... In the eleventh row of stalls. Somebody's arms were pressing
closely against me on my right- and left-hand side, while far around me
in the semi-darkness stuck out motionless heads, tinged with red from
the lights upon the stage. And gradually the mass of people, confined
in that narrow space, filled me with horror. Everybody was silent,
listening to what was being said on the stage or, perhaps, thinking
out his own thoughts, but as they were many, they were more audible,
for all their silence, than the loud voices of the actors. They were
coughing, blowing their noses, making a noise with their feet and
clothes, and I could distinctly hear their deep, uneven breathing,
that was heating the air. They were terrible, for each of them could
become a corpse, and they all had senseless brains. In the calmness of
those well-brushed heads, resting upon white, stiff collars, I felt a
hurricane of madness ready to burst every second.
My hands grew cold as I thought how many and how terrible they were,
and how far away I was from the entrance. They were calm, but what
if I were to cry out "Fire!" ... And full of terror, I experienced
a painfully passionate desire, of which I cannot think without
my hands growing cold and moist. Who could hinder me from crying
out--yes, standing up, turning round and crying out: "Fire! Save
yourselves--fire!"
A convulsive wave of madness would overwhelm their still limbs. They
would jump up, yelling and howling like animals; they would forget that
they had wives, sisters, mothers, and would begin casting themselves
about like men stricken with sudden blindness, in their madness
throttling each other with their white fingers fragrant with scent.
The lights would be turned on, and somebody with an ashen face would
appear upon the stage, shouting that all was in order and that there
was no fire, and the music, trembling and halting, would begin playing
something wildly merry--but they would be deaf to everything--they
would be throttling, trampling, and beating the heads of the women,
demolishing their ingenious, cunning head-dresses. They would tear
at each other's ears, bite off each other's noses, and tear the very
clothes off each other's bodies, feeling no shame, for they would be
mad. Their sensitive, delicate, beautiful, adorable women would scream
and writhe helplessly at their feet, clasping their knees, still
believing in their generosity--while they would beat them viciously
upon their beautiful upturned faces, trying to force their way towards
the entrance. For men are always murderers, and their calmness and
generosity is the calmness of a well-fed animal, that knows itself out
of danger.
And when, having made corpses of half their number, they would gather
at the entrance in a trembling, tattered group of shamefaced animals,
with a false smile upon their lips, I would go on to the stage and say
with a laugh,--
"It has all happened because you killed my brother." Yes, I would say
with a laugh: "It has all happened because you killed my brother."
I must have whispered something aloud, for my neighbour on the
right-hand side moved angrily in his chair and said,--
"Hush! You are interrupting."
I felt merry and wanted to play a joke. Assuming a warning severe
expression, I stooped towards him.
"What is it?" he asked suspiciously. "Why do you look at me so?"
"Hush, I implore you," whispered I with my lips. "Do you not perceive a
smell of burning? There is a fire in the theatre."
He had enough power of will and good sense not to cry out. His face
grew pale, his eyes starting out of their sockets and almost protruding
over his cheeks, enormous as bladders, but he did not cry out. He rose
quietly and, without even thanking me, walked totteringly towards the
entrance, convulsively keeping back his steps. He was afraid of the
others guessing about the fire and preventing him getting away--him,
the only one worthy of being saved.
I felt disgusted and left the theatre also; besides I did not want to
make known my _incognito_ too soon. In the street I looked towards that
part of the sky where the war was raging; everything was calm, and
the night clouds, yellow from the lights of the town, were slowly and
calmly drifting past.
"Perhaps it is only a dream, and there is no war?" thought I, deceived
by the stillness of the sky and town.