In the evening I am at the Suslovskis; Kazia and I are in the niche in
which there is a small sofa. Pani Suslovski is sitting at a table
lighted by a lamp, and is sewing on something for Kazia's trousseau. Pan
Suslovski sits at a table reading, with dignity, the evening number of
"The Kite."
Somehow I am not myself; I wish to dissipate that feeling by pushing up
very near Kazia.
In the salon silence is supreme; it is interrupted only by Kazia's
whisper. I beg to embrace her; she whispers,--
"Vladek, papa will see us."
With that "papa" begins to read aloud, "The picture of our well-known
artist, Svyatetski, 'The Last Meeting,' was bought to-day by Dr.
Byalkovski for fifteen hundred rubles."
"That is true," I add. "Antek sold it this morning."
Then I try to embrace Kazia, and again I hear her whisper,--
"Papa will see us--"
My eyes turn involuntarily to Pan Suslovski. I see on a sudden that his
face is changing; he shades his eyes with his hands and bends over "The
Kite."
What the devil can he find there of such interest?
"Father, what is the matter?" asks Pani Suslovski.
He rises, advances two steps toward us, then halts, transfixes me with a
glance, and, clasping his hands begins to nod his head.
"What is the matter?" I ask.
"See how falsehood and crime come always to the surface," answers
Suslovski, pathetically. "My dear sir, read to the end, if shame will
permit."
Thus speaking, he makes a movement as if to wrap himself in his toga,
and gives me "The Kite." I take the number, and my glance falls on an
announcement entitled: "A Minstrel of the Ukraine." I am confused
somewhat, and read hurriedly the following,--
"Some days since a rare guest came to our city in the person of
a decrepit minstrel who visits Ukraine families resident among
us, begging them for alms, and singing songs in return. It is
said that our well-known and sympathetic actress, Eva Adami, is
particularly occupied with him; he was seen with her in a
carriage no longer ago than this morning. In the first days of
the appearance of this guest from a distance, a wonderful
report rose that under the coat of the minstrel is hidden one
of the most famous of our artists, who, in this manner, without
arresting the attention of husbands and guardians, finds easy
access to boudoirs. We are convinced that this report has no
foundation, even for this reason alone, that our diva would
never consent to further an undertaking of that kind. The old
man, according to our information, has wandered in here
straight from the Ukraine. His intelligence is dulled somewhat;
but his memory is perfect."
"Hell!"
Suslovski is so enraged that he cannot recover his voice; at last he
casts forth his superabundance of indignation,--
"What new falsehood, what excuse will you find to justify your conduct?
Have we not seen you to-day in that shameful disguise? Who is that
minstrel?"
"I am that minstrel," I answer; "but I do not understand why you find
that disguise shameful."
At that moment Kazia snatches "The Kite" from my hand and begins to
read. Suslovski wraps himself still more closely in the toga of
indignation and continues,--
"Scarcely have you passed the threshold of an honest house when you
bring with you corruption; and before you are the husband of that
unfortunate child, you, in company with women of light character, betray
her; you trample already on her confidence and ours; you break your
plighted word--and for whom? For a hetaira of the theatre!"
Anger carries me off at last.
"My dear sir," say I, "enough of those commonplaces. That hetaira is
worth ten such false Catos as you. You are nothing to me yet; and know
this, that you annoy me! I have enough of you with your pathos, with
your--" Here words fail me; but I have no further need of them, for
Suslovski is opening his waistcoat, as if wishing to say,--
"Strike! spare not, here is my breast!"
But I have no thought of striking; I declare simply that I am going,
lest I might say something more to Pan Suslovski.
In fact, I leave without saying farewell to any one.
The fresh breeze cools my heated head. Nine o'clock in the evening, and
the night is very calm. I must walk to regain my composure, therefore I
fly to the Alley of the Belvedere.
The windows in Hela's villa are dark. Evidently she is not at home. I
know not myself why that causes me immense disappointment.
If I could see even her shadow on the window-pane, I should grow calm;
but as it is, anger bears me away again.
What I shall do with that Ostrynski at the first meeting--I know not.
Fortunately, he is not a man who withdraws before responsibility.
But speaking precisely, what claim have I against him? The article is
written with infernal dexterity. Ostrynski denies that the minstrel is a
disguised painter; he stands up, as it were, for Eva; but at the same
time betrays the whole secret to Hela. Evidently he is trying to
compromise Eva in the opinion of Hela; he takes vengeance on me for
Kazia, and covers me besides with ridicule.
If only he hadn't said that my intelligence is blunted! The deed is
done. In Hela's eyes I am covered with ridicule. She reads "The Kite."
Oh, what a dish of hash, and what bitterness for Eva! How that Ostrynski
must triumph! Surely I must do something; but if I know what, may I
become a reporter for "The Kite"!
It occurs to me to take counsel with Eva. She plays to-day; I will fly
to the theatre and see her after the play.
There is time yet.
Half an hour later I am in her dressing-room.
Eva will finish directly; meanwhile, I look around.
Our theatres are not distinguished, as is known, for luxury of
furnishing. A chamber with white walls; two jets of gas quivering from
the draught; a mirror; a washstand; a number of chairs; and in one
corner, a long chair, probably the private property of the diva,--this
is her dressing-room. Before the mirror a multitude of toilet articles,
a cup of black coffee partly drunk, boxes with rouge and white, lead for
the brows, a number of pairs of gloves, still retaining the form of the
hand, and among them two false tresses; at the side walls bunches of
costumes, white, rose-colored, dark, light, and heavy; on the floor are
two baskets full of things pertaining to female costumes. The room is
full of odor of toilet powder. What a medley everywhere; how everything
has been cast about in a hurry! How many colors and reflections; what
shadows; what a play of light from the quivering gas-jets!
That is a picture of its own kind; there is character in it. Of course
there is nothing here more than in an ordinary dressing-room of a woman,
still there is something which causes that chamber to seem, not a
dressing-room, but a sanctuary of some kind; there is a certain spell
and charm there. Above this disorder, this medley and hurry, between
these scratched walls, hovers the inspiration of art.
A thunder of applause is heard. Ha! it is finished. Through the walls
come to my ears the sound of calling; "Adami! Adami!" A quarter of an
hour passes; they are shouting yet.
At last Eva rushes in; she is in the character of "Theodora." She has a
crown on her head; her eyes blackened underneath; on her cheeks a blush
of rouge; her dishevelled hair falls like a storm on her naked neck and
shoulders. She is feverish and exhausted to that degree that she speaks
to me in a whisper barely audible.
"How art thou, Vladek?" and removing her crown hurriedly, she throws
herself in her regal robes on the long chair. Evidently she cannot utter
words; for she looks at me silently, like a suffering bird. I sit near
her, place my hand on her head, and think only of her.
I see in those blackened eyes the flame of unquenched ecstasy; I see on
that forehead simply the stigma of art. I see that the woman brings to
the altar of that theatrical Moloch her health, blood, and life, that
breath is lacking in her breast at that moment. Such pity embraces me,
such sorrow, such sympathy, that I know not what to do.
We sit some time in silence; at last Eva points to a number of "The
Kite" lying on the toilet table, and whispers,--
"What a vexation, what a vexation!"
Suddenly she bursts into nervous weeping, and trembles like a leaf.
I know that she is weeping from weariness, not because of "The Kite,"
for that article is buffoonery which every one will forget to-morrow;
and the whole of Ostrynski is not worth one tear from Eva; still my
heart is straitened the more. I seize her hands and cover them with
kisses. I take her; I press her to my breast. My heart begins to beat
with growing violence; something amazing takes place in me. I kneel down
at Eva's knees, not knowing myself what I am doing; a cloud covers my
eyes; suddenly I seize her in my arms, without thinking what I do.
"Vladek, Vladek, pity!" whispers Eva.
But I press her to my stormy breast; I know nothing of anything. I have
lost my wits! I kiss her on the forehead, mouth, eyes; I can only
say,--
"I love thee! I love--"
With that Eva's head drops back; her arms enclose my neck feverishly,
and I hear the whisper,--
"I have loved thee this long time."