me, do you think Majkowska will make a good Antka in my play?"
he suddenly asked.
"It seems to me that that role is well-suited to her."
"Maurice also will play his part well, but the rest of them are a
miserable lot and the staging terrible. It's bound to turn out a
fiasco!"
"Mimi knows nothing about the peasants and her imitation of their
dialect is ludicrous," remarked Janina.
"I heard her and it pained me to listen! Do you know the peasants?
Ah, Great Scott!" he cried impulsively. "Why don't you act that
role? . . ."
"Because they didn't give it to me."
"Why didn't you tell me about that sooner? May the deuce take me,
but even if I had to smash up the whole theater I would have forced
them to give you that role!"
"The director gave me the part of Phillip's wife."
"That's merely a super, an episode . . . it could have been given to
anyone. I feel that Mimi is going to chatter like a soubrette from
an operetta. See what you have caused me! By glory, what a mess! If
you think that life is a charming operetta, you are greatly
mistaken!"
"I already happen to know something about that . . ." answered
Janina with a bitter smile.
"So far you don't know anything . . . you will learn it only later
on. But after all women usually have an easier time of it. We men
have to fight hard to grasp our share and have to pay dearly. God
knows how dearly."
"Don't you think the women pay anything?"
"It's this way: women, and particularly those on the stage, owe the
minimum part of their success to their talents or themselves; the
maximum part to their lovers who support them and the rest to the
gallantry of those men who hope to be able to support them some
day."
Janina answered nothing, for there flashed before her mind a picture
of Majkowska with Topolski in back of her, Mimi with Wawrzecki,
Kaczkowska with one of the journalists and so on through almost all
of them.
"Don't be angry with me. I merely stated a fact that came to my
mind."
"No. I'm not angry. I admit you're entirely right."
"With you, it will not be that way, I feel it. Come, let us go now!"
he suddenly cried, jumping up from the bench.
"I will say something more . . ." said Glogowski when they were
already walking down the shaded paths on their way back, "I will
repeat what I said on the day that I first met you at Bielany; let
us be friends! . . . It's no use trying to deny it, man is a
gregarious beast: he always needs someone near him so that his lot
on this earth may be half-way bearable . . . Man does not stand
alone; he must lean against and link up with others, go together
with them and feel together with them to be able to accomplish
anything. To be sure, one kindred soul suffices. Let us be friends!"
"All right," said Janina, "but I will lay down one condition."
"Quick, for God's sake! For perhaps I will not accept it!"
"It is this: give me your word of honor that you will never, never
speak to me about love, and that you will not fall in love with me.
You can even confide in me, if you wish, all your love affairs and
disappointments."
"Agreed, all along the line! I seal that with my solemn word of
honor!" cried Glogowski.
They gravely pressed each others' hands.
"This is a union of pure souls with ideal aims!" he laughed, winking
his eyes. "Something makes me feel so merry now that I could take my
own head in my hands and kiss it heartily."
"It is a premonition of the triumph of your Churls."
"Don't remind me of that. I know what awaits me. But I must now bid
farewell to you."
"Aren't you going to escort me home?"
"No . . . Oh well, all right, but I warn you I will talk to you
about . . . love!" he cried gayly.
"Well, in that case, good-by! May God preserve you from such
falsehoods."
"Your ears must have surfeited on that rubbish, if the very mention
of it nauseates you. . . ."
"Go now if you wish . . . I will tell you about it some other
time. . . ."
Glogowski leaped into a hack and drove away in haste toward Comely
Street and Janina went home.
She tried on the peasant costume which Mme. Anna was making for her
appearance and thought with a smile of the alliance that she had
formed with Glogowski.
At the theater it was evident that a premiere was to be given. All
the members of the company appeared earlier, dressed and made up
more carefully than usual and only Krzykiewicz, as was his custom,
paraded about the dressing-room and the stage half-dressed with his
rouge pot in his hand.
Stanislawski, who when he played, usually came about two hours
before the performance, was already dressed and only now and then
added an extra touch to his make-up.
Wawrzecki, with his role in his hand paced up and down the
dressing-room rehearsing in an undertone.
The stage-director ran about more swiftly than usual and in the
ladies' dressing-room livelier quarrels were going on. Everyone was
more nervous to-day. The prompter supervised the stage arrangements
and watched the public that was beginning to fill the hall. The
chorus girls, who were to act as supers, were already dressed in
their peasant costumes and straggled all about the stage.
"Dobek!" called Majkowska. "My dear fellow, only support me
well! . . . I know my part, but in the second act slip me the words
of that monologue a little louder."
Dobek nodded his head and had not yet returned to his post when Glas
accosted him.
"Dobek! Will you have a drink of whisky, eh? Perhaps you'd like a
sandwich?" he asked the prompter in a solicitous tone.
"To the sandwich add a beer," answered Dobek, smiling blissfully.
"My good fellow, don't fail me! I really know my part to-day, but
I'm likely to get stuck here and there . . ."
"Well, well! only don't lie down yourself and you can be sure I
won't let you perish."
And in this way, every other minute some actor or actress would
approach Dobek, who solemnly promised to "uphold" them all.
"Dobek! I need only the first words of each line . . . remember!"
reminded Topolski at the very last.
Glogowski strayed about the stage, himself set up the interior of
the peasants' hut, gave instructions to the actors and uneasily
scanned the first row of seats occupied by the representatives of
the press.
"It will be warm for me to-morrow!" he whispered to himself, and
began to walk about feverishly, for he was unable to stand or sit
still in one spot. Finally, he went out into the garden-hall, stood
leaning against a chestnut tree and watched with beating heart the
first act of his play which had just begun.
The audience sat coldly and quietly listening. An oppressive silence
filled the hall. Glogowski saw hundreds of eyes and immovable heads,
he even saw the restaurant waiters standing on chairs beneath the
veranda, watching the stage. The voices of the actors resounded
distinctly, floating out to that dark, densely packed mass of
people.
Glogowski sat down in the darkest corner behind the scenes on a heap
of decorations, covered his face with his hands and listened.
Scene followed scene, and still that same ominous silence reigned.
Glogowski was unable to sit there quietly! He heard the baritone
voice of Topolski, the soprano of Majkowska and the somewhat hoarse
voice of Glas, but it was not that which he wished to hear. Not
that! He bit his fingers so violently that tears came to his eyes
from the pain.
The first act ended.
A few lukewarm handclaps broke out here and there and died away
again in the general silence.
Glogowski sprang up and with craning neck and feverishly gleaming
eyes waited, but he heard only the thump of the falling curtain and
the buzz of voices suddenly rising in the hall.
During the intermission he again observed the public. Their faces
wore a strange expression. The members of the press frowned, and
whispered something among themselves, while certain of them made
notes.
"I feel cold!" whispered Glogowski to himself, shaking as though
with an icy chill. And he began to stray distractedly all about the
theater.
"I congratulate you!" said Kotlicki, pressing Glogowski's hand. "The
play is too severe and brutal, but it is something new!"
"Which means neither fish nor flesh!" answered Glogowski with a
forced smile.
"We'll see how it will be further on. . . . The public is surprised
to see a folk play without dances. . . ."
"What the devil do they want! It is not a ballet!" muttered
Glogowski impatiently.
"But you know they dote on songs and dances."
"Then let them go to a vaudeville show!" retorted Glogowski. And he
walked away.
After the second act the applause was louder and more prolonged.
In the dressing-rooms the humor of the actors began to rise to its
usual level.
Cabinski had already twice sent Wicek to the box office to find out
how things were going there. Gold's first reply was: "Good," and his
second: "Sold out."
Glogowski continued to torment himself, but now in a different way,
for having heard the applause for which he had so feverishly waited,
he had calmed himself a bit and sat behind the scenes watching the
play. Now he became pale with anger, kicked his hat with his foot
and hissed with impatience, for he could no longer endure what he
saw. Out of his peasant characters, which were in every inch true to
life, they were making banal figures of the sentimental melodrama,
puppets dressed in folk costumes. The playing of the men actors was
at least to some extent bearable, but the women, with the exception
of Majkowska and Mirowska, who acted the part of an old beggar
woman, played abominably. Instead of speaking their parts, they
rattled them off in a singsong voice, and over-emphasized hatred,
love, and laughter. Everything was done so mechanically,
artificially, and thoughtlessly, without a grain of truth or
sincerity that Glogowski fairly choked with despair. It was merely a
masquerade.
"Sharper! More energetically!" he whispered, stamping his foot, but
no one paid any attention to his exhortations.
Suddenly, a smile flitted over his lips, for he saw Janina entering
the stage. She caught that smile and that saved her, for her voice
had died in her breast. She was trembling from stage fright so that
she did not see the stage, nor the actors, nor the public; it seemed
to her that she was engulfed in a sea of light. When she saw that
friendly smile she immediately recovered her calm and courage.
Janina was merely to grasp a broom, take her drunken husband by the
collar, shout a few lines of imprecation and complaint and then drag
him out forcibly through the door. She did all this a trifle too
violently, but with such realism that she gave the impression of an
infuriated peasant woman.
Glogowski went to Janina. She stood on the stairs leading to the
dressing-room; her eyes beamed with a certain deep satisfaction.
"Very good! . . . that was a real peasant woman. You have a
temperament and a voice and those are two first-rate endowments!"
said Glogowski, and tip-toed back to his seat.
"Perhaps we ought to give an encore of that scene?" whispered
Cabinski into his ear.
"Dry up and go to the devil!" answered Glogowski in the same quiet
whisper and felt a great desire to strike Cabinski. But just then, a
new thought occurred to his mind, for he saw the nurse standing
nearby.
"Nurse!" he called to her.
The nurse unwillingly approached Glogowski.
"Tell me, nurse, what do you think of that comedy?" he asked her
curiously.
"The title is very unpolitic . . . 'churls'! Everyone knows that
peasants are not nobles, but to call them by such a scornful name
for the amusement of others is a downright sin!"
"Well, that is of minor importance . . . but do you think those
characters resemble real peasants?"
"Yes, you have hit upon the real thing. Peasants are just like that,
only they don't dress so elegantly, nor are they so refined in their
bearing and speech. But pardon me, sir, if I say one thing; what's
the use of it all? Present, if you wish, nobles, Jews, or any other
kind of ragamuffins, but to make a laughing-stock and a comedy of
honest tillers of the soil is a downright shame! God is like to
punish you for such frivolity! A husbandman is a husbandman . . .
beware of trifling with him!" she added in conclusion and continued
to gaze at the stage with an ever greater severity and almost with
tears of indignation in her eyes.
Glogowski had no time to wonder at her attitude for just then the
third act ended amid thunderous applause and calls for the author,
but he did not go out to bow.
A few journalists came to shake hands with him and praise his play.
He listened to them indifferently, for already his mind was occupied
with a plan for remaking that play. Now first did he see in detail
its various inconsistencies and the things that were lacking, and
immediately completed them in his mind, added new scenes, changed
about situations and was so absorbed with his task that he no longer
paid any attention to how they were playing the fourth act.
Again applause filled the entire hall and the unanimous cry of:
"Author! Author!"
"They're calling for you, go out to them," someone whispered into
Glogowski's ear.
"The deuce I will! Go to the devil, sweet brother!"
Majkowska and Topolski were also being recalled.
Majkowska, all breathless, ran up to Glogowski.
"Mr. Glogowski! come, hurry!" she cried, taking him by the hand.
"Let me alone!" he growled threateningly.
Majkowska left him and Glogowski sat there and continued to think.
Neither the applause, nor the demands for his appearance nor the
success of his play interested him any longer, for he was sorely
worried by the knowledge that his play was entirely bad. He saw its
defects ever more plainly and the knowledge that another one of his
efforts had proved vain made him writhe with pain. With helpless
rage he listened to the public applauding the rude and characteristically
comic episodes which were merely the background upon which the
souls of his Churls had to be outlined, while the theme and thesis of the
play itself passed without making any impression.
"Mr. Glogowski I want you to go out after the fifth act if they call
for you," Janina said to him decisively.
"But please consider, who is calling for me! Don't you see that it
is the gallery? Don't you see the smiles of derision upon the faces
of the press and the public in the first rows of seats? I tell you
the play is bad, abominable and rotten! Wait and see what they will
write about it to-morrow."
"What will happen to-morrow we shall see to-morrow. To-day there is
success and your splendid play."
"Splendid!" he cried painfully. "If you could see the plan of it
that I have here in my head, if you could see how splendid and
complete it is here, you would know that what they are playing is
merely a poor rag and a fragment."
Immediately afterwards Cabinski, Topolski, and Kotlicki approached
Glogowski and urged him to appear before the public, but still he
resisted. Only at the end of the play when the entire audience was
wildly applauding and calling for the author, Glogowski went out on
the stage with Majkowska, bowed ostentatiously, smoothed his shock
of hair and clumsily retreated behind the scenes.
"If the play had dances, songs, and music, I wager it would run to
the end of the season," said Cabinski.
"Dry up, or drink yourself to death, but do not tell me such
nonsense," shouted Glogowski. "The next thing you know, the
restaurant-keeper will come running in here and begin to berate me
because for the same reasons he sold less beer and whiskey; a public
that must listen and laughs seldom prefers hot tea."
"But my dear sir, nobody writes plays for himself, he writes them
for other human beings."
"Yes, for human beings, but not for Zulus," retorted Glogowski.
Kotlicki again approached Glogowski and spoke to him for a long
while. Glogowski frowned and said: "First of all, I haven't the
money for it, for it would cost a great deal and, in the second
place, I am not at all anxious to be 'one of our well-known and
celebrated,' for that is a prostitution of one's talent!"
"I can be of service to you with my funds, if you wish. . . . I
presume that our old ties of companionship at school . . ."
"Let us drop that! . . ." Glogowski violently interrupted him. "But
that has given me a certain idea . . . Suppose we arrange a little
supper, but only for a few persons, eh?"
"Good! we will draw up a list right away; Mr. and Mrs. Cabinski,
Majkowska and Topolski, Mimi and Wawrzecki and Glas, as an
entertainer, of course. Whom else shall we include?"
Kotlicki wished to suggest Janina, but was restrained from saying so
openly.
"Aha! I know . . . Miss Orlowska . . . the Filipka of my play! Did
you see how superbly she acted the part?"
"Indeed, she played it well . . ." answered Kotlicki, glancing
suspiciously at Glogowski, for he thought that he also had designs
upon Janina.
"Go and invite them. I will come right away."
Kotlicki went out into the restaurant garden, while Glogowski
hurried upstairs to the chorus dressing-room and called through the
door: "Miss Orlowska!"
Janina peered out.
"Please hurry and get dressed for the whole crowd of us is going out
for supper and you can't refuse."
About a half hour later they were all sitting in a room of one of
the large restaurants on Nowy Swiat.
The whiskey and lunch were attacked energetically for the nervous
strain of the last few hours had sharpened everybody's appetite.
They spoke little, but drank a great deal.
Janina did not wish to drink, but Glogowski begged her and cried
out: "You must drink and that settles it. You must drink, if only to
celebrate such an honorable burial as we have held to-day."
She drank one glass on trial, but afterwards was forced to drink
others; moreover, she felt that it helped her, for she had not yet
rid herself of stage nervousness and was trembling about the fate of
the play.
After various courses had been served, the waiters placed on the
table a whole battery of bottles full of wines and liqueurs.
"Now we'll have something to fight with!" cried Glas jovially,
tinkling a bottle with his knife.
"You will fall a victim to your own triumph, if you continue to
attack with the same fervor," laughed Wawrzecki.
"You people can talk, while we drink!" called Kotlicki, raising his
glass. "Here's to the health of our author!"
"May you choke, you Zulu!" growled Glogowski, rising and touching
glasses with everybody.
"May he live long and write a new masterpiece each year!" cried
Cabinski, already quite tipsy.
"You, Director, also create masterpieces almost every year, yet no
one upbraids you for it," jested Glas.
"With the help of God and man, gentlemen, yes, yes!" answered
Cabinski.
Mimi burst out laughing and all joined her.
"Come let me hug you! For once you do not lie!" cried Glas.
Pepa almost died laughing.
"Here's to the health of Mr. and Mrs. Director!" called Wawrzecki.
"May they live long and with the help of God and man create more
masterpieces!"
"Here's to the health of the whole company!"
"And now let us drink to the public."
"Permit me to interrupt you a moment. Since I alone here represent
the public, therefore render homage to me. Approach me with respect
and drink to me. You may even kiss me and ask me for some favor. I
will consider your request and bestow whatever I am able to!" cried
Kotlicki gleefully.
He took a glass from the table, stood before a mirror and waited.
"Can you beat that for conceit! I will be the first to undergo the
ordeal!" cried Glogowski, and with brimming glass, already a bit
wobbly on his pins he approached Kotlicki.
"Most esteemed and gracious lady! I give you plays written with my
heart's blood; only understand and value them justly!" he declaimed
with mock pathos, kissing Kotlicki's face.
"If you, oh master, will write them for me, if you will not offend
me with brutalities, if you will reckon with me and write for me
alone so that I can enjoy and entertain myself, then I will give you
success!"
"First I will kick you and may you croak!" hissed Glogowski
bitterly.
Cabinski approached next.
"Most esteemed public! You are the sun, you are beauty, you are
omnipotence, you are wisdom, you are the highest judge! Yours are
these children of Melpomene and for you do they live, play, and
sing! Tell me, oh mighty lady, why are you not kind to us? I entreat
you, oh enlightened one, give us each day a full theater!"
"My dear! Have a little money when you come to Warsaw, have a large
repertoire, a select company, beautiful choruses and give those
plays which I like and your treasury will be bursting with gold."
"Esteemed public!" cried Glas, with a comical pathos, kissing
Kotlicki's beard.
"Speak!" said Kotlicki.
"Esteemed female! Give me some money and then have your head shaved,
a yellow jacket put on you and green paper pasted about you and we
will see that you are sent where you belong."
"I can't promise you money, but I assure you, you'll get . . .
delirium tremens, my son . . ." answered Kotlicki!
"Topolski, it's your turn!"
"Give me a rest! I have enough of your puppet shows."
Cabinska also did not wish to take part in the amusement, but Mimi
bowed comically and stroked Kotlicki's face.
"My dear! my precious public!" she entreated in caressing tones.
"Keep Wladek from continually falling in love with some new charmer
and . . . see, I could make use of a bracelet, then a green suit for
the fall, some furs for the winter and . . . see that the director
pays me my salary."
"You will get what you wish, for you desired it sincerely, and here
is the address."
He handed her his visiting card.
"Fine! Bravo!" cried the company.
"Miss Majkowska may now approach, for I promise her a great deal in
advance," announced Kotlicki.
"You are an old deceiver, dear public! You promise continually, but
you never give me what you promise!" said Mela.
"I will give you . . . in a year from now a debut at the Warsaw
Theater and surely engage you."
Majkowska shrugged her shoulders indifferently and sat down.
"Miss Orlowska!"
Janina arose; she felt a trifle dizzy but at the same time she was
so jolly and the game appeared so comical to her, that she
approached Kotlicki and called out in an entreating tone: "I desire
only one thing: to be able to play. I ask only to be given roles."
"We shall speak about that with the director and you will get them."
"Let us quit that, for it is getting wearisome, Kotlicki! Come over
here, we are starting the second round of drinks."
They began to drink in earnest. The room became full of buzzing
voices and cigarette smoke. Each of the assembled company argued and
persuaded separately, and everyone shouted nonsense.
Majkowska leaned with her elbows upon the table and, beating time
with a knife against a bottle of champagne, sang gayly.
The directress argued loudly with Mimi. Topolski was silent and
drank to himself alone. Wawrzecki was relating various funny
anecdotes to Janina, while Glogowski, Glas, and Kotlicki were
engaged in a controversy about the public.
Janina laughed and bickered with Wawrzecki, but already the wine had
taken such an effect upon her that she hardly knew what she was
doing. The room whirled around with her and the candles elongated
themselves to the size of torches. Once she would feel a mad desire
to dance, then again to launch bottles like ducks into the large
mirrors which appeared to be water to her; or again, she tried hard
to understand what Glogowski was just then saying. Glogowski, all
flushed and tipsy, with disheveled hair and with his necktie on his
back, was shouting, waving his hands, striking his fist against
Glas's stomach instead of the table.
Glogowski shouted on: "To the dogs with the public's judgment! I
tell you the play is bad! And if the audience applauded it and you
now praise it, that is the best proof that I am right. There were a
thousand of you; it is so hard for a thousand people to agree upon
the truth. The individual alone is a thinking man, but the multitude
is an ignorant herd that knows nothing."
"The multitude is a great man, proclaims an old proverb," whispered
Kotlicki sententiously.
"It proclaims nonsense! The multitude is nothing but a big noise, a
big illusion, a big hallucination," retorted Glogowski.
"Master, you seem to be devilishly sure of yourself."
"Dilettante, I merely know myself."
"By ginger! so many crazes in such a weak box!" whispered Glas,
feeling Glogowski's chest.
"Genius does not abide in meat. A fat man is merely a fat animal. A
lofty soul abhors fat. A healthy stomach and normality denote merely
the average mortal and the average mortal is nothing but a boor."
"And such paradoxes are merely chaff."
"For asses and pseudo-intelligentsia."
"Dixit, brother! The Rhenish speaks through your lips."
"Begin all over again!" interrupted Glas, grabbing them both around
the neck.
"If it is to drink, good; if it is to talk, I'll say good night!"
yelled Kotlicki.
"Then let us drink!"
"Wawrzecki, dog's face! Get Mimi and another girl and we'll arrange
a little chorus."
They immediately got together and intoned a gay song. Only Glogowski
did not sing, for he leaned against Cabinski and fell fast asleep
and Janina's head was so heavy that she could not utter a single
tone.
The singing continued with increasing gayety, while Janina felt an
irresistible drowsiness overpowering her, felt herself reeling from
her chair.
Later she was half-conscious of someone supporting her, covering
her, leading her and felt that she was riding in a hack. She felt
something near her which she could not make out, felt a hot breath
on her face, and arms stealing about her waist; she heard the rumble
of wheels and with difficulty distinguished a voice whispering into
her ear: "I love you, I love you!" but she could not understand what
it all meant.
Suddenly she trembled, for she felt hot kisses upon her mouth. She
sprang up violently and recovered her senses.
Kotlicki was sitting beside her, holding her about the waist and
kissing her. She wanted to shove him away from her, but her hands
dropped heavily to her side; she wanted to scream out loud, but had
no strength left; drowsiness overpowered her again and threw her
into a lethargy, as it were.
Finally, the hack stopped and the sudden silence awakened her. She
saw that she was standing on the sidewalk and that Kotlicki was
ringing the doorbell of some house.
"God! God!" she whispered in bewilderment, unable to understand
where she was.
Only then did Janina realize everything in a flash when Kotlicki
drew close to her and whispered sweetly: "Come!"
She tore herself away from him with the force of great fear. He
tried to put his arm about her again but she shoved him back with
such violence that he went hurtling against the wall and then she
ran as though bereft of her senses, for it seemed to her that he was
pursuing, that he was already catching up with her and ready to
seize her. Her heart beat like a trip hammer and her face burned
with shame and terror.
"God! God!" she breathed, running ever faster.
The streets were deserted and she was frightened by the sound of her
own footsteps, by the hacks that she met at the street corners, by
the shadows that fell from the house walls and by that awful stony
silence of the sleeping city in which there seemed to tremble sounds
of weeping, sobs, and some horrible, dissolute laughter and drunken
cries that made her shudder. She paused in the shadow of a doorway,
looked about her in terror, and gradually remembered all that had
happened: the play, the supper, how she had drunk, the singing and
how someone was again forcing her to drink; and amid all those
confused fragments of her memory there appeared the long equine face
of Kotlicki, the ride in the hack, and his kisses!
"The vile wretch! The vile wretch!" she whispered to herself,
recovering herself entirely; and she clenched her fists until the
nails dug into her flesh, so violent a wave of anger and hatred
surged through her. She was choking with tears of helplessness and
such humiliation that she sobbed spasmodically as she returned home.
It was already dawning.
Sowinska opened the door for her and grumbled in irritation: "You
should have come home earlier, instead of waking people at this hour
of the night."
Janina did not answer, bowing her head as under a blow.
"The base wretches! The base wretches!" That was the one cry that
arose in her heart, filled with rebellion and hatred.
Janina no longer felt the shame and the humiliation, but only a
boundless rage. She ran about the room as though she were mad,
unknowingly ripped her waist and, unable to control her fury, fell
exhausted upon her bed with her clothes on.
Her sleep was one dreadful torment. She sprang up every minute with
a cry as though to run away, then again, she raised her hand as
though with a glass full of wine and shouted through her sleep:
Vive! She would begin to sing or to cry every now and then with her
feverish lips: "The base wretches! The base wretches!"