JANINA 
 
 From the drawing by W. T. Benda 
 
THE COMEDIENNE, 
 
 BY 
 
 WLADYSLAW 8. REYMONT 
 
 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE POLISH 
 BY 
 
 EDMUND OBECNY 
 
 FRONTISPIECE BY 
 
 FREDERICK DORR STEELE 
 
 G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
 
 NEW YORK AND LONDON 
 
 TTbe IKnicfeerbocfeer press 
 1920 
 
lESERVATfON 
 
 UGINAL TO BE 
 TA1NED 
 
 EB 2 5 1994 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1920 
 
 BY 
 
 G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
 
 
Pfr 
 
 PUBLISHERS' NOTE 
 
 THE provincial actors of Poland are some- 
 times colloquially called " comedians," as 
 distinguished from their more pretentious 
 brethren of the metropolitan stage in Warsaw. 
 The word, however, does not characterize a 
 player of comedy parts. Indeed, the provin- 
 cials, usually performing in open air theatres, 
 play every conceivable r61e, and as in the case 
 of Janina, the heroine of this story, the life 
 of the Comedienne often embraces far more 
 tragedy than comedy. 
 
 Wladyslaw Reymont is the most widely 
 known of living Polish writers. The Academy 
 of Science of Cracow nominated him for 
 the Nobel Prize for Literature. He is the 
 author of numerous novels dealing with var- 
 ious phases of everyday life in Poland, many 
 of them translated into French, German, and 
 Swedish. The Comedienne is the first of his 
 works to appear in English. 
 
iv Publishers' Note 
 
 Reymont himself was a peasant, rising from 
 the bottom until to-day the light of his recog- 
 nized genius shines in the very forefront of 
 the Slavic intellectuals. 
 
 It is interesting to note that for several 
 years the author was himself a "Comedian," 
 traveling about what was then Russian 
 Poland with a company of provincial players. 
 
THE COMEDIENNE 
 
The Comedienne 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 BUKOWIEC, a station on the Dombrowa 
 railroad, lies in a beautiful spot. A winding 
 line was cut among the beech and pine cov- 
 ered hills, and at the most level point, between 
 a mighty hill towering above the woods with 
 its bald and rocky summit, and a long narrow 
 valley, glistening with pools and marshes, was 
 placed the station. This two-story building 
 of rough brick containing the quarters of 
 the station-master and his assistant, a small 
 wooden house at the side for the telegrapher 
 and the minor employees, another similar 
 one near the last switches for the watchman, 
 three switch-houses at various points, and a 
 freight-house were the only signs of human 
 habitation. 
 
 Surrounding the station on all sides were the 
 
Comedienne 
 
 murmuring woods, while above, a strip of blue 
 sky, slashed with gray clouds, extended like a 
 wide-spreading roof. 
 
 The sun was veering toward the south and 
 glowing ever brighter and warmer; the reddish 
 slopes of the rocky hill, with its ragged summit 
 gashed by spring freshets, were bathed in a 
 flood of golden sunlight. 
 
 The calm of a spring afternoon diffused 
 itself over all. The trees stood motionless 
 without a murmur in their boughs. The 
 sharp emerald leaves of the beeches drooped 
 drowsily, as though lulled to sleep by the light, 
 the warmth, and the silence. The twitter of 
 birds sounded at rare intervals from the thick- 
 ets, and only the cry of the water-fowls on the 
 marshes and the somnolent hum of insects 
 filled the air. Above the blue line of rails 
 stretching in an endless chain of curves and 
 zigzags, the warm air glowed with shifting 
 hues of violet light. 
 
 Out of the office of the station-master came 
 a short, squarely-built man with light, almost 
 flaxen hair. He was dressed, or rather 
 squeezed into a stylish surtout and held his 
 hat in his hand while a workman helped him 
 on with his overcoat. 
 
The Comedienne 3 
 
 The station-master stood before him, strok- 
 ing his grayish beard with an automatic ges- 
 ture and smiling in a friendly manner. He 
 also was stocky, strongly-knit, and broad 
 shouldered, and in his blue eyes, flashing jovi- 
 ally from beneath heavy eyebrows and a 
 square forehead, there also gleamed deter- 
 mination and an unbending will. His straight 
 nose, full lips, a certain contraction of the 
 brows, and the sharp direct glance of his eyes, 
 that seemed like a dagger-stroke all these 
 typified a violent nature. 
 
 " Good-bye, until to-morrow!" . . .said the 
 blonde man merrily, extending his big hand in 
 farewell. 
 
 " Good-bye! ... Oh come, let me hug 
 you. To-morrow we'll celebrate the big event 
 with a good drink." 
 
 "I am a little afraid of that to-morrow." 
 
 "Courage, my boy! Don't fear, I give you 
 my word that everything will turn out all right. 
 Ill tell Jenka all about it immediately. You 
 will come to us to-morrow for dinner, propose 
 to her, be accepted by her, in a month you will 
 be married and we shall be neighbors . . . 
 hey! I like you immensely, Mr. Andrew! I 
 always dreamed of having such a son. Unfor- 
 
4 The Comedienne 
 
 tunately I haven't any, but at least I'll have a 
 son-in-law." 
 
 They kissed each other heartily; the younger 
 jumped into a light mountain rig waiting near 
 the platform and drove away at a swift pace 
 along a narrow road leading through the 
 wood. He glanced back, tipped his hat, sent 
 a deeper bow to the windows of the second 
 story, and disappeared in the shadow of the 
 trees. After riding a little way, he sprang 
 from the carriage, ordered the driver to go on, 
 and continued his journey on foot by a short 
 cut. 
 
 The station-master, as soon as his guest 
 had vanished from sight, reentered his office 
 and busied himself with his official correspon- 
 dence. He was highly satisfied that Grze- 
 sikiewicz had asked him for his daughter's 
 hand and he had promised her to him in the 
 certainty that she would agree. 
 
 Grzesikiewicz, although not handsome, was 
 sensible and very rich. The woods among 
 which stood the station and a few neighboring 
 farmhouses were the property of his father. 
 The elder Grzesikiewicz was primarily a peas- 
 ant, who had transformed himself from an 
 innkeeper into a trader and had made a 
 
The Comedienne 5 
 
 fabulous fortune by the sale of timber and 
 cattle-fodder. 
 
 Many people in the neighborhood still re- 
 membered that the old man used to be called 
 Grzesik in his youth. They often ridiculed 
 him for it, but no one upbraided him for chang- 
 ing his name, for he did not pose as an aristo- 
 crat, nor did he assume an overbearing air 
 toward others because of his wealth. 
 
 He was a peasant, and in spite of all changes 
 remained a peasant to the very core. His 
 son received a thorough education and now 
 helped his father. Two years ago he had 
 made the acquaintance of the station-master's 
 daughter after her return from the academy at 
 Kielce and had fallen violently in love with 
 her. His father offered no opposition, but 
 told him plainly to go ahead and marry if he 
 wanted. 
 
 Andrew met the girl quite often, became 
 ever more deeply enamored of her, but never 
 dared to speak to her of his love. She liked 
 him, but at the same time her attitude was so 
 frank and straightforward that his intended 
 words of endearment and confessions of love 
 always froze upon his lips before he had half 
 uttered them. He felt that she belonged to a 
 
6 The Comedienne 
 
 higher breed of women, inaccessible to such a 
 " churl" as he often frankly called himself; but 
 precisely because of his lowly origin he loved 
 her all the more intensely. 
 
 Finally, he decided to speak to her father 
 about it. 
 
 Orlowski received him with open arms, and 
 in his arbitrary way, without consulting his 
 daughter, at once gave him his word that all 
 would be well. Grzesikiewicz was therefore 
 thinking that Janina would not refuse him, 
 that she must have already spoken of the mat- 
 ter with her father. 
 
 "Why not!" he whispered to himself. He 
 was young, wealthy, and well, he loved her so 
 dearly. "In a month our marriage will take 
 place," he added hurriedly and that thought 
 filled him with such joy that he began to run 
 swiftly through the woods, breaking branches 
 off the trees, kicking the rotted stumps that 
 were in his way, knocking off the heads of 
 spring mushrooms, whistling and smiling. 
 And he thought, too, how glad his mother 
 would be to hear the news. 
 
 She was an old peasant woman, who with 
 the exception of her dress had not changed 
 in the least on account of her wealth. She 
 
The Comedienne 7 
 
 thought of Janina as of a princess. Her one 
 dream was to have for a daughter-in-law a real 
 lady, an aristocrat whose beauty and high 
 birth would dazzle her, for her husband and 
 his money and the respect which the entire 
 neighborhood showed him did not suffice her. 
 She was always conscious of being a peasant 
 and received all honors with a true peasant- 
 like distrust. 
 
 ' ' Andy ! ' ' she often said to her son. ' ' Andy, 
 I wish you would marry Miss Orlowska. 
 That's what I call a real lady! When -she 
 looks at you, she makes you shudder with awe 
 and wish to fall at her feet and beg some boon 
 of her. . . . She must be very good for 
 whenever she meets folks in the woods she 
 greets them in God's name, chats with them, 
 and pets the children . . . another would be 
 incapable of that! Gentle birth will always 
 out. I sent her a basket of mushrooms and 
 when she met me she kissed my hand for it. 
 And she is not lacking in wisdom. Ho! ho! 
 she knows that I have a prize of a son. Andy, 
 marry her. Hurry, and make hay while the 
 sun shines!" 
 
 Andrew would usually laugh at his mother's 
 prattle, kiss her hand, and promise her to 
 
8 The Comedienne 
 
 settle at once everything according to her 
 wishes. 
 
 "We will have a princess in our house and 
 seat her in state in the parlor! Don't fear, 
 Andy, I will not let her soil her hands with 
 anything. I will wait upon her, serve her, 
 hand her everything she needs; all she has to 
 do is to read French books and play on the 
 piano, for that is what a lady is for!" his 
 mother would add. 
 
 And he was just as much of a peasant as 
 she deep within himself; beneath the smooth 
 veneer of the civilized and educated man 
 seethed a primitive unbridled energy and the 
 desire for a wife a woman to rule him. This 
 young Hercules, who, when he felt like it, 
 could fling unaided into the wagon two-hun- 
 dred pound sacks of wheat, and who often had 
 to toil like a common laborer to quell with 
 weariness the riotous tides that often rose in 
 his healthy blood, unexhausted through doz- 
 ens of generations dreamed of Janina and 
 was vanquished by her beauty and sweetness. 
 
 He now rushed along through the woods 
 like a whirlwind and then flew across the 
 fields, all green with the first vigorous shoots of 
 the spring wheat, to tell his mother of the 
 
The Comedienne 9 
 
 happiness awaiting him. He knew that he 
 would find her in her favorite room whose 
 walls were adorned with three rows of holy 
 pictures in gilt frames for that was the only 
 luxury that she allowed herself. 
 
 The station-master, in the meanwhile, fin- 
 ished writing his official report, signed it, made 
 an entry in his journal, placed it in an envelope, 
 addressed it to "the Expeditor of the Station 
 of Bukowiec," and called: " Anthony!" 
 
 A servant appeared at the door. 
 
 "Take this to the dispatcher!" ordered 
 Orlowski. 
 
 The servant took the letter without a word 
 and with the solemnest mien in the world laid 
 it upon a table on the other side of the window. 
 The station-master arose, stretched himself, 
 took off his red cap, and walked over to that 
 table; then he put on an ordinary cap with a 
 red border and with the greatest gravity 
 opened the letter that he had written a mo- 
 ment ago. He read it, wrote on the other side 
 a few lines in reply, again signing his name, 
 and then addressed it to the "Local Station- 
 Master" and had Anthony deliver it to himself. 
 
 All the officials of the railway knew his 
 mania and made merry at his expense. There 
 
io The Comedienne 
 
 was no expediter in Bukowiec, hence he per- 
 formed both functions, that of station-master 
 and dispatcher but at two different tables. 
 
 As the station-master he was his own supe- 
 rior, so he often had moments of truly insane 
 joy when, noticing some error in his accounts, 
 or some omission in his duty as a dispatcher, 
 he would indite a complaint against himself. 
 
 Everybody made fun of him, but he paid no 
 attention and persisted in following his own 
 way, saying in justification: "Order and sys- 
 tem are the foundations of everything ; if they 
 are lacking, all else fails!" 
 
 Having finished his tasks, he locked all the 
 drawers of his desk, glanced out on the plat- 
 form, and went to his home. He entered not 
 by way of the anteroom, but through the 
 kitchen, for he had to know all that was go- 
 ing on. He peeped into the stove, gave the 
 fire a jab with the poker, scolded the servant- 
 girl because of some water spilled on the floor, 
 and then proceeded to the dining-room. 
 
 " Where is Jenka?" he asked. 
 
 "Miss Janina will be here in a minute," 
 answered Mrs. Krenska, a sort of housekeeper 
 and duenna in one person, a pretty blonde 
 with expressive features. 
 
The Comedienne " 
 
 "What are you preparing for dinner?" 
 
 "The Director's favorite dish; chicken 
 fricassee, sorrel soup, and cutlets " 
 
 " Extravagance! By God, what extrava- 
 gance ! Soup and one kind of meat is enough 
 even for a king ! You will ruin me ! ' ' 
 
 "But Mr. Director ... I ordered this 
 meal prepared especially for you, sir -" 
 
 "Bosh! You women have nothing in your 
 heads but fricassees, sweets, and dainties. 
 All that is bosh!" 
 
 "You judge us unfairly, sir; we generally 
 economize more than men do." 
 
 "Aha! You economize so that you can 
 later buy yourselves more fineries ... I 
 know, you needn't tell me." 
 
 Mrs. Krenska did not answer, but began to 
 set the table for dinner. 
 
 Just then, Janina entered. She was a girl 
 of about twenty-two, tall, well-formed, and 
 broad-shouldered. Her features were not 
 very regular; she had black eyes, a straight 
 forehead, a trifle too broad, dark eyebrows 
 strongly accented, a Roman nose, and full 
 glowing lips. Her eyes had a deep expression 
 indicating an introspective nature; her lips 
 were tightly drawn together in what seemed to 
 
12 The Comedienne 
 
 be a semblance of dignity or hidden temper. 
 Two deep lines clouded her clear forehead. 
 Gorgeous, wavy blonde hair, with a reddish 
 tinge, crowned her small round head. Her 
 amber-gold complexion had the mellowness of 
 a ripe peach. There was something strange 
 about her voice : an alto that at times dropped 
 into a deep baritone of almost masculine 
 accents. 
 
 She bowed her head to her father and seated 
 herself on the opposite side of the table. 
 
 " Grzesikiewicz was here to see me to-day," 
 said Orlowski slowly serving the soup, for he 
 always presided over the meals. 
 
 Janina glanced at him calmly. 
 
 "He asked me for your hand, Jenka." 
 
 "What did you tell him, Mr. Director?" 
 quickly interposed Mrs. Krenska. 
 
 "That is our affair," he answered sternly. 
 "Our affair ... I told him all would be well," 
 he said, turning to Janina. "He will be here 
 to-morrow for dinner and you can talk it over 
 between yourselves." 
 
 "What's the use, father! Since you have 
 told him that all would be well, you can 
 receive him yourself to-morrow and tell him 
 from me that everything is far from well. . . . 
 
The Comedienne 13 
 
 I do not wish to speak with him. To-morrow 
 I will go toKielce!" 
 
 "Bosh! If you were not a crazy fool, you 
 would understand what an excellent husband 
 he would make for you! Even though 
 Grzesikiewicz is a peasant he's worth more to 
 you than a prince, for he wants you . . . and 
 he wants you because he's a fool. He could 
 afford to take his pick of the best. . . . You 
 ought to be grateful to him for choosing 
 you. He will propose to you to-morrow and 
 in a month from now you will be Mrs. 
 Grzesikiewicz." 
 
 "1 will not be his wife! If he can get 
 another, let him do so " 
 
 "I swear to God that you will be Mrs. 
 Grzesikiewicz!" 
 
 "No! I will not have him or anyone else! 
 I will not marry!" 
 
 "Fool!" he retorted brutally. "You will 
 marry because you need a roof over your 
 head, food and dress, and someone to look 
 after you. ... I don't intend to ruin myself 
 completely for your sake . . . and when I am 
 gone, what then?" 
 
 "I have my dower; I will get along without 
 the aid of Grzesikiewicz or anyone like him. 
 
14 The Comedienne 
 
 Aha, so your object in wanting to marry me 
 is simply to provide for my support!" She 
 regarded him defiantly. 
 
 "And what of it? For what else do women 
 marry?" 
 
 "They marry for love and marry those 
 whom they love." 
 
 "You're a fool, I tell you once again," he 
 shouted vehemently, helping himself to an- 
 other portion of chicken. " Love is nothing 
 but this sauce, you can eat the chicken just 
 as well without it; sauce is nothing but an 
 invention, a freak and a modern fad! " 
 
 "No self-respecting woman sells herself 
 to the first man that comes along merely 
 because he is capable of supporting her ! " 
 
 "You're a fool. They all do it, they all sell 
 themselves. Love is childish prattle and 
 nonsense. Don't irritate me." 
 
 "It is not a question of irritating you, 
 father, or whether love is nonsense or not; it is 
 a question of my future which you dispose of 
 as though it belonged to you. Already at the 
 time that Zielenkiewicz proposed to me. I 
 told you that I do not intend to marry at all." 
 
 "Zielenkiewicz is merely Zielenkiewicz, but 
 Grzesikiewicz is a very lord, and what I call 
 
The Comedienne 15 
 
 a man! He is kind-hearted, wise for did he 
 not graduate from the academy at Dublany 
 and as strong as a bull. A fellow who can 
 master the wildest horse and who, when he 
 struck a peasant in the face the other day, 
 knocked out six of his teeth with one blow 
 such a fellow is not good enough for you! I 
 swear he is ideal, the highest of all ideals!" 
 
 "Yes, your ideal is an incomparable one; 
 he'd make a good prize-fighter." 
 
 1 ' You are as crazy as your mother was. Wait ! 
 Andrew will muzzle you and show you how such 
 women are ruled. He will not spare the whip . ' ' 
 
 Janina violently shoved aside her chair, 
 threw her spoon on the table, and left the room, 
 slamming the door after her. 
 
 "Don't sit there gaping, but order the 
 cutlets served for me," he shouted at Mrs. 
 Krenska, who gazed after Janina with a 
 sympathetic look. 
 
 She handed him the dish with a servile mien, 
 whispering to him with a solicitous tone in her 
 voice, "Mr. Director, you must not irritate 
 yourself so, it is not good for your health." 
 
 "Such is my fate!" he drawled. "I can't 
 even eat in peace, without having to listen to 
 these everlasting squabbles." 
 
16 The Comedienne 
 
 I 
 
 He then began to air at length his griev- 
 ances and complaints over Janina's stub- 
 bornness, her wilful character, and his continual 
 troubles with her. 
 
 Mrs. Krenska obsequiously pretended to 
 agree with him, and occasionally emphasized 
 some detail. She complained discreetly that 
 she also had to bear a great deal because of 
 Janina, sighed deeply, and wheedled him at 
 every opportunity. She brought in the coffee 
 and arrack and poured it for him herself. 
 While doing so she fawned upon him, touched 
 his hands and arms, as though accidentally, 
 lowered her eyes, and kept up a continual 
 flirtation, trying to awaken some spark in 
 him. 
 
 Orlowski's anger slowly abated, and having 
 drunk his coffee, he ejaculated, " Thank you! 
 I swear to God that you alone understand 
 me. . . . You are a kind woman, Mrs. 
 Krenska." 
 
 "Mr. Director, if I could only show you 
 what I feel, what " she faltered, dropping 
 her eyes. 
 
 Orlowski pressed her hand and went to his 
 own room for a nap. 
 
 Mrs. Krenska ordered the table cleared and 
 
The Comedienne 17 
 
 afterwards, when she was alone, took up some 
 sewing and sat near the window facing the 
 station platform. Occasionally she would 
 look up from her work and gaze at the woods, 
 or at the long line of rails, but everything 
 seemed deserted and silent. Finally, unable 
 to sit still any longer, she arose and began to 
 pace around the table with a soft, feline step, 
 smiling and repeating to herself : ' i I will get him, 
 I will get him ! At last I will find a little rest in 
 my life, my wanderings will come to an end!" 
 
 Scenes from the past floated before her 
 memory: whole years of wandering with a 
 company of provincial actors. Krenska had 
 abandoned the theater because she managed 
 to catch a young fellow who married her. She 
 lived with him for two whole years . . . two 
 years which she recalled with bitterness. Her 
 husband was insanely jealous and frequently 
 beat her. 
 
 At last he died and she was free, but she had 
 no longer any desire to return to the theater. 
 She shuddered at the thought of resuming 
 that eternal pilgrimage from town to town and 
 the everlasting poverty of a provincial actor's 
 life. Moreover, she realized that she was 
 growing old and homely. So she sold all her 
 
1 8 The Comedienne 
 
 household furnishings, received a pension from 
 the management to which her husband had 
 belonged, and for half a year played the role of 
 a widow. She was very eager to marry a 
 second time and sedulously spread her nets, 
 but all in vain, for her own temperament stood 
 in the way. With money in her pocket, there 
 awakened in her again the former actress with 
 her careless and sporty disposition and craving 
 for pleasure and enjoyment. Being still se- 
 ductive, she was surrounded by a swarm of 
 various admirers with whom she squandered 
 all she had, together with the reputation which 
 she had succeeded in establishing for herself 
 with the aid of her husband. 
 
 Krenska had no abilities of any kind, but 
 she possessed a great deal of cleverness, so, 
 instead of resigning herself to despair when 
 the last of her admirers had forsaken her, she 
 inserted an advertisement in the Kielce Gazette 
 reading: " Middle-aged widow of a government 
 official desires position as a housekeeper to 
 widower, or as a social secretary." 
 
 She did not have to wait long for results. 
 Her advertisement was answered in person by 
 Orlowski, who was badly in need of a house- 
 keeper, for Janina was still attending school 
 
The Comedienne 19 
 
 and he could not himself manage the servants. 
 Krenska seemed so quiet, humble, and full of 
 grief over the loss of her husband that he did 
 not ask her any questions, but engaged her 
 immediately. 
 
 Orlowski was a widower who possessed a 
 good salary, a few thousand dollars in cash, 
 and an only daughter an absent daughter 
 whom he detested. Krenska at first tried to 
 turn the heads of the station officials, but very 
 soon sized up the situation and immediately 
 began playing a new r61e whereby she per- 
 severingly strove to attain the last act: 
 Matrimony. 
 
 Orlowski became used to her. She knew 
 how to make herself indispensable and always 
 to show that indispensability so skillfully that 
 it did not offend. 
 
 Moreover, the gray autumn days and the 
 long wintry evenings brought her nearer to her 
 goal, for Orlowski, who was fifty-eight years 
 old and had rheumatism, was always a maniac, 
 but during his rheumatic attacks he would 
 become a raving maniac. She alone knew 
 how to mollify and manage him with her 
 inherent cleverness, sharpened by many years 
 of theatrical experience. 
 
20 The Comedienne 
 
 There was only one obstacle in her way 
 Janina. Krenska realized that as long as 
 Janina was at home she could accomplish 
 nothing. She decided to wait and waited 
 patiently. 
 
 Orlowski loved his daughter with hatred, 
 that is, he loved her because he hated her. 
 He hated her because she was the daughter of 
 his wife, whose memory he violently cursed 
 his wife, who after two years of conjugal life, 
 left him, because she could no longer endure 
 his tyranny and eccentricities. He brought 
 legal action against her and tried to force her 
 to return to him, but their separation became 
 a permanent one. He raved with anger, but 
 his relentlessness, unexampled stubbornness, 
 and insane pride prevented him from begging 
 his wife to return, which she might have done, 
 for she was a good woman. Her only failing 
 was an illness that baffled all the provincial 
 doctors. She had the soul of a mimosa, so 
 sensitive that every tear, pain, or grief would 
 cast her into despair. Moreover she had an 
 abnormal fear of thunderstorms, showers, 
 frogs, dark rooms, unlucky numbers, and all 
 loud sounds; so this husband of hers was 
 killing her with his brutality. 
 
The Comedienne 21 
 
 Within a few years after their separation 
 she died of nervous prostration, leaving Janina, 
 who was then ten years old. Orlowski 
 immediately took her away from his wife's 
 family by force. 
 
 An additional reason for his hatred of 
 Janina was because she happened to be a girl. 
 With his wild and violent disposition he 
 wanted a son on whom he could exercise not 
 only his fists, but also his everyday humor. 
 He had dreamed of a son and fancied that 
 he would be a big and half -wild fellow, ener- 
 getic and as strong as an oak. 
 
 He immediately sent Janina to a boarding- 
 school, seeing her only once a year during 
 her vacation. She spent the Christmas and 
 Easter holidays at her aunt's home. 
 
 For these vacations, which were now in 
 their third year, he would wait impatiently, 
 for he was weary of being alone at his remote 
 station. And as soon as Janina arrived 
 hostilities between them would begin. 
 
 Janina grew up rapidly, and her mental and 
 physical development were of the best, but 
 having been conceived, born, and reared in an 
 environment of continual hatred and quarrels 
 and nursed with the tears and complaints of 
 
22 The Comedienne 
 
 her mother at her father's brutality, she natu- 
 rally disliked him and feared his scorn. This 
 developed in her secretiveness and resent- 
 ment. She rebelled against his despotism and 
 niggardliness. 
 
 Janina inherited a few thousand rubles 
 from her mother, and her father told her 
 plainly that the interest on that sum would 
 have to suffice her, for he did not intend to 
 give her a single kopeck. She attended a 
 first-class boarding-school, but after paying 
 her fees and, later, her expenses at the academy 
 she had so little left for her immediate needs 
 that she had to continually think of how to 
 make ends meet and to feel ashamed because 
 of her worn shoes and dresses. 
 
 In a few years her classmates began to fear 
 her, even the teachers often gave way to her, 
 for she had her father's violent character and 
 brooked no restraint. She never wept nor 
 complained, but she was ever ready to avenge 
 her wrongs with her fists, irrespective of what 
 might happen to her. At the same time she 
 was always one of the brightest scholars in her 
 class. 
 
 All sincerely disliked her, but had to grant 
 her supremacy. She herself became conscious 
 
The Comedienne 23 
 
 of her superiority over the throng of her class- 
 mates, who treated her with aloofness, laughed 
 at her shabby dresses and shoes, and barred 
 her from all intimacy with them. Later she 
 paid them back with unrelenting vengeance. 
 
 There were times when Orlowski was proud 
 of Janina and warmly defended her before 
 his friends, for the whole neighborhood was 
 shocked at her tomboyish adventures. She 
 would tramp through the woods late at night 
 and in all kinds of weather, alone, like a young 
 wild-boar separated from the herd. She was 
 not a bit ashamed of climbing up trees for 
 birds' nests, nor of riding astride in horse- 
 races with the peasant lads on the pasturage. 
 To avoid her father she would stay away 
 from home for whole days at a time, dreaming 
 of her return to school, while at school she 
 would again dream of returning to the solitude 
 of her home. 
 
 Such was Janina up to about the eighteenth 
 year of her life when she graduated from high 
 school and returned home for good. In her 
 outward life she quieted down, but inwardly 
 she became even more restless than before. 
 
 With her friend, Helen Walder, ideally 
 beautiful and day dreaming of the emanci- 
 
24 The Comedienne 
 
 pation of woman, she had parted. Helen 
 went to Paris to study science. Janina had 
 no desire to go, for she didn't feel the need of 
 any knowledge of an abstract nature. She 
 yearned for something that would exert a more 
 potent influence upon her temperament 
 something that would absorb her whole being 
 for all time. 
 
 Men, Janina avoided almost entirely, for 
 they angered her with their impudence; the 
 women bored her with their everlasting repe- 
 tition of gossip, troubles, and intrigues. People 
 in general seemed to keep aloof from her. 
 All sorts of stories about her, more or less false, 
 were circulated in the neighborhood. 
 
 She was a puzzle to all who knew her. 
 Meanwhile, in her own soul she was waging a 
 battle with her desires, to which she knew not 
 how to give a definite form. She asked her- 
 self why she lived. She buried herself in 
 books, but found no comfort there. She 
 felt that she must find something that would 
 absorb and thrill her entire being, felt that she 
 would find it sooner or later, but in the mean- 
 while the agony of waiting almost drove her 
 mad. 
 
 Zielenkiewicz, the owner of a heavily mort- 
 
The Comedienne 25 
 
 gaged village, proposed to her. Janina laughed 
 outright at him and told him to his face that 
 she did not intend to pay his debts with her 
 dower. 
 
 She had reached her twenty-first year and 
 was beginning to lose patience, when a com- 
 monplace occurrence decided her whole future. 
 
 In a nearby town an amateur theatrical was 
 being arranged. Three one-act plays were 
 selected and the parts had already been 
 assigned, when there came a hitch: no one 
 wanted to accept the r61e of Pawlowa in Bli- 
 zinski's The March Bachelor. 
 
 The dramatic coach insisted on presenting 
 this play, for he wanted to twit a certain 
 neighbor with it, but none of the ladies would 
 play the parts of Pawlowa or Eulalia. 
 
 Someone proposed that they request Janina 
 Orlowska to take the part of Pawlowa, for they 
 knew that she dared anything. She accepted 
 it rather indifferently, and Mrs. Krenska, in 
 whom memories of her histrionic past had 
 suddenly awakened, induced Orlowski to an- 
 nounce that an amateur had also been found 
 for the part of Eulalia. 
 
 The rehearsals lasted for about three months, 
 for the cast of the players was changed several 
 
26 The Comedienne 
 
 times the usual fuss and confusion of pro- 
 vincial theaters where none of the ladies want 
 to assume the part of an old, quarrelsome, or 
 shady character, or that of a maid, but all wish 
 to be heroines. 
 
 Krenska, whom Janina kept at a respectful 
 distance from herself, never confiding any- 
 thing to her nor asking her advice, found a 
 good reason in the play for approaching her. 
 She began to give her lessons in the art of 
 acting, untiringly. 
 
 So absorbed did she become with her part, 
 so deeply did she enter into the character, and 
 so well did it fit her that she gave a very 
 creditable presentation. She was every inch 
 a peasant woman, a genuine Pawlowa, and 
 received a clamorous ovation at the end of the 
 play. This momentary triumph and the 
 consciousness of her power filled her with a 
 wild and unrestrained joy. It was with a 
 feeling of intense regret that she saw the final 
 curtain fall. 
 
 Krenska also created quite a furore. It 
 was a role that she had often played with 
 great success on the real stage. During the 
 intermissions everyone was speaking only of 
 her and of Janina. 
 
The Comedienne 27 
 
 "A comedienne! A born actress!" whis- 
 pered the ladies, regarding Janina with a sort 
 of contemptuous pity. 
 
 Orlowski, whom they thanked and con- 
 gratulated for having so talented a daughter 
 and companion, shrugged his shoulders. He 
 was, however, satisfied, for he went behind the 
 scenes, petted Janina, and kissed Krenska's 
 hand. 
 
 "Good, good! . . . Nothing extraordi- 
 nary, but at least I don't have to feel ashamed 
 of you," was all the praise that he gave them. 
 
 After the performance Janina drew closer to 
 Krenska and the latter, in a moment of weak- 
 ness, betrayed the secret concerning her past 
 life. She revealed to Janina a new realm, 
 wondrous and alluring. 
 
 She listened with rapt attention to Kren- 
 ska's accounts of the stage, her numerous 
 appearances and triumphs, and the vivid life 
 of an actor. As she related her experiences 
 Krenska was herself carried away by enthusi- 
 asm and painted them in glowing colors; she 
 no longer remembered the miseries of that life 
 and held up only the brightest pictures to the 
 gaze of the enraptured girl. She pulled out of 
 her trunk faded and musty copies of r61es she 
 
28 The Comedienne 
 
 had once impersonated, read them to Janina 
 and played them, stirred by memories of the 
 past. 
 
 All this fascinated the girl and awoke in her 
 certain strong desires, but it did not, as yet, 
 absorb her; it was not, as yet, that mysterious 
 "something" for which she had been waiting 
 so long. 
 
 She began to read with great interest the 
 theatrical criticisms and the details about 
 actors in the newspapers. Finally, whether 
 actuated by ennui or by an instinctive impulse, 
 she bought a complete set of Shakespeare's 
 works and, forthwith, was lost! She found 
 that "something" for which she had sought 
 so long; she found her hero, her aim, her ideal 
 it was the theater. She devoured Shake- 
 speare with all the inherent intensity of her 
 nature. 
 
 It would be difficult to epitomize the violent 
 upheaval that now took place in Janina's soul, 
 the wild soaring of her imagination, and the 
 enlargement and expansion of her whole being. 
 There swarmed about her a -vast throng of 
 characters evil, noble, base, petty, heroic, 
 and struggling souls. There passed through 
 her such tones and words, such overwhelming 
 
The Comedienne 29 
 
 thoughts and emotions that she felt as though 
 the whole universe was contained in her soul ! 
 
 She became consumed with a desire for the 
 theater and for unusual emotions. The win- 
 ters seemed too warm for her, the snowfalls too 
 light; the springs dragged along too slowly, 
 the summers were too cool, the autumns too 
 dry; all this she visioned in her imagination in 
 far grander outlines. She wished to see the 
 acme of beauty, the acme of evil, and every act 
 magnified to titanic proportions. 
 
 Orlowski knew a little about her " disease, " 
 but he smiled at it in scorn. 
 
 "You comedienne ! " he called her, scoffingly. 
 
 Krenska would add fuel to this fire, for she 
 wished at any cost to see Janina leave home. 
 She persuaded her of her talent and warmly 
 praised the theatrical career. 
 
 Janina could not pluck up -courage to take 
 the decisive step. She feared those dark and 
 vague presentiments and an unaccountable 
 feeling of terror at times would seize upon her. 
 She could not summon the necessary deter- 
 mination. A storm of some kind only could 
 uproot her and carry her far away from home 
 in the same way as it uprooted the trees and 
 scattered them over the desolate fields. She 
 
30 The Comedienne 
 
 was waiting now for some chance happening 
 to cast her into the world. Krenska, in the 
 meanwhile, kept her informed of the activities 
 of the provincial theatrical companies. Janina 
 made certain preparations and savings. Her 
 father paid her regularly the interest on her 
 inheritance and this enabled her in a year's 
 time to lay aside about two hundred rubles. 
 
 Grzesikiewicz's proposal and her father's 
 insistance on her marriage roused a stormy 
 protest in her. 
 
 "No, no, no! " she repeated to herself, pacing 
 excitedly up and down her room. "I will not 
 marry!" 
 
 Janina had never contemplated matrimony 
 seriously. At times the vision of a great, 
 overwhelming love would gleam through her 
 mind, and she would dream of it for a while; 
 but of marriage she had never given a thought. 
 
 She even liked Grzesikiewicz, because he 
 would never speak lightly to her about love, 
 nor enact those amorous comedies to which 
 other admirers had accustomed her. She 
 liked him for the simplicity with which he 
 would relate all that he had to suffer at school, 
 how he was abused and humiliated as the son 
 of a peasant and innkeeper and how he paid 
 
The Comedienne 31 
 
 them back in peasant fashion with his fists. 
 He would smile while relating this to her, 
 but there was in his smile a trace of sorrow. 
 
 She opened the door of her father's room 
 and was about to tell him abruptly and de- 
 cisively that there was no need of Grze- 
 sikiewicz's coming, but Orlowski was already 
 enjoying his after-dinner nap, seated in a big 
 arm-chair with his feet propped against the 
 window-sill. The sun was shining straight 
 into his face which was almost entirely bronzed 
 from sunburn. 
 
 Janina withdrew. 
 
 "No, no, no! ... Even though I have to 
 run away from home, I will not marry!" 
 she repeated to herself fiercely. 
 
 But immediately there followed this deter- 
 mination a feeling of womanly helplessness. 
 
 "I will go to my uncle's house. . . . Yes! 
 . . . and from there I will go to the stage. 
 No one can force me to stay here." 
 
 Thereupon, the blood would rush to her 
 head with indignation and she would immedi- 
 ately gaze with courage into the future, 
 determined to meet anything that might 
 happen rather than submit. 
 
 She heard her father arise and then go to the 
 
3 2 The Comedienne 
 
 window; she listened to the station bells, and 
 to the jabbering of a few Jews who were board- 
 ing the train ; she saw the red cap of her father, 
 and the yellow striped cap of the telegrapher 
 conversing through his window with some 
 lady; she saw and heard all, but understood 
 nothing, so absorbed was she in thought. 
 
 Krenska entered and in her habitual way 
 began to circle around the table with quiet, 
 cat-like motion before she spoke. Her face 
 bore an expression of sympathy and there was 
 tenderness in her voice. 
 
 "Miss Janina!" 
 
 The young woman glanced at her. 
 
 "No! I assure you that I will not!" she 
 said with emphasis. 
 
 "Your father gave Grzesikiewicz his word 
 of honor ... he will demand unquestioning 
 obedience . . . what will come of it?" 
 
 "No! I will not marry! . . . My father 
 can retract his word; he cannot compel 
 me " 
 
 "Yes . . . but there will be an awful rum- 
 pus, an awful rumpus!" 
 
 "I have stood so many, I can stand some 
 
 more." 
 
 I am afraid that this one will not end so 
 
The Comedienne 33 
 
 smoothly. Your father has such a dreadful 
 temper. ... I can't understand how you are 
 able to bear as much as you do. ... If I were 
 in your place, Miss Janina, I know what I 
 should do . . . and do it now, immediately!" 
 
 "I am anxious to know . . . give me your 
 advice." 
 
 "First of all, I would leave home to avoid all 
 this trouble before it begins. I would go to 
 Warsaw." 
 
 "Well, and what would you do next?" 
 asked Janina with trembling voice. 
 
 "I would join some theater and let happen 
 what will!" 
 
 "Yes, that's a good idea, but . . . but " 
 
 And she broke off, for the old helplessness 
 and fears reasserted themselves. She sat 
 silent without answering Krenska. 
 
 Janina put on a jacket and felt hat and tak- 
 ing a stick wandered off into the woods. 
 
 She climbed to the top of that rocky hill 
 from which spread out below her a wide view 
 of the woods, the villages beyond them, and 
 an endless expanse of fields. She sat gazing 
 about her for a while, but the calm that 
 reigned all around, contrasted with the feeling 
 of unquiet and foreboding in her own soul, as 
 
34 The Comedienne 
 
 before an impending storm, gave her no 
 peace. 
 
 At dusk Janina returned home. She did 
 not speak either to her father or to Krenska 
 but immediately after supper went to her own 
 room and sat reading George Sand's Consuelo 
 until a late hour. 
 
 During the night she was perturbed with 
 unquiet dreams from which she started up 
 every now and then, perspiring heavily, and 
 awoke fully before dawn, unable to sleep any 
 longer. She lay upon her bed with wide open 
 eyes, gazing fixedly at the ceiling on which 
 flickered a patch of light reflected from the 
 station lamp. A train went roaring by and 
 she listened for a long while to its rhythmic 
 rumbling and clatter that seemed like a whole 
 choir of voices and tones streaming in through 
 her window. 
 
 At the farther end of the room, steeped in a 
 twilight full of pale gleams that flickered like 
 severed rays from a light long since extin- 
 guished, she seemed to see apparitions and 
 vague outlines of mysterious scenes, figures, 
 and sounds. Her wearied brain peopled the 
 room with the phantoms of hallucination. 
 She beheld, as it were, a vast edifice with a 
 
The Comedienne 35 
 
 long row of columns that seemed to emerge 
 from the dusk and take shape. 
 
 In the morning she arose so worn out that 
 she could scarcely stand on her feet. 
 
 She heard her father issuing orders for a 
 sumptuous dinner and saw them making 
 preparations. Krenska circled about her on 
 tiptoe and smiled at her with a subtle, ironi- 
 cal smile that irritated Janina. She felt 
 dazed with exhaustion and the storm that was 
 brewing within her, and beheld everything 
 with indifference, for her mind was continually 
 dwelling on the impending battle with her 
 father. She tried to read or occupy herself 
 with something, but was too nervous. 
 
 She ran off to the woods, but immediately 
 came back, for she knew not what to do there. 
 A lethargy seemed to take hold of her and 
 benumb her with an ever greater fear. Try as 
 she would, Janina could not shake off this de- 
 pressing mood. 
 
 She sat down at the piano and began 
 mechanically to play scales, but the somnolent 
 monotony of the tones only added to her 
 nervousness. Later she played some of Cho- 
 pin's Nocturnes, lingered over those mysterious 
 tones that seemed like strains from another 
 
3 6 The Comedienne 
 
 world, full of tears, pain, cries of anguish, and 
 bleak despair; the radiance of cold moonlight 
 nights, moans like the whisper of departing 
 souls, the laughter of parting, the soft vibra- 
 tions of subtle, sad life. 
 
 Suddenly, Janina stopped playing and burst 
 into tears. She wept for a long time, not 
 knowing why she wept she who since her 
 mother's death had not shed a single tear. 
 
 For the first time in her life which up till 
 now had been one continuous struggle, revolt, 
 and protest she felt overcome by distress. 
 There awakened in her an irresistible longing 
 to share her sorrows with someone, a longing 
 to confide to some sympathetic heart those 
 bewildered thoughts and feelings, that un- 
 explainable misery and fear. She yearned 
 for sympathy, feeling that her distress would 
 be smaller, her anguish less violent, her tears 
 not so bitter, if she could open her heart before 
 some sincere woman friend. 
 
 Krenska summoned her to dinner, announc- 
 ing that Grzesikiewicz was already waiting. 
 
 She wiped away the traces of tears from her 
 eyes, arranged her hair and went. 
 
 Grzesikiewicz kissed her hand and seated 
 himself beside her at the table. 
 
The Comedienne 37 
 
 Orlowski was in a holiday humor and every 
 now and then twitted Janina and hurled tri- 
 umphant glances at her. 
 
 Grzesikiewicz was silent and uneasy; oc- 
 casionally he would speak, but in such a 
 low tone, Janina could scarcely hear what he 
 said. Mrs. Krenska was plainly excited. 
 
 A gloomy atmosphere hung over them all. 
 The dinner dragged wearily on. Orlowski at 
 times became wrapt in thought, and would 
 then knit his brows, angrily tug at his 
 beard, and fling murderous glances at his 
 daughter. 
 
 After dinner they went to the parlor. Black 
 coffee and cognac were served. Orlowski 
 quickly gulped down his coffee and left the 
 room, kissing Janina on the forehead and 
 growling some unintelligible remark as he 
 departed. 
 
 They remained alone. 
 
 Janina kept looking out of the window. 
 Grzesikiewicz, all flushed and flustered and 
 unlike himself, began to say something, taking 
 little swallows of coffee in between, until, 
 finally, he drained it off at the gulp and 
 shoved his cup and saucer aside so vigor- 
 ously that they went tumbling over the table. 
 
38 The Comedienne 
 
 She laughed at his violence and embarrass- 
 ment. 
 
 "At a moment like this a man could swallow 
 a lamp without noticing it," he remarked. 
 
 "That would be quite a feat," she answered, 
 again bursting into empty laughter. 
 
 "Are you laughing at me?" he asked 
 uneasily. 
 
 "No, only the idea of swallowing a lamp 
 seemed comical." 
 
 They relapsed into silence. Janina fidgeted 
 with the window-shade, while Grzesikiewicz 
 tore at his gloves and impulsively bit his 
 moustache; he was literally shaking with 
 emotion. 
 
 "It is so hard for me, so awfully hard!" he 
 began, raising his eyes to her entreatingly. 
 
 "Why?" she queried tersely and evasively. 
 
 "Well, because . . . because . . . For 
 God's sake, I can't stand it any longer! No, 
 I can't endure this torment any longer, so I'll 
 come right out with it : I love you, Miss Janina, 
 and beg you for your hand," he cried aloud, 
 at once sighing with immense relief. But 
 immediately he struck his forehead with his 
 hand and, taking Janina's hand, began anew: 
 
 " I have loved you ever so long, but feared to 
 
The Comedienne 39 
 
 tell you. And now I don't know how to 
 express it as I would like to. ... I love 
 you and beg you to be my wife. ..." 
 
 He kissed her hand fervently and gazed at 
 her with his blue, honest eyes burning with 
 blind love. His lips twitched nervously and 
 a pallor overspread his features. 
 
 Janina arose from her chair and, looking 
 straight into his eyes, answered slowly and 
 quietly: "I do not love you." 
 
 All her nervousness had vanished. 
 
 Grzesikiewicz recoiled violently, as though 
 someone had struck him, as though he did not 
 understand. He said with a trembling voice: 
 
 "Miss Janina ... be my wife ... I love 
 you!" 
 
 "I do not love you ... I cannot there- 
 fore marry you ... I will not marry at all ! " 
 she answered in the same cold tone, but at the 
 last word her voice wavered with an accent of 
 pity for him. 
 
 "God!" cried Grzesikiewicz, holding his 
 hand to his head. "What does it mean? . . . 
 You will not marry! . . . You will not be my 
 wife! . . . You do not love me!" 
 
 He threw himself impulsively on his knees 
 before her, seized her hands, and, covering 
 
40 The Comedienne 
 
 them with kisses, began, with what seemed 
 almost tears of feverish terror, to entreat her 
 fervently, humbly. 
 
 "You do not love me? . . . You will love 
 me in time. I swear that I, my mother, and 
 my father will be your slaves. I will wait if you 
 wish . . . Say that in a year, or two, or even 
 five, you will love me. ... I will wait. . . . 
 I swear to you that I will wait ! But do not say 
 no to me ! For God's sake do not say that, for 
 I shall go mad with despair! How can it be? 
 You do not love me! . . . But I love you 
 ... we all love you ... we cannot live 
 without you! . . . no. . . . Your father told 
 me that . . . that . . . and now . . . God! 
 I will go crazy! What are you doing to me! 
 What are you doing to me!" 
 
 Springing up from the floor he fairly cried 
 aloud with pain. 
 
 Mechanically he pulled off his gloves, tore 
 them to pieces and flung them on the floor, 
 buttoned up his coat to the topmost button, 
 and struggling to control himself said: "Fare- 
 well, Miss Janina. But always . . . every- 
 where . . . forever ... I will . . ." he 
 whispered with great effort, bowed his head 
 and went toward the door. 
 
The Comedienne 4 1 
 
 "Andrew!" she called after him forcibly. 
 
 Grzesikiewicz turned back from the door. 
 
 " Andrew, " she said in a pleading voice, "I 
 do not love you, but I respect you. ... I 
 cannot marry you, I cannot . . . but I will 
 always think of you as of a noble man. Surely 
 you will understand that it would be a base 
 thing for me to marry a man whom I do not 
 love ... I know that you detest falsehood 
 and hypocrisy and so do I. Forgive me for 
 hurting you, but I also suffer ... I also am 
 not happy oh no!" 
 
 "Janina if you would only ... if you 
 would only ..." 
 
 She regarded him with such a sorrowful 
 expression that he became silent. Then slowly 
 he left the room. 
 
 Janina still sat there dazed, staring at the 
 door through which he had gone, when Orlow- 
 ski entered the room. 
 
 He had met Grzesikiewicz on the stairs and 
 in his face had read what had happened. 
 
 Janina uttered a little cry of fear, so great a 
 change had come over him. His face was 
 ashen-gray, his eyes seemed to bulge from their 
 sockets, his head swayed violently from side 
 to side. 
 
42 The Comedienne 
 
 He seated himself near the table and with a 
 quiet, smothered voice asked, "What did you 
 tell Grzesikiewicz?" 
 
 "What I told you yesterday; that I do not 
 love him and will not marry him!" she an- 
 swered boldly, but she was startled at the 
 seeming calm with which her father spoke. 
 
 "Why?" he queried sharply, as though he 
 did not understand her. 
 
 ' ' I told him that I do not love him and do 
 not wish to marry at all. ..." 
 
 "You are a fool! . . . a fool! . . . a fool!" 
 he hissed at her through his tightly set teeth. 
 
 She regarded him calmly and all her old 
 obstinacy returned. 
 
 "I said that you would marry him. I gave 
 my word that you would marry him, and you 
 will marry him!" 
 
 "I will not! ... no one is able to force 
 me!" she answered sullenly, looking with 
 steady gaze into her father's eyes. 
 
 " I will drag you to the altar. I will compel 
 you! . . . You must! ..." he cried hoarsely. 
 
 "No!" 
 
 "You will marry Grzesikiewicz, I tell you; 
 I, your father, command you to do so! You 
 will obey me immediately, or I will kill you!" 
 
The Comedienne 43 
 
 "Very well, kill me, if you want to, but 111 
 not obey you!" 
 
 "I will drive you out of this house!" he 
 shouted. 
 
 "Very well!" 
 
 "I will disown you!" 
 
 ' ' Very well ! ' ' she answered with growing de- 
 termination. Janina felt that with each word 
 her heart was hardening with greater resolve. 
 
 "I'll drive you out . . . do you hear? . . . 
 and even though you die of hunger, I never 
 want to hear of you again!" 
 
 "Very well!" 
 
 "Janina! I warn you, don't drive me to 
 extremity. I beg you marry Grzesikiewicz, 
 my daughter, my child! . . . Isn't it for your 
 good? You have no one but me in the world 
 and I am old ... I will die . . . and you will 
 remain alone without protection or support. 
 . . . Janina, you have never loved me! . . . 
 If you knew how unhappy I have been through- 
 out my life, you would take pity on me! " 
 
 "No! . . . Never! ..." she answered, 
 unmoved even by his pleading. 
 
 "I ask you for the last time!" he shouted. 
 
 "For the last time I tell you no!" she flung 
 back at him. 
 
44 The Comedienne 
 
 Orlowski hurled his chair to the floor with 
 such force that it was shattered to pieces. He 
 tore open the collar of his shirt, so violent 
 was the paroxysm of fury that had seized him, 
 and with the broken arm of the chair in his 
 hand, he sprang at Janina to strike her, but 
 the cold, almost scornful, expression of her face 
 brought him to his senses. 
 
 "Get out of here!" he roared, pointing to 
 the door, "get out! . . . Do you hear? I 
 turn you out of my home forever! . . . You 
 will never again pass this threshold while I 
 live, for I will kill you like a mad dog and 
 throw you out of the door! ... I have no 
 longer any daughter!" 
 
 "Very well, I will go . . ." she answered 
 mechanically. 
 
 "I no longer have any daughter! Hence- 
 forth I don't want to know you or hear any- 
 thing of you! . . . Go and perish ... I 
 will kill you! . . ." he shouted, rushing up 
 and down the room like a madman. 
 
 His insane violence now burst out in full 
 force. He rushed out of the house and from 
 the window Janina saw him running toward 
 the woods. 
 
 She sat silent, dumb, and as though turned 
 
The Comedienne 45 
 
 to ice. She had expected everything, but 
 never this. She burned with resentment but 
 not a single tear clouded her eye. She gazed 
 about her distractedly, for that hoarse cry 
 still rang in her ears: "Get out of here! . . . 
 get out! " 
 
 "I will go, I will go . . ." she whispered 
 in a humble and broken voice through the 
 tears that filled her heart, "I will go. ..." 
 
 "God, my God! why am I so unhappy ?" 
 she cried after a while. 
 
 Krenska, who had heard all, approached 
 her. With feigned tears in her eyes she began 
 to comfort her, but Janina gently pushed her 
 away. It was not that which she needed; not 
 that kind of comforting. 
 
 4 'My father has driven me out . . . I must 
 leave ..." she said, marveling at her own 
 words. 
 
 "But that is preposterous! . . . Surely 
 your father can be placated. ..." 
 
 "No . . . I will not stay here any longer. I 
 have enough of this torment . . . enough. . . ." 
 
 "Are you going to your aunt's house?" 
 
 Janina was sunk in thought for a moment, 
 but suddenly her gloomy face brightened with 
 a flash of determination. 
 
4 6 The Comedienne 
 
 "I will go and join the theater. The die is 
 cast! ..." 
 
 Krenska glanced at her sharply. 
 
 "Come, help me pack my trunk. I will 
 leave on the next train." 
 
 "The next passenger train does not go to 
 Kielce." 
 
 "It doesn't matter. I will go to Strzemi- 
 eszyce, and from there, by the Viennese line to 
 Warsaw. ..." 
 
 " If I were you, Janina, I'd think it over. . . . 
 Later you may regret it. ..." 
 
 "What's done can't be undone! ..." 
 
 And without paying any further attention to 
 Krenska's remarks, Janina began to pack. 
 Her lingerie, her dresses, her books and notes, 
 and various trifles she carefully folded away 
 into her school-day trunk, as though she were 
 returning from her vacation. 
 
 At the end she bade farewell to Krenska 
 indifferently. Outwardly she appeared calm 
 and cool, while a slight tremor of her lips 
 alone, and an inner tremor that she could not 
 still, were the only traces of the storm. 
 
 She ordered her things carried downstairs, 
 and, having still an hour's time, she went to 
 the woods. 
 
The Comedienne 47 
 
 "Forever . . . " she said in a subdued tone, 
 as though addressing the trees that seemed 
 to bend toward her with a mournful murmur 
 and rustling of their leaves. 
 
 "Forever! ..." she whispered, gazing at 
 the crimson gleams of the setting sun that 
 filtered through the tangled branches of the 
 beeches and shone upon the ground. 
 
 The woods seemed wrapt in a great silence, 
 as though they were listening to her words of 
 final farewell and dumbly wondering how one 
 who had been born and reared in their midst, 
 who had lived with their life, who had dreamed 
 so many dreams in their embracing silence, 
 could bid farewell. 
 
 The trees murmured mournfully. A sigh 
 like a song of farewell and a sad reproach 
 echoed through the wood. The ferns stirred 
 with a gentle motion, the young hazel leaves 
 fluttered restlessly, the pines rustled softly 
 with their slender needles the whole wood 
 trembled and became alive with a prolonged 
 moan. The song of the birds sounded in 
 broken, startled little snatches, while over the 
 sky, and over the earth carpeted with leaves 
 and golden mosses and snowy valley-lilies, 
 and through the whole verdant wood there 
 
48 The Comedienne 
 
 flitted mysterious shadows, sounds and calls 
 like the echo of sorrowful sobbing. 
 
 "Stay with me! . . . Stay!" the wood 
 seemed to say. 
 
 The torrent roared noisily, swept away the 
 broken boughs that impeded its course, circled 
 and descended in a cloud of foam, a cascade 
 of mist shining in the sun with all the col- 
 ors of the rainbow; it went irresistibly on- 
 ward, triumphantly, whispering: "Go! . . . 
 Go!" 
 
 Then there followed a great silence, broken 
 only by the hum of insects and the dull clatter 
 of falling acorns. 
 
 "Forever! . . ." whispered Janina. 
 
 She arose and started back toward the 
 station. She walked slowly, looking about her 
 with fond, lingering gaze upon the trees, the 
 woodpaths, and the hillsides. 
 
 Then she began to think of the new exist- 
 ence before her. There slowly arose in her 
 soul a certain self-conscious power and increas- 
 ing courage. 
 
 When she spied her father on the station 
 platform, not so much as a tremor disturbed 
 her. Already there loomed between them 
 that new world which already lured her. 
 
The Comedienne 49 
 
 She even went to the station-master's office 
 for a ticket. She stood before the window and 
 asked for it in a loud voice. Orlowski (for he 
 sold the tickets himself) raised his head with a 
 violent start and something like a red shadow 
 passed over his face, but he did not utter a 
 word. He calmly handed her her change and 
 stared at her coldly, stroking his beard. 
 
 On leaving, she turned her head and met 
 his burning gaze. He started violently back 
 from the window and swore aloud, while she 
 went on, only somehow she went more slowly 
 and her legs trembled under her. That gleam 
 of his eyes, as though bloody with tears, 
 struck deep into her heart. 
 
 The train arrived and she got on. From the 
 window of the car she still kept gazing at the 
 station. Krenska waved to her with a hand- 
 kerchief from the house and pretended she 
 was wiping away tears. 
 
 Orlowski, in a red cap and immaculately 
 white gloves, paced up and down the platform 
 with a stiff official air and did not glance even 
 once in her direction. 
 
 The bell rang and the train pulled out. 
 
 The telegrapher was bowing his farewell to 
 her, but she did not see him; she saw only how 
 
50 The Comedienne 
 
 her father slowly turned about and entered 
 the office. 
 
 "Forever! . . . " she whispered. 
 
 Orlowski came in for supper at the usual 
 hour. 
 
 Krenska, in spite of her joy at Janina's 
 departure, was uneasy; she glanced into his 
 eyes with a feeling of fear, walked about even 
 more silently than usual, and was humbler 
 and smaller than ever before. 
 
 Orlowski seemed to be wrestling with him- 
 self, for he did not burst forth in curses and did 
 not even mention Janina. 
 
 On the following day only he locked Janina's 
 room and put the key away in his desk. 
 
 He did not sleep that night; his eyes were 
 sunken and his face deathly pale. Krenska 
 heard him walking up and down his room all 
 night, but on the following day he was at work 
 as usual. 
 
 At dinner Krenska plucked up courage to 
 speak to him about something. 
 
 "Aha . . . I have still to settle with you! " 
 he said. 
 
 Krenska grew pale. She began to speak to 
 him about Janina, about her sympathy for her, 
 
The Comedienne 5 1 
 
 how she had tried to dissuade her from leaving, 
 how earnestly she had begged her. 
 
 "You're a fool!" he hurled at her. "She 
 left because she wanted to. ... Let her 
 break her neck, if she wants to!" 
 
 Krenska began to commiserate his loneliness. 
 
 "A cur!" he snarled, spitting beside him 
 in scorn. "You, madame, can leave to-day. 
 I will pay you what is due you and then get 
 out of this house as fast as you can go, or I 
 swear to God I'll have my workmen throw you 
 out! If I am to be alone I'll be entirely alone 
 . . . without any guardians! A cur!" 
 
 Banging his glass against the table with such 
 force that it flew into splinters, he went out. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 THE little garden theater was beginning to 
 awaken. 
 
 The curtain arose with a creaking sound 
 and there appeared a barefooted and dis- 
 heveled boy, clad only in a smock, who began 
 to sweep the temple of art. The dust floated 
 out in large clouds on the garden, settling on 
 the red cloth coverings of the chairs and on 
 the leaves of a few consumptive chestnut 
 trees. 
 
 The waiters and servants of the restaurant 
 began to put things to order under the large 
 veranda. One could hear the clatter of washed 
 glasses, the beating of rugs, the moving of 
 chairs and the subdued whispers of the buffet- 
 tender who arranged with a certain unction her 
 rows of bottles, platters containing sandwiches, 
 and huge bouquets a la Makart, resembling 
 dried brooms. The glaring rays of the sun 
 peered in at the sides of the garden and a 
 throng of black sparrows swayed on the 
 
 52 
 
The Comedienne 53 
 
 branches and perched on the chairs, clamoring 
 for crumbs. 
 
 The clock over the buffet was slowly and 
 solemnly striking the hour of ten, when a tall 
 slim boy rushed in on the veranda ; a torn cap 
 was perched on the top of his touseled red hair, 
 his freckled face wore a mischievous smile, and 
 his nose was upturned. He ran straight to 
 the buffet. 
 
 "Be careful, Wicek, or you'll lose your 
 shoes!" . . . called the barmaid. 
 
 "I don't care; I'll get them remodeled!" he 
 retorted jovially, gazing down at his shoes 
 which clung miraculously to his feet despite the 
 fact that they were minus both soles and tops. 
 
 " Please, miss, let me have a thimbleful of 
 beer!" he cried bowing ostentatiously. 
 
 "Have you the price?" asked the barmaid, 
 extending her palm. 
 
 "This evening, I'll pay you. I give you 
 my word, I'll pay you for it without fail," he 
 begged. 
 
 The barmaid merely shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "O come on, let me have it, miss. . . . I'll 
 recommend you to the Shah of Persia. . . . 
 Such a broad dame ought to have quite a pull 
 with him. ." 
 
54 The Comedienne 
 
 The waiters burst out laughing, while the 
 barmaid banged her metal tray against the 
 counter. 
 
 "Wicek!" called someone from the en- 
 trance. 
 
 "At your service, Mr. Manager." 
 
 "Are they all here for the rehearsal?" 
 
 1 'Oh ! They'll all be here without fail ! " he 
 answered, laughing roguishly. 
 
 "Did you notify them? . . . Did you go 
 to them with the circular?" 
 
 "Yes, they all signed it." 
 
 "Did you take the play-bill to the di- 
 rector?" 
 
 "The director was still behind the scenes: 
 he was lying in bed and gazing at his toes." 
 
 "You should have given it to his wife." 
 
 "But Mrs. Directress was in the midst of a 
 tussle with her children; it was a little too 
 noisy there." 
 
 "You will go with this letter to Comely 
 Street. . . . Do you know where it is?" 
 
 "A few times over, 'She's quite a respect- 
 able dame,' as a certain man in the front row 
 said of Miss Nicolette the other day. " 
 
 "You will take this, wait for an answer, and 
 come right back." 
 
The Comedienne 55 
 
 "But Mr. Manager, will I get something 
 for going?" 
 
 "Didn't I give you something on account 
 only last night?" 
 
 "Oh . . . only a copper! I spent it for 
 beer and sardines, paid the balance of my rent, 
 gave my shoemaker a deposit for a new pair 
 of shoes, and now I'm dead broke!" 
 
 "You're a monkey! Here, take this. . . ." 
 
 "Blessed are the hands that dispense forty- 
 cent pieces!" he cried with a comical grimace, 
 shuffled his shoes, and ran out. 
 
 "Set the stage for the rehearsal!" called 
 the manager, seating himself on the veranda. 
 
 The members of the company assembled 
 slowly. They greeted each other in silence 
 and scattered over the garden. 
 
 "Dobek," called the stage-manager to a 
 tall man who was making straight for the 
 buffet. ' ' You guzzle from morn till night, and 
 at the rehearsals I cannot hear a word you 
 say. . . . Your prompting isn't worth a 
 bean!" 
 
 "Mr. Manager, I had a bad dream that ran 
 something like this : Night ... a well ... I 
 stumbled and fell into it ... I was frozen 
 stiff with fear ... I called for help ... no 
 
5 6 The Comedienne 
 
 help was near . . . splash ! . . . and I was up 
 to my neck in water. . . . Brr! ... I still 
 feel so cold that nothing will warm me." 
 
 "Oh, hang your dreams! You drink from 
 morn till night." 
 
 " That's because I can't drink like others: 
 from night till morn. Brr! I feel so beastly 
 chilled!" 
 
 "I'll order some hot tea for you " 
 
 "Thank you, I'm quite well Mr. Topolski, 
 and use herbs only when I'm sick. Must, the 
 extracted juice, the constituent of rye, that's 
 the only stuff that is worthy of the complete 
 man that I have the honor to consider myself, 
 Mr. Manager." 
 
 The director entered and Dobek went to 
 the bar. 
 
 "Did you assign all the r61es of Nitouche?" 
 the director asked. 
 
 "Not quite," answered Topolski, "those 
 women . . . there are three candidates for 
 Nitouche." 
 
 "Good morning, Mr. Director!" called one 
 of the pillars of the theater, Majkowska, a 
 handsome actress dressed in a light gown, a 
 silken wrap, and a white hat with a big ostrich 
 feather. She was all rosy from a good night's 
 
The Comedienne 57 
 
 sleep and from an invisible layer of rouge. 
 She had large, dark-blue eyes, full and car- 
 mined lips, classical features, and a proud 
 bearing. She played the principle r61es. 
 
 "Come here a minute, Mr. Director . . . 
 there is a little matter I would like to speak 
 to you about." 
 
 "Always at your service, madame. Per- 
 haps you need some money?" ventured the 
 director with a troubled mien. 
 
 "For the present . . . no. What will you 
 have to drink, Mr. Director?" 
 
 "Ho! Ho! Somebody's blood is going to 
 be shed! " he cried with a comical gesture. 
 
 "I asked what will you drink, Mr. Direc- 
 tor?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. I'd take a glass of 
 cognac, but ..." 
 
 "You're afraid of your wife? She ,oes not 
 appear in Nitouche, does she?" 
 
 "No, but ..." 
 
 "Waiter! Two cognacs and sandwiches. 
 . . . You will give the r61e of Nitouche to 
 Nicolette, will you not, Mr. Director? Please 
 do so, for I have a good reason for asking it. 
 Remember, Mr. Cabinski, that I never ask for 
 a thing in vain, and do this for me ..." 
 
58 The Comedienne 
 
 "That's already the fourth candidate for 
 the part! . . . God! all that I have to stand 
 because of these women!" 
 
 "Which of them wants this part?" 
 
 "Well, Kaczkowska, my wife, Mimi, and 
 now, Nicolette. . . . " 
 
 "Waiter! Two more cognacs," she called, 
 rapping on the tray with her glass. "You 
 will give the part to Nicolette, Mr. Director, 
 I know for a certainty that she will not accept 
 it, for with her wooden voice she could dance, 
 but not sing. But you see, Mr. Director, this 
 is the very reason for giving it to her." 
 
 "Well . . . not to mention my own wife, 
 Mimi and Kaczkowska will tear off my head 
 if I do!" 
 
 1 ' You'll not lose much by that ! I'll explain 
 the matter to them. We will have a splendid 
 farce, for you see that gentleman friend of hers 
 will be present at to-day's rehearsal. Yester- 
 day she boasted to him that you had her in 
 mind when you announced in the papers that 
 the r61e of Nitouche will be played by the 
 beautiful and dashing Mme. X. X." 
 
 Cabinski began to laugh quietly. 
 
 1 ' Only don't breathe a word about it. You'll 
 see what will happen. Before him she will 
 
The Comedienne 59 
 
 pretend to accept the part to show off. Halt 
 will immediately begin to rehearse her and will 
 make a fool of her before everyone. You will 
 then take away her part and give it to whom- 
 ever you like." 
 
 "You women are terrible in your malice." 
 "Bah, therein lies our strength." 
 They went out into the garden hall where 
 several members of the company were already 
 waiting for the rehearsal to begin. They sat 
 about on chairs in little groups laughing, jok- 
 ing, telling tales, and complaining while the 
 tuning of the orchestra furnished an accom- 
 paniment to the buzz of voices. 
 
 On the veranda an increasing number of 
 guests was assembling and the hum of voices, 
 the clatter of plates and the noisy shifting 
 of chairs grew ever louder. The smoke of 
 cigarettes ascended in clouds to the iron roof 
 beams. 
 
 Janina Orlowska entered. She sat down at 
 one of the tables and inquired of the waiter: 
 " Can you tell me if the director of the theater 
 has already arrived?" 
 4 'There he is!" 
 "Which one of them." 
 "What will you have, madame?" 
 
60 The Comedienne 
 
 "I beg your pardon, which of those gentle- 
 men is Mr. Cabinski?" 
 
 "A seven! . . . four whiskies!" someone 
 called to the waiter from a nearby table. 
 
 "Just a minute, just a minute!" 
 
 "Beer!" came another voice. 
 
 "Which of those gentlemen is the director? " 
 patiently asked Janina for the second time. 
 
 "I will serve you in a minute, madam!" 
 said the waiter bowing on all sides. 
 
 To Janina it seemed that they were all star- 
 ing at her and that the waiters, as they passed 
 with their hands full of beer-glasses and 
 plates, cast such strange glances that she 
 blushed in spite of herself. 
 
 Presently the waiter returned, bringing the 
 coffee she had ordered. 
 
 "Do you wish to see the director, madame?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "He is sitting there in the first row of seats. 
 That short man in a white vest . . . there! 
 Do you see him?" 
 
 "I do. Thank you!" 
 
 "Shall I tell him you wish to speak to 
 him?" 
 
 "No. Anyway he seems to be busy." 
 
 "He is only chatting." 
 
The Comedienne 61 
 
 "And who are those gentlemen with whom 
 he is talking?" 
 
 "They are also members of our company 
 actors." 
 
 She paid for the coffee, giving the waiter a 
 ruble. He fumbled about a long time, as 
 though looking for change, but, seeing that 
 she was gazing in another direction, he bowed 
 and thanked her. 
 
 Having finished her coffee, Janina went into 
 the hall. She passed by the director and took 
 a cursory look at him. All that she saw was a 
 large, pale, anaemic face, covered with grayish 
 splotches. 
 
 A few actors standing near him impressed 
 her as handsome people. She noticed in their 
 gestures, their smooth shaven faces, their easy, 
 smiling airs something so superior to the 
 men whom she had hitherto known, that 
 she listened to their conversation with rapt 
 attention. 
 
 The uncurtained stage, wrapt in darkness, 
 drew her with its hidden mystery. 
 
 For the first time Janina saw the theater 
 at close range and the actors off stage. The 
 theater seemed to her like a Grecian temple 
 and those people, whose profiles she had before 
 
62 The Comedienne 
 
 her, and whose eloquent voices sounded in 
 her ears, seemed like true priests of art. 
 
 She was regarding everything about her 
 with interest, when she suddenly noticed that 
 the waiter who had served her was whispering 
 something to the director and pointing to her 
 with a slight gesture. 
 
 There ran through Janina a tremor of fear, 
 strange and depressing. She did not look up 
 again, but felt that someone was approaching, 
 that someone's glances were resting on her head 
 and encircling her figure. 
 
 She was still at a loss how to begin and what 
 to say, but felt that she must speak. 
 
 She arose when she noticed Cabinski stand- 
 ing before her. 
 
 "I am Mr. Cabinski, the director." 
 
 She stood there unable to utter a word. 
 
 "You deigned to ask for me, madame?" he 
 queried with a courteous bow, signifying that 
 he was ready to listen to her. 
 
 "Yes . . . if you please . . . Mr. Director. 
 I wished to ask you . . . perhaps you could," 
 she stuttered, unable for the moment to find 
 the right words to express what she wished to 
 say. 
 
 "Pray rest a little, madame, and calm your- 
 
The Comedienne 63 
 
 self. Is it something very important?" he 
 whispered, bending toward her and at the 
 same time winking significantly to the actors 
 who were looking on. 
 
 "Oh, it is very important!" she answered, 
 meeting his gaze. "I wish to ask you, Mr. 
 Director, if you would accept me as a member 
 of your company. " 
 
 This last sentence she uttered quickly as 
 though fearing that her courage and voice 
 might fail her ere it was spoken. 
 
 "Ah! ... is that all? . . . You wish to 
 be engaged, miss?" He stiffened suddenly, 
 studying her with a critical gaze. 
 
 "I journeyed here especially for that pur- 
 pose. You will not refuse me, Mr. Director, 
 will you?" 
 
 "With whom did you appear before?" 
 
 "Pardon me, but I don't quite understand." 
 
 "With what company? . . . Where?" 
 
 "I have never before appeared in the 
 theater. I came here straight from the coun- 
 try for the express purpose of joining it." 
 
 "You have never appeared before? . . . 
 Then, I have no place for you! " and he turned 
 to go. 
 
 Janina was seized with a desperate fear 
 
64 The Comedienne 
 
 that her quest would fail, so with courage and 
 a tone of strong entreaty in her voice she 
 began to speak hurriedly: 
 
 ' ' Mr. Director ! I j ourney ed here especially 
 to join your company. I love the theater so 
 ardently that I cannot live without it! . . . 
 Do not refuse me! I do not know anyone 
 here in Warsaw. I came to you because I 
 had read so much about you in the papers. I 
 feel that I could play ... I have memorized 
 so many roles! . . . You will see, Mr. Di- 
 rector ... if you only let me appear . . . 
 you will see!" 
 
 Cabinski was silent. 
 
 "Or perhaps you would prefer to have me 
 call to-morrow? ... I can wait a few days, if 
 you wish," she added, seeing that he did not 
 answer, but was observing her intently. 
 
 Her voice trembled with entreaty; it modu- 
 lated with ease and there was so much origi- 
 nality and warmth in her tone that Cabinski 
 listened to her with pleasure. 
 
 "Now I have no time, but after the rehearsal 
 we can discuss the matter more thoroughly," 
 he said. 
 
 She wanted impulsively to press his hand 
 and thank him for the promise, but her cour- 
 
The Comedienne 65 
 
 age failed her, for she noticed that an increas- 
 ing number of people were curiously observing 
 them. 
 
 "Hey there, Cabinski!" 
 
 "Man alive!" 
 
 "Director! What's that ... a rendez- 
 vous? In broad daylight, before the eyes of 
 all, and scarcely three flights away from Pepa? " 
 
 Such were the bantering remarks hurled at 
 him from every direction after his parting 
 with Janina. 
 
 "Who is the charmer?" 
 
 "Director, it's rather careless to carry on 
 such an affair right there in the limelight." 
 
 "Ha! ha! now we've got you! . . . You 
 posed as a flawless crystal, my muddy amber ! " 
 called one of the company, a fleshless indi- 
 vidual with habitually contorted lips that 
 seemed to spew gall and malice. 
 
 " Go to the devil, my dear ! This is the first 
 time I saw her," retorted Cabinski. 
 
 ' ' A pretty woman ! What does she want? " 
 
 "A novice of some kind . . . she's seeking 
 an engagement." 
 
 "Take her, Director. There are never too 
 many pretty women on the stage." 
 
 "The director has enough of those calves." 
 
66 The Comedienne 
 
 "Don't fear, Wladek, they do not encum- 
 ber the budget, for Cabinski has a custom of 
 failing to pay his actors, particularly the young 
 and pretty ladies." 
 
 Thereat they all began laughing. 
 
 1 ' Treat us to a whiskey, Director, and I will 
 tell you something," Glas began anew. 
 
 "Well, what is it?" 
 
 "That the manager will treat us to an- 
 other. ..." 
 
 "My funny sir, your belly grows at the ex- 
 pense of your wit . . . you are beginning to 
 prate like a fool," remarked Wladek. 
 
 "Only for fools . . ." Glas maliciously 
 thrust back at Wladek and retired behind the 
 scenes. 
 
 "John!" came the voice of the director's 
 wife from the veranda. 
 
 Cabinski went out to meet her. 
 
 She was a tall, stout woman with a face 
 that still retained traces of great beauty, now 
 carefully preserved with paint ; she had coarse 
 features, large eyes, narrow lips, and a* very 
 low forehead. Her dress was of an exag- 
 gerated youthful style and color, so that from 
 afar she gave the impression of being a young 
 woman. 
 
The Comedienne 67 
 
 She was very proud of her director-husband, 
 of her dramatic talent, and of her children, of 
 which she had four. In real life she was fond 
 of playing the role of a matron occupied only 
 with her home and the upbringing of her child- 
 ren, while in truth she was nothing but a comedi- 
 enne, both in life and behind the scenes. On 
 the stage she impersonated dramatic mothers 
 and all the elder, unhappy women, never under- 
 standing her parts, but acting them, neverthe- 
 less, with fervor and pathos. 
 
 She was a terror to her servants, to her own 
 children, and to young actresses whom she 
 suspected of possessing talents. She had a 
 shrewish temper which she masked before 
 others with an exaggerated calm and feigned 
 weakness. 
 
 "Good morning, gentlemen!" . . . she 
 called, leaning with a careless attitude on her 
 husband's arm. 
 
 The company thronged around her, Maj- 
 kowska greeting her with an effusive kiss. 
 
 "How charming Madame Directress looks 
 to-day," remarked Glas. 
 
 "Your vision must have improved, for the 
 directress always looks charming !" interposed 
 Wladek f 
 
68 The Comedienne 
 
 "How is your health? . . . Yesterday 's 
 performance must have taxed your strength." 
 
 "You played superbly! . . . We all stood 
 behind the scenes in rapt attention." 
 
 "The critics were all weeping. I saw 
 Zarski wiping his eyes with his handkerchief." 
 
 "After sneezing . . . he has a bad catarrh," 
 called someone from the side. 
 
 "The public was fascinated and swept off 
 its feet in the third act . . . they arose in their 
 chairs." 
 
 "That's because they wanted to run away 
 from such a treat," came the mocking voice 
 again. 
 
 "How many bouquets did you receive, 
 Madame Directress?" 
 
 "Ask the director, he paid the bill." 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Counselor, you are unbearable 
 to-day!" cried the directress in a sweet voice, 
 although almost pale with rage, for all the 
 actors were growing red in the face in their 
 effort to keep from laughing. 
 
 "It's intended as a kindness. . . . All the 
 rest of them are saying pretty things, let me 
 say something sensible." 
 
 "You are an impertinent man, Mr. Coun- 
 selor! . . . How can you say such things? . . . 
 
The Comedienne 69 
 
 Moreover, what do I care about the theater! 
 If I played well, I owe it to my husband; if I 
 played badly it's the fault of the director for 
 forcing me to appear continually in new roles ! 
 If I had my way, I would lock myself up with 
 my children and confine myself to domestic 
 affairs. . . . My God! art is such a big thing 
 and we are all, compared with it, so small, so 
 small that I tremble with fear bef c*re each new 
 performance!" she declaimed. 
 
 " Please let me have a word with you in 
 private," called Majkowska. 
 
 " Do you see? . . . there is not even time to 
 talk of art!" she sighed deeply and departed. 
 
 "An old scarecrow!" 
 
 "An everlasting cow! . . . She thinks she 
 is an artist!" 
 
 "Yesterday she bellowed terribly." 
 
 "She flung herself around the stage as 
 though she had St. Vitus 1 dance!" 
 
 "Hush! . . . according to her that is 
 realism!." 
 
 On the veranda Majkowska was concluding 
 her conversation with Mrs. Cabinska. 
 
 "Will you give me your word of honor, 
 Madame Directress?" 
 
 "Of course, I'll see to it right away." 
 
7 The Comedienne 
 
 "It must be done. Nicolette has made 
 herself impossible in this company. Why, she 
 even dares to criticize your own playing! 
 Yesterday I saw her making disparaging 
 remarks to that editor," Majkowska whis- 
 pered. 
 
 "What! she dares to meddle with me?" 
 
 "I never indulge in gossip, nor do I want 
 to sow hatred, but " 
 
 "What did she say? ... in the presence 
 of the editor, did you say? Ah, the vile co- 
 quette!" 
 
 Majkowska smothered a smile, but hastily 
 replied, "No, I'll not tell you ... I do not 
 like to repeat gossip ! " 
 
 "Well, I'll pay her back for it! ... Wait, 
 we'll teach her a lesson! " hissed the directress. 
 
 "Dobek, prompter! . . . get into your 
 box!" 
 
 "Ladies and gentlemen, the rehearsal com- 
 mences!" 
 
 "To the stage! to the stage!" was the cry 
 that went up all over the hall as the actors hur- 
 ried behind the scenes. 
 
 "Mr. Director!" called Majkowska, "you 
 can give the r61e to Nicolette . . . your wife 
 agrees to it." 
 
The Comedienne 71 
 
 " Very well, my dears, very well. . . ." 
 
 He went out on the veranda where Nicolette 
 was already seated with a young gentleman, 
 very fastidiously dressed. 
 
 " We request your presence at the rehearsal, 
 Miss Nicolette. ..." 
 
 1 ' What are you rehearsing ? ' ' asked Nicolette. 
 
 "Nitouche . . . why, don't you know that 
 you are to appear in the title role? ... I 
 have already advertised it in the papers." 
 
 Kazckowska, who had at that moment en- 
 tered and was looking at them, hastily covered 
 her face with her parasol, so as not to burst 
 out laughing at the comical look of embarrass- 
 ment on Nicolette's face. 
 
 11 1 am too indisposed at present to take 
 part in the rehearsal," she said, scrutinizing 
 Cabiniski and Kaczkowska. 
 
 Evidently she suspected some ruse, but 
 Cabinski, with the solemnest mien in the 
 world, handed her the role. 
 
 "Here is your part, madame. . . . We 
 begin immediately," he said, going away. 
 
 "But Mr. Director! my dear Director, I 
 pray you, go on with the rehearsal without 
 me! ... I have such a headache that I doubt 
 I could sing," she pleaded. 
 
72 The Comedienne 
 
 " It can't be done. We begin immediately." 
 
 11 Oh, please do sing, Miss Nicolette! I'm 
 crazy to hear you sing!" begged the squire. 
 
 "Director!" 
 
 "What is it, my soprano?" 
 
 And the directress appeared, pointing to 
 Janina who was standing behind the scenes. 
 
 "A novice," answered Cabinski. 
 
 "Are you going to engage her?" 
 
 "Yes, we need chorus girls. The sisters 
 from Prague have left, for they made nothing 
 but scandals." 
 
 "She looks rather homely," opined Mrs. 
 Cabinska. 
 
 "But she has a very scenic face! . . . and 
 also a very nice, though strange voice." 
 
 Janina did not lose a word of this conver- 
 sation, carried on in an undertone ; she had also 
 heard the chorus of praise that went up on the 
 directress's appearance,, and later, the chorus 
 of derision. She gazed with a bewildered 
 look on that whole company. 
 
 "Clear the stage! clear the stage!" 
 
 Those standing on the stage hastily moved 
 back behind the scenes, for at the moment the 
 entire chorus rushed out in a gallop : a throng of 
 women, chiefly young women, but with painted 
 
The Comedienne 73 
 
 faces, faded and blighted by their feverish life. 
 There were blondes and brunettes, small and 
 tall, thin and stout a motley gathering from all 
 spheres of life. There were among them the 
 faces of madonnas with defiant glances, and 
 the smooth, round faces, expressionless and 
 unintelligent, of peasant girls. And all were 
 boredly cynical, or, at least, appeared so. 
 
 They began to sing. 
 
 "Halt! Start over again!" roared the 
 director of the orchestra, an individual 
 with a big red face and huge mutton-chop 
 whiskers. 
 
 The chorus retired and came back again 
 with heavy step, carrying on a sort of col- 
 lective can-canade, but every minute there 
 was heard the sharp bang of the conductor's 
 baton against his desk and the hoarse yell 
 1 ' Halt ! Start over again ! ' ' And swinging his 
 baton he would mutter under his nose, "You 
 cattle!" 
 
 The chorus rehearsal dragged on intermin- 
 ably. The actors, scattered about in the 
 seats, yawned wearily and those who took part 
 in the evening's performance paced up and 
 down behind the scenes, indifferently waiting 
 for their turn to rehearse. 
 
74 The Comedienne 
 
 In the men's dressing-room Wicek was shin- 
 ing the shoes of the stage-manager and giving 
 him a hasty account of his mission to Comely 
 Street. 
 
 " Did you deliver the letter? . . . Have you 
 an answer?" 
 
 "I should smile!" and he handed Topolski 
 a long pink envelope. 
 
 "Wicek! ... If you squeal a word of this 
 to anyone, you clown, you know what awaits 
 you!" 
 
 ''That's stale news! . . . The lady said 
 just that, too. Only she added a ruble to her 
 warning." 
 
 "Maurice!" called Majkowska sharply, 
 appearing at the door of the dressing-room. 
 
 "Wait a minute. ... I can't go with 
 only one shoe shined, can I!" 
 
 "Why didn't you have the maid shine 
 them?" 
 
 "The maid is always at your service and I 
 can't get a single thing from her." 
 
 "Well, go and hire another." 
 
 "All right, but it will be for myself alone." 
 
 "Nicolette, to the stage!" 
 
 "Call her!" cried Cabinski from the stage 
 to those sitting around in the chairs. 
 
The Comedienne 75 
 
 ''Come, Maurice," whispered Majkowska. 
 " It'll be worth seeing." 
 
 "Nicolette, to the stage!" cried those in 
 the chairs. 
 
 "In a moment! Here I am ..." and 
 Nicolette, with a sandwich in her mouth and 
 a box of candy under her arm, rushed for the 
 stage entrance with such violence that the 
 floor creaked under her steps. 
 
 "What the devil do you mean by appearing 
 so late! This is a rehearsal ... we are all 
 waiting," angrily muttered the conductor of 
 the orchestra. . 
 
 11 1 am not the only one you are waiting for," 
 she retorted. 
 
 "Precisely, we are waiting only for you, 
 madame, and you know we have not come here 
 to argue. . . . On with the rehearsal !" 
 
 "But I have not yet learned a single line. 
 Let Kaczkowska sing . . . that is a part for 
 her!" 
 
 "The part was given to you, wasn't it? 
 . . . Well, then there's no use arguing! Let 
 us begin " 
 
 "Oh, director! Can't we postpone it till 
 this afternoon? Just now, it . . ." 
 
 "Begin!" 
 
76 The Comedienne 
 
 "Try it, Miss Nicolette . . . that part is 
 well adapted to your voice. ... I myself 
 asked the director to give it to you," encour- 
 aged Mrs. Cabinska with a friendly smile. 
 
 Nicolette listened, scanning the faces of the 
 whole company, but they were all immobile. 
 Only the young gentleman smiled amorously 
 at her from the chairs. 
 
 The conductor raised his baton, the orches- 
 tra began to play, and the prompter gave her 
 the first words of her part. 
 
 Nicolette, who was noted for never being 
 able to learn her r61e, now tripped up in the 
 very first line and sang it as falsely as possible. 
 
 They began over again; it went a little 
 better, but "Halt," as they called the con- 
 ductor, intentionally skipped a measure, caus- 
 ing her to make an awful mess of it. 
 
 A chorus of laughter arose on the stage. 
 
 "A musical cow!" 
 
 "To the ballet with such a voice and such 
 an ear!" 
 
 Nicolette, on the verge of tears, approached 
 Cabinski. 
 
 "I told you that I could not sing just now. 
 ... I had not even time to glance at my 
 part." 
 
The Comedienne 77 
 
 "Aha, so you cannot, madame? . . . Please 
 hand me the role! . . . Kaczkowska will sing 
 it." 
 
 "I can sing, but just now I am unable to 
 ... I don't want to flunk! " 
 
 "To turn the heads of gentlemen, to make 
 intrigues, to slander others before the press 
 reporters, to go gallivanting all about town 
 . . . for that you have time!" hissed Mrs. 
 Cabinska. 
 
 "Oh, go and mind your children . . . but 
 don't you dare to meddle with my affairs." 
 
 "Director! She insults me, that ..." 
 
 "Hand me the part," ordered Cabinski. 
 "You can sing in the chorus, madame, since 
 you are unable to sing a role." 
 
 "Oh no! . . . Just for that I am going to 
 sing it! ... I don't care a snap for these vile 
 intrigues!" 
 
 "Who are you saying that to? " cried Cabin- 
 ska, jumping up from her chair. 
 
 "Well, to you, if you like." 
 
 "You are dismissed from the company!" 
 interposed Cabinski. 
 
 "Oh, go to the devil, all of you!" shouted 
 Nicolette throwing the r61e into Cabinski 's 
 face. "It's known long ago that in your 
 
78 The Comedienne 
 
 company there is no place for a respectable 
 woman !'V 
 
 "Get out of here, you adventuress!" 
 
 Cabinska sprang at her, but halfway across 
 she stopped short and burst into tears. 
 
 "On the right there is a sofa ... it will 
 be more comfortable for you to faint on, 
 Madame Directress!" called someone from 
 the chairs. 
 
 The company smiled with set faces. 
 
 "Pepa! . . . my wife! . . . calm yourself. 
 . . . For God's sake can't we ever do any 
 thing without these continual rumpuses!" 
 
 "Am I the cause of it?" 
 
 "I'm not blaming you . . . but you could 
 at least calm yourself . . . there's no reason 
 for you acting this way!" 
 
 "So that is the kind of husband and father 
 you are! . . . that is the kind of director!" 
 she shouted in fury. 
 
 "Hold out only one hour, and you'll go 
 straight to heaven, you martyr!" someone 
 called to Cabinski. 
 
 "Sir," queried a spectator, holding up one 
 of the actors by the button of his coat. "Sir, 
 are they playing something new?" 
 
 "First of all, that is a button from my coat 
 
The Comedienne 79 
 
 which you have pulled off!" cried the actor, 
 "and that, my dear sir, is the first act of a 
 moving farce entitled Behind the Scenes; it is 
 given each day with great success." 
 
 The stage became deserted. The orchestra 
 was tuning its instruments; "Halt" went for 
 a drink of beer, and the company scattered 
 about the garden. Cabinski, holding his head 
 with both hands, paced up and down the stage 
 like a madman, complaining half in anger, 
 half in commiseration, for his wife was still 
 quietly continuing her spasms. 
 
 "Oh what people! What people! What 
 scandals!" 
 
 Janina, startled by the brutality of the 
 spectacle she had just witnessed, retreated 
 behind the farthermost scene. She felt that 
 it was now impossible to speak with the 
 director. 
 
 "So these are artists! . . . this is the 
 theater!" she was thinking. 
 
 The rehearsal, after a short intermission, 
 began anew with Kaczkowska as the titular 
 heroine. 
 
 Majkowska was in a splendid humor, being 
 so successfully rid of her rival. 
 
 The director, after his wife's departure, 
 
8o The Comedienne 
 
 rubbed his hands in glee and motioned to 
 Topolski. They went out to the buffet for a 
 drink. Without a doubt he must have made 
 something on his break with Nicolette. 
 
 Stanislawski, the oldest member of the 
 company, walked up and down the dressing- 
 room, spitting with disgust and muttering to 
 Mirowska, who was sitting on a chair with 
 her feet curled up under her. 
 
 "Scandals . . . nothing but scandals! . . . 
 how can we expect to have any success! ..." 
 
 Mirowska nodded her assent, smiling faintly 
 and keeping steadily on with the crocheting of 
 a handkerchief. 
 
 After the rehearsal Janina boldly approached 
 Cabinski. 
 
 "Mr. Director " she began. 
 
 "Ah, it is you, miss? . . . I will accept you. 
 Come to-morrow before the performance, and 
 we will talk it over. I have not the time 
 
 now." 
 
 "Thank you ever so much, sir!" she an- 
 swered overjoyed. 
 
 "Have you any kind of a voice?" 
 
 "A voice?" 
 
 "Do you sing?" 
 
 "At home I used to sing a little . . . but 
 
The Comedienne 81 
 
 . 
 
 I do not think I have a stage voice . . . how- 
 ever, I . . ." 
 
 "Only come a little earlier and we shall try 
 you out. ... I shall speak to the musical 
 director.'' 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 THE Lazienki Park in Warsaw was athrob 
 with the breath of spring. The roses bloomed 
 and the jasmines diffused their heavy odor 
 through the park. It was so quiet and lovely 
 there, that Janina sat for a few hours near the 
 lake, forgetting everything. 
 
 The swans with spreading wings, like white 
 cloudlets, floated over the azure bosom of the 
 water; the marble statues glowed with im- 
 maculate whiteness; the fresh and luxuriant 
 foliage was like a vast sea of emerald steeped 
 in golden sunlight; the red blossoms of the 
 chestnut trees floated down on the ground, the 
 waters and the lawns, and flickered like rosy 
 sparks among the shadows of the trees. 
 
 The noisy hum of the city reached here in a 
 subdued echo and lost itself among the bushes. 
 
 Janina had come here straight from the 
 theater. What she had seen disquieted her; 
 she felt within herself a dull pain of disillusion- 
 ment and hesitation. 
 
 82 
 
The Comedienne 83 
 
 She did not wish to remember anything, but 
 only kept repeating to herself, "I'm in the 
 theater! . . . I'm in the theater !" 
 
 There passed before her mind the figures 
 of her future companions. Instinctively she 
 felt that in those faces there was nothing 
 friendly, only, envy and hypocrisy. 
 
 Presently she proceeded to her hotel at 
 which she had stopped on the advice of her 
 fellow- travelers, on the train to Warsaw. It 
 was a cheap affair on the outskirts of the city 
 and frequented chiefly by petty farm officials 
 and the actors of small provincial theaters. 
 
 She was given a small room on the third 
 floor, with a window looking out upon the red 
 roofs of the old city, extending in crooked 
 and irregular lines. It was such an ugly view 
 that, on returning from Lazienki, with her 
 eyes and soul still full of the green of the 
 verdure and the golden sunlight, she immedi- 
 ately pulled down the shades and began to 
 unpack her trunk. 
 
 She had not yet had time to think of her 
 father. The city, the hubbub and bustle 
 which engulfed her immediately upon her 
 arrival at the station, the weariness caused 
 by the journey and by the last moments at 
 
84 The Comedienne 
 
 Bukowiec, and afterwards those feverish hours 
 at the theater, the rehearsal, the park, the 
 waiting for evening and her own coming 
 rehearsal all this had so completely absorbed 
 her that she forgot almost entirely about 
 home. 
 
 She dressed carefully, for she wished to 
 appear at her best. 
 
 When she arrived at the garden-theater the 
 lights were already turned on and the public 
 was beginning to assemble. She went boldly 
 behind the scenes. The stage hands were 
 arranging the decorations; of the company, 
 no one was as yet present. 
 
 In the dressing-rooms the gaslights flared 
 brightly. The costumer was preparing gaudy 
 costumes, and the make-up man sat whistling 
 and combing a wig with long, bright tresses. 
 
 In the ladies' dressing-room an old woman 
 was standing under the gaslight, sewing 
 something. 
 
 Janina explored all the corners, examining 
 everything, emboldened by the fact that no 
 one paid the slightest attention to her. The 
 walls behind the huge canvas decorations were 
 dirty, with their plaster broken off, and 
 covered with sticky dampness. The floors, 
 
The Comedienne 85 
 
 the moldings, the shabby furniture and 
 decorations, that seemed to her like beggarly 
 rags, were thick with dust and filth. The 
 odor of mastic, cosmetics, and burnt hair, 
 floating over the stage, nauseated her. 
 
 She viewed the canvas scenes of what were 
 supposed to be magnificient castles, the 
 chambers of the kings of operetta, gorgeous 
 landscapes and beheld at close view a cheap 
 smear of colors which could satisfy only the 
 grossest of senses and then only from a dis- 
 tance. In the storeroom she saw card- 
 board crowns; the satin robes were poor 
 imitations, the velvets were cheap taffeta, the 
 ermines were painted cambric, the gold was 
 gilded paper, the armor was of cardboard, the 
 swords and daggers of wood. 
 
 She gazed at that future kingdom of hers 
 as though wishing to convince herself of its 
 worthiness. And, though it was sham, tinsel, 
 lies, and comedy she tried to see above it all 
 something infinitely higher art. 
 
 The stage was not yet set, and was only 
 dimly lighted. Janina crossed it a few times 
 with the stately stride of a heroine, then again, 
 with the light, graceful airiness of an ingenue, 
 or with the quick feverish step of a woman who 
 
86 The Comedienne 
 
 carries with her death and destruction; and 
 with each new impersonation, her face as- 
 sumed the appropriate expression, her eyes 
 glowed with the flame of the Eumenides, with 
 storm, desire, conflict, or, kindling with the 
 mood of love, longing, anxiety they shone 
 like stars on a spring night. 
 
 She passed through these various trans- 
 formations unconsciously, impelled by the 
 memory of the plays and roles she had read, 
 and so great was her abstraction, that she 
 forgot about everything and paid no atten- 
 tion to the stagehands, who were moving 
 about her. 
 
 "My Al used to act the same way . . . the 
 same way ! " said a quiet voice from behind the 
 scenes near the ladies' dressing-room. 
 
 Janina paused in confusion. She saw 
 standing there a middle-aged woman of me- 
 dium height, with a withered face and stern 
 demeanor. 
 
 "You have joined our company, miss?" 
 she inquired with a sharp energetic voice, 
 piercing Janina with her round, owl-like eyes. 
 
 "Not quite. ... I am about to have a 
 trial with the musical director. Ah, yes, Mr. 
 Cabinski even said that it was to take place 
 
The Comedienne 87 
 
 before the performance! ..." she cried, 
 recalling what he had told her. 
 
 "Aha! with that drunkard . . ." 
 
 Janina glanced at her, surprised. 
 
 " Have you set your heart on being with us, 
 miss?" 
 
 "In the theater? . . . yes! ... I jour- 
 neyed here for that very purpose." 
 
 "From whence?" asked the elderly woman 
 abruptly. 
 
 "From home," answered Janina, but more 
 quietly and with a certain hesitation. 
 
 "Ah ... I see . . . you are entirely new 
 to the profession! . . . Well, well! that is 
 curious! ..." 
 
 "Why? . . . why should it be so strange 
 for one who loves the theater to try to join 
 it? ..." 
 
 "Oh, that's what all of them say! . . . 
 while in truth, each of them runs away either 
 from something ... or for something. ..." 
 
 Janina was conscious of an accent of hidden 
 malice in her voice. "Do you know, madam, 
 how soon the musical director will arrive?" 
 she asked. 
 
 ' ' I don't ! ' ' snapped back the elderly woman, 
 and walked away. 
 
88 The Comedienne 
 
 Janina moved back a little, for just then 
 the workmen were spreading a huge waxed 
 canvas over the stage. She was gazing at this 
 absent-mindedly, when the elderly woman 
 reappeared and addressed her in a milder tone, 
 "I will give you a piece of advice, miss. . . . 
 It is necessary for you to win over the musical 
 director." 
 
 " But how am I to do it? " 
 
 "Have you money? " 
 
 "I have, but 
 
 "If you will listen to me, I will advise you." 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 "You must get him a little drunk, then the 
 rehearsal will come off splendidly." 
 
 Janina glanced at her in amazement. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! " laughed the other quietly. " Ha ! 
 ha! she is a real moon-calf!" 
 
 After a moment she whispered, "Let us go 
 to the dressing-room. I will enlighten you a 
 little . . ." 
 
 She pulled Janina after her, and afterwards, 
 busying herself with pinning a dress on a 
 mannikin, she remarked, "We must get 
 acquainted." 
 
 "Tell me, madam, how about that musical 
 director?" asked Janina. 
 
The Comedienne 89 
 
 "It's necessary to buy him some cognac. 
 Yes ! ' ' she added after amoment, ' ' Cognac, beer, 
 and sandwiches will, perhaps, be sufficient." 
 
 "How much would that cost? " 
 
 1 1 1 think that for three rubles you can give 
 him a decent treat. Let me have the money 
 and I will order everything for you. I had 
 better go right away." 
 
 Janina gave her the money. 
 
 Sowinska left and in about a quarter of an 
 hour returned, breathless. 
 
 "Well, everything is settled! Come along, 
 miss, the director is waiting." 
 
 Behind the restaurant hall there was a room 
 with a piano. "Halt," flushed and sleepy, 
 was already waiting there. 
 
 "Cabinski spoke to me about you, miss!" 
 he began. "What can you sing? . . . Whew! 
 how warm I feel ! . . . Perhaps you will raise 
 the window?" he said, turning to Sowinska. 
 
 Janina felt disturbed by his hoarse voice and 
 his inflamed, drunken face, but she sat down to 
 the piano, wondering what she should select 
 to sing. 
 
 "Ah! you also play, miss? . . "he queried 
 in great surprise. 
 
 "Yes," she answered, and began playing the 
 
9 The Comedienne 
 
 introduction to some song, without seeing 
 the signs that Sowinska was making to her. 
 
 "Please sing something for me," he said, 
 "I want to hear only your voice. ... Or per- 
 haps you could sing some solo part? " 
 
 "Mr. Director ... I feel that I have a 
 calling for the drama, or even for the comedy, 
 but never for the opera." 
 
 "But we are not talking about the 
 opera . . ." 
 
 "About what, then?" 
 
 "About this . . . the operetta!" he cried, 
 striking his knee. "Sing, Miss! ... I have 
 only a little time and I am burning up with 
 this heat." 
 
 She began to sing a song of Tosti's. The 
 director listened, but at the same time gazed 
 at Sowinska and pointed to his parched lips. 
 
 When Janina had ended, he cried, "Very 
 well . . . we will accept you ... I must 
 hurry out, for I'm roasting." 
 
 " Perhaps you will have a drink of something 
 with us, Mr. Director? ..." she queried 
 timidly, understanding the signs that So- 
 winska gave her. 
 
 He pretended to excuse himself, but in the 
 end remained. 
 
The Comedienne 9 1 
 
 Sowinska ordered the waiter to bring half a 
 bottle of cognac, three beers and some sand- 
 wiches, and, having drained her own glass, 
 she hastily left them, saying that she had for- 
 gotten something in the dressing-room. 
 
 "Halt" shoved his chair nearer to Janina's. 
 
 "Hm! . . . you have a voice, miss ... a 
 very nice voice . . . " he said and laid his big 
 red paw upon her knee, while with the other he 
 began to pour some brandy into his beer. 
 
 She moved back a little, disgusted. 
 
 "You can put on a bold front on the stage. 
 ... I will help you . . . " he added, draining 
 his glass at one gulp. 
 
 "If you will be so kind, Mr. Director . . . " 
 Janina said, drawing away from him. 
 
 "I will see to it ... I will take care of 
 you!" 
 
 And suddenly he took her about the waist 
 and drew her to him. 
 
 Janina shoved him back with such force 
 that he fell sprawling upon the table, and then 
 ran to the door, ready to cry out. 
 
 "Whew! . . . wait a minute . . . you're a 
 fool ! . . . stay ! . . . I wanted to take care of 
 you, help you, but since you're such a bloom- 
 ing fool, go and hang yourself! ..." 
 
92 The Comedienne 
 
 He drank the rest of his cognac and left. 
 
 On the veranda sat Cabinski with the 
 stage-manager. 
 
 " Has she any kind of a voice? " he inquired 
 of "Halt," for he had seen Janina entering 
 the room . ' ' A soprano ? ' ' 
 
 "Ho, ho! something unheard of ... 
 almost an alto!" 
 
 Janina sat for about an hour in that room, 
 unable to control the indignation and rage 
 that shook her. There were lucid moments 
 when she would spring up as though ready to 
 rush out and away from those people, but 
 immediately she would sink down again with 
 a moan. 
 
 "Where will I go?" she asked herself, and 
 then added with a sudden determination. 
 "No, I will stay! ... I will bear all, if it is 
 necessary ... I must! ... I must!" 
 
 Janina became set in her stubborn deter- 
 mination. She collected within herself all her 
 powers for impending battle with misfortune, 
 with obstacles, with the whole evil and hostile 
 world and for a moment, she saw herself on 
 some dizzying height where was fame and the 
 intoxication of triumph. 
 
 Presently Sowinska came in. 
 
The Comedienne 93 
 
 "Thank you, for your advice . . . and for 
 leaving me with a pig! . . ." the girl 
 exclaimed, half weeping. 
 
 " I was in a hurry ... he did not eat you, 
 did he? . . . He's a good man. ..." 
 
 "Then leave your daughter alone with that 
 good man! " retorted Janina harshly. 
 
 "My daughter is not an actress, " answered 
 Sowinska. 
 
 "Oh! ... It doesn't matter ... It's 
 only a lesson for me, " she whispered, turning 
 away. 
 
 She met Cabinski and, approaching him, 
 asked, "Will you accept me, Mr. Director?" 
 
 "You may consider yourself engaged," he 
 answered. ' ' As for your salary we shall speak 
 of that another day." 
 
 "What am I to play? ... I should like to 
 take the part of Clara in The Iron Master.' 1 
 
 Cabinski glanced at her sharply and cov- 
 ered his mouth with his hand so as not to burst 
 out laughing. 
 
 "Just a moment . . . just a moment . . . 
 you must first acquaint yourself with the 
 stage. In the meanwhile, you will appear 
 with the chorus. Halt told me that you 
 know how to play the piano and read notes. 
 
94 The Comedienne 
 
 To-morrow I will give you some scores of the 
 operettas we play and you can learn the 
 chorus parts." 
 
 Janina went to the dressing-room and had 
 scarcely opened the door, when someone 
 pushed her back, slammed the door in her face 
 and called out angrily "Upstairs with you! 
 that is where the chorus girls belong! " 
 
 She set her teeth and went upstairs. 
 
 The dressing-room of the chorus was a long, 
 narrow and low apartment. Rows of un- 
 shaded gaslights burned above long bare, 
 board tables extending along the walls on 
 three sides of the room. The walls were 
 covered with unbeveled and unpainted boards 
 which were scribbled all over with names, 
 dates jokes and caricatures, done in charcoal 
 or rouge paint. On the bare wall hung a 
 whole string of dresses and costumes. 
 
 About twenty women sat undressed before 
 mirrors of various shapes, and before each 
 one there burned candles. 
 
 Janina spying an unoccupied chair, near the 
 door, sat down and began to look about her. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, but that is my seat!" 
 called a stout brunette. 
 
 Janina stood aside. 
 
The Comedienne 95 
 
 "Did you come to see someone? . . ." 
 asked the same chorus-girl, rubbing her face 
 with vaseline before applying powder. 
 
 "No. I came to the dressing-room. I am 
 one of the company," answered Janina rather 
 loudly. 
 
 "Oh, you are?" 
 
 A few heads raised themselves above the 
 tables and a few pairs of eyes were centered 
 upon Janina. 
 
 Janina told the brunette her name. 
 
 "Girls! . . . this new one calls herself 
 Orlowska. Get acquainted with her ! ' ' called 
 the brunette. 
 
 A few of those sitting nearest her stretched 
 out their hands in greeting and then proceeded 
 with their make-up. 
 
 "Louise, loan me some powder." 
 
 "Go buy it!" 
 
 "Say Sowinska!" called down one of the 
 girls through the open door to the lower dress- 
 ing-room, "I met that same guy . . . you 
 know! . . . I was walking along NowySwiat." 
 
 1 ' Tell it to the marines ! Who would fall for 
 such a scarecrow as you!" put in another. 
 
 "I've bought a new suit . . . look!" cried 
 a small, very pretty blonde. 
 
96 The Comedienne 
 
 "You mean he bought it for you! " 
 
 " Goodness, no! ... I bought it from my 
 own savings." 
 
 "Persian lamb! . . . oh! . . . Do you 
 think we'll believe you? . . . Come now, you 
 bought it out of that fellow's savings, didn't 
 you?" 
 
 "It's pure lily! . . . The waist is low-cut 
 with a yoke of cream-colored embroidery, the 
 skirt is plain with a shirred hem, the hat is 
 trimmed with violets," another girl was re- 
 counting, as she slipped her ballet skirts over 
 her head. 
 
 "Listen there, you lily-colored kid . . . 
 give me back that ruble that you owe 
 me. . . ." 
 
 "After the play when I get it I'll give it back 
 to you, honest!" 
 
 "Ha! ha! Cabinski will give it to you, like 
 fun . . ." 
 
 "I tell you, my dear, I'm getting desperate. 
 ... He coughed a little . . . but I thought 
 nothing of it ... until yesterday, when I 
 looked down his little throat I saw . . . white 
 spots ... I ran for the doctor ... he 
 examined him and said: diphtheria! I sat 
 by him all night, rubbed his throat every hour 
 
The Comedienne 97 
 
 ... he couldn't say a word, only showed me 
 with his little finger how it hurt . . . and the 
 tears streamed down his face so pitifully that 
 I thought I'd die of grief ... I left the 
 jani tress with him, for I must make some 
 money ... I left my cloak to cover him with 
 . . . but all, all that is not enough! . . ."a 
 slim and pretty actress with a face worn by 
 suffering and poverty was telling her neighbor 
 in a subdued voice, while she curled her hair, 
 carmined her pale lips, and with the pencil 
 gave a defiant touch to her eyes dimmed by 
 tears and sleepiness. 
 
 "Helen! your mother asked about you 
 to-day ..." 
 
 " Surely, not about me . . . my mother 
 died long ago." 
 
 "Don't tell me that! Majkowska knows 
 you and your mother well and saw you 
 together on Marshalkowska Street the other 
 day." 
 
 "Majkowska ought to buy herself a pair of 
 glasses, if she's so blind as that ... I was 
 going downtown with the housekeeper." 
 
 The other girls began to laugh at her. The 
 one who had denied her mother blew out her 
 candle and left in irritation. 
 
98 The Comedienne 
 
 ' ' She's ashamed of her own mother. That's 
 true, but such a mother! . . . " 
 
 "A plain peasant woman. She com- 
 promises her before everybody. ... At least, 
 she could refrain from making a show before 
 other people ! ' ' 
 
 "How so? Can a girl be ashamed of her 
 mother? ..." cried Janina, who had been 
 sitting in silence, until those last words stirred 
 her to indignation. 
 
 "You are a newcomer, so you don't know 
 anything," several answered her at once. 
 
 "May I come in? ..." called a masculine 
 voice from without. 
 
 "You can't! you can't!" chorused the girls 
 energetically. 
 
 "Zielinska! your editor has come." 
 
 A tall, stout chorus girl, rustling her skirts, 
 passed out of the room. 
 
 "Shepska! take a look out after them." 
 
 Shepska went out, but came back immedi- 
 ately. 
 
 u They've gone downstairs." 
 
 The stage bell rang violently. 
 
 "To the stage!" called the stage-director 
 at the door. ' ' We begin immediately ! ' ' 
 
 There arose an indescribable hubbub. All 
 
The Comedienne 99 
 
 the girls began to talk and shout at the same 
 time; they ran about, tore away hairpins and 
 curling irons from one another, powdered 
 themselves, quarreled over trifles, blew out 
 candles, hastily closed their dressing-cases 
 and rushed down the stairs in crowds, for the 
 second bell had already sounded. 
 
 Janina descended last of all and stood 
 behind the scenes. The performance began. 
 They were playing some kind of half fairy-like 
 operetta. Janina could hardly recognize 
 those people or that theater everything had 
 undergone such a magical transformation and 
 taken on a new beauty under the influence of 
 powder, paint, and light! . . . 
 
 The music, with the quiet caressing tones of 
 the flute, floated through the silence and stole 
 into Janina' s soul, lulling it sweetly . . . and 
 later, a dance of some kind, soft, voluptuous, 
 and intoxicating, enveloped her with its 
 charm, lured and rocked her on the waves of 
 rhythm and held her in an ecstatic lethargy. 
 
 She felt herself drawn ever farther into a 
 confused whirl of lights, tones and colors. 
 Her impulsive and sensuous nature, struggling 
 hitherto with the drab commonplace of every- 
 day events and people, was fascinated. It 
 
ioo The Comedienne 
 
 was almost as she had visioned it in her soul; 
 full of lights, music, thrilling accents, ecstatic 
 swoons, strong colors, and stormy and over- 
 powering emotions, breaking with the force of 
 thunderbolts. 
 
 The suffocating odor of powder. dust floated 
 about her like a cloud, while from the crowded 
 hall there flowed a stream of hot breaths and 
 desiring glances that broke against the stage 
 like a magnetic wave, drowning in forget- 
 fulness all that was not song, music, and 
 pleasure. 
 
 When the act ended and a storm of applause 
 broke loose, she was on the verge of fainting. 
 She bent her head and eagerly drank in those 
 murmurs resembling lightning flashes and, like 
 them blinding the soul. She breathed in 
 those cries of the delighted public with her full 
 breath and with all the might of her soul that 
 craved for fame. She closed her eyes, so that 
 that impression, that picture might last 
 longer. 
 
 The enchanting vision had dissolved. Over 
 the stage moved men in their shirt sleeves 
 and without vests; they were changing the 
 scenes, arranging the furniture, fastening the 
 props. She saw the grimy necks, the dirty 
 
The Comediefine 
 
 and ugly faces, the coarse and hardened 
 hands and the heavy forms. 
 
 She went out on the stage and through a slit 
 in the curtain gazed out on the dim hall packed 
 'full of people. She saw hundreds of young 
 faces, women's faces, smiling and still stirred 
 by the music, while their owners fanned 
 themselves; the men in their black evening 
 clothes formed dark spots scattered at regular 
 intervals, upon the light background of femi- 
 nine toilettes. 
 
 Janina felt a strange disappointment as she 
 realized that the faces of the public were very 
 much like those of Grzesikiewicz, her father, 
 her home acquaintances, the principal of her 
 boarding school, the professors at the academy 
 and the telegrapher at Bukowiec. For the 
 moment, it seemed to her that that was a sheer 
 impossibility. How so? ... She, of course, 
 knew what to think about those others, whom 
 long ago she had classified as fools, light- 
 heads, drunkards, gossipers, silly geese and 
 house-hens; small and shallow souls, a band of 
 common eaters-of-bread, sunk in the shallow 
 morass of material existence. And these 
 people that filled the theater and doled out 
 applause, and whom she had once thought of 
 
io2 The Comedienne 
 
 as demi-gods were they the same as those 
 others? Janina asked herself, that, wonder- 
 ingly. 
 
 " Madame!" said a voice beside her. 
 
 She tore her face away from the curtain. 
 At her side stood a handsome, elegantly 
 dressed young man who was holding his hand 
 to his hat, smiling in a conventional manner. 
 
 11 Just let me look a moment . . . " he said. 
 
 Janina moved away a bit. 
 
 He glanced through the slit in the curtain 
 and relinquished her place to her. 
 
 "Pardon me, pardon me for disturbing 
 you . . ."he said. 
 
 "Oh, I've looked all I wanted to, sir . . ." 
 she answered. 
 
 "Not a very interesting sight, is it? . . ." 
 he queried. "The most authentic Philistia; 
 trade-mongers and shoemakers. . . . Perhaps 
 you think, madame, that they come to hear, 
 and admire the play? Oh, no! ... they 
 come here to display their new clothes, have 
 supper, and kill time. ..." 
 
 "Well then, who does come for the play 
 itself?" she asked. 
 
 " In this place, no one. . . . At the Grand 
 Theater and at the Varieties . . . there, per- 
 
The Comedienne 103 
 
 haps, you may yet find a group, a very small 
 group who love art and who come for the sake 
 of art alone. I have often touched upon that 
 matter in the papers." 
 
 "Mr. Editor, let me have a cigarette!" 
 called an actor from behind the scenes. 
 
 "At your service." He handed the actor 
 a silver cigarette-case. 
 
 Janina, moving away, gazed with admira- 
 tion at the writer, delighted with the oppor- 
 tunity of observing such a man at close range. 
 
 How many times in the country while lis- 
 tening to the everlasting conversations about 
 farming, politics, rainy and clear weather, she 
 had dreamed of this other world, of people 
 who would discourse to her of ideals, art, 
 humanity, progress and poetry, and who 
 impersonated in themselves all those ideals. 
 
 ' ' You must not be very long in this company 
 for I have not had the pleasure of seeing you 
 before ..." 
 
 "I was engaged only to-day." 
 
 "Have you appeared elsewhere before?" 
 
 "No, never on the real stage. ... I took 
 part only in amateur theatricals." 
 
 "That is the way nearly all dramatic tal- 
 ent develops. I know ... I happen to 
 
104 The Comedienne 
 
 know . . . Modrzejewska herself often men- 
 tioned that fact to me," he remarked, with a 
 condescending smile. 
 
 "Mr. Editor ... do your duty!" called 
 Kaczkowska, extending her hands. 
 
 The editor buttoned her gloves, kissed each 
 of her hands a few times, received a slap on the 
 shoulder in reward and retreated to the cur- 
 tain where Janina was standing. 
 
 "So this is your first appearance in the 
 theater? ..." he asked. "No doubt it's a 
 case of the family opposing . . . inflexible 
 determination on your part . . . the isolation 
 and dullness of the countryside . . . your 
 first appearance as an amateur . . . stage 
 fright . . . success . . . the recognition of 
 the divine spark within yourself . . . your 
 dreams of the real stage . . . tears . . . 
 sleepless nights ... a struggle with an ad- 
 verse environment . . . finally, consent . . . 
 or perhaps a secret escape in the night . . . 
 fear . . . anxiety . . . going the rounds of 
 the directors . . . seeking an engagement 
 . . . ecstasy . . . art . . . godliness!" he 
 spoke rapidly, telegraphically. 
 
 "You have almost guessed it, Mr. Editor 
 ... it was the same with me," said Janina. 
 
The Comedienne 105 
 
 "You see, mademoiselle, I knew so from the 
 first. It's intuition that's all! I'll take care 
 of you, upon my word! . . . I'll insert a little 
 item about you in our next issue. Later, 
 give a few details under a sensational headline, 
 next, a longer article about the new star on the 
 horizon of dramatic art," he sped on. . . . 
 "You will sweep them off their feet . . . the 
 directors will tear you away fron each other, 
 and in about a year or two . . . you will be 
 in the Grand Theater at Warsaw! ..." 
 
 "But, Mr. Editor, no one knows me; no one, 
 as yet, knows whether I have talent ..." 
 
 ' * You have talent, my word ! My intuition 
 tells me that. ... Do not believe the testi- 
 mony of the senses, mademoiselle, hold your- 
 self aloof from all reasoning, throw to the dogs 
 all calculations, but do not fail to believe 
 intuition! ..." 
 
 "Come here, editor . . . hurry!" called 
 someone to him. 
 
 " Au revoir! au revoir!" he said, throwing a 
 kiss to Janina and touching the brim of his 
 hat as he disappeared. 
 
 Janina arose from her seat, but that same 
 intuition which he had advised her to heed, 
 told her not to take his words seriously. He 
 
io6 The Comedienne 
 
 seemed to her a light-headed individual given 
 to hasty judgments. That promise of notices 
 and articles in the papers and his extravagant 
 praises of her talent seemed to her merely 
 insincere twaddle. Even his face, gestures, 
 and manner of speaking reminded her of a 
 certain notorious braggart living in the vicin- 
 ity of Bukowiec. 
 
 The second act of the play commenced. 
 
 Janina looked on, but it did not carry her 
 away as the first had done. 
 
 " How do you like our theater? ..." asked 
 the brunette chorus girl, whom she had met 
 in the dressing-room. 
 
 "Very well!" answered Janina. 
 
 "Bah! the theater is like a plague; when it 
 infects anyone, you might as well say 
 amen! ..." whispered the brunette, her 
 voice hard. 
 
 Behind the scenes, in the almost dark pas- 
 ages between the decorations there was a great 
 number of people. The actors stood in the 
 passages and certain pairs were crouched in 
 the darkness; whispers and discreet laughs 
 sounded on all sides. 
 
 The stage-director, an old, bald man with- 
 out a collar and dressed only in a vest, with a 
 
The Comedienne 107 
 
 scenario in one hand and a bell in the other, 
 ran up and down at the back. 
 
 "To the stage! You enter immediately, 
 madame! . . . enter! . . ."he cried all per- 
 spired and flushed, and ran on again, gathered 
 from the dressing-rooms those who were 
 needed on the stage, and at the appropriate 
 moment whispered ' ' Enter ! ' ' 
 
 Janina saw how the actors suddenly inter- 
 rupted their conversations, left each other in 
 the midst of some sentence, stood down half- 
 empty glasses, and rushed for the entrances, 
 waiting for their turn, immovable and silent 
 or nervously whispering the words of their 
 roles, and entering into their characters; 
 she saw the quivering of lips and eyelids, the 
 trembling of legs, the sudden paleness beneath 
 the layer of paint, and the feverish glances 
 of stage fright . . . 
 
 "Enter!" sounded a voice like the crack of 
 a whip. 
 
 Almost everyone started violently, hastily 
 assumed the required facial expression, crossed 
 himself a few times and went on. 
 
 Each time the stage door opened a thrill 
 went through Janina at that wave of strange 
 fire, that streamed toward her from the public. 
 
io8 The Comedienne 
 
 She began again to lose herself in the play. 
 That mysterious gloom, those garish hues 
 and forms, emerging from the shadows and 
 suddenly flooded with light, the strains of 
 invisible music, the echo of singing, the sound 
 of subdued footfalls and strange whispers in 
 the darkness, the feverish rapture of the 
 public, the glowing eyes, the excitement, the 
 thundering applause, like a far-away storm, 
 streams of dazzling light alternating with 
 darkness, the throng of people, the pathetic 
 ring of words, tragic cries, heart-rending sobs, 
 moans, weeping, a whole melodrama, pom- 
 pously and noisily acted all this filled Janina 
 with a fervor different from the one she had 
 felt in the first act, the fervor of energy and 
 action. She went through the playing with 
 all the actors, suffered together with those 
 paper heroes and heroines, feared with them 
 and loved with them; she felt their nervous- 
 ness before entering the stage, trembled with 
 emotion in the pathetic moments of the play, 
 while certain words and cries sent so strange 
 and painful a tremor through her that they 
 brought the tears to her eyes and a faint cry 
 to her lips. 
 
 An increasing number of people from the 
 
The Comedienne 109 
 
 audience began to come behind the scenes. 
 Boxes of candy, bouquets, and single flowers 
 circulated freely from hand to hand. Beer, 
 whisky, and cognac were drunk and cakes 
 were snatched from a huge tray. Gusts of 
 laughter broke out here and there, jokes 
 exploded like fireworks in the air. Some of 
 the chorus girls had dressed and were going 
 out into the garden. 
 
 Janina saw actors in their negligee only, 
 parading up and down before their dressing- 
 rooms; women, in white petticoats with naked 
 shoulders and with half of their stage make-up 
 removed, were strolling about the stage and 
 peeping through the curtain at the public. 
 On noticing some stranger, they would retreat 
 uttering little shrieks, smiling coquettishly, 
 and darting significant glances. 
 
 Waiters from the restaurant, maids, and 
 stage hands went flying about like hunting 
 hounds. 
 
 "Sowinska!" 
 
 "Tailor!" 
 
 "Costumed" 
 
 "A pair of pants and a cape!" 
 
 "A cane for the stage and a letter!" 
 
 "Wicek! run to the director and tell him 
 
no The Comedienne 
 
 that it is time for him to dress for the last 
 act!" 
 
 <J Set the stage!" 
 
 "Wicek! send me some rouge, beer, and 
 sandwiches! . . ." called one actress across 
 the stage. 
 
 In the dressing-rooms reigned chaos, forced 
 and hurried changing of dress, feverish make- 
 up with cosmetics that were almost melting 
 from the heat, and quarrels. . . . 
 
 "If you pass before me again on the stage, 
 sir, I'll kick your shins, as I live!" 
 
 "Go kick your dog! My part calls for 
 that . . . here, read it !" 
 
 "You intentionally hide me from view!" 
 
 "What did I tell you!" said another. "I 
 merely popped out and immediately there 
 arose a murmur of applause." 
 
 "It was only the wind and that fellow 
 thinks it was applause," answered another 
 voice. 
 
 "There was a murmur of disgust, because 
 you bungled your part." 
 
 "How the deuce can one keep from bungling 
 when Dobek prompts like a consumptive 
 nag?" 
 
 " Speak yourself, and I will then stop . . . 
 
The Comedienne m 
 
 we'll see what a fool you'll make of yourself! 
 ... I put word after word into his ear as 
 with a shovel and . . . nothing doing! . . . 
 I shout 0'it so loudly that Halt kicks at the 
 stage for silence . . . but that fellow still 
 stands there like a dummy!" retorted Dobek. 
 
 "I always know my part; you trip me up 
 intentionally." 
 
 11 Tailor! a belt, a sword and a hat . . . 
 hurry!" 
 
 "... Mary! if you tell me to go, there 
 will go with me night and suffering, loneliness 
 and tears . . . Mary! do you not hear me? 
 I ... It is the voice of the heart that loves 
 you . . . the voice ..." repeated Wladek, 
 pacing up and down the dressing-room with 
 his r61e and gesticulating wildly, deaf to all 
 that was going on about him. 
 
 "Hey there, Wladek . . . put on the soft 
 pedal. . . . You'll have enough opportunity 
 to roar and groan on the stage until our ears 
 are sore," called someone. 
 
 11 Gentlemen! haven't you perhaps seen 
 Peter?" inquired an actress, poking her head 
 through the door. 
 
 "Gentlemen, see if Peter isn't sitting some- 
 where under the table," mocked someone. 
 
The Comedienne 
 
 11 Milady . . . Peter went upstairs with a 
 very pretty little dame." 
 
 "Murder him, madame! he's unfaithful!" 
 
 Such were the remarks, punctuated with 
 laughter, that greeted her. 
 
 The actress vanished and from the 
 other side of the stage one could hear 
 her asking everyone, "Have you seen 
 Peter?" 
 
 "She will go crazy some day from jealousy 
 over him! . . ." remarked someone. 
 
 ' l A respectable woman ! ' ' 
 
 "But that doesn't prevent her from being a 
 fool." 
 
 "How are you, Editor!" 
 
 "Oh, it's the editor, is it! ... that means 
 we'll have beer and cigarettes." 
 
 "And here comes the counselor! ..." 
 
 " Good evening Counselor!" 
 
 "What news at the box office?" 
 
 "Fine! . . . The theater is sold out, for I 
 saw Gold smoking a cigar." 
 
 "Praised be the gods! The advances en 
 our salaries will be larger." 
 
 "How do you do, Bolek! . . . Don't come 
 in here, or you will melt like butter ... we 
 have a little Africa here to-day ..." 
 
The Comedienne 113 
 
 "We'll cool ourselves immediately, for I've 
 ordered the beer ..." 
 
 "To the stage, everybody! . . . The people 
 to the stage! The priests to the stage! The 
 soldiers to the stage!" shouted the stage- 
 director, rushing from one dressing-room to 
 the other. 
 
 After a moment, all had vanished. 
 
 It was well after ten o'clock, the next morn- 
 ing at her hotel when Janina awoke, worn-out 
 completely; for the moment, she could not 
 understand, where she was. 
 
 She no longer felt any of yesterday's feverish 
 raptures, but rather a quiet gladness that she 
 was already in the theater. At moments, the 
 bright tone of her mood was overcast by some 
 shadow, some presentiment, or unconscious 
 memory from the past ; it was the glimmering 
 of something unpleasant which, although it 
 quickly vanished, left traces of uneasiness. 
 
 She hastily drank her tea and was about to 
 go out, when someone gently rapped at the 
 door. 
 
 "Come in!" she called. 
 
 There entered an old Jewish woman, neatly 
 dressed, with a big box under her arm. 
 
 1 1 Good morning, miss ! ' ' 
 
ii4 The Comedienne 
 
 "Good morning," she answered, surprised 
 by the visit. 
 
 "Perhaps you will buy something, miss? 
 ... I have good, cheap wares. Perhaps 
 you need some jewelry? Perhaps some 
 gloves or hairpins, they are pure silver. 
 I have all kinds of articles at different prices 
 and all are genuine Parisian goods! ..." she 
 chattered on rapidly, spreading the contents 
 of her box on the table, while her little black 
 eyes with heavy red lids, like the eyes of a 
 hawk, wandered about the room and took 
 stock of everything. 
 
 Janina kept silent. 
 
 "It won't harm you to look at them ..." 
 insisted the Jewess. "I have cheap things 
 and pretty things! Perhaps you will have 
 some ribbons, or laces, or stockings? ... or 
 will you have some of these silk handker- 
 chiefs? ..." 
 
 Janina began to examine the collection 
 spread out on the table and selected a few 
 yards of some ribbon. 
 
 "Perhaps your mother will also buy some- 
 thing? ..." ventured the Jewess, looking at 
 her intently. 
 
 "I am alone." 
 
The Comedienne 115 
 
 "Alone?" she drawled, with an inquisitive 
 contraction of her eyebrows. 
 
 "Yes, but I don't intend to live here," 
 explained Janina, as though justifying her- 
 self. 
 
 "Perhaps I might recommend a boarding 
 house to you? ... I know a certain widow 
 who ..." 
 
 "Very well," interrupted the girl, "you 
 might find me a room with some private family 
 on Nowy Swiat, near the theater ..." 
 
 "You belong to the theater, miss?" . . . 
 ah! . . ." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Perhaps you need something else? ... I 
 have beautiful things for the theater." 
 
 "No, I have all I want." 
 
 "I will sell them cheap ... as I'm an 
 honest woman . . . cheap! They are just 
 what you want for the theater." 
 
 "I don't need anything." 
 
 " May I die, if they are not dirt cheap! . . . 
 These are such hard times." 
 
 She replaced all her wares in the box and 
 drew closer to Janina. 
 
 "Perhaps you will give me a chance to make 
 something? ..." 
 
The Comedienne 
 
 "I won't buy anything else, for I don't need 
 it!" answered Jane, growing inapatient. 
 
 "I don't mean that!" 
 
 The old woman began to whisper hurriedly 
 "I know nice young men . . . do you 
 understand, miss? . . . rich young men ! . . . 
 That is not my business, but they asked me to 
 . . . They'll come to see you themselves . . . 
 Nice, rich, young men." 
 
 "What? . . . What?" cried Janina. 
 
 1 'Why are you so excited, Miss?" 
 
 "Get out of here, or I'll call the servant!" 
 shouted Janina. 
 
 "Goodness, what a temper! . . . I knew at 
 least ten ladies, who were the same as you in 
 the beginning and afterwards they were ready 
 to kiss my hands, if only I would introduce 
 them to some gentleman ..." 
 
 She did not finish, for Janina opened the 
 door, and pushed her out. 
 
 At the theater she met Sowinska on the 
 veranda, and immediately, in the politest 
 manner, asked her if she did not know of some 
 room she could rent with a private family. 
 
 "Ah, that just fits in fine! ... If you wish, 
 there is a room in our house that you may have. 
 We can let you have it cheap, together with 
 
The Comedienne 117 
 
 your meals. It is a very nice room on the 
 lower floor, with windows facing the south, 
 and a separate entrance from the hall." 
 
 They agreed on the price and Janina said 
 she would pay her a month's rent in ad- 
 vance. 
 
 "So that all's settled!" said Sowinska. 
 "You will find our house very quiet, for my 
 daughter has no children. . . . Come, I will 
 show you the room." 
 
 "Not until after the rehearsal; and if you 
 haven't the time to wait, leave me the address 
 and I will find the place myself." 
 
 Sowinska gave her the address and went 
 away. 
 
 Janina was handed her notes and took part 
 in the rehearsal, singing from them. 
 
 Kaczkowska wanted Halt to accompany her 
 at the piano. 
 
 "Give me a rest, madame! I have no 
 time!" he answered. 
 
 "If you wish, madame, I will accompany 
 you, providing it is from notes ..." proposed 
 Janina. 
 
 Kaczkowska drew her eagerly away to the 
 room with the piano and kept her busy for 
 about an hour; but the whole company at 
 
"8 The Comedienne 
 
 once became interested in this chorus girl who 
 could play the piano. 
 
 Afterward Cabinska spoke with Janina a 
 long time, and requested her to come to her 
 home the following day after the rehearsal. 
 
 Janina went straight from the theater to 
 Sowinska's house to look at her room. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 "THE Management has the honor of 
 requesting the presence of the lady and gentle- 
 man artists of the Company, as also the 
 members of the orchestra and the choruses, at 
 a tea and social to be held at the home of the 
 Director on the 6th of this month, after the 
 performance. The Director of the Society 
 of Dramatic Artists. (Signed) John, the 
 Anointed, Cabinski. 
 
 "Well, what do you say, Pepa? . . . Will 
 this do? . . . " the Director asked his wife 
 after he had read aloud the invitation. 
 
 "Teddy! be quiet, I can't hear what father 
 is reading." 
 
 " Mamma, Eddy took my roll!" 
 
 "Papa, Teddy called me a jackass!" 
 
 "Silence! By God! with those children 
 . . . Quiet them, Pepa." 
 
 " If you give me a penny, pa, I'll be quiet." 
 
 "And me too, me too! " 
 
 Cabinski held the whip on his knee under 
 119 
 
120 The Comedienne 
 
 the table and waited; as soon as the children 
 had advanced near enough, he sprang up and 
 began to belabor them. 
 
 There arose a squealing and screeching; the 
 door flew open and the junior directors went 
 sliding down the banisters to the accompani- 
 ment of howls. 
 
 Cabinski calmly proceeded to read over 
 again the invitation. 
 
 "At what time do you wish to invite 
 them?" 
 
 " After the performance." 
 
 "You'll have to ask some of the reporters. 
 But that must be done personally." 
 
 "I haven't time." 
 
 " Ask someone from the chorus to write the 
 invitations for you." 
 
 "Bah! And let them make stupid mis- 
 takes? Perhaps you will write them for me, 
 Pepa? . . . You have a neat hand." 
 
 "No, it's not proper that I, the wife of the 
 director, should write to strange men. I told 
 that . . . what is the name of the girl whom 
 you engaged for the chorus? ..." 
 
 "Orlowska." 
 
 "Yes ... I told her to come here to-day. 
 I like her. Kaczkowska told me that she 
 
The Comedienne 121 
 
 plays the piano excellently, so the thought 
 struck me that ..." 
 
 "Well then, let her write the invitations; if 
 she plays the piano, she must also know how 
 to write." 
 
 "Not only that, but I think that she could 
 teach Jadzia how to play ..." 
 
 " Do you know, that's not at all a bad idea! 
 . . . We might include that in her future 
 salary." 
 
 "How much are you paying her?" she 
 asked, lighting a cigarette. 
 
 "I have not yet agreed upon a price . . . 
 but I will pay her as much as I pay the 
 others," he answered with a strange smile. 
 
 "Which means that ..." 
 
 "That I'll pay her a great, a great deal . . . 
 in the future.' 
 
 "Ha! ha! ha!" 
 
 Both began to laugh, and then became 
 silent. 
 
 "John, what do you propose for the 
 supper?" 
 
 "I don't know as yet . . . I'll talk it over 
 at the restaurant. We'll arrange it some- 
 how . . ." 
 
 Cabinski proceeded to make a clean copy of 
 
122 The Comedienne 
 
 the invitation, while Pepa sat in a rocking- 
 chair, puffing away at her cigarette. 
 
 "John! . . . Haven't you noticed any- 
 thing peculiar about Majkowska's acting, 
 recently?" 
 
 "No, nothing ... if she performs a little 
 spasmodically, that's merely her style." 
 
 "A little! . . . Why, she goes into epilep- 
 tic fits! The editor told me the papers are 
 calling attention to it." 
 
 "For God's sake, Pepa! Do you want to 
 drive away our best actress? You ousted 
 Nicolette, who had a gallery of her own." 
 
 "Well, and you had a great liking for her 
 too; I happen to know something about that." 
 
 "And I could tell you something about that 
 editor of yours ..." 
 
 "What business is that of yours! . . . Do 
 I interfere when you go prowling about back- 
 rooms with chorus girls? " 
 
 "But neither do I ask you what you do! 
 ... So what's the use of quarreling about 
 it? ... Only I will not let you touch 
 Majkowska! With you it's merely a question 
 of intrigue, while with me it's one of existence. 
 You know right well that there is not another 
 such pair of heroic actors as Mela Majkowska 
 
The Comedienne 123 
 
 and Topolski, anywhere in the provinces, and 
 perhaps not even at the Warsaw Theater. To 
 tell the truth, they are the sole props of our 
 company! You want to oust Mela, do you? 
 ... I tell you she has the sympathy of the 
 whole public, the press praises her . . . and 
 she has real talent ! . . ." 
 
 "And I? . . ." she asked threateningly, 
 facing him. 
 
 "You? . . . You also have talent, but" 
 . . . he added softly, "but . . ." 
 
 "There are no 'buts ' about it ! You "are an 
 absolute idiot. . . . You have no conception 
 whatever about acting, or plays, or artists. 
 You are yourself a great artist, oh, such a great 
 artist ! Do you remember how you played the 
 part of Francis in The Robbers? . . . Do 
 you? ... If you don't, I'll tell you . . . 
 You played it like a shoemaker, like a circus 
 clown! ..." 
 
 Cabinski sprang up as though someone had 
 struck him with a whip. 
 
 "That's a lie! The famous Krolikowski 
 played it in the same way; they advised me to 
 imitate him, and I did ..." 
 
 "Krolikowski played like you? . . . 
 You're a fool, my artist!" 
 
124 The Comedienne 
 
 "Pepa, you had better keep quiet, or I'll 
 tell you what you are ! " 
 
 "O tell me, please do tell me!" she cried 
 out in a rage. 
 
 "Nothing great, nor even anything small, 
 my dear." 
 
 "Tell me plainly what you mean ..." 
 
 "Well then, I'll tell you that you are not a 
 Modrzejewska," laughed Cabinski. 
 
 "Silence, you clown! ..." she yelled 
 throwing her lighted cigarette at him. 
 
 "Wait, wait, you backstairs prima donna," 
 he hissed, growing pale with rage. 
 
 Cabinski in his dressing gown, torn at the 
 elbows, in his night clothes and slippers, 
 began to pace up and down the room, while 
 Pepa, just as she had arisen from sleep, 
 unwashed, with yesterday's stage make-up 
 still adorning her face, and her hair all dis- 
 heveled, whirled around in circles, her white 
 and soiled petticoat rustling. 
 
 They stared at each other with furious and 
 threatening glances. Their old competitive 
 enmity burst out in full force. They hated 
 each other as artists because they mutually 
 and irresistibly envied each other their talents 
 and success with the public. 
 
The Comedienne 125 
 
 "I played poorly, did I? ... I played like 
 a circus clown? . . ."he shouted. 
 
 He seized a glass from one of the racks and 
 hurled it to the floor. 
 
 Quickly Pepa intercepted him and screened . 
 the dishes with her body. 
 
 " Get out of the way ! " he growled threaten- 
 ingly, clenching his fists. 
 
 ' * These are mine ! ' ' she cried and threw the 
 whole heap of dishes at his feet with such force 
 that they broke into little bits. 
 
 " You cow!" 
 
 11 You fool!" 
 
 "Please ma'am, let me have the money for 
 breakfast," said the maid, at that instant 
 entering. 
 
 ' ' Let my husband give it to you ! ' ' answered 
 Cabinska, and with a proud stride, went into 
 the next room, slamming the door after her. 
 
 "Let me have the money, sir. It's late 
 and the children are crying!" 
 
 He laid a ruble on the table, brushed his 
 top hat with his sleeve and departed. 
 
 The nurse took a pitcher and a basket for 
 rolls and went out. 
 
 The Cabinskis had no more time to think 
 of their household than of their children, and 
 
126 The Comedienne 
 
 cared for nothing, absorbed entirely by the 
 theatef, their r61es, and their struggle for 
 success. The canvas walls of the stage scenes 
 and decorations representing elegant salons 
 and interiors sufficed them entirely; there they 
 breathed more freely and felt better. In the 
 same way a canvas scene depicting some wild 
 landscape with a castle on the summit of a 
 chocolate-colored hill and a wood painted 
 below sufficed them as a substitute for real 
 fields and woods. The smell of mastic, cos- 
 metics, and perfume were to them the sweetest 
 odors. They merely came home to sleep, 
 their real home, where they lived habitually, 
 was on the stage and behind the scenes. 
 
 Cabinski had been in the theater some 
 twenty years, playing continually, and still, 
 he desired each new role for himself and envied 
 others. 
 
 Pepa never took account of anything, but 
 listened only to her momentary instinct and 
 sometimes to her husband. She doted on the 
 melodrama, on strained and nerve-thrilling 
 situations; she liked a sweeping gesture, an 
 exalted tone of voice, and glaring novelties. 
 Her pathos was often of the exaggerated 
 variety, but she played with fervor. A certain 
 
The Comedienne 127 
 
 play, or some accent or word would move her 
 so deeply that even after leaving the stage 
 she would still shed real tears behind the 
 scenes. 
 
 She knew her parts better than anyone else, 
 for she would memorize them with mechanical 
 precision. For her children she cared about 
 as much as for her old dresses : she bore them 
 and left them to the care of her husband 
 and the nurse. 
 
 Immediately after Cabinski's departure 
 Pepa called through the door, "Nurse, come 
 here!" 
 
 The nurse had just returned with the coffee 
 and the boys whom she had dragged in from 
 the yard with difficulty. 
 
 She served the breakfast to the children and 
 promised: "Eddy . . . you will get a pair of 
 new shoes . . . papa will buy them for you. 
 Teddy will get a new suit and Jadzia a dress 
 . . . Drink your coffee, dears !" 
 
 She patted their heads, handed them the 
 rolls and wiped their faces with maternal 
 solicitude. She loved them and fussed over 
 them as though they were her own children. 
 
 "Nurse!" shouted Cabinska, sticking her 
 head through the door. 
 
128 The Comedienne 
 
 " Yes, I hear you." 
 
 " Where is Tony?" 
 
 " She's gone to the laundry." 
 
 "You will go, nurse, for my dress to Sowin- 
 ska on Widok Street. Do you know where it 
 is? . . ." 
 
 "Of course, I know! . . . That skinny 
 woman who's as cross as a chained dog. ..." 
 
 "Go right away." 
 
 "Mamma! ... let us also go with 
 nurse ..." begged the children, for they 
 feared their mother. 
 
 "You will take the children along with 
 you, nurse." 
 
 "Of course, that's understood ... I 
 wouldn't leave them here alone!" 
 
 She dressed the children, put on a sort of 
 woolen dress with broad red and white stripes, 
 covered her head with a kerchief, and went out 
 with them. 
 
 Cabinska dressed and was about to go out, 
 when the bell rang. A small, rather corpulent 
 and very active gentleman pushed his way in. 
 It was the counselor. 
 
 His face was carefully shaven, he wore gold- 
 rimmed glasses on his small nose, and a smile, 
 that seemed glued there, on his thin lips. 
 
The Comedienne 129 
 
 "May I come in? . . . Will Madame 
 Directress permit it? . . . Only for a minute, 
 for I must be right off again! . . . " he recited 
 rapidly. 
 
 " Of course, the esteemed counselor is 
 always welcome. ..." called Cabinska, 
 appearing. 
 
 ''Good morning! Pray let me kiss your 
 little hand. . . . You look charming to-day. 
 I merely dropped in here on my way ..." 
 
 " Please be seated." 
 
 The counselor sat down, wiped his glasses 
 with his handkerchief, smoothed his very 
 sparse, but ungrayed black hair, hastily 
 crossed his legs, and blinked a few times with 
 neuralgic eyes. 
 
 "I read in to-day's Messenger a very flatter- 
 ing mention about you, Madame Directress." 
 
 "It's unmerited, for I don't know how that 
 r61e ought to be played." 
 
 "You played it beautifully, wonderfully!" 
 
 "Oh, you're a naughty flatterer, Mr. Coun- 
 selor! ..." she chided. 
 
 "I speak nothing but the truth, the 
 unadulterated truth, my word of honor!" 
 
 "Please ma'am it is already noon," inter- 
 rupted the nurse, who had returned. 
 
130 The Comedienne 
 
 "You are bound for the theater, Madame 
 Directress?" 
 
 "Yes, I'll drop in to see the rehearsal, and 
 then take a walk about town." 
 
 "Then we will go together, agreed? . . ." 
 asked the counselor. "On the way we shall 
 settle a little piece of business." 
 
 Cabinska glanced at him uneasily. He was 
 again blinking his eyes, crossing his feet, and 
 adjusting his glasses which had a habit of 
 continually slipping off. 
 
 "No doubt he wants that money, . . ." 
 thought Cabinska, as they were going down 
 the stairs. 
 
 The counselor, in the meanwhile, was smiling 
 and chirping away in honeyed tones. 
 
 This strange individual would show up at 
 the garden-theater at the very first perform- 
 ance and vanish after the last, until the follow- 
 ing spring. He freely loaned money which 
 was never returned to him. He would give 
 suppers, bring gifts of candy to the actresses, 
 take the young novices under his wing and 
 was always reputed to be in love with some 
 actress platonically. Immediately upon his 
 first appearance, Cabinski had borrowed one 
 hundred rubles from him and before all 
 
The Comedienne 
 
 those present he had intentionally forced him 
 to accept as security his wife's bracelet with 
 the object of convincing them that he had no 
 money. 
 
 They entered the theater and quietly took 
 their seats, for the rehearsal was already in full 
 swing and Kaczkowska with Topolski were 
 just in the midst of a capital love scene. 
 
 The counselor listened, bowed on all sides 
 with a smile and whispered to the directress : 
 " Love is a splendid thing . . . on the stage!" 
 
 "Even in life it is not bad," she re- 
 marked. 
 
 "True love is very rare in life, so I prefer it 
 on the stage, for here I can enjoy it every 
 day," he spoke hurriedly, and his eyelids 
 began to blink again. 
 
 "You have been disillusioned, Counselor?" 
 
 1 ' Oh no, by no means ! . . . How are you, 
 Piesh!" 
 
 "Well, sated with food, and bored," replied 
 a tall actor with a handsome, thoughtful face, 
 extending his hand. 
 
 "Will you smoke some Egyptian cigar- 
 ettes?" 
 
 "I will, if you will let me have some," he 
 answered coolly. 
 
132 The Comedienne 
 
 "Mrs. Piesh is as well and as jealous as 
 ever, eh? . . ." inquired the counselor, hand- 
 ing him a cigarette. 
 
 "Just as you are always in a good humor 
 . . . Both are diseases." 
 
 "So you consider humor a disease, eh?" 
 asked the counselor. 
 
 "I hold that a normal man ought to be 
 indifferent and care for nothing." 
 
 "How long have you been riding that 
 hobbyhorse?" 
 
 "Truth is usually learned late." 
 
 "How long will you stick to that truth? " 
 
 "Perhaps forever, if I can find nothing 
 better." 
 
 "Piesh, to the stage!" came the voice of the 
 stage-director. 
 
 The actor arose stiffly, and with a quick, 
 automatic step, went behind the scenes. 
 
 "A curious, a very curious fellow!" whis- 
 pered the counselor. 
 
 "Yes, but very tiresome with his ever* 
 lasting truths, ideals, and other foolish haber- 
 dashery!" cried a young actor dressed like a 
 doll in a light suit, a pink-striped shirt and 
 yellow calf -skin pumps. 
 
 "Ah, Wawrzecki! . . . You must have 
 
The Comedienne 
 
 again slain some innocent beauty, for your 
 face is as radiant as the sun ..." 
 
 "It's easy for you to joke, Mr. Counsel- 
 or! . . ."he defended himself with a know- 
 ing smile, advancing his shapely foot. He 
 posed gracefully, raised his hand, and flashed 
 his jeweled rings, for the directress was gaz- 
 ing at him through half-closed eyes. 
 
 "Well then, in your estimation who is not 
 tiresome, eh? ... Come now, confess my 
 boy!" 
 
 "The counselor, for he has humor and a 
 good heart; the director when he pays; the 
 public when it applauds us; pretty and kind 
 women, the spring, if it is warm; people, when 
 they are happy all that is beautiful pleas- 
 ant and smiling; while tiresome things are all 
 those that are ugly: cares, tears, suffering, 
 poverty, old age and cold. ..." 
 
 "Who is that young lady over there?" 
 inquired the counselor, pointing to Janina 
 who was listening attentively to the rehearsal. 
 
 "A novice." 
 
 "She has an engaging expression. Her 
 face shows good breeding and intelligence. 
 Do you know who she is? . . . " 
 
 "Wicek!" called Cabinska to the boy who 
 
134 The Comedienne 
 
 was playing about the garden, "go and ask 
 that lady, standing near the box, to come 
 here." 
 
 Wicek ran over to Janina circled about her, 
 glanced into her eyes and said: "The old 
 woman over there wishes to see you." 
 
 "What old woman? . . . Who? ..." she 
 asked, unable to understand him. 
 
 "Cabinska, Mrs. Pepa, the directress, of 
 course! ..." 
 
 Janina approached slowly, while the coun- 
 selor observed her intently. 
 
 "Please have a seat, mademoiselle. This 
 is our dear counselor, the patron of our 
 theater," spoke Cabinska, introducing him. 
 
 "I beg your pardon !" cried the counselor, 
 grasping her hand and turning the palm to the 
 light. 
 
 "Don't be afraid, Miss Orlowska! . . . 
 The counselor has an innocent mania of for- 
 tune telling," cried Cabinska merrily, peering 
 over the shoulder of the counselor into the 
 palm he was examining. 
 
 "Ho! ho! a strange one, a strange one!" 
 whispered the old man. 
 
 He took from his pocket a small magnif ying- 
 glass and through it examined minutely the 
 
The Comedienne 135 
 
 lines of the palm, the fingernails, the finger 
 joints, and the entire hand. 
 
 "Ladies and gentlemen! We tell fortunes 
 here from the hands, the feet, and something 
 else besides! . . . Here we predict the future, 
 and dispense talent, virtue, and money in the 
 future. Admission only five copecks, only five 
 copecks! . . . for the poorer people only ten 
 groszy! Please step in, ladies and gentlemen, 
 please step in!" cried Wawrzecki, excellently 
 imitating the voice of the show criers on 
 Ujazdowski Square. 
 
 The actors and actresses surrounded the trio 
 on all sides. 
 
 "Tell us something, Mr. Counselor!" 
 
 "Will she marry soon?" 
 
 "When will she eclipse Modrzejewska? " 
 
 "Will she get a rich hubby?" 
 
 "How many suitors has she had in the 
 past?" 
 
 The counselor did not answer, but quietly 
 continued to examine both of Janina's palms. 
 
 She heard those derisive remarks, but was 
 unable to move, for that strange man actually 
 held her pinned to her seat. She felt herself 
 burning with anger, yet could not move her 
 hands which he held. 
 
136 The Comedienne 
 
 Finally, the counselor released her and said 
 to those surrounding them: "For once you 
 might refrain from your clownishness, for 
 sometimes it is not so foolish as it is inhuman. 
 I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, for having 
 exposed you to their rudeness; ... I greatly 
 beg your pardon, but I simply could not resist 
 examining your hands; that is my weak- 
 ness. . . . " 
 
 He kissed her hand ostentatiously and 
 turned to the surprised Cabinska: "Come, let 
 us go, Mrs. Directress!" 
 
 Janina was consumed with such curiosity, 
 that, in spite of all those spectators, she asked 
 quietly: "Will you not tell me anything Mr. 
 Counselor?" 
 
 The counselor gazed about him, and then 
 bent toward Janina and whispered very 
 quietly: "Now, I cannot . . . In two weeks, 
 when I return, I will tell you all." 
 
 "Oh come, Counselor!" cried Cabinska, 
 "Oh, I almost forgot ! . . . Will it be possible 
 for you to come to see me after the rehearsal 
 Miss Orlowska? " she asked, turning to Janina. 
 
 "Certainly, I'll come," answered Janina, 
 resuming her seat. 
 
 "Where shall we go, Madame Directress?" 
 
The Comedienne 
 
 asked the counselor. He seemed less jovial, 
 and wrapt in thought. 
 
 "I suppose we might go to my pastry 
 shop." 
 
 Cabinska did not question him, and only 
 after they had seated themselves at the pastry 
 shop, where she regularly spent a few hours 
 each day, drinking chocolate, smoking ciga- 
 rettes, and gazing at the street crowds, did she 
 venture to ask him with a pretended indiffer- 
 ence: "What did you notice in that hussy's 
 hands, Mr. Counselor?" 
 
 The counselor shifted impatiently, put his 
 binoculars upon his nose, and called to the 
 waiter, "Black coffee and very light choco- 
 late!" 
 
 Then he turned to Cabinska. "You see, 
 that is a secret ... to be sure, one that 
 means little, but nevertheless, not my own to 
 disclose." 
 
 Cabinska insisted, for merely to say: "a 
 secret," throws all women out of balance; but 
 he told her nothing, only remarking abruptly, 
 "I am leaving town, Mrs. Directress." 
 
 "Where are you going?" she inquired, 
 greatly surprised. 
 
 ' ' I must . . . " he said, ' ' I will return in two 
 
The Comedienne 
 
 weeks. Before I go, I would like to settle 
 our . . ." 
 
 Cabinska frowned and waited to hear what 
 he would say further. 
 
 "For you see, it might happen that I would 
 return only in the fall when you will no longer 
 be in Warsaw." 
 
 "I surmised long ago that you were an old 
 usurer," Cabinska was thinking, tinkling her 
 glass with a spoon. 
 
 "Some fruit cakes!" he called to the waiter 
 and then, turning to her again, continued . . . 
 ' ' And that is why I wish to return to you, dear 
 lady, your bracelet." 
 
 "But we have not yet the money. Our 
 success is continually being interrupted . . . 
 we have so many old payments to meet ..." 
 
 "Oh, don't bother about the money. 
 Imagine that I am giving you this for your 
 name day as a small token of friendship . . . 
 will you? " he asked, slipping the bracelet upon 
 her plump wrist. 
 
 "Oh, Counselor, Counselor! if I did not love 
 my John so much, I would ..." she cried, 
 overjoyed at regaining her bracelet without 
 any obligations. She squeezed his hands so 
 heartily and beamed upon him with her joyous 
 
The Comedienne 139 
 
 gaze so closely, that he felt her breath upon 
 his cheeks. 
 
 He gently pushed her aside, biting his lips. 
 
 "Ah, Counselor, you are an ideal man!" 
 
 "Oh, let us drop that! . . . You can 
 invite me to be a godfather to your next 
 child.' 1 
 
 "Oh, you're a rogue, Mr. Counselor! . . . 
 What's that? ... you already want to 
 depart?" 
 
 "My train leaves in two hours. Good- 
 bye!" 
 
 He paid the bill at the buffet and hurried 
 away, sending her a smile through the window. 
 
 Cabinska still sat there, gazing out upon the 
 street. 
 
 "Is it possible that he loves me?" 
 she thought to herself, sipping her cooled 
 chocolate. 
 
 She pulled some r61e out of her pocket, read 
 a few lines, and again gazed out upon the 
 street. 
 
 The dilapidated hacks, pulled by lean 
 horses, dragged along lazily; the tramways 
 rumbled by; along the sidewalks people 
 threaded like a long, immovable ribbon. 
 
 The clock chimed three. Cabinska arose 
 
140 The Comedienne 
 
 + 
 
 and started for home, walking slowly until 
 she spied the editor walking with Nicolette 
 and the calm horizon of her mind suddenly 
 became clouded. 
 
 "He, with Nicolette? . . . with that . . . 
 base intriguer?" 
 
 Already from a distance she scorched them 
 with the gaze of a Gorgon. 
 
 At the corner of Warecka Street, Nicolette 
 suddenly disappeared and the editor ap- 
 proached her with a beaming countenance. 
 
 " Good morning! . . ."he cried, extending 
 his hand. 
 
 Pepa measured him coolly and turned her 
 face away. 
 
 "What sort of nonsense is this, Pepa?" he 
 asked, quietly. 
 
 "Oh, you are unspeakably mean!" she 
 retorted. 
 
 "A comedy of some kind again? . . ." he 
 queried. 
 
 "You dare to speak to me in that way?" 
 
 "Well . . . I'll quit then and merely say: 
 good-day!" he snapped back angrily, bowed 
 stiffly and, before she could bethink herself, 
 jumped into a hack and drove away. 
 
 Cabinska was petrified with indignation. 
 
The Comedienne 
 
 Cabinska, on returning home whipped the 
 children, scolded the nurse, and locked herself 
 in her room. 
 
 She heard her husband enter, askfor her, and 
 knock at her door ; when dinner was served, she 
 did not come out, but paced angrily up and 
 down her room. 
 
 Soon thereafter, Janina arrived. Cabinska 
 greeted her cordially in her boudoir, becom- 
 ing suddenly unrecognizably hospitable. 
 
 Janina left alone, began to explore that 
 boudoir with curiosity, for, although the entire 
 house looked like a junk shop, or a railroad 
 waiting-room of the third class, filled with 
 packs, valises and trunks, this one room 
 possessed an almost luxurious air. It had 
 two windows opening upon the garden, the 
 walls were decorated with a paper resembling 
 brocatelle, and cupids were painted on the 
 ceiling. The grotesquely carved furniture 
 was upholstered with crimson silk striped with 
 gold. A cream-colored rug in imitation of 
 antique Italian covered the floor. A set of 
 Shakespeare, bound in gilded morocco lay on a 
 lacquered table painted in Chinese designs. 
 
 Janina did not pay much attention to all 
 this, for she was entirely absorbed by the 
 
i4 2 The Comedienne 
 
 wreaths hanging on the walls which bore such 
 inscriptions as these: "To our companion on 
 the occasion of her birthday," "To a distin- 
 guished artist," "From the grateful public," 
 "To the Directress from the Company," 
 "From the admirers of your talent." The 
 laurel branches and palm leaves were yellow 
 and shrunken from age and hung there cov- 
 ered with dust and cobwebs. The broad 
 white, yellow, and red ribbons streamed down 
 the walls like separate colors of the rainbow 
 with their gold-stamped letters proclaiming 
 glories that had long since passed into oblivion. 
 Those inscriptions and withered wreaths gave 
 the room the appearance of a mortuary 
 chapel. 
 
 Janina was looking through an album, when 
 Cabinska quietly entered. Her face wore an 
 expression of suffering and melancholy; she 
 dropped down heavily into a chair, sighed 
 deeply and whispered, "Pardon me for letting 
 you bore yourself here." 
 
 " Oh I didn't feel a bit bored! " 
 
 "This is my sanctuary. Here I lock myself 
 up when life becomes unbearable. I come 
 here to recall a happy past and to dream of 
 that which will never more return . ." she 
 
The Comedienne 143 
 
 added, indicating the r61es and the wreaths 
 hanging on the walls. 
 
 "Are you ill, Madame Directress? . . . 
 perhaps I am intruding, and solitude is the 
 best medicine." Janina spoke with sincere 
 sympathy. 
 
 "Oh, please stay! ... It affords me real 
 relief to speak with a person who is, as yet, 
 a stranger to this world of falsehood and 
 vanity!" she said with emphasis, as though 
 reciting a r61e. 
 
 "I don't know whether I am worthy of 
 your confidence," answered Janina modestly. 
 
 "Oh, my artistic intuition never deceives 
 me! ... I pray you sit nearer to me! So 
 you have never before been in the theater, 
 mademoiselle?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "How I envy you! . . . Ah, if I could 
 begin over again, I would not know all this 
 bitterness and disappointment ! Do you love 
 the theater?" 
 
 "I have sacrificed almost everything for it." 
 
 "Oh, the fate of artists is a sad one! One 
 must sacrifice all; peace, domestic happiness, 
 love, family, and friends and for what? . . . 
 for that which they write about us; for such 
 
144 The Comedienne 
 
 wreaths that last only a few days; for the 
 handclaps of the tiresome throng. . . . Oh, 
 beware the provinces, mademoiselle! . . . 
 Look at me . . . Do you see those wreaths? 
 . . . They are splendid and withered, are they 
 not? And yet, not so long ago I played at 
 Lwow. ..." 
 
 She paused for a moment as though fas- 
 cinated by the memory of those days. 
 
 "The stages of the whole world were open to 
 me. The director of the Comedie Frangaise 
 came purposely to see me and offer me an 
 engagement. ..." 
 
 "You possess also a mastery of French, 
 madame?" 
 
 "Do not interrupt me. I was paid a salary 
 of several thousand rubles; the papers could 
 not find words strong enough to praise my 
 acting; I was pelted with flowers and brace- 
 lets set with diamonds! (She unconsciously 
 adjusted her cheap bracelet.) Counts and 
 princes courted my favors. . . . Then came 
 a great misfortune which changed everything; 
 I fell in love . . . Yes, do not wonder at that! 
 I loved, as deeply as it is possible to love, the 
 most beautiful and best man in the whole 
 world. . . . He was a nobleman, a prince 
 
The Comedienne 145 
 
 and heir to a large estate. We were about to 
 be married. I cannot tell you how happy we 
 were! . . . Then . . . like a bolt from the 
 blue sky ... his family, the old prince, a 
 tyrannical magnate without a heart parted 
 us. ... He took him away and wanted to 
 pay me a hundred thousand guldens or even a 
 million, if only I would renounce my beloved. 
 I threw the money at his feet and showed him 
 the door. He avenged himself cruelly. He 
 spread the most dishonorable calumnies about 
 me, bribed the press, and persecuted me at 
 every step, the base wretch! ... I had to 
 leave Lwow and my life took an entirely 
 different turn . . . a different turn . . ." 
 
 Cabinska paced up and down the room, 
 tears in her eyes, love in her smile, a sad 
 bitterness upon her lips, a tragic mask of 
 resignation upon her face, forsaken, violent 
 grief in her voice. 
 
 She acted the tale with such mastery that 
 Janina believed everything. 
 
 "If you knew how sincerely I sympathize 
 with you, madame! . . . What a dreadful 
 fate!" 
 
 "That is already past! . . ." answered 
 Cabinska, dropping into her chair. 
 
The Comedienne 
 
 She herself had come almost to believe in 
 those stories, retold with numerous variations 
 a hundred times over to all those who were 
 willing to listen. Sometimes, on ending her 
 account, moved by the picture of that fancied 
 misfortune, she would actually suffer. 
 
 Cabinska had acted the parts of so many 
 unfortunate and betrayed women that she 
 had already lost all memory of the bounds of 
 her own individuality; her own emotions 
 became merged and identified in ever greater 
 degree with the characters which she imper- 
 sonated, and thus it happened that her fanciful 
 tales were not downright lies. 
 
 After a long silence, Cabinska asked in a 
 calm voice, "You live at Mrs. Sowinska's, 
 mademoiselle?" 
 
 "Not yet," answered Janina, "I have 
 already rented the room, but they have to 
 renovate it. In the meanwhile, I am living 
 at the hotel." 
 
 "Kaczkowska and Halt told me that you 
 play the piano very well." 
 
 "A little bit." 
 
 "I wanted to ask you, if you would not 
 teach my Yadzia? . . . She is a very bright 
 girl and has a good ear for music." 
 
The Comedienne H7 
 
 "With real pleasure. My knowledge is 
 rather limited, but I can teach your daughter 
 the rudiments of music. . . . Only, I don't 
 know whether I will have enough time. . . . " 
 
 "Oh, certainly! And as to your fee, we 
 shall include that in your salary." 
 
 "Very well. ... Is your daughter already 
 started?" 
 
 "Excellently. You can convince yourself 
 immediately. . . . Nurse, bring Yadzia 
 here!" called Cabinska. 
 
 They passed into the next room in which 
 stood the director's bed, a few packs and 
 baskets, and an old rattle-box of a piano. 
 
 Janina heard Yadzia play and agreed that 
 she would give her lessons regularly between 
 two and three o'clock in the afternoon, when 
 her parents were not at home. 
 
 "When are you to make your first appear- 
 ance at the theater?" asked Cabinska. 
 
 "To-day, in the Gypsy Baron. 11 
 
 "Have you a costume?" 
 
 "Miss Falkowska promised to loan me 
 
 one." 
 
 "Come with me. . . . Perhaps I'll find 
 something for you. ..." 
 
 They went into the room where the children 
 
The Comedienne 
 
 slept with the nurse. Cabinska pulled out of 
 a package a fairly well-preserved costume 
 and gave it to Janina. 
 
 "You see, mademoiselle, we furnish the 
 costumes, but since the members of the com- 
 pany prefer to have their own, because ours, of 
 course, cannot be so very elegant, ours often 
 lie here unused. ... I will loan you this 
 one." 
 
 "I also will have my own." 
 
 " That is best." 
 
 They took leave of each other very cordially 
 and the nurse carried Janina' s costume after 
 her to the hotel. 
 
 With such passionate eagerness did Janina 
 anticipate her first appearance on the stage, 
 that she arrived at the theater when there was 
 hardly anyone as yet behind the scenes. The 
 chorus girls assembled slowly and dressed 
 even more slowly. Conversation, laughter, 
 subdued whisperings went on as usual, but she 
 heard nothing, so preoccupied was she with 
 her dressing. 
 
 They all began to help her, laughing because 
 she did not even have powder or rouge. 
 
 "What, you never powdered yourself?" 
 they chorused. 
 
The Comedienne 149 
 
 "No . . . What for? ..." she an- 
 swered simply. 
 
 " We'll have to make her a face, for she's too 
 pale," remarked one of them. 
 
 They rubbed her face with a layer of white 
 cosmetic, shaded this with rouge, carmined her 
 lips, underscored her eyes with a little pencil 
 dipped in black pigment, and curled and 
 pinned her hair. She was passed on from 
 hand to hand and given a thousand advices 
 and warnings. 
 
 "On entering the stage look straight at the 
 public, so that you don't trip." 
 
 "And before you enter, see that you cross 
 yourself." 
 
 "Always enter with your right foot fore- 
 most." 
 
 " Now you look fine ! . . . but do you want 
 to appear on the stage in short skirts without 
 wearing tights?" 
 
 "I haven't any! ..." 
 
 All began to laugh at her embarrassed look. 
 
 "I will loan you a pair," cried Zielinska. 
 "I think they'll fit you." They treated her 
 with undisguised favor, for they had heard 
 that she was to teach Cabinska's daughter and 
 that Pepa had loaned her a costume. 
 
The Comedienne 
 
 Janina, looking in the mirror, hardly recog- 
 nized herself. It seemed as though she wore 
 a mask, only slightly resembling her own face 
 and with that strange expression that all the 
 chorus girls wore. 
 
 She went downstairs to Sowinska. 
 
 " My dear madame, tell me truly, how do I 
 look?" she begged, all excited and flushed. 
 
 Sowinska scrutinized her from all sides and, 
 with her finger, spread the rouge more thor- 
 oughly on her cheeks. 
 
 "Who gave you that costume?" she asked. 
 
 "Madame Directress loaned it to me." 
 
 "Oh! something must have melted her to- 
 day!" 
 
 "She told me such sad stories. ..." 
 
 "The actress! ... if she only played that 
 way on the stage there would be no better in 
 the world." 
 
 "You must be joking, madame! . . . She 
 told me about Lwow and her past." 
 
 "She's a liar, that old hag! She was then 
 the sweetheart of some hussar and made such 
 scandals that they turned her out of the theater. 
 What was she at the Lwow theater? ... a 
 chorus girl only. Ho! ho! those are old tricks. 
 . . . We all know them here long since!" 
 
The Comedienne I5 1 
 
 "Tell me how I look?" asked Janina at 
 length. 
 
 "Beautiful. . . . I'll wager they'll all be 
 chasing after you!" 
 
 An increasing nervousness seized Janina. 
 She walked up and down the stage, peered 
 through the hole in the curtain, viewed herself 
 in all the mirrors, and then tried to sit still and 
 wait, but could not endure it. The feverish 
 excitement and nervousness attendant upon 
 a first appearance shook her as with the ague. 
 She could not stand or sit still for a single 
 moment. 
 
 It seemed as though she did not see the 
 people, the preparations that were going on 
 about her, the lights, or even the stage itself, 
 but only had in her brain the reflection of a 
 confused and moving mass of eyes and faces. 
 At each moment she would gaze with terror 
 at the audience and feel as though her heart 
 were ceasing to beat. 
 
 When the bell rang for the second time, she 
 hurried off the stage and took her place in the 
 chorus that was already assembled behind the 
 scenes ; while waiting for the moment to enter, 
 she unconsciously crossed herself, and her 
 whole body trembled so violently that one of 
 
i5 2 The Comedienne 
 
 the chorus girls, noticing her confusion, took 
 her by the arm. 
 
 "Enter!" shouted the stage-director. The 
 throng carried her along with it and pushed 
 her to the front of the stage. 
 
 The sudden silence and magnified glare of 
 light restored her senses somewhat, and after 
 leaving the stage she stood behind one 
 of the scenes and completely regained her 
 composure. 
 
 On her second entrance she felt only a slight 
 tremor. She sang, heard the music, and gazed 
 straight at the public. She was also embold- 
 ened by seeing the editor sitting in the front 
 row and encouraging her with a friendly smile. 
 She kept looking at him and after that she 
 was able to distinguish with increasing clear- 
 ness individual faces in the audience. 
 
 In some scene in which the chorus prom- 
 enaded about the back of the stage, while 
 a comic dialogue was going on at the front, 
 Janina's companions indulged in whispered 
 conversations. 
 
 "Brona, look! Your fellow is there in the 
 third row toward the left." 
 
 "Oh look! Dasha is in the theater . . . 
 goodness, how she is dolled up. ..." 
 
The Comedienne i53 
 
 "Siwinska! fasten my hooks, for I feel my 
 skirt is falling down." 
 
 " Lou! your wig is coming off." 
 
 "Look to your own shags!" 
 
 "I'm going to Marceline with someone 
 to-morrow . . . perhaps you will go with us, 
 Zielinska?" 
 
 "Look at the eyes that student is making 
 at me!" 
 
 41 1 don't care a snap for penniless plugs." 
 
 "But what merry chaps they are!" 
 
 "No, thank you! They have nothing but 
 whiskey and sardines. That's a treat, only 
 for those of the street." 
 
 "Hush! Cabinska is sitting in that box." 
 
 "My gracious, what a maidenly make-up 
 she has to-day!" 
 
 "Quiet, we sing!" 
 
 Behind the scenes stood a great variety of 
 people: waitresses, stage-hands, restaurant 
 boys, and actors waiting for their cues to 
 enter all these were gazing on the stage. 
 
 Cabinska' s nurse, with the two eldest chil- 
 dren, was sitting near the proscenium under 
 the ropes of the curtain. 
 
 Wawrzecki from behind the scenes was 
 violently beckoning to Mimi who was just 
 
154 The Comedienne 
 
 then singing a duet with Wladek. In the 
 pauses, the actress would spitefully stick out 
 her tongue at him. 
 
 "Give me the key to the house ... I for- 
 got my shoes, and I need them right away!" 
 he whispered. 
 
 "It's in my skirt pocket in the dressing- 
 room," she answered, backing away toward 
 the center of the stage with a broad musical 
 phrase on her lips. 
 
 "Halt" was banging the desk with his 
 baton, for Wladek was cutting short his tones 
 and continually wavering. The threatening 
 anger of the orchestra director only made 
 him all the more nervous, and his singing was 
 growing steadily worse. 
 
 ' ' The damned Hun is purposely trying to trip 
 me!" he muttered angrily under his breath, 
 embracing the singing Mimi in the love scene. 
 
 1 ' For God's sake don't squeeze me so hard ! " 
 panted Mimi, at the same time smiling at him 
 rapturously. 
 
 "For I adore you with the frenzy of love 
 . . . for I adore you!" sang Wladek with 
 fiery intonation. 
 
 "Are you crazy? I will be all black and 
 blue and . ." 
 
The Comedienne 155 
 
 She suddenly broke off, for Wladek had 
 finished his song and the applause came 
 roaring like an avalanche, so she pulled him 
 by the hand and they walked to the front of 
 the stage to bow to the audience. 
 
 During the intermission Janina observed 
 the editor standing in the center aisle, con- 
 versing with some stout, blond man. 
 
 " Can you tell me, sir, with what paper that 
 editor is connected?" Janina asked the stage- 
 director, who was supervising the arrange- 
 ment of the scenery for the next act. 
 
 11 With no paper, probably. He's merely a 
 theatrical critic." 
 
 " He told me himself that ..." 
 
 "Ha, ha!" laughed the stage-director, "I 
 see you're green!" 
 
 "But he is sitting in the chairs reserved for 
 the press," persisted Janina stating what she 
 thought was a convincing argument. 
 
 ' ' What of that ? There are more of his kind 
 there. Do you see that light blonde? He 
 alone is a real writer and the rest are merely 
 migratory birds. God alone knows what 
 their occupation is ... but since they hob- 
 nob with everybody, talk a lot, have money 
 from somewhere, and occupy the foremost 
 
The Comedienne 
 
 places everywhere, no one even bothers asking 
 who they are.'* 
 
 "Ah, you look so fascinating, so fascinat- 
 ing/' cried the editor at that instant rushing in 
 upon the stage and already from a distance 
 extending his hands to her. "A veritable 
 portrait by Greuze! Only a little more 
 courage and everything will go smoothly. 
 I will insert an item to-morrow about your 
 first appearance on the stage." 
 
 11 Thank you," she answered coolly, without 
 looking at him. 
 
 The editor turned about and made off for 
 the actors' dressing-room. 
 
 "Good evening, gentlemen!" he called 
 entering. 
 
 "How are things going in the hall? Were 
 you at the box office? ..." 
 
 "Nearly all the seats are sold out." 
 
 "How is the play taking?" 
 
 "Well, very well! ... I see, Mr. Director 
 that you have replenished the chorus: that 
 charming, new blonde attracts all eyes. . . ." 
 
 "Good, good. . . . Hurry there, give me 
 my belly!" 
 
 "Mr. Director, please let me have an order 
 for two rubles. I must immediately send for 
 
The Comedienne 15 7 
 
 my boots," begged some actor, hastily pulling 
 on his costume. 
 
 "After the performance!" answered Cabin- 
 ski, holding the pillow to his stomach, "tie it 
 fast, Andy!" 
 
 They wrapt him about with long strips like 
 a mummy. 
 
 "Mr. Director, I need my boots on the 
 stage. . . . I cannot play without them !" 
 
 "Go to the devil, my dear sir, and don't 
 disturb me now. . . . Ring!" he called to the 
 stage-director. 
 
 Cabinski, whenever he played, created a big 
 confusion in the dressing-room. He always 
 suffered from stage fright, so he would try to 
 overcome it by shouting, scolding, and quar- 
 reling over every trifle. The costumer, the 
 tailor, the property man all had to hustle about 
 him and continually remind him lest he forget 
 something. Despite the fact that he always 
 commenced dressing early, he was always late. 
 Only on the stage did he recover his 
 equanimity. 
 
 Now it was the same; his cane had been 
 mislaid and he rushed about, wildly shouting : 
 "My cane! Who took my cane! . . . My 
 cane ! Damn it ! I must go right on ! " 
 
158 The Comedienne 
 
 " You snort like an elephant in the dressing- 
 room, but on the stage you buzz as quietly as a 
 fly, " slowly remarked Stanislawski, who hated 
 all noises. 
 
 "If you don't like to hear it, go out into the 
 hall." 
 
 "I'll stay right here, and I want quiet. No 
 one can dress in peace with you around." 
 
 "Podesta, to the stage!" called the stage- 
 director. 
 
 Cabinski ran out, grabbed a cane out of 
 somebody's hand, tied a black handkerchief 
 about his neck and rushed on the stage. 
 
 Stanislawski departed behind the scenes, 
 all the others dispersed, and the dressing-room 
 became deserted, only the tailor remaining 
 to gather up the costumes scattered over the 
 floor and tables and take them to the store- 
 room. 
 
 In the dressing-room of the leading ladies of 
 the caste such a storm had broken loose that 
 Cabinski, who was just leaving the stage, went 
 there to pour oil on the troubled waters. 
 
 As he entered, Kaczkowska threw herself 
 at him from one side and Mimi from the 
 other; both grasped him by the hands and each 
 sought to out-shout the other. 
 
The Comedienne 159 
 
 "If you allow such things to happen, 
 Director, I will leave the company! ..." 
 
 "It's a scandal, Director! . . . everybody 
 saw it. ... I will not stay in her company 
 another hour!" 
 
 "Director! she ..." 
 
 "Now don't lie!" 
 
 "It's insulting!" 
 
 "It's base and ridiculous!" 
 
 "For God's sake! what's all this about?" 
 cried Cabinski in desperation. 
 
 "I will tell you how it happened, Director. 
 
 
 
 " It is I who ought to tell, for she is a liar ! " 
 
 "Now my dears, please be quiet or I swear 
 I'll go right out." 
 
 "It was this way. I received a bouquet, 
 for it was most plainly intended for me, and 
 this . . . lady, who happened to be standing 
 nearer, cut me off and took my bouquet. 
 . . . And, instead of giving it to me, to whom 
 it belonged, she brazenly bowed and kept it for 
 herself!" cried Kaczkowska amid tears and 
 bursts of anger. 
 
 At that Mimi began to cry. 
 
 "Mimi, you will blur the paint under your 
 eyes!" called someone. 
 
160 The Comedienne 
 
 Mimi immediately stopped crying. 
 
 "What do you ladies want me to do?" 
 asked Cabinski, when he found an opportunity 
 to speak. 
 
 "Tell her to give me back that bouquet 
 and apologize." 
 
 "I can, but with my fist ..." retorted 
 Mimi. "You can ask the chorus, Director 
 . . . they all saw." 
 
 "The chorus from the fourth act!" called 
 Cabinski behind the scenes. 
 
 There entered a throng of women and men al- 
 ready half -undressed, and among them Janina. 
 
 "Well, let us arrange a judgment of 
 Solomon!" 
 
 An increasing number of onlookers began to 
 crowd into the dressing-room and derisive 
 remarks, aimed at the generally disliked 
 Kaczkowska, flew about. 
 
 "Who saw to whom the bouquet was 
 given?" asked Cabinski. 
 
 "We weren't taking notice," all replied, 
 unwilling to incur the disfavor of either of 
 the contestants. Only Janina who detested 
 injustice, finally said : ' ' The bouquet was given 
 to Miss Zarzecka. I stood beside her and 
 saw distinctly." 
 
The Comedienne 161 
 
 ''What does that calf want here? She came 
 from the street and thinks she can interfere 
 in what's none of her business!" cried Kacz- 
 kowska. 
 
 Janina advanced, her voice hoarse with anger. 
 
 1 ' You have no right to insult me, madame ! " 
 she cried. " Do you hear! I haven't ever let 
 anyone insult me, nor will I ! " 
 
 A strange silence suddenly fell, for all were 
 impressed by the dignity and force of Janina's 
 words. She glared at Kaczkowska with glow- 
 ing eyes and then turned on her heel and left 
 the room. 
 
 Cabinski had fled to the box office after 
 hastily divesting himself of his costume. 
 
 "Whew! she's a sound nut, that new one." 
 
 "Kaczkowska will never forgive her 
 that ..." 
 
 "What can she do? . . . Miss Orlowska has 
 the backing of the management." 
 
 Mimi, immediately after the play, went to 
 the dressing-room of the chorus where she 
 found Janina still agitated. 
 
 "How good you are!" cried the actress 
 effusively. 
 
 "What I did was right . . . that's all," 
 Janina replied. 
 
1 62 The Comedienne 
 
 "Take a trip with us to Bielany, won't 
 you?" begged Mimi. 
 
 "When? . . . And who are going?" 
 
 "We're going within the next few days. 
 There will be Wawrzecki, I, a certain author, 
 a very jolly chap, whose play we are to pre^- 
 sent, Majkowska, Topolski and you. You 
 must come with us!" 
 
 After lengthy persuasions and kisses, which 
 Janina received indifferently, she finally 
 agreed to accompany them. 
 
 They waited for Wawrzecki and afterwards 
 all went together to a pastry shop for tea, 
 taking with them also Topolski, who there 
 composed a circular addressed to the whole 
 company requesting them to appear without 
 fail at the morrow's rehearsal, punctually at 
 ten o'clock. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 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 iQth of July, sacred to 
 St. Vincent de Paul. On those three days 
 the director and his wife would hold a recep- 
 tion on a grand scale. 
 
 Cabinski the miser would vanish, and in his 
 place would appear Cabinski the munificent, 
 dispensing hospitality after the ancient cus- 
 tom of the Polish nobility, while certain 
 deeply hidden hereditary cells of lavishness 
 opened up in his ego. The guests were 
 received and fted 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 numer- 
 ous, hardly anyone minded, for all enjoyed 
 
 163 
 
164 The Comedienne 
 
 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 there- 
 by 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. Cabin- 
 
The Comedienne 165 
 
 ska 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 sepa- 
 rately; 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. 
 
166 The Comedienne 
 
 "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 com- 
 rades, for in truth I do not know what I have 
 done to merit so much kindness," said Cabin- 
 ska 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. 
 
The Comedienne 167 
 
 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 win- 
 dows formed an oasis of gorgeous greenery, 
 
1 68 The Comedienne 
 
 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 ordina- 
 rily 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 
 
The Comedienne 169 
 
 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. 
 
 11 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 
 
1 70 The Comedienne 
 
 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 
 r61e 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. 
 
The Comedienne 
 
 It was a festive reception with wine served 
 by the restaurant waiters, and with trays of 
 cakes and liqueurs circulating about in ponder- 
 ous 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 
 
1 72 The Comedienne 
 
 sitting near her: "My dear lady, what shall I 
 do with this glass?" 
 
 11 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, mean- 
 while, 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 
 
The Comedienne *73 
 
 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 
 tome!" 
 
 " 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 conver- 
 sation. 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 
 
i?4 The Comedienne 
 
 you know? ..." and she passed on, convers- 
 ing 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 perform- 
 ance 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 
 
The Comedienne i?5 
 
 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 dis- 
 tinction 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. 
 
176 The Comedienne 
 
 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 promenad- 
 ing 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 con- 
 versation with his mother and also followed 
 Janina with his eyes. Meeting the glances of 
 Kotlicki he turned away. 
 
 Shortly they were joined by Sophie Rosin- 
 ska, 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 ma- 
 donna. 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. 
 
The Comedienne 177 
 
 ' l 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 any- 
 thing to do with Maj kowska ! ' ' whispered Rosin- 
 ska, 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 with- 
 out drinking anything. She began to make 
 remarks about Maj kowska, 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 r61es and 
 her favor with the public. 
 
i7 8 The Comedienne 
 
 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 tight- 
 rope 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 per- 
 
The Comedienne 179 
 
 missible for a true artist to introduce on the 
 stage the hiccoughs of a drunkard and vulgar 
 brutality. . . . Take Ziolkowski's The Mas- 
 ter 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 r61e? . . . He makes a filthy, repul- 
 sive, 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 re- 
 member Kalacinski? ... He was an art- 
 ist! Or Krzensinski, Stobinski, Felek, and 
 Chelchowski? . . . Those were artists who 
 could bring down the house! . . . What are 
 
i8o The Comedienne 
 
 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 rdles of old men and old nincompoops, 
 tome! . . . do you hear? . . . tome, who for 
 forty years have upheld the entire classical 
 repertory to me ! Oh ! oh ! " he hissed quietly 
 tearing his finger nails convulsively. ' ' Topol- 
 ski! . . . 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 
 
The Comedienne 181 
 
 their licentiousness. But that's nothing . . . 
 the directors want that ; what do they care if 
 these women possess neither talent, intelli- 
 gence nor beauty! . . . They give them the 
 most important r61es. 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 cele- 
 brated hero of a few theaters, and old Mirow- 
 ska 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 
 
1 82 The Comedienne 
 
 near Kotlicki, rubbing his knee which both- 
 ered 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." 
 
The Comedienne 183 
 
 " 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. ..." 
 
1 84 The Comedienne 
 
 "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 them- 
 selves with the thought that someone else 
 will show them how to do it." 
 
 Their conversation was interrupted by the en- 
 trance 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 Comedienne 185 
 
 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 immedi- 
 ately to open the door. 
 
 "Who came?" inquired Cabinska. 
 
 "Oh, nobody! Only that unchristened 
 little goldfish!" she answered scornfully. 
 
 Those sitting nearest burst out laughing. 
 
1 86 The Comedienne 
 
 ' ' 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 treas- 
 urers, 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 
 
The Comedienne 187 
 
 Sardou's Odette. We hope that the manage- 
 ment, in engaging Miss Snilowska, has added 
 a very valuable acquisition to the stage." 
 
 He folded away the paper and calmly con- 
 tinued to eat. The company was struck 
 dumb with amazement. 
 
 "Nicolette on the Warsaw stage! . . . Nic- 
 olette making her debut! . . . Nico- 
 ette! . . . ' 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. 
 
 11 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. 
 
1 88 The Comedienne 
 
 "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 swine- 
 herd 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 Comedienne 189 
 
 "The Warsaw Theater! My God! with 
 the exception of two or three persons it's full 
 of the scum of the profession which the pro- 
 vinces 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 
 
The Comedienne 
 
 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 . . ." 
 
The Comedienne 
 
 "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 instinc- 
 tively. 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? " 
 
192 The Comedienne 
 
 "This is my first month." 
 
 "No wonder that everything amazes you; 
 but in a month or so you'll no longer see any- 
 thing 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 environ- 
 ment 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 con- 
 tinually chopping? They become stiff and 
 stalwart, gloomy and indifferent. And what 
 of the butcher? Does not a man who is con- 
 tinually occupied in killing, who breathes in 
 the odor of raw meat and steaming blood, in 
 time become stamped with the same char, 
 acteristics as those beasts which he has slain? 
 He does, and I would say that he is himself a 
 
The Comedienne 193 
 
 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 
 
194 The Comedienne 
 
 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 con- 
 tinued: "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 
 
The Comedienne 195 
 
 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, cov- 
 ered 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 conver- 
 
The Comedienne 
 
 sation. Voices sounded harshly, faces were 
 red, and eyes glowed through a mist of alco- 
 holic 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, fol- 
 lowed 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 grow- 
 ing 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 
 
The Comedienne 
 
 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. 
 
 1 ' 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 grasp- 
 ing 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 
 
198 The Comedienne 
 
 bounds of one r61e. All played a thousand 
 different r61es. 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. After- 
 wards 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 com- 
 pany, mademoiselle? Truly, what remark- 
 able 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 themonot- 
 
The Comedienne 199 
 
 onous 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 Nied- 
 zielska stopped her and drew her into a con- 
 versation; 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." 
 
200 The Comedienne 
 
 "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. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 " WILL you find it comfortable here?" 
 
 "I think so. It is quiet and light. . . . 
 Who lived here before me? " 
 
 "Miss Nicolette. She is now at the War- 
 saw Theater . . . That's a good omen." 
 
 "No, not entirely. They are likely not to 
 engage her. ..." 
 
 "Oh, they'll engage her all right. . . . Miss 
 Zarnecka is clever," said Mme. Anna, the 
 daughter of Sowinska into whose home Janina 
 had just moved. 
 
 She was twenty-four years old, neither home- 
 ly nor pretty with an indefinite color of hair 
 and eyes, but with a very definite slenderness 
 and bad temper. 
 
 She conducted a dressmaking establish- 
 ment under the name of Mme. Anna and 
 although she made her living on actresses and 
 very often received free tickets to the theater, 
 she never went there and hated artists. There 
 were often scenes over this with her mother, 
 
 201 
 
202 The Comedienne 
 
 but old Sowinska, would not so much as listen 
 to any suggestion that she should abandon the 
 theater. She had become so deeply rooted 
 there that she could not tear herself away, 
 although Mme. Anna would turn almost 
 yellow from shame over the fact that her 
 mother was a theatrical seamstress. She was 
 disgustingly stingy, ignorant, pitiless, and 
 jealous. 
 
 Mme. Anna examined Janina's wardrobe 
 with ill-concealed malice. 
 
 "All that will have to be made over, for it 
 smells of the country," she decreed. 
 
 Janina began to protest a little, maintaining 
 that the same styles could often be seen in the 
 streets. 
 
 "Yes, but who wears them, please take no- 
 tice of that : shop women or shoemakers' wives ; 
 a self-respecting woman will not wear such 
 rags!" Mme. Anna scornfully persisted. 
 
 "Well then, have them made over. I can 
 pay you immediately for the work and also a 
 full month's rent in advance." 
 
 "Oh, there's no hurry. You'll need to buy 
 a few costumes." 
 
 "I'll have enough left for that." 
 
 Janina paid thirty rubles for her room. 
 
The Comedienne 203 
 
 "I am already settled for good," she later 
 said to the old woman who dropped in to see 
 her. 
 
 "Bosh, it won't be for long ! In two months 
 you'll be moving again. An actor's life is a 
 gypsy life, from wagon to wagon, from town to 
 town. ..." 
 
 " Perhaps at some time I'll be able to settle 
 down permanently," said Janina. 
 
 Sowinska smiled gloomily. "That is the 
 way one thinks in the beginning, but after- 
 wards . . . afterwards it ends in eternal wan- 
 dering. . . . You become worn-out like a 
 rag and die on a hotel bed." 
 
 "Not all end in that way," answered Janina 
 gaily, paying little attention. 
 
 "What are you laughing at? . . . It's not 
 at all funny!" cried Sowinska. 
 
 "Am I laughing? ... I merely said that 
 not all end in that way." 
 
 "All ought to end in that way, every one of 
 them!" Sowinska shouted angrily and left. 
 
 Janina could not understand either her vio- 
 lent anger, or her last words. 
 
 The days sped on. Janina absorbed the 
 theater into herself ever more deeply. She 
 
204 The Comedienne 
 
 attended the rehearsals regularly, afterwards 
 went to give lessons for two hours to Cabinska's 
 daughter, and later would go home for dinner, 
 prepare her wardrobe for the performance, and 
 at about eight in the evening start off again 
 for the theater. 
 
 On the days when no operettas were played 
 and the choruses were free, she went to the 
 Summer Theater and there, squeezed high up 
 in the gallery, spent entire evenings dreaming. 
 She devoured with her eyes the actresses, 
 their gestures, costumes, mimicry, and voices. 
 She followed the action of the plays so closely 
 that later she could re-create them in her mind 
 with detailed accuracy and often, after return- 
 ing from the theater, she would light the 
 candles, stand before the large mirror, and 
 repeat the acting which she had seen, observ- 
 ing intently every quiver of her facial expres- 
 sion and trying out every conceivable pose. 
 But she was seldom satisfied with herself. 
 
 The plays which she saw left her cold and 
 bored. She was not stirred by the bourgeois 
 dramas with their eternal conventional con- 
 flicts and flirtations. She repeated the banal 
 lines of these plays apathetically and in the 
 midst of some scene would stop and go to bed. 
 
The Comedienne 205 
 
 She asked Cabinski to give her a r61e in the 
 cast of a new play, but he put her off with 
 nothing. 
 
 "I am keeping you in mind, but first you 
 must familiarize yourself with the stage. . . . 
 When we present some melodrama or folk play 
 you will get a bigger r61e . . ." was all he 
 said. 
 
 In the meanwhile they were playing only 
 operettas, for they filled the theater. 
 
 Janina smiled in reply to Cabinski's vague 
 promises, although torn by impatience. But 
 she had already learned to control her feelings 
 and to wear a mask of smiling indifference. 
 She consoled herself with the thought that 
 sooner or later she would have done with the 
 chorus and that the moment must at last 
 arrive when she would appear in a real r61e. 
 
 She had already become saturated with the 
 atmosphere in which she lived. And that 
 public, so strange and capricious, which some 
 accused of ignorance, of a total lack of taste 
 and higher desires, and others of indifference, 
 but to which all paid homage and before which 
 they all cringed and trembled, begging its 
 favors that public even filled Janina with 
 anger. There was something strange in her 
 
206 The Comedienne 
 
 attitude. She would dress very fastidiously 
 for the stage, merely for the purpose of attract- 
 ing attention to herself; she would adopt the 
 most graceful poses, but whenever she felt the 
 gaze of the multitude it would send a depress- 
 ing shudder through her. 
 
 11 Shoemakers!" she would whisper scorn- 
 fully, thereafter remaining in the shadow. 
 
 In the dressing-room chorus girls passively 
 submitted to Janina, for they feared her, 
 knowing that she had intimate and continual 
 relations with the management. They were 
 likewise impressed by the fact that Wladek 
 followed her continually and that Kotlicki, who 
 formerly used to come behind the scenes only 
 occasionally, now sat there daily throughout 
 the whole performance and conversed with 
 Janina with his hat off. She was surrounded 
 by a sort of invisible aura of unconscious 
 respect, for although many surmises were 
 made about her on account of Kotlicki, no one 
 ever dared insinuate anything to her face. 
 
 At first, Janina inclined toward the leading 
 actresses of the company and wanted to enter 
 upon a more intimate acquaintance with them, 
 but they discouraged her, for whenever she 
 began to speak to them about the theater or 
 
The Comedienne 207 
 
 about art, they would become silent, or else 
 commence to tell her about their own triumphs. 
 
 Stanislawski and the stage-director were 
 Janina's sincere friends. Many times during 
 the rehearsals they would go upstairs to the 
 deserted dressing-rooms or to the storeroom 
 under the stage, and there tell stories of the 
 theater and the actors of their day an epoch 
 that was already dead. They would conjure 
 up before her eyes great figures, great souls, 
 and great passions almost like those she had 
 dreamed of. 
 
 How much advice they gave her concerning 
 enunciations, classical pose, and the best 
 manner of reciting her lines! She listened 
 with interest, but when she tried to play the 
 fragment of some role according to their 
 instructions, she found she could not do it, 
 and they would then appear so stiff, pathetic 
 and unnatural that she began to treat them 
 with an indulgent pity. 
 
 With Mme. Anna, Janina lived on a footing 
 of cool politeness. With Sowinska she was a 
 little more intimate, for the old woman fawned 
 upon her as a tenant who regularly paid her 
 rent in advance. Sowinska was coarse and 
 violent. There were certain days that she 
 
208 The Comedienne 
 
 would eat nothing, nor even go to the theater, 
 but would sit locked in her room, crying, or at 
 moments swearing extraordinarily. 
 
 After such days she seemed even more 
 energetic and would indulge with greater zest 
 in behind-the-stage intrigues. She would 
 walk among the audience and speak quietly 
 with the young men who hung about the 
 theater. She would bring the actresses invi- 
 tations to suppers, bouquets, candy, and 
 letters and would seek with a genuine zeal to 
 induce the stubborn ones to yield to the 
 advances made to them. She accompanied 
 the girls as a chaperon to carousals and knew 
 just when to find an important reason for 
 leaving. At such times there would gleam 
 under her mask of kindhearted and wrinkled 
 old age an expression of cruel glee. 
 
 Janina overheard once how the old woman 
 spoke to Shepska, who had joined the theater 
 after being seduced by a member of the chorus. 
 
 "Listen to me, madame! . . . What does 
 your lover give you? A home on Brewery 
 Street and sardines with tea for breakfast, 
 dinner and supper. . . . It's a shame to 
 waste yourself on such a poor fool ! Don't you 
 know that you could live as comfortably as 
 
The Comedienne 209 
 
 you wish and laugh at Cabinski ! Why should 
 you have scruples! . . . A person profits by 
 life only as he enjoys it! ... A young and 
 pretty girl ought not waste herself on a penni- 
 less nobody. . . . Perhaps you think you will 
 the sooner get a r61e by remaining where you 
 are? . . . Oho! when pears grow on a pine 
 tree! Only those are given r61es who have 
 someone backing them." 
 
 Usually she accomplished her purpose, and 
 though often offered costly presents, seldom 
 accepted anything. 
 
 "I don't want them. If I advise anyone, 
 it's because I wish them well," she would 
 answer briefly. 
 
 Janina who had learned enough of the more 
 intimate phases of life behind the scenes, 
 regarded Sowinska with a certain awe. She 
 knew that it was not for gain that the old 
 woman shoved the younger ones into the mire 
 of degradation, but for some hidden reason. 
 At times, she feared her, unable to endure the 
 enigmatic look with which Sowinska scruti- 
 nized her face. She felt instinctively that 
 Sowinska seemed to be waiting for something 
 or watching for some opportunity. 
 
 On one of those lachrymose days of Sowin- 
 
 14 
 
210 The Comedienne 
 
 ska's Janina, who was just starting for the 
 theater, dropped in to see her. 
 
 Entering the room she stood amazed. 
 Sowinska was kneeling beside an open trunk, 
 while on the bed, the table and the chairs were 
 spread the parts of some theatrical costume 
 and on the floor were lying stacks of faded 
 copies of r61es. Sowinska was holding in her 
 hand the photograph of a young man with a 
 strange face, long and so thin that all the cheek 
 bones could be seen distinctly protruding 
 through the skin. He had an abnormally 
 high forehead with wide temples and a huge 
 head. Large eyes gazed out of the pale face 
 like the sunken hollows in a dead man's skull. 
 
 Sowinska turned to the girl with the photo- 
 graph in her hands and in a voice trembling 
 with anguish, whispered: "Look, this is my 
 son . . . and these are my sacred relics !" 
 
 1 'Was he an artist?" 
 
 "An artist? ... I should say so, but not 
 like those monkeys of Cabinski's. How he 
 played! The papers wrote about him. He 
 was in Plock and I went to see him. When he 
 appeared in The Robbers the whole theater 
 shook with applause and cries of admiration. 
 I sat behind the scenes and when I heard his 
 
The Comedienne 211 
 
 voice and saw him I was so overcome with 
 emotion that I thought I would die for very 
 joy! 
 
 " I loved him so dearly that I would have let 
 myself be torn to shreds for him ! . . . He was 
 an artist, an artist! He never owned a penny 
 and poverty often devoured him like a dog, but 
 I tried to help him as much as I could. I 
 slaved for him and lived on nothing but tea 
 and bread to save something for him." 
 
 She ceased speaking while tears flowed soft'y 
 down her faded, pale face. 
 
 Janina, after a long silence, asked quietly: 
 " Where is your son now?" 
 
 " Where?" she answered, rising from the 
 floor. ''Where? . . . He is dead! He shot 
 himself." 
 
 She began to breathe heavily. 
 
 "My whole life has been like that!" she 
 began again. "His father was a tailor and I 
 kept a shop. In the beginning all went well 
 for we had plenty of money and a decent home. 
 My husband worked for a circus and shortly a 
 performer caught his eye and he followed her 
 into the world when the circus moved on." 
 
 She sighed heavily. 
 
 "I merely set my teeth tightly together. 
 
212 The Comedienne 
 
 I toiled like a galley slave to gain a mere living 
 for myself and daughter, but I was stricken by 
 an epidemic. When I came out of it, every- 
 thing went to the dogs, for my shop was sold 
 to cover my debts. I was practically turned 
 out into the street without a penny. An 
 unspeakable rage seized me. I borrowed 
 money wherever I could and together with my 
 child went to seek my husband. I found him 
 living with a shopkeeper in such comfort that 
 he had forgotten all about us. I took him by 
 the neck and brought him back with us to 
 Warsaw. . . . He staid with me a whole 
 year, bestowed another child upon me, and 
 ran away again. My daughter grew up, we 
 took home sewing, and managed to make a 
 living somehow. 
 
 "Then after some years they brought back 
 my husband stone-blind. I gave him a nook 
 in my home, for my children desired it. God 
 was at least merciful enough to take him 
 away. 
 
 "Later, I married off my daughter to a pea- 
 sant. One day about two years ago, I was 
 present at my daughter's name day party to 
 which a few relatives and friends had been 
 invited. In the midst of it they brought me a 
 
 \ 
 
The Comedienne 213 
 
 telegram from Suwalki asking me to come 
 immediately, for my son was very ill." 
 
 She paused for a moment, gazed blankly 
 about the room and in a low voice, filled with 
 despair whispered on, lifting her pale face to 
 Janina's: 
 
 "He was already dead. . . . They were 
 waiting for me to bury him. ..." 
 
 "Later they told me that he had fallen in 
 love with a chorus girl and killed himself for 
 her! They showed her to me. She was the 
 vilest sort. And that was why he killed 
 himself. . . . 
 
 "When I caught her in the street, I would 
 have killed her, killed her like a mad dog to 
 avenge my wrong and anguish! ..." Sowin- 
 ska shouted aloud, clenching her fists. 
 
 "Such is my life, such! I curse it every 
 day, but cannot forget . . . all that still burns 
 here in my bosom ... I am in the theater, 
 for it always seems to me that he will return, 
 that he is already dressing and will immedi- 
 ately appear on the stage . . . 
 
 "My God, God! ... Ah, it *was not he 
 that was to blame, but she . . . you girls tear 
 to pieces a mother's heart ... I would 
 trample you all underfoot like so many worms, 
 
214 The Comedienne 
 
 into the mud, into poverty, so that you might 
 agonize as I do ... so that you might suffer, 
 suffer, suffer. ..." 
 
 She ceased, breathing heavily. Her yellow 
 waxen face glared with wild hatred. Her wrin- 
 kles twitched and her pale bitten lips seethed. 
 
 Janina had been standing all the while 
 eagerly absorbing her every word and gesture. 
 The overwhelming reality of Sowinska's grief, 
 so simple and strong, had called forth a respon- 
 sive chord in her own heart. 
 
 She was standing in the street, wondering 
 where she should go, when a voice behind her 
 said: "Good morning, Miss Orlowska!" 
 
 She turned about quickly. Mrs. Niedziel- 
 ska, Wladek's mother, was standing before her 
 with a smile on her aged, simple face. 
 
 Janina greeted her hastily. 
 
 "I was about to take a walk," she said. 
 
 ' ' Perhaps you will drop into my house for a 
 minute? ..." begged Niedzielska quietly. 
 " I am so much alone that often for whole days 
 I don't see anyone except Anna and the 
 janitor." 
 
 She hobbled slowly along. 
 
 "Certainly, I still have a little time before 
 the performance," answered Janina. 
 
The Comedienne 215 
 
 " You're not in the theater very long, are 
 you?" 
 
 "Only three weeks." 
 
 "I could tell that right away!" 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "I can't exactly explain. I watched you at 
 Cabinska's party and immediately knew that 
 you were a newcomer. I even mentioned it 
 toWladek ..." 
 
 "Please make yourself at home. . . . I'll be 
 with you in a minute. Niedzielska played 
 hostess quite grandly, once they were arrived 
 at her home. 
 
 Janina, left alone, observed with curiosity 
 the old-fashioned mahogany table covered 
 with an embroidered net doily which stood 
 before a huge lounge upholstered with black 
 horsehair; the chairs, upholstered with the 
 same material, had lyre-shaped backs. A 
 yellow polished dresser was filled with gro- 
 tesque porcelain, greenish pitchers, colored 
 bric-a-brac, wineglasses with monograms, and 
 flower-painted teacups standing on high legs. 
 A clock under a bell glass, old, faded steel 
 engravings of the Empire period, a lamp with 
 a green shade on a separate table, a few pots 
 with miserable flowers on the window sill and 
 
216 The Comedienne 
 
 two cages with canaries constituted the entire 
 furnishings. 
 
 "Let us have a drink of coffee . . . " said 
 Niedzielska, r centering. 
 
 She took from the dresser two showy cups 
 and placed them on the table. Then she went 
 to the kitchen and brought in the coffee, 
 already poured into two chipped bowls, and a 
 plate with a few stale cakes. 
 
 " O goodness, I forgot that I had already set 
 the cups on the table . . . well, it doesn't 
 matter. We can drink the coffee just as well 
 out of these, can't we? ..." she said, at once 
 adding, "dear me, I forgot the sugar! Do 
 you like your coffee sweet, mademoiselle?" 
 
 The old woman left the room and through 
 the door Janina could hear her taking sugar 
 out of a glass bowl. She brought in on a little 
 saucer two lumps. 
 
 "Please have some in your coffee. . . . 
 You see at my age I can't have anything 
 sweet," she said, drinking audibly. 
 
 Finally, after perhaps half an hour, in which 
 her hostess chattered interminably and Janina 
 listened with increasing weariness, the girl 
 got up to go, and at the very door she met 
 Wladek. 
 
The Comedienne 217 
 
 4 'Visiting my mother!" he exclaimed. 
 
 " Certainly. There's nothing wrong in 
 that," she answered, smiling at his confusion. 
 
 "Heavens! No doubt she's been telling 
 you what a scoundrel I am. I beg your par- 
 don for having had to listen." 
 
 "Oh, it didn't offend me in the least." 
 
 "It only made you laugh, I know. The 
 whole theater is laughing at my expense, for 
 all the ladies have already been here." 
 
 "Your mother loves you," Janina spoke 
 seriously. 
 
 ' ' That love is beginning to choke me like a 
 bone in my throat!" he answered sourly and 
 wanted to add something else, but Janina 
 bowed silently and passed on. 
 
 Wladek did not have the courage to follow 
 her and went upstairs. 
 
 "What is happening in my own home? " she 
 thought as she walked toward the theater. 
 "What is my father doing? ..." 
 
 And she suddenly felt within herself a 
 glimmer of sympathy for that tyrant. She 
 saw now how lonely he must be among stran- 
 gers who ridiculed his eccentricities. 
 
 During the whole performance, the vision 
 of her father constantly recurred in her mem- 
 
218 The Comedienne 
 
 ory. She asked herself what it was that had 
 made him so cruel, and why he hated her? 
 
 Kotlicki brought her a bouquet of roses. She 
 received it coolly, without even glancing at him. 
 
 "I see that you are out of sorts to-day, "he 
 said, taking her hand. 
 
 She pulled it away. 
 
 Majkowska, who was just then passing, 
 whispered, pointing to Rosinska: "What a 
 scarecrow! What conventional acting! She 
 is incapable of producing even a single accent 
 of true feeling!" 
 
 Behind Janina some gentleman in a high hat 
 was pressing the hands of one of the chorus 
 girls. 
 
 "Things are turning out fine, for to-morrow, 
 there will be no rehearsal and we can go to 
 Bielany in the afternoon. Wait for us at your 
 home, we will drop in and take you along with 
 us," whispered Mimi. 
 
 "I also am going on that outing," said 
 Kotlicki, "you are going too, aren't you?" 
 
 "Probably ... but if I couldn't go it 
 would be just as great a success." 
 
 "In that case I wouldn't go either." 
 
 He bent so closely over Janina that she 
 felt his breath upon her face. 
 
The Comedienne 219 
 
 "I don't understand you," she said, moving 
 away from him. 
 
 "I am going along only for your sake," he 
 whispered in a still quieter tone. 
 
 "For my sake? . . ." she queried, glancing 
 at him sharply, and stirred by a sudden 
 aversion. 
 
 "Yes . . . surely you must have guessed 
 by now that I love you," said Kotlicki, draw- 
 ing together his lips which were trembling 
 and looking at her pleadingly. 
 
 "There they say the same, only they play a 
 little better!" she remarked scornfully, point- 
 ing to the stage. 
 
 Kotlicki drew himself erect, a sullen shadow 
 passed over his equine face, his eyes gleaming 
 threateningly. 
 
 "I will convince you! ..." 
 
 "Very well, but to-morrow at Bielany, not 
 now," Janina coolly extended her hand in fare- 
 well and left for the dressing-room. 
 
 Kotlicki gazed after her covetously, biting 
 his lips. 
 
 "A comedienne!" he finally whispered, 
 leaving the theater. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 JANINA awoke at about half -past ten in the 
 morning. Sowinska had just brought in her 
 breakfast. 
 
 "Was anyone here to see me? ..." she 
 asked. 
 
 Sowinska nodded her head and handed 
 Janina a letter. 
 
 "About an hour ago a ruddy fellow deliv- 
 ered it and asked me to give it to you." 
 
 Janina nervously tore open the envelope 
 and immediately recognized the handwriting 
 of Grzesikiewicz : 
 
 "Mv DEAR Miss ORLOWSKA: 
 
 "I have purposely come to Warsaw to see 
 you on a very important matter. If you will 
 kindly deign to be home at eleven o'clock I 
 shall be there at that hour. Please pardon my 
 boldness. Allow me to kiss your hands and 
 remain humble servantj 
 
 GRZESIKIEWICZ/' 
 
 220 
 
The Comedienne 221 
 
 " What's going to happen? ..." thought 
 Janina, dressing hastily. "What kind of 
 important matter can it be that he writes of? 
 Concerning my father? . . . Can it be that he 
 is ill and longing for me? . . . Oh no! No!" 
 
 She quickly drank her tea, tidied her room 
 and patiently awaited Grzesikiewicz's visit. 
 The thought of seeing, at last some one of her 
 own people from Bukowiec even filled her 
 with a certain joy. 
 
 "Perhaps he will propose to me again?" 
 Janina thought to herself. And she saw his 
 big weather-beaten face, bronzed by the sun, 
 and those blue eyes gazing so mildly from 
 beneath his shock of flaxen hair. She remem- 
 bered too, his embarrassed shyness. 
 
 "A good, honest man!" she said to herself, 
 walking up and down the room ; but then the 
 thought occurred to her that his visit was 
 likely to spoil her intended trip to Bielany, 
 and her enthusiasm began to cool. She 
 determined she would speak to him briefly. 
 
 "I wonder what he wants of me?" Janina 
 asked herself uneasily, assuming the most 
 impossible things. 
 
 " My father must be very sick and wants me 
 to come to him," she answered herself. 
 
222 The Comedienne 
 
 .. 
 She stood in the center of the room almost 
 
 dazed, with fear that she must return to 
 Bukowiec. 
 
 "No, it is impossible! . . . I couldn't stand 
 it there a single week . . . and moreover, he 
 drove me away from home forever ..." 
 
 A chaotic conflict between hate, sorrow, 
 and a quiet, scarcely perceptible feeling of 
 homesickness began to rage in Janina's heart. 
 
 The bell rang in the anteroom. 
 
 Janina sat down and waited quietly. She 
 heard the door opening, the voices of Grzesik- 
 iewicz and Sowinska, and the sound of an 
 overcoat being hung up. 
 
 "May I come in?" asked a voice outside. 
 
 "Please do," she whispered, choking with 
 trepidation as she arose from her chair. 
 
 Grzesikiewicz entered. His face was even 
 more sunburnt than usual and his blue eyes 
 seemed bluer. He walked stiffly and erectly 
 like a petrified block of meat squeezed into a 
 tight surtout with difficulty. He almost 
 threw his hat upon a basket standing near the 
 door and, kissing Janina's hand, said quickly: 
 "Good morning ..." 
 
 He straightened himself, scanned her face 
 with his eyes and sat down heavily in a chair. 
 
The Comedienne 223 
 
 "I had a hard time finding you . . ."he 
 began, and suddenly broke off. Then, as if to 
 bolster up his courage, he attempted to shove 
 aside a chair that interfered with his actions 
 but pushed it so hard that it fell over. 
 
 He sprang up, all red in the face, and began 
 to apologize. 
 
 Janina smiled, so vividly did that impulsive 
 action remind her of their last talk and that 
 unfortunate proposal. And for a moment it 
 seemed to her that it was now that he was to 
 propose and that they were sitting in the quiet 
 parlor at Bukowiec. She could not explain 
 to herself the impression that he made on her 
 with that honest face, worn by suffering, and 
 with those bright blue eyes which seemed to 
 bring with them echoes of those beloved fields 
 and woods, those quiet glens, that golden sun- 
 light and the free and bounteous life of nature. 
 For one fleeting moment her mind dwelt on all 
 this, but at the same time there awoke memo- 
 ries of all her sufferings and her banishment. 
 
 She handed him a box of cigarettes and said 
 in an easy tone, breaking the somewhat pro- 
 longed silence: "You give proof of no small 
 courage and . . . kindness by visiting me 
 after all that has happened. ..." 
 
224 The Comedienne 
 
 "Do you remember what I told you the last 
 time," he answered, subduing and softening 
 his voice, "that I would never and always! . . . 
 That I would never cease and would always 
 continue to love you!" 
 
 Janina moved impatiently, for his deeply 
 sincere accent pained her. 
 
 "I beg your pardon ... if it makes you 
 angry, I will not say another word about 
 myself . . ."he said with resignation. 
 
 "What is the news from home?" she asked, 
 raising her eyes to his. 
 
 "How can I tell you? . . . It's some- 
 thing that beggars all description. You would 
 not know your father; he has become an 
 impossible autocrat in his official duties, and 
 outside of them he goes hunting, visits his 
 neighbors, whistles to himself . . . but has 
 become so thin and worn that it is hard to 
 recognize him. Worry is eating him away 
 like a canker." 
 
 "Why? . . . What is there for my father 
 to worry about?" 
 
 "My God! How can you ask such a 
 question? Are you joking, or haven't you a 
 spark of feeling in you? . . . Why is he 
 worrying? . . . Because you are away . . . 
 
The Comedienne 225 
 
 because he, like all of us, is dying with longing 
 for you! ..." 
 
 "And what about Krenska? ..." Janina 
 asked with apparent calmness, although 
 stirred deeply by what he had told her. 
 
 "What has Krenska to do with this? . . . 
 He threw her out the very next day after your 
 departure, afterwards received a few days' 
 official leave from his duties and left Buko- 
 wiec. ... In about a week he returned so 
 woebegone and haggard that we scarcely 
 recognized him. Even strangers are crying 
 over him, but you had no pity on him and 
 went forth into the world . . . and what kind 
 of world, besides? ..." 
 
 Janina sprang up violently from her chair. 
 
 * ' Yes, you may be angry with me if you will, 
 but I love you, I love you too well, and we all 
 love you too well to be denied the right to 
 speak what we feel. Have me thrown out of 
 here if you will, and I'll not complain, but I'll 
 wait for you at the street door or meet you 
 anywhere else and keep telling you that your 
 father is dying without you and that he is 
 growing sicker and weaker every day! My 
 mother came across him not so long ago in the 
 woods : he was lying in some bushes and crying 
 
226 The Comedienne 
 
 like a child. You are killing him. Both of 
 you are killing each other with your pride and 
 unrelenting stubbornness. You are the best 
 woman in the world and I feel that you will 
 not leave him alone, that you will return and 
 give up theatrical life. . . . Aren't you 
 ashamed of associating with such a band of 
 scoundrels? . . . How can you possibly 
 exhibit yourself on the stage ! ..." 
 
 He broke off and breathing heavily, wiped 
 his eyes with his handkerchief. Never before 
 had he said so much at one time. 
 
 Janina sat with bowed head, her face as pale 
 as a sheet, her lips set tightly and her heart 
 filled with a storm of rebellion and suffering. 
 That sharp voice which she had just heard had 
 in it such a tearful, deep and soul-stirring 
 expression and those words: "Your father is 
 suffering . . . your father is crying . . . your 
 father is longing for you!" penetrated her 
 with so sharp a grief and harried her so pain- 
 fully, that at moments she wanted to spring 
 up and go to him as quickly as she could ; but 
 then again, memories of the past would flood 
 her brain and she would become cool and 
 hardened. Finally she recalled the theater 
 and became entirely indifferent. 
 
The Comedienne 227 
 
 "No! He has driven me away forever. 
 ... I am alone in the world and will remain 
 alone. I could not live without the theater! " 
 Janina said to herself and there arose in her 
 again that mad desire for theatrical con- 
 quest. 
 
 Grzesikiewicz also became silent, his eyes 
 clouding mistily. He devoured her with his 
 eyes, and had a great desire to fall on his 
 knees before her, kiss her hands and feet and 
 the hem of her dress and beg her to listen to 
 him . . . Then again, when he remembered 
 the whole tragedy of the situation, he felt 
 like springing up from his chair and smashing 
 everything that came in his way; or again 
 such a violent grief would convulse him that 
 he could have cried aloud in sheer despair. 
 
 He sat and gazed at that beloved face, now 
 pale and worn, on which the feverish night life 
 of the theater had already left its imprint, and 
 he felt that he would give his very life for her, 
 if she would only go back. 
 
 Janina finally bent on him eyes that were 
 glowing with irrevocable determination. 
 
 1 ' You must know how my father hates me ; 
 you must also know that, when I refused to 
 marry you, he drove me out of his house for- 
 
228 The Comedienne 
 
 ever ... he almost cursed me and drove me 
 out ..." she repeated with bitterness. "I 
 left because I had to, but I will never return. 
 I will not exchange the freedom of the theater 
 for slavery at home. Things happened as 
 they did because they had to. My father 
 told me at that time that he had no longer 
 a daughter, and I now answer that I have no 
 longer a father. We have parted and will 
 never be reunited again. I am entirely able to 
 shift for myself, and art will suffice me for 
 everything." 
 
 "So you will not return?" asked Grzesikie- 
 wicz, for that was all he understood of her 
 words. 
 
 "No! I have no home and I will not for- 
 sake the theater!" replied Janina in a calm 
 voice, regarding him coolly, but her pale lips 
 trembled a little and her bosom throbbed 
 violently, convulsed by the conflict within. 
 
 "You will kill him ... he loves you so 
 ... he will not outlive such a blow. . . ." 
 said Grzesikiewicz gently. 
 
 "No, Andrew, my father does not love me. 
 A person whom you love you do not torment 
 for whole years at a time and then drive away 
 from home like the worst. . . . Even a dog 
 
The Comedienne 229 
 
 does not turn its young ones out . . . even 
 an animal never does what was done to me!" 
 
 "I have seen and know how bitterly he 
 regrets those reckless words and how hard it is 
 for him to live without you. I swear that you 
 will make him happy by returning! That 
 you will restore him to life!" 
 
 "Did he tell you that he desired me to 
 return to Bukowiec? Perhaps he has given 
 you a letter for me? Please tell me the whole 
 truth!" she spoke rapidly. 
 
 Grzesikiewicz hesitated in confusion and 
 became even sadder. 
 
 "No. He neither said anything about it, 
 nor gave me a letter for you," he answered, 
 lowering his voice. 
 
 "So that is how much he loves me and how 
 greatly he longs to see me? Ha! ha! ha! " she 
 laughed harshly. 
 
 "Don't you know him yet? He will die of 
 thirst rather than beg a glass of water. When 
 I was leaving and told him where I was going, 
 he did not say a word, but looked at me in 
 such a way and gripped my hand so firmly 
 that I understood him entirely. ..." 
 
 "No, you did not understand him at all. 
 My father is not at all concerned about me ; he 
 
230 The Comedienne 
 
 is only concerned over the fact that the whole 
 neighborhood must be speaking about my 
 departure and my joining the theater. . . . 
 Surely, Krenska must have left no stone 
 unturned. ... He is concerned only about 
 the gossip that is circulating. He feels dis- 
 graced through me. He would like to see me 
 broken and begging forgiveness at his feet. 
 That is what he is anxious about ! " 
 
 "You do not know him! Such hearts . . ." 
 
 Janina hastily interruped him : ' ' Let us not 
 speak of hearts where on one side they do not 
 at all enter into the question, where they are 
 entirely lacking and there is only an 
 insane ..." 
 
 "So then? . . . " he asked rising, for he was 
 choking with a spasm of anger. 
 
 The bell in the hall rang sharply, evidently 
 pulled violently by someone. 
 
 "I will never return," said Janina with 
 final determination. 
 
 "Janina . . . have mercy ..." 
 
 "I do not understand that word," she 
 answered with emphasis, "and I repeat: 
 never! unless it be ... after I am dead." 
 
 "Don't say that, for ..." 
 
 He did not finish for the door suddenly 
 
The Comedienne 231 
 
 swung wide open and Mimi with Wawrzecki 
 came rushing in. 
 
 "Well, are you coming? Hurry and dress 
 yourself , for we start immediately ! . . . Ah, 
 I beg your pardon, I did not know you had a 
 visitor," cried Mimi, observing Grzesikiewicz 
 who' took his hat, bowed automatically, and, 
 without looking at anyone, whispered. 
 
 "Good-bye." 
 
 And without more ado he left. 
 
 Janina sprang up as though she wished to 
 detain him, but Kotlicki and Topolski were 
 just then entering and greeted her jocularly. 
 After them came some third person. 
 
 "What sort of broad gentleman was that? 
 As I live, it is the first time that I saw such a 
 mass of meat in a surtout!" cried that third 
 comer. 
 
 "This is Mr. Glogowski. In a week we are 
 to present his play and in a month he will be 
 famous throughout Europe! " said Wawrzecki, 
 introducing him. 
 
 "And in three months my fame will reach 
 Mars with all its appurtenances! . . . If you 
 are going to bluff, at least let it be a good bluff/' 
 laughed Glogowski. 
 
 Janina greeted them all, and in a subdued 
 
232 The Comedienne 
 
 voice answered Mimi who was asking her 
 about Grzesikiewicz : "An old friend of mine 
 and former neighbor, a very honest man . . ." 
 
 "He must be flushed with money, that 
 youth ... he looks it!" exclaimed Glogow- 
 ski. 
 
 "Yes, he is wealthy. His family owns the 
 largest sheep-growing ranch in Congressional 
 Poland ..." 
 
 "A shepherd! ... he rather looks as 
 though he were a keeper of elephants! ..." 
 jested Wawrzecki. 
 
 Kotlicki only smiled and discreetly observed 
 Janina. 
 
 " Something must have happened here . . . 
 for her voice shows she is deeply moved," he 
 thought. "Perhaps that was her former 
 lover? . . ." 
 
 "Come, hurry, for Mela is waiting down- 
 stairs in a hack," cried Mimi impatiently. 
 
 Janina dressed hastily and they all went out 
 together. 
 
 They rode to the bank of the Wisla and from 
 there took a boat to Bielany. 
 
 All were in a springtime humor, except 
 Janina. She sat gloomily rapt in thought. 
 
 Kotlicki chatted jovially, Wawrzecki jested 
 
The Comedienne 233 
 
 with Glogowski and the women took part in 
 the merriment, but Janina hardly heard a 
 thing that was being said. She was still 
 pondering her conversation with Grzesikiewicz 
 and the heavy feeling it had left in her heart. 
 
 ''Is anything troubling you?" Kotlicki 
 asked with anxiety in his voice. 
 
 "Me? Oh nothing! . . . I was just mus- 
 ing upon human misery," she answered. 
 
 " It is not worth thinking of anything that is 
 not pleasure, full of life and youth ..." 
 
 11 Don't complete that nonsense. It is just 
 as if you were to eat off the butter on a piece 
 of bread and then muse over your dry crust 
 that you did a foolish thing after all," inter- 
 posed Glogowski, "I see you do not like to eat, 
 only to lick at things." 
 
 "My dear sir, I have the honor of knowing 
 that ever since I was a schoolboy," Kotlicki 
 retorted sarcastically. 
 
 "That isn't the point; the point is that you 
 advocate downright silly things. For instance 
 indulgence, while you have had ample oppor- 
 tunity to prove upon yourself the sad results 
 of that jolly theory." 
 
 "Both in life and in literature you are 
 always paradoxical." 
 
234 The Comedienne 
 
 
 
 "I'll wager you have weak lungs, arthritis, 
 neurasthenia and ..." 
 
 "Count up to twenty." 
 
 They began to argue vehemently and then 
 to quarrel. 
 
 The boat had passed the railroad bridge and 
 the vast calm of the open country enveloped 
 them on all sides. The sun was shining 
 brightly, but a chill dampness arose from the 
 murky waters of the river. The small waves, 
 saturated with light, like serpents with gleam- 
 ing scales, splashed about in the sunlight. 
 The long sand dunes resembled water giants, 
 basking in the sun with yellow upturned 
 bellies. A string of scows floated before them ; 
 the pilot in a small cockleshell boat rowed 
 on in front and every now and then would 
 raise his voice in a cry which echoed across 
 the water and reached them in a confused 
 medley of tones. A few boatmen plied their 
 oars with automatic motion and their sad 
 song was wafted to the party and floated above 
 their heads. Afterwards a growing silence 
 began to spread around them. 
 
 The mild verdure of the shores, the sunlit 
 trail of the waters gleaming with the sheeny 
 softness of satin, the gentle rocking of the 
 
The Comedienne 235 
 
 boat, the rhythmical stroke of the oars uncon- 
 sciously imposed a silence upon everybody. 
 
 "I will not return!" thought Janina, auto- 
 matically repeating those words, while she 
 gazed upon the blue expanse of waters and 
 pursued with her eyes the waves that fled 
 swiftly on before her, "I will not return!" 
 
 She felt that loneliness was embracing her 
 with ever wider arms and surrounding her 
 soul with an emptiness into which she gazed 
 defiantly. Her sorrow, the thought of her 
 father and Grzesikiewicz, all her former 
 acquaintances and her whole past seemed to 
 be flowing on far behind her so that she saw 
 them dimly in the distant gray mist and only 
 the faint echo of an entreaty or of weeping 
 seemed to reach her now and then. 
 
 No! she would not have the strength to turn 
 back and swim against that current that was 
 bearing her onward. Nevertheless, she felt 
 that tears were dropping upon her heart and 
 burning it with bitterness. 
 
 They disembarked at the landing-stage at 
 Bielany and began to wind their way up the 
 hill. 
 
 Janina walked ahead of the company with 
 Kotlicki who did not leave her for a moment. 
 
236 The Comedienne 
 
 "You owe me a reply," he said after a while, 
 assuming a tender expression. 
 
 "I answered you yesterday, and to-day you 
 owe me an explanation," she said harshly, for 
 now, after that recent conversation with 
 Grzesikiewicz and all that it had cost her, she 
 felt an almost physical aversion and hatred 
 toward Kotlicki; he struck her as repulsive 
 and brazen. 
 
 "An explanation? . . . Can one explain 
 love or analyze a feeling? . . ." he began, 
 uneasily biting his thin lips. He did not like 
 the tone of her voice. 
 
 "Let us be sincere, for what you told me 
 is . . ." she cried impulsively. 
 
 "Is sincerity itself." 
 
 "No, it is only a comedy!" Janina retorted 
 sharply and felt a great desire to strike him 
 in the face. 
 
 "You offend me! One can believe a per- 
 son's feelings without sharing them," he said 
 in a quieter tone so that those who followed 
 them would not hear. 
 
 "Now please listen to what I have to say! 
 I want to tell you that your comedy not only 
 wearies me, but is beginning to anger me. I 
 am still too little a hysterical actress and too 
 
The Comedienne 237 
 
 much a normal woman to take pleasure in 
 such acting. I was never taught by my 
 mother, the secret code of a woman's conduct 
 toward a man, nor did they warn me of man's 
 falsehood and baseness. I observed that 
 quickly enough for myself, and see it every 
 day behind the scenes. You think that to 
 every woman who is in the theater you can 
 boldly talk about your love as though it were 
 some trifle, in the hope that perhaps she will 
 swallow your bait! Actresses are so playful 
 and so silly, aren't they?" she said with 
 stinging scorn. " Would you dare to tell me 
 the same, if I were at home? No, you 
 wouldn't dare tell me you loved me, if you 
 didn't, for there, I would be a woman in your 
 eyes, while here I am only an actress ; for there, 
 I would have behind me a father, mother, 
 brothers or some convention which wou'd 
 prohibit you from many things. But here, 
 you don't hesitate. And why? Because here 
 I am alone and an actress, that is a woman to 
 whom you can with impunity tell lies, whom 
 you can with impunity possess and then cast 
 off and go your way without the slightest fear 
 of losing your reputation. Oh, you can be 
 sure, Mr. Kotlicki, that I will not become your 
 
238 The Comedienne 
 
 : 
 
 mistress, nor any other man's if I do not love 
 him! I have already thought much, too 
 much, about the matter to be deceived by fine 
 phrases!" She spoke rapidly, and her sharp 
 words fell like blows. 
 
 He trembled with impatience and gazed on 
 her in amazement. He did not know her, 
 and had not assumed for a moment that he 
 would find an actress who would tell him such 
 things to his face. He gazed at her through 
 half-closed eyes, and stammered ever more 
 frequently, so immensely did he like her for her 
 courage. She fascinated him by her strength 
 of character and honesty, for by those words 
 she had spoken, by her face which faithfully 
 reflected all her inner feelings, and by the 
 sincere tones of her voice he began to perceive 
 that she was an honest and uncommon girl; 
 and in addition she was so beautiful ! 
 
 "The whip was rawhide with leaden 
 weights at the end of it. You beat with a 
 womanly fury both the guilty and the inno- 
 cent," said Kotlicki, and seeing that Janina 
 did not answer he added after a while, ' ' Is this 
 not enough for you? If it would be possible 
 during that entire flagellation to kiss your 
 hands, I beg you to continue ..." 
 
The Comedienne 239 
 
 "Kotlicki! . . . Wait a minute there and 
 help us carry the baskets! . . ." called 
 Wawrzecki. 
 
 The men carried the baskets with the pro- 
 visions, while the whole company walked 
 along the steep river bank, seeking a conven- 
 ient spot for a camping ground. 
 
 All about them the lonely wood rustled 
 softly with its young oak leaves and juniper 
 bushes. They halted under a grove of ver- 
 dant oaks. Behind them was the woodland 
 solitude while beneath them the Wisla gleamed 
 in the sunlight and murmured with its blue 
 waves breaking against the shore. 
 
 After the preliminary drinks and sandwiches 
 all became lively. 
 
 "Well, now let us drink the health of the 
 initiators of the outing!" cried Glogowski, 
 filling the glasses. 
 
 1 ' Let us rather drink to the success of your 
 new play," cried several voices. 
 
 "No, that will not help it any ... it will 
 turn out a fiasco anyway . . ." 
 
 "Perhaps Topolski will now reveal to us his 
 secret plan," said Kotlicki who was calmly 
 stretched out on his plaid beside Janina. 
 
 "Let that rest! After we have had plenty 
 
240 The Comedienne 
 
 to eat and still more to drink will be time 
 enough. Perhaps the ladies will untie those 
 packages," cried Wawrzecki. 
 
 Napkins were spread out on the grass and a 
 variety of dainties was brought forward and 
 set upon them amid laughter. 
 
 "That's nice, but where is the tea?" 
 exclaimed Janina. 
 
 Kotlicki jumped up. 
 
 ' * The tea is here and also the samovar, only 
 you, sir, will have to go for some water. We 
 shall go together for it to the Wisla!" cried 
 Majkowska, shaking the charcoal out of a 
 pitcher. 
 
 Kotlicki frowned a bit, but went along with 
 her. In a few minutes the samovar was started, 
 Glogowski proving himself a real master. 
 
 "That is my specialty!" he shouted blow- 
 ing at the fire like a pair of bellows. "And I 
 must tell you ladies that very often, more often 
 than I like, I lack coal. It is then that my 
 inventive genius comes to the fore : I stoke the 
 fire with papers or, if that is also missing, I 
 pluck a board from the floor and, willy nilly, 
 the tea is produced." 
 
 "You must lead a very diversified life!" 
 remarked Topolski with a laugh. 
 
The Comedienne 241 
 
 "A trifle! Just a trifle . . . but I won't 
 say that I relish it." 
 
 "I proclaim to all in general and to everyone 
 in particular that the tea is beginning to boil! 
 . . . Now, ladies, assume the rdles of Hebes !" 
 called Glogowski. 
 
 Janina poured out the tea for all of them 
 before sitting down near Mimi. 
 
 11 1 am organizing a dramatic society," 
 began Topolski. 
 
 "I will tell you the only way to do it: you 
 engage a few score of the theatrical tribe by 
 promising them high salaries and give them 
 small advances ; you look for a lady treasurer 
 who is wise enough to have a bond and naive 
 enough to deposit it; with it you buy the 
 necessary accessories, have them sent on 
 account and you are ready either to begin, 
 or to break up. And in two months you can 
 repeat the same prescription until you get 
 results," jested Wawrzecki. 
 
 "Wawrzecki, quit your confounded non- 
 sense!" cried the irritated Topolski, drinking 
 one glass of brandy after another. "That 
 kind of company any idiot can organize, any 
 Cabinski. I don't want a band of players who 
 will scatter to the four winds as soon as some 
 
 16 
 
242 The Comedienne 
 
 one lures them with the promise of a big 
 advance, but a strong organization with a 
 well-defined plan, an organization as solid as 
 a stonewall!" 
 
 "You often broke up companies yourself 
 and yet you think you can manage 
 actors? . . ." persisted Wawrzecki. 
 
 "I am sure of it. Listen all! This is how 
 I would go about it: condition one about 
 five thousand rubles to begin with; I fish out 
 of all the companies their best forces, thirty 
 persons at most; I pay them moderately but 
 honestly; I assure dividends ..." 
 
 "Come now, you had better give up dream- 
 ing about dividends!" growled Kotlicki. 
 
 "There will be a dividend! there must 
 be!" cried Topolski with growing enthusiasm. 
 "I select my plays: a series of typical and 
 classical things; these will be the walls and 
 foundations of my edifice ; furthermore, all the 
 more important novelties and all the folk- 
 plays, but away with operetta, away with 
 clownishness, away with the circus, away with 
 everything that is not true art! I want to 
 have a theater and not a puppet show ! artists 
 are not clowns!" he cried in an ever louder 
 voice. 
 
The Comedienne 243 
 
 Topolski began to cough so violently that all 
 the veins in his neck swelled like whipcords. 
 He coughed for a long time, then took a drink 
 of brandy and began talking again, but in a 
 quieter and slower voice, without looking at 
 anyone, or seeing anything beyond this dream 
 of his whole life, which he related in short 
 and tangled sentences. 
 
 Kotlicki, who was not stirred even for a 
 moment by that speech full of inspiration as 
 well as illogicality, remarked: "You are a little 
 late. Antoine in Paris has long ago put into 
 practice what you propose; those are his 
 ideas . . ." 
 
 "No, those are my ideas, my dreams; for 
 twenty years already I am carrying them 
 within me!" cried Topolski, growing sud- 
 denly livid as though struck by lightning, and 
 gazing in a dazed way at Kotlicki. 
 
 "What of that, when others have already 
 partially realized those dreams and given 
 them their name ..." 
 
 "Thieves! they have stolen my idea! they 
 have stolen my idea!" shouted Topolski and 
 fell over half -senseless on the grass, covering 
 his face with his hands, sobbing convulsively 
 and stammering in a drunken voice: "They 
 
244 The Comedienne 
 
 have stolen my idea! . . . Help! they have 
 stolen my idea!" And he continued to roll 
 about on the grass, sobbing like a grieved 
 child. 
 
 "Not because of the fact that that idea is 
 already known do I see the impossibility of 
 realizing such a project," began Glogowski 
 calmly, "but because our public has not yet 
 reached the point where it is ready for such 
 a theater and does not feel the need of such a 
 stage. In the meanwhile, give them the farce 
 full of acrobatic stunts and leg-shows, a half- 
 naked ballet, cancan howling, a little, cheap 
 kitchen sentimentality, a heap of empty 
 phrases on the subject of virtue, morality, the 
 family, duty, love, and ..." 
 
 "Count up to twenty ..." laughed 
 Kotlicki. 
 
 1 ' Just as is the public, so are its theaters ; one 
 is worth as much as the other!" remarked 
 Majkowska. 
 
 "He who wants to rule the multitude and 
 rule over it, must flatter it and do that which 
 the multitude wants; he must give it that 
 which it needs; he must first be its slave so 
 that he may later become its master," said 
 Kotlicki slowly and with unction. 
 
The Comedienne 245 
 
 "I will say: no! I neither want to cringe 
 to the mob, nor be its master; I prefer to go 
 my own way alone . . . " answered Glogowski 
 emphatically. 
 
 "A splendid standpoint! From it you can 
 laugh at everyone to your heart's content." 
 
 11 Miss Janina, please let me have some tea!" 
 cried the already irritated Glogowski, spring- 
 ing up violently, throwing his hat at a tree 
 and feverishly rumpling his sparse hair. 
 
 "You are ever a fiery radical of native 
 breed," said Kotlicki with a good-natured 
 irony. 
 
 "And you are a poor fish, a seal, a 
 whale . . ." 
 
 ' ' Count up to twenty ! ' ' 
 
 " Those are fine arguments, indeed! . . . 
 Here is a much better one," cried Wawrzecki, 
 handing Glogowski his cane. 
 
 Glogowski calmed himself, gazed around a 
 moment and began drinking his tea. 
 
 Majkowska was listening silently, while 
 Mimi, stretched out on Wawrzecki's over- 
 coat, was fast asleep. 
 
 Janina was serving tea to all and did not 
 lose a word of that conversation. She had 
 already forgotten about Grzesikiewicz, about 
 

 246 The Comedienne 
 
 her father, and about her talk with Kotlicki, 
 and was entirely engrossed by the questions 
 that were now being discussed, while Topol- 
 ski's dreams fascinated her by their fantasies. 
 Such general discussions on art and artistic 
 subjects absorbed her entirely. 
 
 "What about your dramatic society?" she 
 asked Topolski who was just raising his head. 
 
 "It will be ... it must be formed!" an- 
 swered Topolski. 
 
 "I warrant you it will be," interposed 
 Kotlicki, "not the kind that Topolski desires 
 but that which will be the best within the 
 bounds of possibility. It will even be possible 
 to introduce certain improvements by way of 
 variety and attraction, but we shall leave the 
 reformation of the theater to someone else; for 
 that you would need hundreds of thousands 
 of rubles and you would have to start it in 
 Paris." 
 
 "The reformation of the theater will not 
 originate with the managers, and as for 
 dramatic creativity, what is it really? . . . 
 The seeking of something in the dark, a dog- 
 like scenting about, an aimless straying, or 
 the antics of a flea. A genius must arrive to 
 revolutionize the modern theater; I already 
 
The Comedienne 247 
 
 have a feeling that one is coming . . ." 
 asserted Glogowski. 
 
 "How is that? . . . Aren't the existing 
 masterpieces of the drama sufficient for creat- 
 ing an ideal theater?" queried Janina. 
 
 "No . . . those masterpieces belong to the 
 past; we need other works. For us those 
 masterpieces are a very important archeo- 
 logy," answered Glogowski. 
 
 "So in your estimation Shakespeare is 
 antiquated?" 
 
 " Sh ! let us not speak of him ; he is the whole 
 universe; we can merely contemplate him, but 
 never understand him . . ." 
 
 "And Schiller?" 
 
 "A Utopian and classic: an echo of the 
 Encyclopedists and the French Revolution. 
 He represents nobility, order, German doc- 
 trinarianism and pathetic and wearisome 
 declamation." 
 
 "And Goethe?" ventured Janina, who had 
 developed a great liking for Glogowski 's para- 
 doxical definitions. 
 
 "That means only Faust, but Faust is so 
 complicated a machine that since the death of 
 the inventor no one knows how to wind it or 
 start it going. The commentators push its 
 
248 The Comedienne 
 
 wheels, take it apart, clean it, and dust it, 
 but the machine will not go and already is 
 beginning to rust a little. . . . Moreover, 
 it is a furious aristocracy. That Mr. Faust is 
 first of all not the ideal type of man, but an 
 experimenter; he is nothing but the brain of 
 one of those learned rabbis who spend their 
 whole lives on pondering whether it is proper 
 to enter the synagogue with the right or the 
 left foot first; he is a vivisector, who, after 
 breaking the heart of Margaret in the process 
 of his experimentation, and fearing the threat 
 of imprisonment, and being unable by virtue of 
 his shortsightedness to see anything beyond 
 his study and his retorts, makes a sport of 
 complaining and laments that life is base and 
 knowledge is worthless. In truth, it requires 
 a great deal of genuinely German arrogance 
 to maintain when you have a catarrh that 
 everybody else has it or ought to have it." 
 
 "I prefer such merry works to your wise 
 plays," whispered Kotlicki. 
 
 "Oh, and what of Shelley and Byron?" 
 begged Janina, whose interest was fully 
 aroused. 
 
 "I prefer foolishness even when it presumes 
 to speak rather than when it seeks to create 
 
The Comedienne 249 
 
 something/' Glogowski hastily flung back at 
 Kotlicki. 
 
 "Aha, Byron! . . .Byron is a steam engine 
 producing a rebellious energy ; a lord who was 
 dissatisfied in England and dissatisfied in 
 Venice with Suiciolla, for although he had a 
 warm climate and money he was bored. He 
 is a rebel-individualist, a strong, passionate 
 monster; a lord who is always seething with 
 fury and using all the forces of his wonderful 
 talent to spite his enemies. He slapped Eng- 
 land's face with masterpieces. He is a mighty 
 protest ant out of boredom and in his own 
 personal interest. " 
 
 "And Shelley?" 
 
 "Shelley again, is a divine lingo for the 
 public of Saturn; he is the poet of the elements 
 and not for us mortals." 
 
 Glogowski became silent and went to pour 
 himself some tea. 
 
 "We are still listening; at least, I am wait- 
 ing with impatience for you to continue 
 your very interesting exposition," exclaimed 
 Janina. 
 
 "Very well, but I am going to skip over a 
 great many immortals so as to finish sooner." 
 
 "You can continue on the condition that 
 
250 The Comedienne 
 
 you'll do so without tinkling the bells and 
 beating the tambourine." 
 
 ' ' Kotlicki, keep quiet ! You are a miserable 
 philistine, a typical representative of your 
 base species and you are denied a voice when 
 human beings are speaking!" 
 
 " Gentlemen, please quit your arguing, for 
 I can't sleep," pitifully pleaded Mimi. 
 
 "Yes, yes, it isn't at all amusing!" added 
 Majkowska with a mighty yawn. 
 
 Wawrzecki began again to fill the glasses. 
 Glogowski moved close to Janina and began 
 enthusiastically to expound to her his theory. 
 
 ' ' Ibsen makes a strange impression on me ; 
 he foreshadows someone mightier than himself 
 who is yet to come ; he is like the light of dawn 
 before the rising sun. And as regards the 
 newest, over-praised and over-advertised Ger- 
 mans: Suderman and Company they are 
 merely a loud prating about small things; 
 much ado about nothing. They wish to con- 
 vince the world for instance that it is unneces- 
 sary to wear suspenders with your trousers, 
 because you can sometimes wear them without 
 suspenders." 
 
 "So we have finally got to the point where 
 there are no more left to dispose of," inter- 
 
The Comedienne 251 
 
 posed Kotlicki. "One got a whack over the 
 head, another a jab in the ribs, a third a very 
 polite kick and so forth ..." 
 
 "No, my dear sir, / still remain!" rejoined 
 Glogowski, with a comical bow. 
 
 "We demolished vast edifices for the sake 
 of a soap bubble." 
 
 "Perhaps, but since even in soap bubbles 
 the sun is reflected ..." 
 
 "Therefore, let us have another drink of 
 brandy!" exclaimed Topolski, who had been 
 silent up till now. 
 
 "Throw out all that argumentation to the 
 dogs! . . . Let us drink and quit thinking!" 
 chimed in Wawrzecki. 
 
 ' ' That last statement is an epitome of your- 
 self, Wawrzecki!" remarked Glogowski. 
 
 "Let us drink and love one another!" 
 proposed Kotlicki, rousing himself and tink- 
 ling his glass against the bottle. 
 
 "To that I will agree, as I am Glogowski, I 
 will agree, for love alone is the soul of the 
 world!" 
 
 "Wait a minute, I will sing you something 
 about love," cried Wawrzecki, and he pro- 
 ceeded to drone an amorous ditty. 
 
 "Bravo Wawrzecki!" cried the entire com- 
 
252 The Comedienne 
 
 pany and with that they all abandoned them- 
 selves to pure merriment, ceased arguing and 
 babbled any nonsense that came to their lips. 
 
 "Most esteemed ladies and gentlemen! the 
 sky is beginning to cloud and on earth the 
 bottles are all empty. Let us beat a retreat !" 
 finally suggested Wawrzecki. 
 
 "But how?" chorused a few voices. 
 
 "We will go on foot, for it is not more than 
 a mile to Warsaw." 
 
 "We'll hire some husky fellow to carry the 
 baskets for us. I'll go and see if I can find 
 someone," said Wawrzecki, and he went off in 
 the direction of a monastery. 
 
 Before he returned all were ready for the 
 homeward journey. The general mood of 
 gayety had even risen, for Mimi was dancing 
 a waltz with Glogowski on the greensward. 
 Topolski was so drunk that he continually 
 kept talking to himself and quarreling with 
 Majkowska. Kotlicki smiled and kept close 
 to Janina who had become very sportive and 
 merry. She smiled at him and conversed 
 with him, hardly remembering his recent 
 proposal. He was sure that the impression 
 of it had merely glided over her soul and sunk 
 away in forgetfulness. 
 
The Comedienne 253 
 
 They walked in disordered groups as is usual 
 after an outing. Janina was weaving a 
 wreath of oak leaves, while Kotlicki was helping 
 her and amusing her with piquant remarks. 
 She listened to him, but when they entered 
 into a bigger and real wood where the ground 
 was covered with dense underbrush, she sud- 
 denly became grave, gazed at the trees with 
 such great joy, touched their trunks and 
 branches with such tenderness, her lips and 
 eyes glowed with such rapture, that Kotlicki 
 asked her, pointing to the trees: "No doubt 
 they must be good friends of yours? " 
 
 "Yes indeed, good and sincere friends and 
 not comedians! " she replied with a light irony 
 in her voice. 
 
 "You have a very vengeful memory. You 
 neither believe, nor forgive. I desire only one 
 thing: to be able to convince you ..." 
 
 "Then marry me!" she exclaimed quickly, 
 turning towards him. 
 
 "I beg for your hand! " he murmured in the 
 same tone. 
 
 They glanced straight into each other's 
 eyes and both suddenly became gloomy. 
 Janina knitted her brows and began uncon- 
 sciously to tear her unfinished wreath with her 
 
254 The Comedienne 
 
 teeth, while Kotlicki bowed his head and 
 became silent. 
 
 "Come, let us hurry, we shall be late for 
 the performance!" called someone, and they 
 hastened to catch up with the rest of the 
 company. 
 
 "So to-morrow there is to be a read re- 
 hearsal of my play?" Glogowski was asking 
 Topolski. 
 
 "To be exact, it will be only a reading of 
 the play itself, for Dobek has not yet finished 
 writing out the roles," answered Topolski. 
 
 "Great Scott! and when do you expect to 
 present it?" 
 
 "Don't fear, the Philistines will hiss and 
 hoot you soon enough, without your hurry- 
 ing!" Kotlicki twitted him. 
 
 "We shall present it in a week from next 
 Tuesday ... at least I would have it so," 
 replied Topolski. 
 
 "Or, strictly speaking, there will remain for 
 rehearsals and for the learning of the roles only 
 four days. No one will know his part, no 
 one will be able to master it even passably in 
 so short a time. That's nothing short of mur- 
 der, cold-blooded murder!" cried Glogowski. 
 
 "You'll treat Dobek to a few whiskeys and 
 
The Comedienne 255 
 
 he will safely pull the play through for you," 
 suggested Wawrzecki. 
 
 "Yes, he will shout for everybody. ... As 
 the matter stands, it is best to announce that 
 there will take place merely a reading of the 
 play." 
 
 "You needn't worry about me, I'll learn my 
 role," Majkowska assured him. 
 
 " And I also," added Janina. 
 
 "I know the ladies always know their parts 
 but the men . . ." 
 
 "The men will play their parts well without 
 having to learn them," remarked Wawrzecki. 
 "Don't you know that Glas never studies his 
 r61es! A few rehearsals familiarize him with 
 the situations of the play and the prompter 
 does the rest." 
 
 "That's why he plays so splendidly!" 
 sneered Glogowski. 
 
 "What do you want? He's a good actor 
 and not at all a bad comedian." 
 
 "Yes, because he always knows how to 
 improvise some nonsense with which to cover 
 up his bungling." 
 
 "Please give me an entirely serious answer. 
 Were those last words of yours only a joke or 
 were they an expression of your wishes and a 
 
256 The Comedienne 
 
 condition?" Kotlicki again whispered to Ja- 
 nina as a certain idea entered into his head. 
 
 "Every variety is good, providing it is not 
 wearisome. Have you heard that before?" 
 answered Janina impatiently. 
 
 "Thank you! I will remember it. . . . 
 But do you know this: patience is the first 
 condition of success." 
 
 Kotlicki glanced at her quizzically, bowed 
 to her with his head, and retired among the 
 rest of the company. He possessed a brazen 
 self-confidence and decided, at all events, to 
 wait. 
 
 Kotlicki was not one of those whom a 
 woman can drive away from herself with scorn 
 or even with insults. He accepted everything 
 and carefully stored it away in his memory for 
 a future reckoning. He was a man who had 
 a contempt for women, who told people what 
 he thought to their very faces, and who 
 always craved women and love. He ignored 
 the fact that he was ugly, for he knew he was 
 rich enough to buy any woman that he might 
 desire. He belonged to that category of men 
 which is ready for anything. 
 
 He now walked along smiling at some 
 thought that was in his mind, and striking 
 
The Comedienne 257 
 
 with his cane the weeds that were in his 
 path. 
 
 It grew dark and the rain began to fall in 
 large drops. 
 
 "We will get drenched like chickens I" 
 laughed Mimi, opening her parasol. 
 
 "Miss Janina, my umbrella is at your 
 service," called Glogowski. 
 
 "Thank you very much, but as far as I 
 am able, I do not use any protection against 
 the rain; I just dote on getting wet in the 
 
 rain." 
 
 "You have the instincts of . . ."he broke 
 off suddenly and pressed his hand to his mouth 
 with a comical gesture. 
 
 "Finish what you began to say . . . please 
 do . . ." 
 
 "You have the instincts of fish and geese. 
 ... I am curious to know how they have 
 developed in you." 
 
 Janina smiled, for she remembered her old 
 autumn and winter tramps through the woods 
 in the greatest storms and rainfalls, and she 
 answered merrily: "I like such things. I am 
 used from my childhood to endure rains and 
 rough weather ... I am simply wild about 
 
 storms." 
 17 
 
258 The Comedienne 
 
 "My, what fiery blood! It must be some- 
 thing atavistic." 
 
 "It's merely a habit or an inner need which 
 has grown to the proportions of a passion.*' 
 
 Glogowski offered his arm to Janina; she 
 accepted and began to relate to him in an easy, 
 friendly tone the various adventures she had 
 experienced on her excursions in the country. 
 She felt as unrestrained in his company as 
 though she had known him from childhood. 
 At moments she would even forget that this 
 was the first time in her life that she had met 
 him. She was won over to him by his bright 
 and happy face and by the somewhat mild 
 sincerity of his character; she felt in him a 
 brotherly and honest soul. 
 
 Glogowski listened to her, answered her 
 questions, and observed her with curiosity. 
 Finally, choosing an appropriate moment, he 
 said frankly: "May the deuce take me, but 
 you are an interesting woman, a very interest- 
 ing one! I will tell you something; just now 
 a certain thought struck me and I offer it to 
 you hot from the griddle, only don't think it 
 strange. I detest conventionality, social hypo- 
 crisy, the affectation of actresses, etc., count 
 up to twenty! . . . and that is just what I fail, 
 
The Comedienne 259 
 
 as yet, to see in you. Oho! I immediately 
 noticed that you were free from all that. 
 Frankly, I like you as a certain type that one 
 meets very rarely. It is interesting, interest- 
 ing!" he repeated, almost to himself. "We 
 might become friends!" he cried delightedly, 
 speaking his thoughts aloud, "For, although 
 women always disappoint me, because sooner 
 or later the female of the species crops out in 
 every one of them, still, a new experiment 
 might be worth something. . . ." 
 
 " Frankness in return for frankness," said 
 Janina, laughing at the lightning-like swift- 
 ness with which he formed determinations. 
 "You also are an interesting specimen." 
 
 "Well, then, we agree! Let us shake and 
 be good friends!" he exclaimed, extending his 
 hand. 
 
 "But I haven't yet finished what I wanted 
 to say: I must tell you that I do without 
 confidants and friends entirely. That smacks 
 of sentimentality and is not very safe." 
 
 "Bosh! Friendship is worth more than 
 love. I see it's beginning to pour in earnest. 
 It is the dogs crying over rejected friendship. 
 I shall have the opportunity of meeting you 
 more often, shall I not? For you have within 
 
260 The Comedienne 
 
 you something . . . something like a piece of 
 a certain kind of soul that one comes across 
 very rarely." 
 
 "I am at the theater every day for re- 
 hearsals and almost every day at the per- 
 formances." 
 
 "Oh the deuce take it, that won't do at all! 
 If I attended on you for only once a week, it 
 would give rise to so much gossip, twaddle, sur- 
 mises," 
 
 "Oh I don't care what people say about 
 me!" Janina laughed with an easy air. 
 
 "Ho! ho! I see you are of the fighting 
 variety ... a regular gamecock! I like a 
 person who treats with scant ceremony that 
 old rag called public opinion." 
 
 1 ' I think that as long as I have nothing to 
 reproach myself with, I can listen calmly to 
 what they say about me." 
 
 "Pride, a capital pride!" 
 
 "Why don't you bring out your play in the 
 Warsaw Theater?" 
 
 "Because they did not want to produce it. 
 That, you see, is a very elegant and highly 
 perfumed establishment and only for a very 
 delicate and subtly feeling public, while my 
 play does not smell a bit of the salon ; at the 
 
The Comedienne 261 
 
 most, it smells of the fields, a little of the woods 
 and a trifle of the peasant's hut. There they 
 want, not truth, but flirtation, conventionality 
 bluffing, etc., count up to twenty. Moreover, 
 I had no backing, and they already have their 
 patented play manufacturers." 
 
 "I thought it was only necessary to write 
 something good and they would immediately 
 produce it 
 
 "Great Scott! No! . . . quite the reverse 
 is true. Just look how much I must bear 
 before even such as Cabinski presents my 
 play! . . . Now raise that to the fourth 
 power and only then will you have some 
 conception of the joys of a beginning comedy 
 writer, who, in addition, does not know how 
 to secure patronage for his plays." 
 
 They became silent. The rain fell inces- 
 santly and was already forming big puddles 
 of water along the road. Glogowski gazed 
 gloomily at the city whose towers appeared 
 outlined upon the misty horizon. 
 
 ' ' A base city ! " he grumbled angrily. ' ' For 
 three years I have vainly been trying to con- 
 quer it. I am struggling and killing myself, 
 and yet, not even a dog knows me." 
 
 "If you keep on telling them that they are 
 
262 The Comedienne 
 
 base knaves and fools you will never conquer 
 them." 
 
 "I will. They will not love me, to be sure, 
 but they will have to reckon with me, they 
 must ! However, such citadels are most easily 
 stormed by actors, singers, and dancers. They 
 make a clean sweep of everything with only 
 one appearance." 
 
 "But their triumph is only for a day. 
 After they have left the stage all trace of them 
 is lost like that of a stone cast into the water ! ' ' 
 said Janina with a certain bitterness, gazing 
 fixedly at the ever nearer appearing, crowded 
 walls of Warsaw. Only at that moment did 
 she realize that the fame of which she dreamed 
 was merely the fame of a day. 
 
 ' ' It seems to me that you have an appetite 
 for the same thing that I have," remarked 
 Glogowski. 
 
 "I have!" she answered with emphasis and 
 her voice resounded with the explosive force of 
 something that had been long pent up. 
 
 "I have!" she repeated, but this time in a 
 much quieter tone and without enthusiasm. 
 The light died away in Janina' s eyes and they 
 strayed aimlessly over those heights of the 
 city in the distance, without understanding 
 
The Comedienne 263 
 
 anything, for she was perturbed by the 
 thought of that ephemeral fame, for she 
 remembered the faded wreaths of Cabinska 
 and the bygone fame of Stanislawski, for she 
 was thinking with growing bitterness of those 
 thousands of famous actors who were dead 
 and whose names even were forgotten. Jan- 
 ina felt a distressing conflict of feelings in her 
 breast. She leaned more heavily on Glogow- 
 ski's arm and walked on without saying 
 another word. 
 
 At Zakroczymska Street they took a hack; 
 Kotlicki jumped in and went along with them, 
 forming a party of three. Janina eyed him 
 angrily, but he pretended he did not notice it 
 and gazed at her with his everlasting smile. 
 Glogowski and Kotlicki accompanied her to 
 her home. She had only enough time left to 
 rush into the house, change her dress, take the 
 things she needed and immediately start off 
 again for the theater. 
 
 Because of the rain a few of the other 
 chorus girls were also late. Cabinski, expect- 
 ing an empty house on account of the weather, 
 was irritated and rushed up and down the 
 stage, shouting to all those who were enter- 
 ing: "I see you girls are getting lazy. It is 
 
264 The Comedienne 
 
 already past eight o'clock and not one of you 
 is yet dressed." 
 
 "We have been attending vespers at the 
 Church of St. Charles of Borromeus," ex- 
 plained Zielinska. 
 
 "Don't try to fool me with vespers! The 
 deuce with vespers! Tend to that which 
 gives you your bread!" 
 
 "You provide us so generously with it, Mr. 
 Director!" angrily retorted Louise. 
 
 ' * What, I don't pay you? What else do you 
 live on?" 
 
 "What do we live on? ... Certainly 
 not your absurd and merely promised sal- 
 aries!" 
 
 "Oh, and you are also late?" he cried to 
 Janina who was just entering. 
 
 "I appear only in the third act, so I still 
 have plenty of time." 
 
 "Wicek! go run and get Miss Rosinska. 
 Where is Sophie? Hurry up and begin ! May 
 the devil take you all!" shouted Cabinski 
 growing exasperated. 
 
 He peered through the slit in the curtain. 
 
 "The theater is already filled, by God, and 
 not a soul is, as yet, in the dressing-rooms! 
 Afterwards they complain that I don't pay 
 
The Comedienne 265 
 
 them! Gentlemen! for God's sake, hurry and 
 get dressed and begin!" 
 
 " Right away, as soon as we finish this 
 game." 
 
 A few undressed actors with their make-up 
 half-completed were playing a game of poker. 
 Stanislawski alone sat in a corner of the dress- 
 ing-room before his mirror and was making up 
 his face. Already for the third time he was 
 rubbing off the paint with a towel and mak- 
 ing up anew. He gymnasticated his mouth, 
 contracted his brows in anger, puckered his 
 forehead and cast all sorts of glances. He was 
 rehearsing a character and with each change of 
 his physiognomy, he mumbled beneath his 
 breath the corresponding parts of his r61e, only 
 now and then tossing in the direction of the 
 card players a ten-copeck piece and two words : 
 "A four . . . ten coppers!" 
 
 ' ' The public is starting a rumpus ! It's time 
 to ring and begin!" pleaded Cabinski. 
 
 "Don't disturb us, Director. Let them 
 wait. ... A trump! . . . Shell out the 
 coin!" 
 
 "A jack . . . you pay!" 
 
 "A queen of hearts . . . hand over five 
 shekles!" 
 
266 The Comedienne 
 
 "All's ready! Stake something on Desde- 
 mona, Director," cried one of the players, 
 shuffling and stacking the cards. 
 
 "She will betray me!" hissed Cabinski. 
 
 "Doesn't she betray you anyway?" 
 
 "Ring!" shouted Cabinski to the stage- 
 director, hearing a stamping of feet in the hall. 
 
 For a few minutes nothing was heard but the 
 rustling of cards, falling with lightning-like 
 rapidity upon the table. 
 
 "Four aces . . . you're done for !" 
 
 "Shell out!" 
 
 "Ajack!" 
 
 "A five ... that's good. I'll at least 
 make something." 
 
 "A queen of hearts." 
 
 "Have some consideration for the ladies!" 
 persisted Cabinski. 
 
 1 ' A queen of spades. Shell out ! ' ' 
 
 "Enough of that! Hurry and dress your- 
 selves! The audience is already beginning to 
 howl." 
 
 "If that amuses them, why interfere?" 
 
 "You'll change your minds about it, if they 
 leave the theater and demand their money 
 back!" cried Cabinski, rushing out in utter 
 desperation. 
 
The Comedienne 267 
 
 The actors threw down their cards and all 
 began to dress themselves in feverish haste 
 and to complete their make-up. 
 
 "What do we play first?" 
 
 "The Vow." 
 
 "Stanislawski!" 
 
 ' ' You can ring, I am coming ! " called Stanis- 
 lawski, as he slowly made his way to the 
 stage. 
 
 "Hurry! or they'll wreck the theater!" 
 cried Cabinski in the doorway. 
 
 They were giving a so-called "dramatic 
 bouquet," or "as you like it," that is: a comic 
 sketch, a one-act operetta, a scene from a 
 drama and a solo dance. Almost the entire 
 company took part in the performance. 
 
 Janina sat behind the scenes and watched 
 the stage, waiting for her turn. She felt 
 greatly overwrought by the happenings of 
 that entire day. She closed her eyes and 
 became rapt in a quiet meditation of the 
 words of Grzesikiewicz, who had again 
 recurred to her memory, but suddenly, she 
 started with a shudder, for behind his face she 
 saw emerging the satyr -like face of Kotlicki 
 with its mocking smile; then, there passed 
 before her mind a vision of Glogowski with his 
 
268 The Comedienne 
 
 large head and kindly look. She rubbed her 
 eyes as though to drive those visions away 
 from her, but that smile of Kotlicki would not 
 leave her memory. 
 
 "What a disgusting poodle that Rosinska 
 is!" whispered Majkowska, standing before 
 Janina. 
 
 Janina roused herself and looked up at 
 Majkowska with a certain dissatisfaction. 
 What interest did all that have for her at the 
 present moment? And she already began to 
 feel vexed and impatient at that eternal bat- 
 tle of all with everybody. She wasn't a bit 
 concerned about Rosinska, whose acting was, 
 in reality, impossible, and nauseatingly senti- 
 mental. 
 
 " Cabinski would do well to keep her off the 
 stage," continued Majkowska without heeding 
 Janina' s silence, but she broke off quickly, for 
 there approached them just then Sophie, 
 Rosinska' s daughter, who was to dance a solo 
 pas with a shawl. 
 
 She stood beside Majkowska, all dressed 
 for the dance. In that costume she looked 
 like a girl of twelve; her figure was undeve- 
 loped, her face was thin and mobile, while her 
 gray eyes and cynically contorted, carmined 
 
The Comedienne 269 
 
 lips wore the expression of an experienced 
 courtesan. She watched the acting of her 
 mother, hissing between her teeth with dis- 
 satisfaction. Finally, she bent over toward 
 Majkowska and whispered so that Janina 
 could not hear her: "Just look how that old 
 woman is playing!" 
 
 "Who? Your mother?" 
 
 "Yes. Just look at the eyes she is making 
 at that fellow in the high hat ! Hopping about 
 like an old turkey hen, too! Gee whiz, how 
 she has dolled herself up! She's bent on 
 making herself look young and doesn't even 
 know how to make up her face decently. I 
 am ashamed of her. She thinks that all are 
 such fools that they will not notice her arti- 
 ficial beauty. Ha ! ha ! She can't fool me, for 
 one. When she dresses, she locks herself up 
 so as not to let me see how she pads and pieces 
 herself together, ha! ha!" she laughed with an 
 almost hostile expression. "Those men are 
 such simps that they believe everything they 
 see. . . . She buys everything for herself and I 
 can't even beg money for a parasol from her." 
 
 "Sophie, who ever heard of speaking that 
 way about one's mother!" Majkowska 
 reproved her. 
 
270 The Comedienne 
 
 " Oh slush ! a mother isn't anything so great ! 
 In about four years I can become a mother 
 myself, a few times, if I want to; but I'm not 
 so foolish as all that ... no kids for mine, 
 not on your life! I'd have to be some fool!' 
 
 "You are a nasty and silly kid! I'm going 
 to tell your mother immediately ..." indig- 
 nantly whispered Majkowska, walking away. 
 
 "She's a silly fool herself, even though she 
 is an actress of standing." Sophie hurled 
 after her, pouting her lips spitefully. 
 
 "Stop that! You're preventing me from 
 hearing what is being said on the stage." 
 
 "You won't lose much, Miss Janina! The 
 old woman has a voice like a cracked pot," 
 continued Sophie unabashed. 
 
 Janina made an impatient motion. 
 
 "And if you only knew how she lies to me! 
 At Lublin there came to our house a certain 
 gentleman named Kulasiewicz, whom I called 
 'Kulas' for he never even brought me any 
 candy. She spanked me for it and told me 
 that he was my father. . . . Ha! ha! ha! I 
 know what kind of 'fathers' they are. . . . 
 At Lublin, there was Kulas, at Lodz, Kaminski 
 and now, she has two of them. . . . She tries 
 to hide the fact, and thinks that I envy her. 
 
The Comedienne 271 
 
 I'd have to be some fool for that! Such 
 penniless jiggers you can pick up anywhere 
 by the bushel . . . " 
 
 "Stop that, Sophie, you are a wicked girl!" 
 whispered Janina, boiling with indignation at 
 the cynicism of that actor's child. 
 
 "What's wrong in what I say? Isn't it 
 true?" she answered with a wonderful accent 
 of true innocence. 
 
 "You ask me what's wrong! Where will 
 you find another child who says such horrid 
 things about her mother?" 
 
 "Well, why is she such a fool? All of the 
 other actresses have lovers who at least have 
 money, while she . . . look at what she's 
 got! I also would be better off if she were 
 wiser. . . . Believe me, when I grow up, I'll 
 not be such a fool as she! ..." 
 
 Janina staggered back, staring at her in 
 amazement, but Sophie did not understand 
 that and, bending more closely over her, 
 whispered significantly: "Have you already 
 got someone, Miss Janina?" 
 
 She hurried away immediately, for the cur- 
 tain had already descended and her dance was 
 to begin right away in the entr' acte. 
 
 Janina shuddered as though something 
 
272 The Comedienne 
 
 unclean had touched her. A cold chill passed 
 through her and a blush of shame and humili- 
 ation covered her face. 
 
 "What filth !" she whispered to herself; 
 Sophie, unconscious of her was all smiling and 
 radiant on the stage. 
 
 Sophie's long thin mouth like that of a 
 greyhound merely flashed now and then in the 
 wild tempo of the waltz she was performing. 
 She danced with such temperament and skill 
 that a storm of applause greeted her. Some- 
 one even threw her a bouquet. She picked it 
 up and, retreating from the stage, smiled 
 coquettishly like a veteran actress, sniffing in 
 with distended nostrils those signs of the pub- 
 lic's satisfaction. 
 
 "Miss Janina," she cried behind the scenes. 
 " Look, I got a bouquet ! Now Cabinski must 
 give me a raise. They came especially to see 
 me dance . . . Do you hear how they are 
 recalling me!" and she leaped out upon the 
 open stage to bow to the public. 
 
 "Your stage prating isn't worth a fig!" she 
 said to the actresses. "If it weren't for the 
 dance the theater would be empty." And 
 she pirouetted on tiptoe, laughed triumphantly 
 and went off to her dressing-room. 
 
The Comedienne 273 
 
 The company had begun to play an act of a 
 very lachrymose drama entitled The Daughter 
 of Fabricius. Topolski appeared in the r61e of 
 Fabricius and Majkowska impersonated his 
 daughter. They played entirely well although 
 Topolski was still so drunk that he didn't 
 know where he was, but he nevertheless acted 
 so perfectly that no one was aware of it. Only 
 Stanislawski stood behind the scenes and 
 laughed aloud at his automatic motions and 
 the blank expression of his eyes. Majkowska 
 was upholding Topolski every now and then, 
 for he would have fallen on the stage. 
 
 "Mirowska! come here and see how they 
 are acting!" called Stanislawski to the old 
 actress who was to-day apathetically disposed, 
 his eyes glowing with feverish animosity. 
 
 "That is my r61e ! I ought to be playing it. 
 Look what he has made of it, the drunken 
 beast!" he hissed between his tightly set 
 teeth. And when, applause, that was in spite 
 of everything, merited, broke out, Stanislaw- 
 ski became pale with rage and grasped at one 
 of the scenes to keep from falling over, so 
 great an envy was choking him. 
 
 1 'Cattle! Cattle!" he whispered hoarsely, 
 shaking his fist threateningly at the public. 
 
 18 
 
274 The Comedienne 
 
 Then he went to look for the stage- direct or 
 but being unable to find him, came back. He 
 continued to walk about excited and angry, 
 scarcely able to stand on his feet. 
 
 "My daughter! . . . My beloved child ! so 
 you do not spurn your aged father? . . . You 
 press to your pure heart your criminal father? 
 . . . You do not flee from his tears and 
 kisses?" came floating from the stage Topol- 
 ski's ardent whisper and struck the old actor 
 so forcibly that he stood still, thrilled by the 
 acting, forgot entirely about his envy, repeated 
 those words in a whisper and put into those 
 quiet accents of fatherly love so much feeling 
 and tears, so much blood and inspiration and 
 appeared at the same time so funny standing 
 in the dim light behind the scenes with hands 
 pathetically outstretched into empty space, 
 with head bent forward and eyes fixed upon 
 the rope of the curtain, that Wicek, who saw 
 him, ran to the dressing-room crying : "Gentle- 
 men, come and see Stanislawski showing 
 something new behind the scenes." 
 
 They all rushed in a crowd to view the sight 
 and, seeing him still standing in the same 
 pathetic pose, burst out laughing in unison. 
 
 "Ha! ha! a South American monkey!" 
 
The Comedienne 275 
 
 "That is an African mammoth, that has 
 lived for a hundred years, devoured human 
 beings, devoured paper, devoured r61es, de- 
 voured fame until it died from indigestion," 
 cried Wawrzecki, imitating the voice and 
 speech of a provincial showman. 
 
 Stanislawski suddenly roused himself, 
 glanced in back of him and encountering the 
 derisive gazes that were centered on him, 
 trembled, and sadly dropped his head upon his 
 breast. 
 
 Janina who had witnessed this entire scene 
 and who in the moments of the old actor's 
 ecstasy had not even dared to move a finger 
 for fear of disturbing him, could no longer 
 restrain herself when she saw tears in his eyes 
 and that whole band of cattle jeering at him. 
 She walked up to Stanislawski and kissed his 
 hand with involuntary respect. 
 
 "My child! my child!" he whispered feebly 
 turning his head to hide the tears that were 
 streaming from his eyes ever more profusely. 
 He pressed her hand tightly and went out. 
 
 A storm of wild sorrow, pain, and hatred 
 shook Stanislawski so violently that he could 
 scarcely descend the stairs. He went out into 
 the hall, encompassed the stage and the public 
 
276 The Comedienne 
 
 with a gaze of unspeakable sadness and walked 
 across the veranda toward the street, but 
 turned about abruptly and remained. 
 
 "He would make a very venerable guard- 
 ian!" cried someone to Janina after Stanis- 
 lawski's departure. 
 
 "He might organize a new company and 
 play lovers together with her!" added another 
 voice. 
 
 "Jackals! Jackals!" cried Janina aloud, 
 staring defiantly at them. And she had a 
 great desire to spit in the eyes of all those 
 cowards, so violent a wave of hatred surged 
 through her and so base and cruel did they all 
 appear to her. She restrained herself how- 
 ever, and resumed her seat, but for a long time 
 could not calm herself. 
 
 When Janina went on the stage with the 
 chorus, she was still trembling and agitated 
 and the first person she saw in the audience 
 was Grzesikiewicz who sat in the front row 
 of seats. Their eyes met; he made a motion 
 as though he wanted to leave, while she stood 
 amazed for one brief instant in the center of 
 the stage, but immediately collected herself, 
 for she also spied Kotlicki sitting not far away 
 tod closely observing Grzesikiewicz and fur- 
 
The Comedienne 277 
 
 ther on Niedzielska who was standing near 
 the stalls and smiling at her in a friendly 
 manner. 
 
 Janina did not look at Grzesikiewicz, but 
 she felt his eyes upon her and that began to 
 add to her agitation and excitement. She 
 remembered that she had on short skirts and a 
 peculiar shame filled her at the thought that 
 she was standing before him in these gaudy, 
 theatrical togs. It is impossible to describe 
 what took place within her. Never before 
 had she felt like this. In her stage appear- 
 ances she usually gazed at the public with 
 an expression of aloofness as on a foolish and 
 slavish throng, but to-day it seemed to her 
 as though she were standing in the front part 
 of a huge cage like some animal on exhibition, 
 while that audience had come to view her and 
 amuse itself with her antics. For the first 
 time she saw that smile which was not on any 
 particular face, but which, nevertheless, hov- 
 vered over all faces and seemed to fill the 
 theater; it was a smile of indulgent and 
 unconscious irony, a smile of crushing supe- 
 riority that is seen on the faces of older people 
 when they watch the playing of children. She 
 felt it everywhere. 
 
 
278 The Comedienne 
 
 Afterwards Janina saw only the eyes of 
 Grzesikiewicz immovably fixed upon her. 
 She violently tore herself away from that 
 gaze and looked in another direction, but saw, 
 nevertheless, how Grzesikiewicz got up and 
 left the theater. To be sure, she was not 
 waiting for him, nor did she expect to see him 
 again, yet his departure touched her painfully. 
 She gazed as though with a certain feeling of 
 disappointment at the empty seat which he 
 had occupied just a moment ago and then she 
 retreated with the chorus to the back of the 
 stage. 
 
 Glas stood before the very box of the 
 prompter and quietly and significantly began 
 to knock with his foot to Dobek for he was to 
 sing some solo part of which, as was his usual 
 custom, he did not know a single word. Halt 
 signaled to him with his baton and Glas with 
 a comically attuned face began to sing some 
 remembered word and strain his ears for a cue 
 from Dobek, but Dobek was silent. 
 
 Halt rapped at his desk energetically, but 
 Glas kept on singing one and the same thing 
 over and over again, whispering pleadingly to 
 Dobek in the pauses : ' ' Prompt ! Prompt ! ' ' 
 
 The chorus, scattered at the back of the 
 
The Comedienne 279 
 
 stage, began to be confused by the situation, 
 while behind the scenes someone began to 
 recite aloud to Glas, the words of the unfortu- 
 nate song, but Glas, all perspiring and red with 
 anger and emotion kept on singing, in a circle: 
 "You are mine, oh lovely Rose!" without 
 hearing anything, or knowing what was going 
 on about him. 
 
 "Prompt!" he whispered once more in 
 despair, for already the orchestra and a part of 
 the audience had noticed what was happening 
 and was laughing at him. He kicked Dobek 
 in the face and suddenly stood mute and 
 motionless, gazing with a blank expression at 
 the public, for Dobek, having received a kick 
 in the teeth, grabbed Glas by the leg and held 
 him tightly. 
 
 "Do you see, my boy! Next time don't 
 try to get frisky!" whispered the prompter, 
 holding Glas so tightly by the leg that he 
 could not move. "You are done for! You 
 tried to fix Dobek, now Dobek has fixed you! 
 Now we are even!" 
 
 The situation was saved by Halt and Kacz- 
 kowska who began to sing the following 
 number. Dobek let go Glas's leg, retreated 
 as deeply as he could into his box and calmly 
 
280 The Comedienne 
 
 continued to prompt from memory, smiling 
 good-naturedly at Cabinski, who was shaking 
 his fist threateningly at him from behind the 
 scenes. 
 
 Janina had not yet succeeded in making out 
 what was happening at the front of the stage, 
 for she saw Grzesikiewicz returning with a 
 large bouquet in his hand. He resumed his 
 former seat and only when the chorus again 
 appeared on the proscenium did he rise, walk 
 over to the orchestra and throw the flowers at 
 Janina' s feet. Then he turned about calmly, 
 passed through the hall and vanished, without 
 caring that he had called forth a sensation 
 in the theater. 
 
 The girl automatically picked up the flowers 
 and retreated to the back of the stage behind 
 her companions, feeling the eyes of the whole 
 audience centered upon her. 
 
 "Is there a 'soul' in it?" whispered Ziel- 
 iaska, pointing to the bouquet. 
 
 "Look in the center of the flowers, perhaps 
 you will find something among them," another 
 one of the chorus girls whispered to her. 
 
 Janina did not look, but felt a deep gratitude 
 toward Grzesikiewicz for those flowers. After 
 the curtain fell she left the stage without pay- 
 
The Comedienne 281 
 
 ing any attention to the violent quarrel that 
 broke out between Glas and Dobek. 
 
 Glas was jumping with rage, while Dobek 
 was slowly putting on his overcoat and calmly 
 and tauntingly answering: "An eye for an eye. 
 Sweet is vengeance to the human heart." 
 
 He had revenged himself for the trick that 
 Glas had played on him on the foregoing day 
 when he had got Dobek drunk and together 
 with Wladek made him up as a negro. Dobek 
 as soon as he had sobered a bit had calmly gone 
 straight from the saloon to the theater with- 
 out knowing what had happened to his 
 physiognomy. They had a roaring good time 
 behind the scenes, but Dobek swore vengeance 
 and kept his word, threatening in addition that 
 he would yet get square with Wladek. 
 
 Cabinski, irritated by what had happened 
 on the stage, said all kinds of things to Glas, 
 but the latter did not answer him, so deeply 
 humiliated was he by his breakdown on the 
 stage. 
 
 Janina all dressed in her street attire, was 
 only waiting for Sowinska to go home with 
 her, when Wladek sidled up to her and softly 
 asked : 
 
 "Will you allow me to accompany you? . . ." 
 
282 The Comedienne 
 
 "I am going with Sowinska and besides you 
 live in another part of the city," answered 
 Janina. 
 
 "Sowinska has just requested me to tell you 
 that she will not return for an hour. She is 
 at the director's house.'* 
 
 "Well then, let us go." 
 
 "Perhaps your bouquet is in the way, let me 
 carry it for you . . ."he said, extending his 
 hand to take the flowers. 
 
 " Oh no, thank you. . . ." answered Janina. 
 
 "It must be very precious! . . ."he said, 
 emphasizing his words with a laugh. 
 
 "I don't know how much it costs," she an- 
 swered coldly, showing no disposition to 
 converse with him. 
 
 Wladek laughed, then he spoke about his 
 mother and finally said: "Perhaps you will 
 come to see us? My mother is ill and for a few 
 days she has not left her bed." 
 
 ' ' Your mother is ill? Why, I saw her in the 
 theater to-day." 
 
 "Is that possible!" he cried in real confu- 
 sion. " I give you my word that I was certain 
 she was ill ... for my mother told me that 
 for a few days she has not risen from her 
 bed. 
 
The Comedienne 283 
 
 "My mother is trying some scheme on 
 me . . . " he finally added with a frown. 
 
 Old Niedzielska was merely continually and 
 persistently spying on him and always had to 
 know with whom he was carrying on a ro- 
 mance, for she constantly trembled at the 
 thought that Wladek might marry some 
 actress. 
 
 He took leave of Janina with an attitude of 
 exaggerated respect at the very door of her 
 house and told her that he must go to see 4 his 
 mother to convince himself about her illness. 
 
 As soon as Janina had entered the house, 
 Wladek went to the theater and, meeting 
 Sowinska, held a long and secret conversation 
 with her. The old woman eyed him derisively 
 and promised him her support. 
 
 Then he hurried away to Krzykiewicz's 
 house for a game of cards, for they would often 
 arrange such card-playing evenings now at 
 this, now at another actor's home, to which 
 they would invite many of their friends from 
 the public. 
 
 Janina, having entered her room, placed 
 her flowers in a vase with water and, retiring 
 to sleep, gazed once more at the roses and 
 tenderly whispered: "How good he is!" 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 "PLEASE miss, here's the circular!" cried 
 Wicek, entering Janina' s room. 
 
 "What is the news? . . ." 
 
 "The reading of that new play, or some- 
 thing 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 
 
 284 
 
The Comedienne 285 
 
 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 some- 
 thing else for you." 
 
 Wicek humbly kissed Janina's hand, over- 
 joyed 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 pre- 
 tended indifference, as she tidied the room. 
 
 "Flowers?" asked Janina. 
 
 "Well . . . and something more, if it were 
 accepted." 
 
 
The Comedienne 
 
 "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 daugh- 
 ter?" 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. 
 
The Comedienne 287 
 
 " Good morning. I was thinking about you 
 yesterday; you must unfailingly thank me 
 for that. ..." 
 
 11 1 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 weak- 
 ness 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 
 
288 The Comedienne 
 
 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 every- 
 body, but the humors of all those present 
 seemed to be partially dampened by the driz- 
 zling 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 examin- 
 ing his tongue in a mirror and lamenting to 
 
The Comedienne 289 
 
 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 Topol- 
 ski, armed with a pencil, began to read. 
 
 Glogowski did not sit down, but kept walk- 
 ing about in big circles and every time he 
 passed Janina he would whisper some remark 
 at which she laughed quietly, while he con- 
 tinued 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 hammer- 
 ing of nails it was the stage mechanician pre- 
 paring his props for the evening performance. 
 
290 The Comedienne 
 
 "Mr. Glogowski, we shall have to cut 
 out a little here," remarked Topolski occa- 
 sionally. 
 
 "Go ahead!" Glogowski would reply, con- 
 tinuing 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 inser- 
 tion?" 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 
 
The Comedienne 291 
 
 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 come- 
 dian, 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 
 
292 The Comedienne 
 
 merely frowned," one of the chorus girls was 
 relating. 
 
 "Don't lie! I was not drunk and I remem- 
 ber exactly who broke it," retorted Felka. 
 
 "You remember do you? Do you also re- 
 member 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 peev- 
 ish. 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 organiz- 
 ing a company?" asked her listener. 
 
 "He is, undoubtedly. I am to see him in a 
 few days to sign a contract." 
 
The Comedienne 293 
 
 "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 Wol- 
 ska's wearied face on which worry had left its 
 deep marks. The thick layer "of powder and 
 rouge could not coneal 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, nod- 
 
294 The Comedienne 
 
 ding his head and hiding behind the scenes, for 
 he was already exasperated at those continual 
 interruptions and conversations. 
 
 1 ' 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." 
 
The Comedienne 295 
 
 "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 stom- 
 ach," 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 
 
296 The Comedienne 
 
 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 ser- 
 vant, the slave of my children, and a house- 
 hold 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 ex- 
 claimed 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; 
 
The Comedienne 297 
 
 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 r61es, and dreamed that 
 I would conquer the whole world ..." 
 
 "And you're nothing but a tyro in Cabin- 
 ski's company," jeered Dobek. 
 
 "I learned that Richter had come to War- 
 saw and intended to open a school of dramatic 
 art," continued Wladek. " I went to see him, 
 
298 The Comedienne 
 
 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 peel- 
 ing his potatoes." 
 
The Comedienne 299 
 
 "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 samo- 
 var and finally finished, all covered with per- 
 spiration. 'Some more,' said Richter, con- 
 tinually 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, 
 
300 The Comedienne 
 
 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 be- 
 gan 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. 
 
The Comedienne 
 
 "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 immedi- 
 ately ran away from home and joined Krzy- 
 zanowski'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. 
 
The Comedienne 
 
 "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. 
 
 11 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." 
 
 ' l 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 pur- 
 pose . . . 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 vio- 
 lently away from him. 
 
The Comedienne 303 
 
 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 scan- 
 dals," said Topolski and went out into the 
 hall. 
 
 "My dear daughter! Do you see! I told 
 
304 The Comedienne 
 
 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 Majkow- 
 ska, 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 Ja- 
 nina in the most natural voice: " Perhaps you 
 will take a walk with me? ..." 
 
 "Very well, it has even stopped rain- 
 ing ..." answered the younger woman, 
 glancing at her face. 
 
 "I have a fine lover, haven't I? ... Did 
 you see what was going on? " 
 
 11 1 saw and cannot yet calm my indig- 
 nation." 
 
 "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 ! " 
 
The Comedienne 305 
 
 "You will avenge yourself? I'm very cu- 
 rious 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 bou- 
 quets 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." 
 
3 6 The Comedienne 
 
 "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 gloom- 
 ily 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." 
 
The Comedienne 307 
 
 "I propose that we have breakfast at 
 1 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 wig- 
 gled 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. Cabin- 
 ski 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. 
 
3o8 The Comedienne 
 
 "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 examin- 
 
The Comedienne 309 
 
 ing 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 
 
310 The Comedienne 
 
 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 coun- 
 selor whom she had looked upon as a very 
 serious and honest man. 
 
 On the next day at the rehearsal Majkow- 
 ska remarked tauntingly to Janina: "You 
 are an immaculate romanticist." 
 
 "No, only I respect myself, ' ' answered Janina. 
 
The Comedienne 3 11 
 
 "Get thee to a nunnery!" declaimed Maj- 
 kowska. 
 
 In the afternoon Janina went as usual to 
 Cabinska's home to give Yadzia her piano 
 lesson, but she could not forget that scorn- 
 ful shrug of Sowinska's shoulders and Maj- 
 kowska'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 r61e here for you! " called Cabinska from the 
 other room. 
 
 Janina closed the piano and began to peruse 
 the r61e. 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 afternooon, 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 r61e 
 
The Comedienne 
 
 Janina's first month at Sowinska's expired. 
 The old woman reminded her of it in the morn- 
 ing, asking for the money as soon as possible. 
 
 Janina gave her ten rubles, solemnly promis- 
 ing 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. 
 
The Comedienne 3 J 3 
 
 "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. 
 
3H The Comedienne 
 
 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 bitter- 
 ness. 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 Kot- 
 licki'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 
 
The Comedienne 3 J 5 
 
 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, Glo- 
 gowski 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 per- 
 
316 The Comedienne 
 
 sons 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 twit- 
 tered 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 dis- 
 tractedly 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 exces- 
 sive 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. 
 
The Comedienne 317 
 
 "For goodness' sake, say something, or I'll 
 go crazy, or get hydrophobia! . . ."he sud- 
 denly exclaimed. 
 
 Janina burst out laughing, "Well, let us 
 talk about this evening, if about nothing else,' 1 
 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 ! ' ' 
 
3 l8 The Comedienne 
 
 "Tell me, do you think Majkowska will 
 make a good Antka in my play?" he suddenly 
 asked. 
 
 "It seems to me that that r61e 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 r61e!" 
 
 "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! 
 
The Comedienne 319 
 
 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. 
 
 11 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 any- 
 thing?" 
 
 "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 Wawr- 
 zecki, Kaczkowska with one of the journalists 
 and so on through almost all of them. 
 
 11 Don't be angry with me. I merely stated 
 a fact that came to my mind." 
 
320 The Comedienne 
 
 "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 bear- 
 able ... Man does not stand alone ; he must 
 lean against and link up with others, go toge- 
 ther 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." 
 
The Comedienne 321 
 
 4 ' 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. ' ' Some- 
 thing 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. 
 
 21 
 
322 The Comedienne 
 
 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 Krzy- 
 kiewicz, 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- direct or 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. 
 
The Comedienne 3 2 3 
 
 "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. 
 
 1 ' 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 Topol- 
 ski 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 represen- 
 tatives of the press. 
 
324 The Comedienne 
 
 "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 chest- 
 nut 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. Glogow- 
 ski 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 vio- 
 lently that tears came to his eyes from the 
 pain. 
 
The Comedienne 325 
 
 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 expres- 
 sion. The members of the press frowned, and 
 whispered something among themselves, while 
 certain of them made notes. 
 
 "I feel cold!" whispered Glogowski to him- 
 self, shaking as though with an icy chill. 
 And he began to stray distractedly all about 
 the theater. 
 
 "I congratulate you!" said Kotlicki, press- 
 ing Glogowski's hand. ' ' The play is too severe 
 and brutal, but it is something new!" 
 
 11 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 with- 
 out dances. ..." 
 
 "What the devil do they want! It is not 
 a ballet!" muttered Glogowski impatiently. 
 
326 The Comedienne 
 
 
 
 "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 
 
The Comedienne 3 2 7 
 
 part of an old beggar woman, played abomin- 
 ably. Instead of speaking their parts, they 
 rattled them off in a singsong voice, and over- 
 emphasized hatred, love, and laughter. Every- 
 thing was done so mechanically, artifically, 
 and thoughtlessly, without a grain of truth or 
 sincerity that Glogowski fairly choked with 
 despair. It was merely a masquerade. 
 
 "Sharper! More energetically!" he whis- 
 pered, 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. 
 
328 The Comedienne 
 
 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 Glogow- 
 ski. 
 
 "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 
 
The Comedienne 3 2 9 
 
 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 occu- 
 pied with a plan for remaking that play. Now 
 first did he see in detail its various incon- 
 sistencies 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 
 
330 The Comedienne 
 
 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 knowl- 
 edge that his play was entirely bad. He saw 
 its defects ever more plainly and the knowl- 
 edge that another one of his efforts had proved 
 vain made him writhe with pain. With 
 helpless rage he listened to the public applaud- 
 ing the rude and characteristically comic 
 episodes which were merely the background 
 
The Comedienne 33 1 
 
 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 com- 
 plete 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 
 
33 2 The Comedienne 
 
 the entire audience was wildly applauding and 
 calling for the author, Glogowski went out on 
 the stage with Majkowska, bowed osten- 
 tatiously, 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 Glogow- 
 ski. "The next thing you know, the restau- 
 rant-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 
 
The Comedienne 333 
 
 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 vio- 
 lently 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 
 
334 The Comedienne 
 
 dressing-room and called through the door: 
 "MissOrlowska!" 
 
 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 ener- 
 getically 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 her- 
 self 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!" 
 
The Comedienne 335 
 
 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 master- 
 piece 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! " 
 
336 The Comedienne 
 
 "Here's to the health of the whole com- 
 pany!" 
 
 ' ' And now let us drink to the public. ' ' 
 
 "Permit me to interrupt you a moment. 
 Since I alone here represent the public, there- 
 fore 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 Glo- 
 gowski, 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 de- 
 claimed 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!" 
 
The Comedienne 337 
 
 "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!" 
 
 11 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 comi- 
 cal 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!" 
 
338 The Comedienne 
 
 "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 
 d6but at the Warsaw Theater and surely 
 engage you." 
 
 Majkowska shrugged her shoulders indiffer- 
 ently and sat down. 
 
The Comedienne 339 
 
 "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 di- 
 rector and you will get them." 
 
 "Let us quit that, for it is getting weari- 
 some, 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 Wawr- 
 
34 The Comedienne 
 
 zecki, 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 them- 
 selves 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 senten- 
 tiously. 
 
 "It proclaims nonsense! The multitude is 
 
The Comedienne 34 1 
 
 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-intelligents'a" 
 
 "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 
 
34 2 The Comedienne 
 
 asleep and Janina's head was so heavy that 
 she could not utter a single tone. 
 
 The singing continued with increasing gay- 
 ety, 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 vio- 
 lently 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 
 
The Comedienne 343 
 
 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 bewilder- 
 ment, 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 pur- 
 suing, 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 
 
344 The Comedienne 
 
 laughter and drunken cries that made her 
 shudder. She paused in the shadow of a door- 
 way, 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 apeared the long equine face of 
 KotHcki, the ride in the hack, and his kisses! 
 
 ''The vile wretch! The vile wretch!" she 
 whispered to herself, recovering herself entire- 
 ly; 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. 
 
The Comedienne 345 
 
 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!" 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 IN a few days after the premiere of The 
 Churls, which remained upon the bill, but 
 attracted ever smaller audiences, Glogowski 
 came to Janina's home. 
 
 "What is the matter with you . . .?" she 
 exclaimed, extending her hand in friendly 
 greeting. 
 
 "Nothing. . . . Well, I improved my play 
 a little. Did you read the criticisms? " 
 
 "Some of them." 
 
 "I have brought all the reviews," said 
 Glogowski. " I'll read them." 
 
 He began to read. 
 
 One of the important weeklies maintained 
 that The Churls was a very good, original, and 
 superbly realistic play; that with Glogowski 
 there had, at last, appeared a real dramatist 
 who had let a current of fresh air into the 
 stagnant and anaemic atmosphere of our 
 dramatic creativity, and had given us real 
 people and real life. The only cause for regret 
 
 346 
 
The Comedienne 347 
 
 was that the staging of the play was beneath 
 criticism and the acting of it, with one or two 
 exceptions, scandalous. 
 
 The reviewer of one of the most estimable 
 dailies for two whole days rambled on in a 
 special supplement about the history of the 
 theater in France and about German actors, 
 he discussed theatrical novelties and after 
 every two paragraphs or so would remark in 
 parenthesis: "I saw him at the Odeon," "I 
 heard this at the Burg Theater" "I admired 
 such acting in London," etc. Then he ad- 
 duced various theatrical anecdotes, praised 
 actors who had died half a century ago, harked 
 back to the past of the stage, spoke in several 
 paragraphs about the red rags of radicalism 
 that had begun to appear on the stage, praised 
 with paternal indulgence the actors appearing 
 in The Churls, flattered Cabinski and wound 
 up by saying that he would probably give his 
 opinion of the play itself only after the author 
 had written another one, for this one was 
 merely to be forgiven a novice. 
 
 A third reviewer contended that the play 
 was not at all bad and would even be excellent, 
 if the author had chosen to honor theatrical 
 traditions and added music and dances to it. 
 
34 8 The Comedienne 
 
 A fourth took a diametrically opposite view- 
 point, maintaining that the play was positively 
 worthless, that it was rubbish, but that the 
 author possessed at least the one merit that 
 he had avoided the cut and dried formulas by 
 failing to introduce the usual songs and dances 
 which always lower the value of folk plays. 
 
 In the fifth review a "specialist " on garden- 
 theaters wrote about a hundred paragraphs 
 somewhat to this effect: " The Churls by Mr. 
 Glogowski hm! . . . not a bad thing . . . 
 it would even be entirely good . . . but . . . 
 although, considering again ... at any rate 
 . . . one must have the courage to tell the 
 truth. ... At all events ... be that as it 
 may . . . (with a little qualifying phrase) the 
 author has a talent. The play is ... hm 
 ... let us see, how can we define it? About 
 two months ago I wrote something about it, so 
 I refer those that are interested to my former 
 article. . . . They played it excellently," 
 and he enumerated the entire cast, placing 
 beside the name of each actress a sugary epi- 
 thet, and an ingratiating remark, a polite 
 description, a melancholy equivocation and 
 an empty phrase. 
 
 " What do you call all that? " inquired Janina. 
 
The Comedienne 349 
 
 "A libretto for an operetta. Entitle it 
 Theatrical Criticisms and set it to music and 
 you will have such a show that the whole 
 nation will flock to it as to a church festival." 
 
 "And what answer did you give to all 
 that?" 
 
 "I? . . . Nothing, of course! I merely 
 turned my back on them and, since I have a 
 splendid plan for a new play, I shall immedi- 
 ately start working on it. I have received a 
 job as a dramatic coach at Radomsk and I 
 shall go there for a half year. I am only 
 waiting for the final notification." 
 
 "Is it absolutely necessary for you to go?" 
 
 "Yes, I must! Dramatic coaching is my 
 only means of support. For two months I 
 have been without any occupation and now I 
 am penniless. I presented the play at my own 
 expense, paid my respects to the public, had a 
 good time at Warsaw and now it is time to 
 quit! It is time to ring down the curtain so 
 that I may prepare for another farce. Good- 
 bye, Miss Janina. Before I leave, I'll drop in 
 here or at the theater." 
 
 He shook hands with her, exclaimed, "May 
 the deuce take me!" and hurried away. 
 
 Janina was sad. She had become so accus- 
 
35 The Comedienne 
 
 tomed to Glogowski, to his eccentricities, 
 paradoxes, and to that rough and ready man- 
 ner which was merely a screen for his shyness 
 and hypersensitive delicacy that regret filled 
 her at the thought that she was now to remain 
 alone. 
 
 She had no more money left and was living 
 solely on what she received at the theater. 
 Janina dared not admit it to herself, but with 
 each new request for money she would be 
 reminded of her home and of those times when 
 it was unnecessary for her to think of any- 
 thing, for she had all she needed. She felt 
 deeply humiliated by this almost daily begging 
 for a few meager copecks, but there was no 
 way out of it, unless it was the one that she 
 constantly read in the gray eyes of Sowin- 
 ska and saw exemplified in the life of her 
 companions. 
 
 Almost each evening Janina would stroll on 
 Theater Place. If she was in a great hurry, 
 she would only pass through the place, get a 
 glimpse of the Grand Theater and return home 
 again, but if she had plenty of time she would 
 find a seat on the square or on a bench near 
 the tramcar station and from there gaze at 
 the rows of columns, at the lofty profile of the 
 
The Comedienne 35 I 
 
 theater's fagade and lose herself in dreaming. 
 She somehow felt that those walls drew her 
 irresistibly to them. She experienced mo- 
 ments of deep delight when passing under the 
 colonnade, or when in the calm of a bright 
 night she viewed the long gray mass of the 
 edifice. That huge stone giant seemed to 
 speak to her and she would listen to the whis- 
 pers, the echoes, and the sounds that floated 
 from it. Spread out before her in the dim 
 twilight and visible to her soul alone, there 
 would pass before her imagination the scenes 
 that were acted there not long ago. 
 
 An additional reason for losing herself in 
 dreams was to dull the pinch of poverty, that 
 had become more acute, for the second half of 
 the theatrical season, from a financial stand- 
 point, was a great deal worse than the first. 
 The attendance was increasingly smaller 
 because of the continual rains and the cold 
 evenings and, of course, the pay of the actors 
 was proportionately smaller. 
 
 It often happened that Cabinski in the 
 middle of a performance would take the cash 
 box and make away with it under the pretext 
 that he was ill, leaving only a few rubles to 
 be divided among the company and, if he was 
 
35 2 The Comedienne 
 
 caught before he made his escape, he would 
 almost cry. 
 
 And if he led anyone by the arm in a friendly 
 manner to the box office it was a prearranged 
 sign for Gold, who was to say that there was 
 no money to be had. If he did not lead a 
 person in this manner, the treasurer would 
 assume a worried look and complain: "I 
 haven't even enough to pay the gas bills and 
 where am I going to get the money for the 
 rent? Why, there isn't enough to pay running 
 expenses." 
 
 " Let him have at least something. Perhaps 
 we can put off the payment of some bill to-day 
 . . ." Cabinski would pretend to intercede. 
 
 He would then leave an order for the pay- 
 ment of the money and walk away. But it 
 almost always so happened that Gold did not 
 have the sum for which the order was made 
 out. The amount paid was always short, 
 even if it were only by a few copecks. The 
 actors called him all sorts of names, but each 
 took what was offered. 
 
 Gold pretended to be insulted and usually 
 appealed to the directress, who would always 
 sit in the box office whenever she was not 
 taking part in the play. Cabinska would then 
 
The Comedienne 353 
 
 sharply reproach the actors and loudly praise 
 the honesty of Gold, who with the small 
 salary that he received helped his sister, in 
 addition to supporting himself. Gold would 
 beam with joy at the remembrance of his 
 sister; his eyes would flash with tenderness 
 and at such moments he would fervently 
 promise to pay the missing amount on the 
 following day without fail ; but he never paid. 
 
 The performances were rattled off to get 
 through with them, for the general disorder 
 caused by Cabinski's overthieveries was grow- 
 ing ever greater and, moreover, the nearness 
 of the departure for Warsaw, the debts in 
 which all were swamped, the approach of winter 
 and the worry over securing new engagements 
 did not put anyone in a mood for playing. 
 
 And all the while Cabinski, kissed everyone 
 and promised to pay, but never did so. He 
 knew how to arrange matters so skillfully and 
 acted so excellently the part of a man worried 
 about the welfare of everyone that Janina 
 feeling his troubles and believing him, often 
 lacked the courage to remind him of the 
 money he owed her. Moreover, she knew 
 that between the director and his wife there 
 went on a continual battle over expenses and 
 
354 * The Comedienne 
 
 that the nurse often bought various things for 
 the children out of her own savings, while 
 Cabinska would sit twice as long at the pastry 
 shop to avoid hearing the complaints. 
 
 Slowly, but in an ever narrowing circle, 
 poverty hemmed Janina in and clouded her 
 face with ceaseless worry. 
 
 Janina suffered all the more in her present 
 condition because she was unable to seclude 
 herself from other people as she used to do at 
 Bukowiec after every quarrel with her father. 
 She could not rave with the gales and calm her- 
 self inwardly by sheer physical exhaustion. 
 She tramped about the city but everywhere 
 she met too many people. She would have 
 gladly confided to Glogowski all that troubled 
 her, but had not the courage to do so, for she 
 was restrained by pride. Glogowski seemed 
 to guess her condition, or at least her worries, 
 and would often remind her that she ought to 
 tell him everything . . . everything. But she 
 did not do so. 
 
 She stayed at home as little as possible, and 
 whenever she entered the house she tried to 
 do it so quietly that no one might hear her. 
 It was not the possibility that she might find 
 herself thrown out into the street on the mor- 
 
The Comedienne 355 
 
 row that frightened her, but the fact that 
 Mme. Anna or Sowinska might say to her 
 curtly: "Pay what you owe me." 
 
 But that moment finally arrived. While 
 eating her dinner Janina knew the inevitable 
 had come. She caught just one glance of 
 Mme. Anna's eyes while she was serving the 
 soup and in them read everything. 
 
 After the meal, which to Janina had been 
 torture, Mme. Anna followed her immediately 
 and, in the most unconcerned manner, began to 
 relate something about a fantastic customer. 
 Then, suddenly, as though she had remem- 
 bered something, she said: "Oh yes, I almost 
 forgot! Perhaps you will let me have that 
 half -month's rent, for I must pay the landlord 
 to-day." 
 
 "I haven't the money to-day ..." she 
 wanted to add something else, but her voice 
 failed her. 
 
 "What do you mean? Please give me what 
 you owe me! I hope you don't think that I 
 can feed anyone free of charge . . . just for 
 fun, or for the sake of having them as an 
 ornament in my home! A fine ornament 
 indeed, that stays up all night and comes home 
 only in the wee hours of the morning!" 
 
35 6 The Comedienne 
 
 "You needn't fear that I won't pay you!" 
 cried Janina suddenly aroused. 
 
 "I need the money right away!" 
 
 "You will have it ... in an hour!" an- 
 swered Janina, making some sudden determi- 
 nation; she glanced with such scorn at Mme. 
 Anna that the latter left without a word, 
 slamming the door after her. 
 
 From her companions Janina had heard 
 something about the pawnshop and she 
 immediately went there to pawn her gold 
 bracelet, the only one that she possessed. 
 
 On returning home she immediately paid 
 Mme. Anna, who was surprised, but not very 
 polite. 
 
 Having done that Janina added: "I will 
 have my meals at the restaurant ; I don't want 
 to trouble you." 
 
 "Just as you like. If things here don't suit 
 you, you are free to do as you please!" whis- 
 pered the deeply humiliated Mme. Anna. 
 
 By that one act Janina incurred the enmity 
 of the whole house. 
 
 "I will sell everything I possess . . . even 
 to the last button!" she said to herself with 
 bitter resolve. 
 
 And Janina calculated that for one half of 
 
The Comedienne 357 
 
 what she had been paying Mme. Anna she 
 could get all the food that she needed. Wol- 
 ska directed her to a cheap lunch-room and 
 she went there for her dinners; when she had 
 not money enough for that, a roll with a 
 sardine had to suffice her for the entire day. 
 
 But one day the theater was closed, for 
 there were only twenty rubles in the treasury; 
 on the following day the performance was 
 postponed because of a heavy downpour. 
 Janina, like everyone else, did not receive a 
 single copeck from Cabinski and during those 
 two days had absolutely nothing to eat. 
 
 This first hunger which she could not 
 appease because she had nothing to appease it 
 with had a fearful effect upon her. She felt 
 within herself a strange and unceasing pain. 
 
 "Starvation! Starvation!" Janina whis- 
 pered to herself in terror. 
 
 Hitherto she had known it by its name only. 
 Now she wondered at that sensation of hunger 
 within her. It seemed strange to her that she 
 felt like eating and hadn't the money even to 
 buy herself a roll ! 
 
 "Is it possible that I have nothing to eat?" 
 Janina asked herself. 
 
 From the kitchen there was wafted to her 
 
35 8 The Comedienne 
 
 the smell of frying meat. She shut the door 
 tightly for that smell nauseated her. 
 
 Janina remembered with a strange emotion 
 that the majority of great artists in various 
 ages also suffered poverty and hunger. The 
 thought consoled her for a while. She felt as 
 though she were anointed with the first pang 
 of martyrdom for art's sake. 
 
 She smiled in the mirror with a melancholy 
 look at her yellowish and worn face. She 
 tried to read to rid herself, as it were, of her 
 own personality, but she could not, for she 
 constantly felt that growing hunger. 
 
 She gazed out of the window at the long 
 yard surrounded on all sides by the high 
 windows of the adjoining houses, but she saw 
 how in a few houses people were sitting down 
 to the table and saw the workmen in the yard 
 also eating their dinner from small clay pots. 
 She quickly drew back from the window for 
 she felt hunger like a steel hand with sharp 
 claws tearing her even more violently. 
 
 "Everybody is eating!" Janina said to 
 herself as though this was the first time that 
 she had taken note of that fact. 
 
 Later she lay down and slept until the evening 
 without going either to the rehearsal or to Cabin- 
 
The Comedienne 359 
 
 ska's home, but she felt even weaker upon awak- 
 ing and had a painful dizziness in her head, 
 while that keen and constant sapping sensation 
 within herself tormented her so that she wept. 
 
 In the evening in the dressing-room a 
 boisterous gayety possessed Janina; she 
 laughed continually, joked and made fun of 
 her companions quarreled over some trifle 
 with Mimi and then flirted from the stage with 
 the occupants of the front row of seats. 
 
 When the counselor appeared behind the 
 scenes right after the first act with a box of 
 candy, Janina greeted him joyously and 
 pressed his hand so tightly that the old man 
 became confused. Afterwards she sat down 
 in some dark corner, waiting for the stage- 
 director to cry : ' ' Enter ! ' ' When the darkness 
 and silence enveloped her, she broke into 
 convulsive sobbing. 
 
 After the performance Janina received a 
 quadruple payment on account two whole 
 rubles. Cabinski gave them to her himself 
 in secret so that the others might not see it. 
 
 Janina went out for supper on the veranda 
 and became intoxicated with one glass of 
 whiskey so that she herself requested Wladek 
 to escort her home. 
 
3 6 The Comedienne 
 
 From that evening Wladek followed her like 
 a shadow and began openly to show her his 
 love, paying no attention to the fact that his 
 mother was asking everybody in the theater 
 about him and constantly tracking both him 
 and Janina. 
 
 One day Glogowski came rushing into Ja- 
 nina' s home and cried out already from the 
 doorway: "Well, I have come back again to 
 my Zulus! ..." 
 
 He flung his hat on a trunk, sat on the bed 
 and began to roll a cigarette. 
 
 Janina gazed at him calmly and thought 
 how strange it was that the coming of this 
 friend who had interested her so deeply in the 
 past should now leave her so indifferent. 
 
 " So you do not weep with joy at seeing me 
 again, eh? Ha! I'll have to resign myself to 
 it. No doubt the dogs alone will weep over 
 me ! May the deuce take me ! But don't you 
 happen to know what is the matter with 
 Kotlicki? He does not come to the theater 
 any more and I can't find him anywhere. He 
 must have journeyed somewhere." 
 
 "I have not seen him since the night of that 
 supper," answered Janina slowly. 
 
 ''There must be some reason for his dis- 
 
The Comedienne 361 
 
 appearance ! Probably some adventure, some 
 love affair, some . . . But why should I 
 bother about such a green monkey, eh? Isn't 
 that true?" 
 
 "Indeed it is!" whispered Janina, turning 
 her face toward the window. 
 
 "Oh! and what does that mean?" he cried, 
 glancing sharply into her eyes. "Goodness, 
 how you have changed! Sunken and glassy 
 eyes, yellowish complexion, sharpened fea- 
 tures. . . . What does it all mean?" he 
 asked in a quieter tone. 
 
 Suddenly he struck his hand to his forehead 
 and began to run up and down the room like a 
 maniac. 
 
 "What an idiot I am. What a monster! 
 Here I am parading about Warsaw, while here 
 real, artistic poverty has quartered itself in 
 earnest! Miss Janina," he cried, taking her 
 hand and looking steadily into her eyes, "Miss 
 Janina! I want you to tell me everything as 
 at confession. May the deuce take me, but 
 you must tell me!" 
 
 Janina was silent ; but seeing his honest face 
 and hearing that sympathetic voice whose 
 accents had a strange way of gripping one's 
 heart, she suddenly felt overcome by feeling, 
 
362 The Comedienne 
 
 and tears stood in her eyes. She could not 
 speak for emotion. 
 
 "Well, well, there's no use crying, for I 
 shall depart anyway," he said jokingly to hide 
 his own emotion. "Now, just listen to me 
 . . . but without any protests or loud opposi- 
 tion, for I detest parliamentarism! I see you 
 are in poverty and theatrical poverty in the 
 bargain. . . . Well, I happen to know what 
 it's like. Now, for goodness' sake, stop blush- 
 ing. Poverty that is honestly acquired is not 
 anything to be ashamed of! It's nothing but 
 an ordinary smallpox which all people who are 
 worth anything in this world have to pass 
 through. Ho! ho! I have been playing blind- 
 man's buff with troubles since many a year! 
 Well, I shall end what I am saying in a gallop. 
 Let us do this ..." 
 
 He turned around, took from his pocket- 
 book thirty rubles, that is, all the money that 
 had been sent him for his journey, placed it 
 under Janina's pillow and returned to his 
 former seat. 
 
 '"Now we are agreed, are we not, my 
 cousin . . .' said Louis XI after beheading 
 the Duke of Anjou. I will accept no appeal 
 and if you dare to ..." 
 
The Comedienne 363 
 
 He grasped his hat and extending his hand, 
 said softly: " Good-bye, Miss Janina." 
 
 With a desperate motion, Janina hastily 
 barred the door with her body. 
 
 "No, no! Do not humiliate me! I am 
 unfortunate enough as it is," she whispered, 
 firmly holding his hand. 
 
 "There you have a woman's philosophy! 
 May the deuce take me, but that which I did 
 is as natural as the fact that I will some day 
 blow out my brains and that you will become 
 a great actress!" 
 
 Janina began to expostulate with him, and 
 finally to urge him to take back his money, 
 saying that she did not need it, that she would 
 not accept it, and showing a deep aversion to 
 being helped. 
 
 Glogowski became gloomy and said roughly : 
 " What! May the deuce take me, but of the 
 two of us I certainly am not the fool ! But no ! 
 I refuse to get provoked about it. I shall sit 
 down calmly and talk it over with you seri- 
 ously. I don't want you to get angry at me 
 over such an empty thing as money. You 
 don't want to take it, although you need it, 
 and why? Because a false shame deters you, 
 because you have been taught that such simple 
 
364 The Comedienne 
 
 human things as helping one another lowers 
 one's pride. Such conceptions are already 
 becoming putrid. To the museum with them ! 
 Those are foolish and evil prejudices. May 
 the deuce take me, but it requires a European 
 brain and hysterical subtlety to hesitate to 
 accept money from a human being like your- 
 self when you are in need. Why and to what 
 purpose do you think the human herd unites 
 itself into some form of society? Is it mutu- 
 ally to devour and rob one another or mutually 
 to help one another? I know you will tell me 
 that it is otherwise, but I answer you that 
 that is precisely why we have so much evil in 
 this world. And once we recognize a thing 
 as evil we ought to shun it. Man ought to 
 do good. That is his duty. To do good is 
 the wisest mathematics. But Great Scott! 
 What's the use of my making so much ado 
 about it!" he cried in irritation. 
 
 He continued to speak for a long while yet, 
 scoffed, swore occasionally, shouted: "May 
 the deuce take me," and raged fiercely, but in 
 his voice there was so much sincere and deep 
 friendliness, such heartfelt kindness, that 
 Janina, although she was not at all convinced, 
 accepted his proffered aid with a grateful 
 
The Comedienne 365 
 
 handclasp only because she did not wish to 
 offend him by refusing. 
 
 "Well, that is what I like! And now . . . 
 good-bye!" he said, arising to go. 
 
 "Good-bye! I wish to thank you once 
 more and I am so very grateful and obligated 
 to you ..." murmured Janina. 
 
 "If you only knew how much kindness 
 people have shown me! I would like to repay 
 only one hundredth part of it to others. I 
 will add yet that we shall no doubt meet each 
 other in the spring." 
 
 "Where?" asked Janina. 
 
 "Bah ! I don't know ! but that it will be in 
 the theater of that I am sure, for I have deter- 
 mined to join the theater in the spring, if only 
 for a half year so that I may gain a better 
 knowledge of the stage." 
 
 "Oh, that's an excellent idea!" 
 
 1 ' Now we are even with one another, as my fa- 
 ther used to say after he had massaged my hide 
 so that it shone as though freshly tanned. I leave 
 you my address and say nothing, only remind 
 you that you are to tell me everything by letter 
 . . . everything! Do you give me your word?" 
 
 "I give you my word!" Janina answered 
 gravely. 
 
366 The Comedienne 
 
 "I trust your word as though it were that 
 of a man, although with women a word of 
 honor is usually an empty word only, which 
 they make use of, but never fulfill. Good- 
 bye!" 
 
 Glogowski pressed both her hands firmly, 
 raised them a little as though he were eager 
 to kiss them, but quickly dropped them again, 
 glanced into her eyes, laughed a trifle unnatur- 
 ally and departed. 
 
 Janina sat thinking for a long time about 
 him. She felt so deep a gratitude toward him 
 and felt so cheered and strengthened by her 
 talk with him that she regretted she did not 
 know on what train Glogowski was leaving, for 
 she had a desire to see him once more. 
 
 Then again, there arose in her something 
 that protested loudly against the aid he had 
 given her, something that saw in that kind- 
 ness an insult. 
 
 "Alms!" Janina whispered bitterly and felt 
 a burning pain of humiliation. 
 
 "Can't I live alone, can't I get along by my 
 own unaided strength, can't I be sufficient 
 unto myself? Must I continually lean on 
 someone for support? Must there always be 
 someone watching over me? The others know 
 
The Comedienne 367 
 
 how to help themselves, why can't I?" she 
 asked herself. 
 
 Janina pondered over this, but a moment 
 later she went to the pawnshop to redeem her 
 bracelet and on the way bought herself an 
 inexpensive autumn hat. 
 
 Life dragged on for her slowly, sluggishly, and 
 wearily. 
 
 Janina was sustained only by the hope, or 
 rather by a deep faith that all this would 
 change radically and soon, and in this longing 
 anticipation she began to pay ever more 
 attention to Wladek. She knew that he loved 
 her. She listened almost daily to his confes- 
 sions and proposals, smiling deep within herself 
 and thinking that in spite of all she could not 
 become that which her companions became. 
 Their mode of life aroused a deep aversion in 
 her for she felt a truly organic revulsion to all 
 forms of filth. But these attentions of Wladek 
 had at least this effect, that they awakened 
 in her for the first time conscious thoughts of 
 love. 
 
 She dreamed at moments of loving a man 
 to whom she could give herself entirely and 
 for all time; she dreamed of a united life full 
 of ecstasy and love, such a love as poets 
 
358 The Comedienne 
 
 presented in their plays; and then there would 
 pass before her mind the figures of all the great 
 lovers about whom she had read, passionate 
 whispers, burning embraces, volcanic passions 
 and that whole Titanic love life, the remem- 
 brance of which sent a tremor of delight 
 through her. 
 
 Janina did not know whence these dreams 
 came, but they would visit her ever more 
 frequently in spite of the poverty which again 
 began to grow more distressing, and the fre- 
 quent hunger that gripped her as it were in 
 bony embrace. Her bracelet again went to 
 the pawnshop, for she continually had to buy 
 some new article of wear for the stage, so that 
 often she was forced to deny herself food only 
 to be able to buy what she needed. New plays 
 were continually presented to draw the public 
 but success was as far off as ever. 
 
 Such a situation harassed and tormented 
 Janina dreadfully, robbing her of her strength, 
 but it also awakened a rebellion which began 
 to seethe silently within her. She felt at first 
 an indefinable animosity toward everybody. 
 She regarded with a fierce envy the women 
 whom she met on the street. 
 
 Often, she would be seized with a mad desire 
 
The Comedienne 369 
 
 to stop one of those well-dressed ladies and 
 ask her whether she knew what poverty was. 
 She observed intently their faces, their clothes, 
 and their smiles and came to the painful con- 
 clusion that these ladies could not know that 
 there were other people who suffered, wept, 
 and were hungry. But later Janina began to 
 reason that she herself was dressed in the same 
 way as these other women ; that there may be 
 among them others in the same plight as she, 
 and that perhaps unknowingly they passed 
 her on the way, hungry and desperate, hurling 
 the same glances at other passers-by that she 
 did. She tried to distinguish the faces of such 
 sufferers in the multitude, but could not. All 
 appeared to be satisfied and happy. 
 
 Then, something like the triumph of her 
 own ascendancy over this well-dressed and 
 well-fed multitude lit up Janina 's face. She 
 felt herself to be far superior to this world of 
 everyday mortals. 
 
 "I have an idea, an aim!" she thought. 
 " What do they live for? What is their object 
 in life?" she would often ask herself. And 
 unable to answer that question, Janina would 
 smile pityingly at the emptiness of their 
 
 existence. 
 24 
 
3?o The Comedienne 
 
 "A race of butterflies that knows not 
 whence, nor why, nor to what end their life 
 has been given them!" she whispered, sating 
 herself to her heart's content with that silent 
 scorn of people that was growing to abnormal 
 proportions in her. 
 
 Cabinska, Janina now hated with her whole 
 soul, for although Pepa always treated her 
 with a sugary affability, she never paid her 
 for Yadzia's piano lessons, taking advantage of 
 Janina's situation and abilities with a hypo- 
 critical smile of friendliness. Janina could 
 not sever relations with her, for she felt dis- 
 tinctly that behind that mask of politeness 
 that Pepa wore there was hidden a fury who 
 would not forgive her that. Furthermore, she 
 hated Cabinska as a woman, a mother, and an 
 actress. She had come to know her well, and 
 moreover, in her present period of continual 
 strain and struggle, she had either to love or 
 hate someone immensely. Janina did not love 
 anyone as yet, but already she hated. 
 
 "Do you know it is hardly believable that 
 such an incompetent judge as the directress 
 should herself assign the roles for all our 
 plays!" she once remarked to Wladek greatly 
 embittered by the fact that she had been 
 
The Comedienne 37 1 
 
 ignored in the selection of the cast for an old 
 melodramatic caricature entitled Martin, the 
 Foundling. 
 
 "It is too bad that you did not ask her for 
 a r61e for, as you see, the director can do 
 nothing," said Wladek. 
 
 "Quite true! That's a good idea! I'll try 
 it to-morrow." 
 
 "Ask her for the r61e of 'Mary' in Doctor 
 Robin which we are to present next week. 
 Some amateur wishes to join our company 
 and he is to make his d6but as 'Garrick. '" 
 
 "What sort of r61e is that of 'Mary?'" 
 
 "A splendid display r61e! I think that you 
 would act it superbly. I can bring you the 
 play, if you wish." 
 
 "Good! we can read it together." 
 
 On the morrow Janina received a solemn 
 promise from Cabinska that she would be 
 given the part. 
 
 In the afternoon Wladek brought Doctor 
 Robin. This was his first visit to Janina' s 
 home, so he took care to appear particularly 
 handsome, elegant, polite, and somewhat 
 absent-minded. He acted love and respect for 
 Janina with the skill of a virtuoso; he was very 
 quiet, as though from an excess of happiness. 
 
37 2 The Comedienne 
 
 'For the first time I feel shy and happy!" 
 he said, kissing Janina's hand. 
 
 "Why shy? You are alway so sure of your- 
 self on the stage!" she answered, a bit 
 confused. 
 
 -Yes, on the stage, where one only plays 
 happiness, but not here . . . where I am 
 really happy." 
 
 "Happy?" she repeated. 
 
 Wladek glanced at Janina with such 
 passionate intensity, with such mastery of 
 facial expression, accentuated by a rapturous 
 smile, simulating the ecstasy and transport of 
 love, that had he shown this on the stage he 
 would have been warmly applauded. 
 Janina understood him excellently and 
 something stirred in her as though some new 
 string in her heart had been lightly plucked. 
 
 Wladek began to read the play. With each 
 of "Mary's" words, Janina's enthusiastic 
 nature burst forth anew. With bated breath, 
 and eyes fixed on Wladek, she listened, not 
 daring to mar, either by word or gesture, the 
 impression that his reading made on her. She 
 feared to dispel the charm that spoke through 
 his eloquent voice and in the velvety softness 
 of his black eyes. 
 
The Comedienne 373 
 
 When he had finished reading, the girl cried 
 out in rapture: "What a splendid role!" 
 
 "I am willing to wager that you will make 
 a furore in it," remarked Wladek. 
 
 "Yes ... I feel that I could play it fairly 
 well. 'Garrick, that creator of souls, so 
 mighty in Coriolanus! ' " she whispered, repeat- 
 ing a remembered line of the play. 
 
 And Janina's face glowed with such fervor, 
 so radiant did she become with her deep inner 
 joy, that Wladek scarcely recognized her. 
 
 "You are an enthusiast," he said. 
 
 "Yes, because I love art! Give all for art 
 and everything is contained in art! . . . that 
 is my motto. Beyond art I see almost 
 nothing," answered Janina suddenly kindling 
 anew with ardor. 
 
 "Even love?" asked Wladek. 
 
 "But art appears to me to be a greater and 
 completer expression of the ideal than 
 love ..." answered Janina. 
 
 "But it is more alien to human beings and 
 not so necessary to life as is love. Without 
 art the world could exist, but without love . . . 
 never! Moreover, art causes more painful 
 disappointments than love." 
 
 "But it also gives greater joys. Love is an 
 
374 The Comedienne 
 
 individual emotion; art is a social emotion, a 
 synthesis. One loves it with one's humanity, 
 one suffers for it, but only through art does 
 one sometimes become immortal!" 
 
 1 ' Those are dreams. Thousands have given 
 their lives to become convinced of that and 
 thousands have cursed that unattainable 
 mirage." 
 
 "But those thousands had their lives filled 
 with that mirage and felt more than one can 
 feel, who dreams about nothing." 
 
 "But since they were not happy, what is it 
 all worth?' 
 
 "And are most people happy?" 
 
 "A thousandfold more so than we!" 
 
 Wladek emphasized that " we " significantly. 
 
 "Never!" cried Janina, "for our happiness 
 lies in pain as it does in joy, in dejection as 
 well as ecstasy. Even this in itself is happi- 
 ness: to be able to develop one's self spiritu- 
 ally; to reach far out into infinity with the 
 arms of desire; to create new worlds in our 
 mind, larger and more beautiful than those 
 surrounding us; to chant, even through tears 
 and pain, hymns to beauty and immortality ; to 
 dream, but to dream so intensely as to forget 
 about life entirely and to live in dreams alone ! " 
 
 
 
The Comedienne 375 
 
 Janina felt so great a flood of happiness and 
 inspiration flowing into her soul that she 
 spoke, as it were, only in periods of her 
 thought, so that she might express herself at 
 least in part. She spoke, entirely forgetful of 
 the fact that some one was listening to her and 
 spun out aloud ever grander and ever more 
 evanescent dreams. 
 
 Wladek at first listened attentively, but 
 later grew impatient. 
 
 "A comedienne!" he thought with irony. 
 And he was sure that Janina was unfurling before 
 him the peacock feathers of fervor and enthu- 
 siasm merely to fascinate and conquer him. 
 He did not answer or interrupt ner, for it 
 finally began to bore him. 
 
 "That r61e of 'Mary' is a trifle too senti- 
 mental . . ." added Janina after a longer 
 silence. 
 
 "To me it seemed merely lyrical," answered 
 Wladek. 
 
 " I should like some time to play 'Ophelia.' ' 
 
 "Are you familiar with Hamlet? 11 asked 
 Wladek, somewhat surprised. 
 
 "During the last two years I have read 
 nothing but dramas and dreamed of the 
 stage," she answered simply. 
 
376 The Comedienne 
 
 "Truly it is worth bending the knee before 
 such enthusiasm ! " 
 
 "Why? All that is necessary is to help it, 
 to give it a field, an opportunity. ..." 
 
 "If I only could. . . . Believe me when I 
 say, that with my whole heart I desire to see 
 you reach the heights of art." 
 
 "I believe you," Janina answered in a 
 quieter tone. "And I thank you very much 
 for Doctor Robin" 
 
 "May I copy out the r61e for you?" 
 
 "I will copy it myself; it will give me a cer- 
 tain pleasure." 
 
 "While you are learning it, I could act as a 
 prompter for you, if you like." 
 
 "Oh, I should not want to take up any of 
 your time . . ." 
 
 "Exclude a few hours each day for the 
 performance and the rest of my time is yours 
 to dispose of as you will," he said with fervor. 
 
 They gazed at each other a moment. 
 
 Janina gave Wladek her hand; he held and 
 kissed it for a long time. 
 
 "Beginning with to-morrow I shall start to 
 learn the part for I have a day off, ' ' said Janina. 
 
 "I also do not appear on the stage 
 to-morrow." 
 
The Comedienne 377 
 
 Wladek went out a little angry at himself, 
 for although he called Janina a "comedienne" 
 she had made him feel abashed with her 
 simplicity and enthusiasm. Moreover, he 
 felt in her a certain intellectual and artistic 
 superiority. 
 
 Janina feverishly applied herself to the 
 study of Doctor Robin. In a few days she 
 knew not only the r61e of "Mary," but had 
 memorized the entire play. So intensely 
 eager was she to play the r61e, that it seemed as 
 though she were staking her whole life on this 
 performance. Her former dreams that had 
 been subdued a bit by poverty and the feverish 
 life of the theater now again burst forth with a 
 flaming intensity that dazzled and hypnotized 
 her. The theater again took so powerful a 
 hold on Janina that there was no room in her 
 consciousness for anything else. In her hours 
 of ecstasy it appeared to her like a mystic 
 altar suspended high above the gray vale of 
 everyday life and glowing with flames like a 
 second burning bush of Moses; it seemed to 
 her like a miracle that endured eternally. 
 
 Wladek came to see Janina each day in the 
 interval between the rehearsal and the per- 
 formance, although he was already beginning 
 
378 The Comedienne 
 
 to be immensely bored by her endlessly re- 
 peated raptures and was growing impatient 
 over the fact that in her mad absorption in art 
 she did not pay much attention to him. He 
 could not penetrate her morbid enthusiasm, 
 as he called it, with his love, but he neverthe- 
 less continued to go to her. 
 
 He began to desire Janina' s love ever more 
 strongly. He was invited by her naivete and 
 by the talent which he felt she possessed. 
 Moreover, he had long since desired just such 
 an elegant and educated mistress. He wanted 
 by all means to possess this refined and genteel 
 girl, who was so different from his former 
 mistresses and who captivated him by the 
 charm of her superiority. His triumph would 
 be all the greater, he told himself, because of 
 the fact that she seemed to him one of those 
 ladies of the fashionable world upon whom he 
 would often cast covetous glances in the 
 Ujazdowskie Allees. 
 
 Janina had not told Wladek that she loved 
 him, but he already saw it in her eyes and 
 spun an ever stronger web about her made up 
 of smiles, passionate words, sighs, and exag- 
 gerated respect. 
 
 For Janina this was the most beautiful 
 
The Comedienne 379 
 
 period that she had known in her life. Pov- 
 erty she treated with scorn, as though it were 
 only a temporary thing that would soon pass 
 away. 
 
 Sowinska, after Wladek's frequent visits, 
 became more intimate and friendly with Ja- 
 nina and advised her to sell those parts of her 
 wardrobe which she did not need, even offering 
 to do it for her. 
 
 And so life went on for Janina who was 
 oblivious to everything else but that perform- 
 ance of Doctor Robin which she awaited with 
 the greatest impatience. She lived, as it were, 
 in a troubled dream. Through the prism of 
 dreams the world again appeared brighter to 
 her 5 , and people kind. She forgot about every- 
 thing, even about Glogowski, whose recent 
 letter she laid away only half read, for she now 
 lived entirely in the future. She fortified her- 
 self against the present with dreams of what 
 was to come. 
 
 Furthermore, Janina loved Wladek. She 
 did not know how it had come about, but she 
 now knew that she could not do without him. 
 She felt very happy and peaceful, when, lean- 
 ing on his arm, she walked along the streets 
 and listened to his low, melodious voice. The 
 
380 The Comedienne 
 
 soft velvety glances of his dark eyes made her 
 glow with passion and a sweet helplessness. . . . 
 
 Everything about him attracted her. He 
 appeared so beautiful upon the stage! He 
 acted with such fervor and lyricism the parts 
 of unhappy lovers in the melodramas! He 
 spoke, moved about and posed with such 
 charming simplicity. He was the favorite of 
 the public; even the press bestowed frequent 
 praises upon him and predicted a brilliant 
 artistic future for him. 
 
 It pleased Janina to see him applauded on 
 the stage. And so skillfully did he know how 
 to exhibit the resources of his brain, that he 
 was generally taken for an educated man, 
 while in reality he possessed only cleverness 
 and the brazenness of a Warsaw loafer and 
 trickster. Moreover, for Janina he was the 
 first and only man to whom she had ever 
 surrendered herself. It seemed to her that 
 this bound them for all time and indissolubly. 
 
 It happened, as it were, of itself, after one of 
 the rehearsals of Doctor Robin in which Wladek 
 acted as a substitute in the role of "Garrick." 
 When they had left the theater he spoke or 
 rather declaimed to her about love with a 
 volcanic outburst of passion and accentuated 
 
The Comedienne 381 
 
 his emotion with such pathos that he stirred 
 her to the very depths of her soul. She felt 
 sudden tears of tenderness welling up in her 
 eyes; and a desire for tremendous happiness 
 through life and death remained in her dream- 
 ing heart. Her whole soul was absorbed in the 
 desire for love. 
 
 Janina did not even know what was happen- 
 ing to her, for she could not resist the fasci- 
 nation of his voice. That musical pleading of 
 love, those burning kisses, and those passion- 
 ate glances flooded her entire being with an 
 overwhelming and mad desire for joy. She 
 abandoned herself to him with the passiveness 
 of a fascinated creature, without a word of 
 protest or resistance, but also without a 
 consciousness of what she was doing ; in a word, 
 she was hypnotized. 
 
 She did not even know what it was in him 
 that she loved: the actor masterfully playing 
 upon her emotions and enthusiasm, or the 
 man. Janina did not think of this. She 
 loved him because she loved him and because 
 he personified the theater and art for her. 
 
 It seemed to Janina that through his eyes 
 she saw farther and deeper. Her soul was 
 growing (as the peasants describe certain 
 
382 The Comedienne 
 
 stages in the development of youth), so besides 
 her distant plans of fame in the future, she 
 needed something for herself alone, she needed 
 to strengthen herself and support herself on 
 some loving heart which would at the same 
 time serve as a stepping-stone for her own 
 elevation. She no longer felt lonely, for she 
 could now reveal to Wladek her most secret 
 thoughts, dreams, and projects for the future 
 and go over various heroic r61es together with 
 him. ' He was a sort of physical complement 
 of her, and outlet for her excessive energy 
 and dreams. 
 
 Janina did not submerge and lose herself in 
 Wladek's being, but rather absorbed him into 
 herself. And not for one moment did she 
 think that she had surrendered herself to him, 
 that he was henceforth her lover and lord and 
 that she belonged to him! She did not even 
 consider whether he had a soul or not. It 
 sufficed her to know that he was handsome, 
 popular, that he loved her and that she needed 
 him. Even in her most intimate confidences 
 and whispers of love there was a tone of 
 unconscious superiority. She spoke with him 
 continually but almost never asked him for his 
 opinion and very seldom listened to his replies. 
 
The Comedienne 383 
 
 Wladek could not understand this, but he 
 was conscious of it and it acted as an unpleas- 
 ant restraint upon him, for in spite of their 
 intimate relation, he could not feel at ease 
 with her in his own way. It wounded his self- 
 love, but he had no way of remedying it. He 
 possessed her body, but not her soul that 
 mysterious something, that love that gives 
 itself for life and eternity and makes of itself 
 a footstool for the lover. This attitude of 
 Janina's irritated him, but nevertheless 
 attracted him so irresistibly that he doubled 
 his pretenses of love, thinking that by a larger 
 dose of sentimental falsehood, and a better 
 acting of emotion he would at last captivate 
 and conquer her completely. However, he 
 did not succeed in doing so. 
 
 Janina, aside from this love, gradually 
 renounced everything, yet in spite of that she 
 felt content. She often suffered hunger, but it 
 was enough for her to have Wladek at her side 
 and to become absorbed in her r61e, to forget 
 about the whole world. 
 
 The performance of Doctor Robin was post- 
 poned from day to day, for the amateur who 
 was to make his debut in it became ill. In the 
 meanwhile, other plays had to be given; so 
 
384 The Comedienne 
 
 Janina was forced to content herself with 
 waiting. She was consumed by impatience 
 and the ambition to rise at once above the 
 throng of her companions and was also 
 impelled by the hope of ending her poverty 
 by this means and finally, by the need of her 
 own soul which had formed its own conception 
 of the character of "Mary" and had to give 
 it forth. 
 
 Janina did not even pay attention to what 
 was brewing behind the scenes where every 
 day schemes and projects for new companies 
 were formed, only to be abandoned after a 
 few days. Krzykiewicz had already deli- 
 cately suggested to Janina on a few occasions 
 that, if she wished, she could secure an engage- 
 ment with Ciepieszewski. She declined, for 
 she remembered Topolski 's project and wished 
 to wait for its realization, knowing that he was 
 counting on her for sure. 
 
 Topolski was in reality organizing a com- 
 pany. It was meant to be a secret as yet, but 
 everyone knew about it. It was openly said 
 that Mimi, Wawrzecki, Piesh with his wife, 
 and a few of the younger forces had already 
 signed a contract and that Topolski had 
 quietly closed a deal for the Lubelsk Theater, a 
 
The Comedienne 385 
 
 new building that had just been opened. It 
 was known for certain that Kotlicki and others 
 had advanced him the necessary capital. 
 
 Cabinski, of course, knew all about this and 
 loudly ridiculed these projects. He knew very 
 well that he could win back all those who had 
 joined Topolski by merely giving them larger 
 advances on their salaries. He predicted that 
 Topolski would not hold out for one season 
 and would go to smash, for he did not believe 
 that anyone was willing to loan him money for 
 organizing a new company. 
 
 " There are no longer any such fools!" he 
 said aloud with conviction. What amused 
 him most was Topolski 's proposed reform of 
 the theater which he unceremoniously termed 
 an idiocy. Cabinski knew the public well and 
 knew what it wanted. 
 
 Topolski held frequent soirees at his home 
 to which he invited all those whom he might 
 need. But he did not yet speak openly about 
 his company, leaving that to Wawrzecki who 
 treated the matter enthusiastically as though 
 it were his own and used it to taunt Cabinski 
 with and to create more frequent rumpuses 
 about his overdue salary. 
 
 Janina was present at a few of these eve- 
 
386 The Comedienne 
 
 nings at Topolski's house, but was bored by 
 them, for the men would usually play cards, 
 while the women, if they were not gossiping or 
 complaining, would enclose themselves within 
 a narrow circle for secret whispering from 
 which they barred Janina, fearing that she 
 might betray something to Cabinski, to whose 
 home she went daily to give piano lessons. 
 
 At the last of these evenings, while they 
 were having tea, Majkowska quietly begged 
 Janina to stay a little longer, promising that 
 she and Topolski would accompany her home. 
 
 Wladek never appeared at these affairs, for 
 he was an open and stanch supporter of 
 Cabinski. 
 
 After all the rest had gone Topolski sat 
 opposite Janina and began to tell her about 
 the company he was organizing. 
 
 "It will be an exemplary theater for true 
 art! I have a splendid ensemble of actors; I 
 have made a contract for one of the best 
 theaters, the library is ready to be sent away 
 and the costumes are already half completed, 
 hence we have almost all that is needed." 
 
 "What are you still lacking? " asked Janina, 
 determining immediately to ask for an 
 engagement. 
 
The Comedienne 387 
 
 " A little money ... a mere trifle of about 
 a thousand rubles as a working capital for the 
 first month," answered Topolski. 
 
 " Couldn't you borrow it?" 
 
 "Yes . . . and that is precisely what I 
 want to talk over with you in a friendly way, 
 for we already count you as one of us. I will 
 give you a good salary and alternating r61es 
 with Mela for I know that you are a capable 
 actress. You have the appearance, the voice 
 and the temperament, and, aside from intelli- 
 gence, that is just what is required to make an 
 excellent actress." 
 
 "Oh thank you, thank you sincerely! " cried 
 Janina beaming with joy. And so elated was 
 she that she kissed Majkowska, who, as was 
 her habit, was almost lying on the table and 
 gazing absently at the lamp. 
 
 "But you must help us!" said Topolski 
 after a short pause. 
 
 " I ? What can I do? " she asked in surprise. 
 
 "A great deal! If you only want to . . ." 
 he answered. 
 
 "Well! if you say that I can, then, of course 
 I shall be glad to help, for it is not only my 
 duty, but also in my own interest! But I'm 
 very curious to know what I can do." 
 
388 The Comedienne 
 
 "It's a question of that one thousand rubles. 
 The money is already assured, only there is one 
 little condition ..." 
 
 "What is it?" Janina asked curiously. 
 
 Topolski drew closer to her, took hold of her 
 hands in a friendly way and only then 
 
 answered : 
 
 
 
 "Miss Janina not only our theater, but 
 your entire artistic future depends on this, so I 
 will tell you frankly that there is someone who 
 is ready to give even two thousand rubles, but 
 he said that he would give them only to you 
 personally, otherwise not at all." 
 
 "Who is that person?" she asked uneasily. 
 
 "Kotlicki!" 
 
 Janina dropped her head and for a while a 
 deep silence reigned in the room. Topolski 
 gazed at her uneasily, while Majkowska had 
 upon her face an indescribably derisive smile. 
 
 Janina almost cried out with pain, so repul- 
 sive did that name and proposal strike her and 
 after a moment she arose from her chair and 
 said in a determined voice: "No! I will not 
 go to Kotlicki . . . and that which you have 
 proposed to me is insulting and outrageous! 
 Only in the theater can people lose so entirely 
 their moral sense as to persuade others to base 
 
The Comedienne 389 
 
 acts and purposely push them into the mire 
 of degradation, so that they themselves may 
 profit. You have miscalculated this time, my 
 dear sir! I have not fallen so low as that. 
 What hurts me is that you could think even 
 for a moment that I would agree to go to 
 Kotlicki, to Kotlicki, who is more repulsive 
 to me than the basest reptile!" she cried, car- 
 ried away by passion. 
 
 II Miss Janina! Let us speak it over calmly 
 and sensibly, without getting excited." 
 
 "You dare to tell me not to get excited?" 
 
 II 1 must, for you are simply inexperienced; 
 consequently that which I ask of you appears 
 to you as something monstrous, something 
 that will immediately sink you in the mud, 
 dishonor you, and shame you." 
 
 "For God's sake, what is it then, if not just 
 that!" Janina cried in amazement. 
 
 "Let us stop playing a comedy, let us drop 
 this game of hide-and-seek and look at things 
 as they are and we shall see that I am not pro- 
 posing anything out of the ordinary to you. 
 What am I asking of you? Merely that you 
 go to Kotlicki for the money which is to be the 
 foundation of our common future, the money 
 which will create our theater for us and with- 
 
390 The Comedienne 
 
 out which none of us can budge from Warsaw. 
 So what is there wrong in this? What wrong 
 can there be in that which will make almost all 
 of us happy?" 
 
 " What? Is it possible that you do not see 
 any wrong in the fact that I, a woman should 
 go alone to the home of a man? And for what 
 will he give me that one thousand or two thou- 
 sand rubles?" 
 
 "When you lived with Glogowski no one 
 regarded it as wrong. Now, when you are 
 living with Wladek who blames you for it? 
 After all, what is there so dreadfully dishonor- 
 able about it? We all live that way; and are 
 we thereby committing anything base? . . . 
 No! for that is a secondary thing, for we have 
 something more important in our minds: 
 art!" 
 
 "No, I will not go!" answered Janina 
 quietly, depressed by the discovery that they 
 all knew about her relation with Wladek. 
 
 She continued to listen to Topolski without 
 hearing or understanding his words. He 
 began to expostulate with her, to beg, and to 
 explain that they were all sacrificing their very 
 lives for the theater, something more than the 
 mere whim of a woman. He pointed out to 
 
The Comedienne 39* 
 
 her that by her refusal she would deal a mortal 
 blow to the newly organized company; that 
 they were all counting on her and would be 
 grateful to her until death, for by her sacrifice 
 she would insure the welfare of dozens of people ; 
 that the new theater would be connected with 
 her name. He wished by all means to break 
 down her opposition which he could not 
 understand, but Janina remained unmoved. 
 
 " If my life itself depended on it, I would not 
 go; I would prefer to die!" said Janina with 
 final determination. 
 
 "Well then, good-bye!" answered Topolski 
 angrily. 
 
 Janina kept looking at him and still wanted 
 to explain herself more fully, but Majkowska 
 threw her cloak over her shoulders for her, 
 brutally placed her hat on her head, and 
 showering her with insults, opened the door 
 widely before her. 
 
 Janina like an automaton, permitted her 
 to do what she wanted with her and, like an 
 automaton she walked down the stairs and 
 along the streets to her home. 
 
 She felt sorry for the new company and 
 regretted the prospect that she was losing by 
 breaking with Topolski but at the same time 
 
392 The Comedienne 
 
 she felt an unbearable shame consuming her at 
 the thought that these people should take her 
 for such a degraded being by daring to make 
 such proposals to her and expecting that she 
 would fulfill them. 
 
 Janina could not calm herself. That night 
 she dreamed now of Kotlicki, now of Wladek, 
 then again of the theater. She heard how all 
 were cursing and reviling her, she saw as it 
 were, a band of people covered with rags and 
 with hatred glowing in their eyes, pursuing her 
 with curses and trying to beat her. In those 
 vaguely outlined faces she recognized Mela, 
 Topolski, Mimi, and Wawrzecki. Again, she 
 dreamed that she was walking along the street 
 and that everybody was staring at her so 
 strangely and so horribly that she felt like 
 sinking into the earth to avoid their glances; 
 but she had no strength to move and that 
 multitude slowly filed by her while Topolski 
 stood pointing at her and crying in a loud and 
 derisive voice : ' ' Behold ! she lived with Glogow- 
 ski and is now the mistress of Wladek ! " 
 
 Janina could not bear that; she screamed 
 wildly in her sleep for she saw, as it were, her 
 father approaching her with Krenska at his 
 side, pointing at her and calling: "She lived 
 
The Comedienne 393 
 
 with Glogowski and now is the mistress of 
 Wladek!" 
 
 "God, oh God!" she moaned, writhing with 
 the torment of that dream. 
 
 And the throng of familiar faces continued 
 to grow. There appeared the priest from 
 Bukowiec, the teachers of her boarding school, 
 her former companions and Grzesikiewicz. 
 All, all passed by her hastily and stared at her 
 with such a dreadful, horrible smile that it 
 pierced her like a dagger and scourged her like 
 a whip. 
 
 Janina awoke with tear-streaming eyes and 
 utterly exhausted. 
 
 Before the rehearsal Wladek came to see 
 her. For the first time she threw herself into 
 his arms of her own accord. 
 
 "They all know!" she whispered, hiding 
 her face upon his breast. 
 
 Wladek immediately surmised what she 
 meant and answered : ' ' Well, what of it? Is it 
 a crime?" 
 
 He sat down in an ill humor, began to rub 
 his knee and tossed about angrily in his chair. 
 
 Janina noticed his mood and, forgetting 
 about herself, inquired: "What is the matter 
 with you? Are you ill? " 
 
394 The Comedienne 
 
 "There is nothing the matter with me, only 
 I owe someone a few rubles and am unable to 
 pay them back. I can't ask my mother for 
 the money, for she is sick again and it would 
 only finish her! Cabinski will not give it to 
 me either, and I am at my wit's end!" 
 
 He was, of course, lying, for he had been 
 playing cards the whole night long and had 
 lost all he had. Janina remembered the help 
 she had received from Glogowski, so without 
 hesitation she took off her gold watch and 
 chain and laid it before Wladek. 
 
 " I have no money. Take this and pawn it 
 and pay your debt and what you have left over 
 bring me back, for I also have nothing," she 
 said heartily. 
 
 "No, I shall not take it! What do you 
 want to do that for? I really don't need it. 
 . . . My dear child! . . ." remonstrated Wla- 
 dek in his first impulse of honesty. 
 
 "Please take it. ... If you love me you 
 will take it." 
 
 Wladek demurred a little while yet, but the 
 thought struck him that with the money he 
 might play again to win back what he had lost. 
 
 "No! What would that look like!" he 
 whispered, his resistance growing ever weaker. 
 
The Comedienne 395 
 
 "Go right away and on your way back stop 
 in for me and we shall have breakfast 
 together," urged Janina. 
 
 Wladek kissed her, as though he were em- 
 barrassed, muttered something about grati- 
 tude, but finally took the watch and went to 
 pawn it. 
 
 He returned quickly with thirty rubles. He 
 immediately borrowed twenty from Janina and 
 wanted even to give her a receipt for them, 
 but she became so angry that he had to apolo- 
 gize to her. Then they went out to breakfast. 
 
 Thenceforward they lived together. At the 
 theater everyone knew about their relation, 
 but it was such a usual thing, that no one paid 
 attention to it. Only Sowinska would sometimes 
 taunt Janina on the score and slight her and, 
 whereas not so long ago she had done nothing 
 but praise Wladek, she now told the vilest 
 sort of tales about him. She delighted in tor- 
 menting Janina in this manner, and avenged her- 
 self in this way for the loss of her son's love. 
 
 At last it was announced that stage rehear- 
 sals of Doctor Robin were to begin. Wladek 
 brought this information to Janina, because 
 for a few days she had been very weak and had 
 not left her home at all. She felt an oppres- 
 
396 The Comedienne 
 
 sive drowsiness and exhaustion and an unbear- 
 able pain in her back. Then again such a 
 feeling of helplessness and discouragement 
 would possess her that she wanted to cry and 
 had no desire to stir from her bed, but lay for 
 whole days, gazing blankly at the ceiling. 
 The humming sensation in her head returned 
 and she suffered such a burning thirst that 
 nothing could quench it. However, on hear- 
 ing that she was to take part in the play, 
 Janina immediately felt well and strong again. 
 
 She went to the rehearsal, trembling with 
 fear, but on seeing the person who was to 
 play "Garrick," she quickly mastered herself. 
 This amateur was hardly more than a boy, 
 skinny, awkward, and simple-minded. He 
 lisped and waddled about like a duck, but since 
 he was the cousin of one of the influential 
 journalists who backed him, he regarded 
 everybody at the theater with a haughty 
 expression and treated them with an air of 
 condescension. The members of the com- 
 pany delicately ridiculed him to his face and 
 laughed loudly at him behind his back. 
 
 Everybody was present at the rehearsal, as 
 though they had all agreed upon it beforehand. 
 
 No sooner did Janina enter upon the stage 
 
The Comedienne 397 
 
 than Majkowska ostentatiously withdrew 
 behind the scenes, while Topolski did not so 
 much as nod his head to her in greeting. Ja- 
 nina realized that relations with them were 
 severed for good, but she had no time to think 
 about it, for the rehearsal began immediately. 
 Despite the fact that she had at first intended 
 merely to recite her r61e, Janina could not now 
 refrain from marking it, at least in its broad 
 outlines. 
 
 She was irritated by the fact that everyone 
 was looking at her and that from all directions 
 numerous eyes were fixed upon her. It 
 seemed to her that she saw ridicule in their 
 glances and derision on all those lips, so at 
 moments she would start nervously and break 
 out with all the force of her temperament, or 
 again, she would speak too softly. 
 
 Majkowska stood there hissing and laughing 
 together with Zarnecka and loudly voicing her 
 opinion of Janina's acting. Topolski, the stage- 
 manager, made her leave and reenter the 
 stage several times, for in her excitement, she 
 did not enter properly. 
 
 Janina knew what they were doing, so she 
 did not take very much to heart Mela's ridi- 
 cule or Topolski's pedantic instructions. She 
 
398 The Comedienne 
 
 played on and rendered her r61e forcibly, if a 
 little unevenly. 
 
 There followed a characteristic silence; 
 nobody laughed nor jested loudly . 
 
 The stage-director walked up and down 
 behind the scenes contentedly rubbing his 
 hands and grunting: "Good, good, but she 
 does not yet put enough pathos into it!" 
 
 "Why, don't you hear she is already shout- 
 ing, not speaking!" Majkowska jeered at him. 
 
 "My dear madame! You go into convul- 
 sions on the stage, and none of us, out of 
 politeness, blames you for it," answered 
 Stanislawski for his friend. 
 
 "Not that way! Who waves his arms in 
 that manner? Are you trying to make a 
 windmill of yourself?" cried Topolski. 
 
 "Don't discourage her, remember it is her 
 first rehearsal ! " cried Cabinska from the seats. 
 
 ' ' You walk about the stage like a goose ! ' ' again 
 remarked the irritated Topolski to Janina. 
 
 "She wouldn't be at all bad as a washer- 
 woman!" hissed Mela. 
 
 In spite of all, although she felt tears of 
 wrath rising to her eyes, Janina played on, 
 without letting herself be confused and never 
 for a moment losing her presence of mind. 
 

 The Comedienne 399 
 
 When she had finished, Cabinska ostenta- 
 tiously kissed her and began to praise her 
 aloud so that Majkowska could hear: "I 
 congratulate you and have no doubt that you 
 will play the part excellently!" 
 
 "Work out the details a little better," 
 Stanislawski advised her. 
 
 1 ' Why, this is merely a rehearsal ! I already 
 have the entire character worked out in my 
 head." 
 
 "We shall now have a real heroine, for one 
 that is beautiful and talented at the same 
 time!" cried Rosinska in a very loud voice. 
 
 Majkowska glared at her furiously, but did 
 not reply. 
 
 Janina felt so happy that she had a desire to 
 kiss everybody. 
 
 In two days the performance was to take 
 place. That interval was like one immense 
 vista of light in which Janina seemed eagerly 
 absorbed. It seemed to her that she was 
 entirely satisfied. 
 
 "At last! At last! Now, all my poverty 
 and humiliation will end!" Janina whispered 
 rapturously to herself. She thought that a 
 repertory of roles would immediately be 
 assigned to her. She gave free reign to her 
 
400 The Comedienne 
 
 imagination and already saw herself upon 
 some pinnacle. She was already in that 
 promised land of powerful emotions about 
 which she dreamed every day in that realm 
 that swarmed before her eyes with a stately 
 throng of heroic figures, superhuman passions, 
 and dazzling beauty, a realm in which there 
 reigned a perfect harmony between dreams 
 and reality. 
 
 Janina smiled with pity at those days of 
 want and poverty, as though she were bidding 
 farewell to them forever. Everything that 
 surrounded her, even Wladek, paled into 
 insignificance before her fascinated eyes. 
 
 A thousand times she repeated the role of 
 "Mary." She sat for hours at a time before 
 the mirror, practicing the appropriate facial 
 expression and became feverish with impa- 
 tience while awaiting the arrival of the mo- 
 mentous day. At night, Janina would sit half 
 asleep in her bed and gaze before her. It 
 seemed to her that she saw the crowded 
 theater and the representatives of the press, 
 that she heard the quiet murmurs of the pub- 
 lic, saw their enraptured glances, and that she 
 entered the stage and played. . . . Half 
 unconsciously she would repeat the words of 
 
The Comedienne 401 
 
 her r61e s kindle with ardor, declaim them with 
 exaltation. Then, overcome by drowsiness 
 again, she would smile through tears of happi- 
 ness for she heard most distinctly that well- 
 known and thrilling thunder of applause and 
 cries of: "Orlowska! Orlowska!" And with 
 that smile on her face she would fall asleep 
 and wake again to continue her dreams. 
 
 Janina sold whatever she could to buy the 
 appropriate costume for her part. With a 
 smile of contentment she would drive away 
 Wladek so that he might not interfere with her. 
 
 On that day which was to be for her so 
 important and decisive, Cabinski, before the 
 general rehearsal, took away her part and gave 
 it to Majkowska. 
 
 Intrigue and envy had gained their end. 
 Cabinski was forced to yield, for Topolski 
 had threatened to leave the company immedi- 
 ately unless he took away the role from Janina 
 and gave it to Majkowska. It was the way he 
 chose to avenge himself because of Janina's 
 refusal to go to Kotlicki. 
 
 Struck to the very heart, Janina almost lost 
 her reason under this blow. She began to 
 stagger on her feet and felt that the whole 
 theater was whirling about her and that every- 
 
402 The Comedienne 
 
 thing was sinking with her into a bottomless 
 darkness. She cast a glance of unspeakable 
 grief at all those about her, as though seeking 
 for help, but on the faces of most of the mem- 
 bers of the company there was an expression 
 of merriment over what they thought was a 
 splendid joke, and the beastly joy of cretins 
 at the suppression of talent. They mocked 
 the defeated aspirant with their glances; burn- 
 ing taunts and jibes began to fall from all 
 sides like stones upon her soul crushed by 
 an unexpected blow, Brutal laughs arose, 
 scourging her as with a whip and all the base- 
 ness of human delight in the pain of others 
 found its object and outlet. 
 
 And Janina stood there without a word or 
 motion, with that dreadful pain in her heart 
 in which it seemed as though all the arteries 
 had been torn open and were flooding it with 
 the blood of despair. 
 
 She collected enough strength to ask: " Why 
 may I not play the part?" 
 
 11 Because you may not and that settles it! " 
 answered Cabinski curtly. And he immedi- 
 ately left the theater, because he dreaded a 
 scene and felt a trifle sorry for Janina. 
 
 She remained standing behind the scenes 
 
The Comedienne 43 
 
 with that overwhelming and sharp pain of 
 disappointment tearing at her soul. She felt 
 such an emptiness and loneliness that at 
 moments it seemed to her as though she were 
 all alone in the world and that something had 
 pinned her to the earth with an immense 
 weight and was crushing her down, that she 
 was falling with lightning speed to the bottom 
 of some deep abyss where a grayish-green 
 whirlpool was dimly roaring. 
 
 Her thoughts and feelings were breaking 
 and snapping under the tremendous strain 
 and tears of hopeless abandonment flooded 
 her eyes. She went to the dressing-room 
 and sat down in the darkest corner. 
 
 Her dreams were crumbling to pieces : those 
 wonderful realms were vanishing and sinking 
 away in the misty distance, those enchanting 
 visions were waving like torn rags in her brain 
 and soul. 
 
 The dull grayness of the dirty walls and 
 decorations about her and the throng of 
 shabby, jeering beggars seemed to saturate and 
 oppress her whole being. She felt so utterly 
 weary, broken, sick, and helpless that she went 
 out into the hall to look for Wladek to take her 
 home, but she could not find him. He had 
 
404 The Comedienne 
 
 cautiously disappeared, so Janina went back 
 to the dressing-room and sat there in a 
 daze. 
 
 "Beware of dreams! Beware of water!" 
 she repeated to herself, remembering with 
 difficulty who had told her that. And sud- 
 denly, Janina became pale and reeled back for 
 such a chaos began to whirl in her brain that 
 she thought she would go mad. . . . 
 
 For a long time she sat in a senseless torpor 
 and wept without being able to restrain her- 
 self, for after partly regaining her conscious- 
 ness the memory of all her sufferings and dis- 
 appointments came back to her again. At 
 last utterly worn out, and, lulled by the silence 
 that enveloped the theater after the rehearsal, 
 she fell asleep. 
 
 She was awakened by Rosinska who on that 
 day had come earlier to the dressing-room, for 
 she was to begin the play. When she saw 
 the sleeping girl, the older actress was moved 
 to pity. The remaining shreds of her woman- 
 hood covered by the artificiality of theatrical 
 life, awoke in her at the sight of that pale face, 
 worn by poverty and dejection. 
 
 "Miss Janina " whispered Rosinska 
 tenderly. 
 
The Comedienne 405 
 
 Janina arose and began nervously to wipe 
 away the traces of tears from her face. 
 
 "Have you not seen Mr. Niedzielski?" she 
 asked Rosinska. 
 
 "No. My poor child, so that is what they 
 have done to you! But you must not take it 
 so much to heart. If you want to be an 
 artist you must bear a great deal, suffer a 
 great deal. My dear, if you only knew what 
 I had to go through and still have to. If you 
 wanted to grieve over all the afflictions that 
 come to you, become irritated over all the 
 gossip they spread about you or weep over 
 every intrigue in which they try to entangle 
 you, you would have neither any tears, nor 
 eyes, nor strength left! There's no use crying 
 over it, for things can't be any different in the 
 theater! Moreover, you haven't lost any- 
 thing by it ! That one disappointment makes 
 you richer by one more experience." 
 
 "Perhaps they are right, after all. I must 
 have no talent whatever, if Cabinski took 
 away the r61e from me. . . ." 
 
 "It is just because you have a talent that 
 they played this trick on you. I heard what 
 the cousin of that amateur said at the first 
 rehearsal." 
 
4 6 The Comedienne 
 
 "What good will all that do me, when I 
 can't play and have nothing to live on." 
 
 "That is all the doing of Majkowska. She 
 forced Cabinski to take the role away from 
 you." 
 
 "I know she bears me a grudge, but I can't 
 conceive why she should revenge herself in 
 such an inhuman way!" 
 
 "You don't know her yet. ... I don't 
 know what you two quarreled about, but I do 
 know that when she saw you on the stage at 
 the first rehearsal she became so greatly 
 afraid that you might eclipse her that she 
 immediately began to lay plans for your 
 undoing. I saw how she hung about that 
 amateur, how she fawned upon his cousin and 
 Cabinski, how she kissed the hands of the 
 directress! I saw with my own eyes! Did 
 you ever hear of anyone degrading one's self 
 in that manner? But she attained her end. 
 She has already done away with many another 
 in the same way. You probably do not know 
 what I, an actress of long standing and with 
 so large a repertory, have to suffer on her 
 account. You could not notice what was being- 
 schemed, for it was all done so quickly that 
 besides myself, probably no one else knew 
 
The Comedienne 47 
 
 about it. Such a creature as she always has 
 luck! But wait I will fix her to-day! I'll 
 pay her back for the both of us! " 
 
 The dressing-room slowly began to fill with 
 actresses, their noisy chatter and the smell 
 of powder and pigments that were being 
 warmed over the candles. They were begin- 
 ning to dress. 
 
 At last Majkowska came in, stately and 
 triumphant, with a bouquet in her hands and 
 roses in her corsage. Seeing Janina sitting 
 alongside of Rosinska she frowned and cried 
 angrily: " If I am not mistaken, this is not the 
 dressing-room of the chorus girls." 
 
 " You are mistaken, you pantomime artist ! " 
 retorted Rosinska. 
 
 "I am not speaking to you." 
 
 "But I am answering you. Please stay 
 here," she said, turning to Janina who- wanted 
 to leave. 
 
 " Don't you begin with me! Do you think 
 I'm going to dress' together with novices, 
 eh?" 
 
 "Wait, you'll get a separate cell with a 
 strait-jacket of your own. You can't miss it." 
 
 "Shut your mouth! You forty-year-old 
 simp." 
 
408 The Comedienne 
 
 "My age is none of your business, you 
 ruined heroine!" 
 
 "She looks like a drenched hen on the stage 
 and yet dares to raise her voice here." 
 
 Everybody in the dressing-room was shak- 
 ing with laughter, while Rosinska and Maj- 
 kowska began to quarrel ever more vulgarly, 
 without however interrupting for a moment 
 their make-up and hasty dressing. 
 
 Janina listened to the quarrel in silence. 
 She hardly felt any grievance toward Maj- 
 kowska for depriving her of the r61e, but only 
 a physical aversion to her person. Majkow- 
 ska now appeared to her so filthy, brazen, and 
 base that even her voice sounded disgusting. 
 
 Only when they began to play Doctor Robin, 
 Janina stood behind the scenes to see what 
 would be done with her r61e. It is impossible 
 to describe that subtle, excruciating pain that 
 rent her soul when she saw Majkowska as 
 "Mary" on the stage. She felt that that 
 other woman was tearing out piecemeal from 
 her brain and heart every word, every gesture, 
 every pose and accent. 
 
 "They are mine, mine!" she breathed, 
 unable to help herself. "Mine!" And she 
 devoured Mela with her eyes and then closed 
 
The Comedienne 49 
 
 them so that she might not behold any more 
 of it, nor torment herself with remembering 
 the role as she had conceived it. "The 
 thief!" she finally whispered so loudly that 
 Majkowska trembled on the stage. 
 
 Rosinska sat behind the scenes on the other 
 side of the stage. As soon as Majkowska 
 entered there began a scene upon the stage for 
 she repeated each word after Mela in an under- 
 tone and in a false intonation, laughed aloud 
 at her acting, ridiculed and mimicked her 
 gestures. 
 
 At first Majkowska paid no attention to 
 this, but finally she could no longer refrain 
 from looking behind the scenes and could not 
 help hearing that raillery and mimicry of 
 herself. She could not catch the prompter's 
 words and stopped short in the middle of a 
 sentence, while Rosinska continued to crowd 
 her ever more mercilessly. 
 
 Majkowska grew furious with impotent 
 rage, but her playing was becoming worse all 
 the time and she felt it, and began to throw 
 herself about the stage as though she were 
 obsessed. Behind every scene she saw faces 
 laughing at her; even Dobek in his box stopped 
 his mouth with his hand so heartily amused 
 
4*0 The Comedienne 
 
 was he by what was going on. That deprived 
 Majkowksa of the rest of her self-control. 
 
 As soon as she left the stage she threw her- 
 self at Rosinska with her fists. There arose 
 such a rumpus that the men had to part the 
 two actresses, for they had begun pulling the 
 hair out of each other's wigs. Majkowska 
 was forcibly led to the dressing-room. She 
 raged like a mad woman and got an attack of 
 hysteria. She smashed mirrors, tore up cos- 
 tumes, and tossed about so violently that they 
 had to call a doctor and tie her hands and 
 feet. 
 
 Cabinska pulled out the rest of his hair in 
 despair, but the actors laughed in their dress- 
 ing-rooms and enjoyed themselves immensely. 
 
 The curtain had to be lowered in the middle 
 of the play, and Topolski, almost pale with 
 anger announced to the audience : ' * Ladies and 
 Gentlemen! Because of the sudden and seri- 
 ous indisposition of Miss Majkowska, Doctor 
 Robin cannot be concluded. The following 
 play on the program will immediately begin." 
 
 Janina despite the satisfaction that she felt 
 at the fiasco of her enemy, began to feel sorry 
 for Majkowska when she saw her senseless 
 and suffering. She was not yet enough of an 
 
The Comedienne 4 11 
 
 actress to feel indifferent to it, sc she went 
 to her, but seeing in the room the doctor, and 
 Cabinski, who was quarreling with Rosinska 
 she hastily retreated. 
 
 Rosinska, Wolska, and Mirowska declared 
 outright to Cabinski that if Majkowska 
 remained in the company they would leave it 
 the very next day. 
 
 Cabinski fled, but he next ran into Stanis- 
 lawski and Krzykiewicz who told him the 
 same with the addition that they would not 
 remain .a day longer with him for they were 
 ashamed to be in a company where such public 
 scandals occurred. 
 
 The director almost went crazy, for he was 
 not prepared for such a thing. He tried to 
 squirm out of it as best as he could, made 
 promises, gave orders on the treasurer to all 
 who wanted them and, spying Janina called 
 aloud to her with the object of mollifying 
 somewhat his previous conduct : ' ' If you want 
 something from the treasurer, I will give you 
 an order, for I must leave right away." 
 
 Janina asked for five rubles. He did not 
 even so much as make a wry face but gave it to 
 her and immediately ran off to Pepa, but on 
 the way he was again tackled by that amateur 
 
The Comedienne 
 
 and his cousin and things began to grow so 
 noisy behind the scenes that the public lis- 
 tened uneasily, wondering what was the matter. 
 
 The performance was concluded amid the 
 silence of the audience; not one handclap 
 sounded. 
 
 Janina, on leaving the box office with the 
 money, met Niedzielska hobbling slowly 
 along. 
 
 She stopped and wanted to greet her, but 
 Niedzielska looked at her threateningly and 
 barked: "What do you want, you! you!" 
 She coughed violently, threatened Janina with 
 her cane with which she supported herself, and 
 dragged herself on. 
 
 Janina unconsciously looked about her, to 
 see if she could spy Wladek anywhere, but he 
 had already vanished. She had not seen him 
 since that morning. 
 
 Wladek purposely avoided her, for he had 
 reached the decisive conclusion that it was 
 better to have intercourse only with ordinary 
 women, for with them it was not necessary to 
 restrain one's self, to pretend, and to be 
 continually forced to take everything into 
 account. Moreover, Janina had made a fiasco 
 as an actress and continued to be nothing bu 
 
The Comedienne 4 T 3 
 
 a chorus girl, and his mother had threatened 
 to disinherit him because of her. 
 
 Janina gazed for a long time after the old 
 woman, who, no doubt, was going to seek her 
 son, and then she went slowly home. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 JANINA lay sick in bed. 
 
 It seemed to her as though she were at the 
 bottom of a well and, from those depths into 
 which they had shoved her she could see only 
 the pale, distant blue of the sky, sometimes 
 complete darkness, sometimes the twinkling 
 of the stars, then again some wings, flying 
 past, would cast a shadow over her eyes so 
 that she lost knowledge of everything. She 
 only felt that those eddies of life without, 
 its voices, noises, cries, fears, and despair 
 oozed down the smooth sides of the well and 
 flowed into her soul as into a reservoir, pene- 
 trating her whole soul with an unconscious 
 pain which she, however, felt with every 
 fiber of her being. 
 
 The days dragged on as slowly as though 
 they were strung on the chain of ages, as 
 slowly as they drag on for those who have lost 
 everything, even hope. 
 
 Janina sent word to the director that she 
 414 
 
The Comedienne 4 T 5 
 
 was sick, but no one came to see her. Cabin- 
 ska merely sent Wicek to say that Yadzia was 
 longing for her piano lessons, and nothing 
 more. 
 
 There, they were playing, learning, creating 
 something and living! Here, she lay sunken 
 in a complete apathy, like a crushed soul that 
 hardly dares at moments to think that it still 
 exists and then again sinks into an agony 
 which cannot, however, end in the oblivion of 
 death. 
 
 Janina was not really physically ill, for 
 nothing pained her, but was dying from inner 
 exhaustion. It seemed to her as though she 
 had spent the whole store of her strength in 
 those three months of theatrical life and that 
 she was now dying from the hunger of her soul 
 that had nothing left with which to keep it 
 alive. 
 
 Throughout those long days, throughout 
 that endless agony of silent nights she slowly 
 pondered the nature of everyone whom she 
 had met here; and that slow, but entirely one- 
 sided, cognizance of her environment filled her 
 with bitter sadness. 
 
 ''There is no happiness on earth . . ." 
 Janina whispered to herself, and it seemed to 
 
4 l6 The Comedienne 
 
 her that hitherto she had had a cataract blind- 
 ing her eyes which fate had now brutally torn 
 off. She now saw, but there were moments in 
 which she yearned for her former blindness and 
 groping in the dark. 
 
 " There is no happiness!" she repeated 
 bitterly, and rebellious pessimism mastered 
 her soul entirely. 
 
 Everywhere Janina saw only evil and base- 
 ness. There passed before her the forms of all 
 her acquaintances and she scornfully thrust 
 them all down into one pit, not excluding 
 Wladek. He had dropped in only once to see 
 her and began to excuse himself for his 
 absence, but she impatiently interrupted him 
 and asked him to go away. 
 
 She already knew him well enough and 
 wondered as the thought occurred to her that 
 she had ever loved him. 
 
 " Why ? Why ? " Janina asked herself. 
 
 Shame and regret began to fill her at the 
 thought that she had fallen so low and for 
 him. He now appeared to her miserable and 
 common. She could not forgive herself. 
 
 "What fatality placed him in my path of 
 life?" Janina asked herself further. In her 
 own eyes she felt deeply humiliated. 
 
The Comedienne 4*7 
 
 "I did not love him," she pondered and a 
 shudder of disgust shook her. He began to 
 grow hateful to her. 
 
 And the theater also, lost a great deal of its 
 glamor for Janina in those hours of reflection. 
 She now looked at it through the prism of 
 those continual quarrels and behind-the-scenes 
 intrigues, through the vanity of its priests and 
 through her own disappointments. 
 
 " It is not as I used to see it formerly! " she 
 lamented. 
 
 Everything became increasingly smaller and 
 grayer to Janina's inner vision. Everywhere 
 she began to discover rags, sham, and false- 
 hood. People obscured everything for her 
 with their baseness and pettiness. She no 
 longer desired to reign as a queen upon the 
 stage. 
 
 "What is that? What is that?" she whis- 
 pered to herself and saw a motley, heterogene- 
 ous public that was indifferent to the quality 
 of a play. It came to the theater to amuse 
 itself and laugh; it hankered for clownishness 
 and the circus. 
 
 "What is that? Comedianism for profit 
 and for the amusement of the multitude," 
 Janina answered herself. The stage now 
 
 27 
 
The Comedienne 
 
 appeared to her as a real arena for the feats of 
 clowns and trained monkeys. 
 
 "I wanted to be an entertainer of the mob! 
 And where does art come in? What is pure 
 art, the ideal, for which hundreds of people 
 sacrifice their lives? 
 
 "What is it and where is it to be found?" 
 she asked herself uneasily, beginning to see 
 that everything is rather an amusement than 
 an aim in itself. 
 
 Literature, poetry, music, painting, and all 
 the fine arts passed before Janina's mind. 
 She could not separate their utilitarian aspect 
 from their purely artistic one. She saw that 
 all artists played, sang, and created only to 
 amuse that vast, brutal, mob. For it they 
 sacrificed their lives, their strength, and their 
 dreams; for it they struggled and suffered, 
 lived and died. 
 
 To Janina that vast multitude of Grze- 
 sikiewiczs, Kotlickis, and counselors, appeared 
 in its ignorance and low instincts like a cruel 
 master who, with a half -mocking, half -favor- 
 ing smile, looked down upon that entire human 
 throng of artists that painted, played, recited, 
 created, and begged with a nervous look for his 
 favor and recognition. 
 
The Comedienne 4 J 9 
 
 And she saw one immense wave of human 
 beings spreading over the wide plains of earth, 
 swaying slowly and going nowhere ; and on the 
 other side all those artists who were passing 
 through the mob in all directions, loudly pro- 
 claiming something, singing with inspired 
 voices, pointing to the expanse of heaven, 
 calling attention to the stars, trying to bring 
 about some order in this disorderly, teeming 
 multitude, opening paths among it, imploring 
 it in deep tones. But the multitude either 
 laughed or merely nodded its assent, but 
 did not budge from its place. It surged 
 and pushed about and trampled the artists 
 underfoot. 
 
 "What is that? Why?" Janina asked her- 
 self, greatly terrified. "If they do not need 
 us then we ought to let them alone, keeping 
 ourselves apart from them and living only for 
 ourselves and with ourselves. " But again 
 everything became confused in her mind and 
 she could not conceive how it would be 
 possible to live apart from the rest of human- 
 ity and concluded that it would not be worth 
 living at all in that way. Her thoughts 
 whirled in confusion through her brain. 
 
 Sowinska, who now took care of her with 
 
420 The Comedienne 
 
 motherly solicitude, came in and interrupted 
 her frenzied thoughts. 
 
 "Why don't you go home?" she advised 
 Janina sincerely. 
 
 "Never!" answered Janina. 
 
 "Why should you wear yourself out in that 
 way? You will rest a little, gain new strength, 
 and return again to the theater." 
 
 "No," answered Janina quietly. 
 
 "I forgot to tell you that old Mrs. Nied- 
 zielska was here to see me yesterday.*' 
 
 "Do you know her?" asked the younger 
 woman. 
 
 " Not at all, but she had some business with 
 me. Oh, she is a sly fox, that old hag!" 
 added Sowinska. 
 
 "Perhaps she is a bit too miserly, but 
 otherwise she is a rather honest woman." 
 
 "Honest? You'll find out yet for yourself 
 how honest she is." 
 
 "Why?" asked Janina, but without curios- 
 ity, for it didn't at all interest her now. 
 
 "I will only say this much . . . that she 
 does not love you in the least, not in the 
 least!" 
 
 "That's strange, for I never did her any 
 wrong," answered Janina. 
 
The Comedienne 4 21 
 
 Sowinska's demeanor suddenly changed, for 
 she glanced angrily at Janina and wanted 
 to say something sharp, but seeing that 
 Janina' s face wore an expression of complete 
 indifference, she refrained and left the room. 
 
 Janina thought about Bukowiec. 
 
 "I have no home," she thought, even with- 
 out bitterness. "The whole wide world is my 
 home," she added, but suddenly remembered 
 what Grzesikiewicz had told her about her 
 father and stirred as though some hidden pain 
 had awakened in her. An uneasiness, not 
 such as besets one on the eve of some event, 
 but such as one feels on remembering some 
 good that one has lost forever, filled Janina' s 
 heart. It was the pain of the past like the 
 quiet remembrance of the dead. 
 
 But those memories of Bukowiec and those 
 lonely nights when she dreamed, forgetting 
 about everything, and created for herself such 
 wondrous worlds, now flashed upon her mind 
 in all their vividness. Only the memory of 
 that exuberant and majestic nature, those vast 
 fields, and those silent glens full of murmurs 
 and bird songs, verdure, and wild grandeur 
 swathed Janina in melancholy and lulled her 
 weary soul with its charms. 
 
4 22 The Comedienne 
 
 The woods in which she was reared, those 
 dim depths full of unspeakable wonders, those 
 gigantic trees to which she was united by a 
 thousand affinities, outlined themselves in her 
 mind ever more powerfully. Janina longed 
 for them now and listened through the nights, 
 for it seemed to her that she heard the grave 
 autumnal murmur of the forest, the somnolent 
 rustling of its branches. It seemed that she 
 felt within herself the slow, endless swaying 
 of those giant trees, the soft motions of the 
 verdure bathed in golden sunlight, the joyous 
 cry of the birds, the fragrance of the young 
 pine saplings and juniper bushes the whole 
 leisurely life of nature. 
 
 Janina lay for whole hours at a time, without 
 a word, thought, or motion, for her soul was 
 there in those verdant woods. She wandered 
 over the meadows covered with wild rasp- 
 berries and waving grass, strayed across the 
 fields where the rye grew high like a wood, 
 swaying and murmuring in the breeze and 
 gleaming with dew in the sunlight, penetrated 
 the groves full of the pungent smell of the 
 resin. She followed each road, each bound- 
 ary, each wood path, greeted everything that 
 lived there and cried out to the fields, woods, 
 
The Comedienne 4 2 3 
 
 the hills, and the sky: "I have come! I have 
 come! " smiling as though she had found a lost 
 happiness. 
 
 These invigorating memories restored Ja- 
 nina's health almost entirely. On the eighth 
 day she felt strong enough for a walk. She 
 was longing for the fresh air, the verdure 
 unsoiled by city dust, the sunlight, and 
 the vast open spaces. She felt that the city 
 was stifling her, that here, at every step, she 
 had to limit her own ego and continually 
 struggle against all the barriers of custom and 
 dependence. 
 
 Janina passed through the Place of Arms 
 and, going beyond the Citadel, she walked 
 along the damp sand dunes to Bielany. 
 
 An unbroken silence enveloped her on all 
 sides. The sun shone brightly and warmly, 
 but from the water there blew a brisk, invigor- 
 ating breeze. 
 
 She gazed at the quiet river flecked with 
 spots of white foam and at the indistinct silhou- 
 ettes of boats trailing along in midstream. She 
 breathed in deeply the calm that surrounded 
 her and felt a resurgence of her wasted strength. , 
 
 Janina lay down upon the yellowish sand of 
 the bank and, gazing at the gleaming expanse 
 
4 2 4 The Comedienne 
 
 of waters, forgot everything. It seemed to 
 her as though she were flowing on with the 
 current of the river, passing the shores, houses, 
 and woods and hurrying on continually into a 
 blue and boundless distance like the illimit- 
 able expanse of heaven that hung over her. 
 It seemed to her as though she no longer 
 remembered anything, but felt only the 
 ineffable delight of rocking with the waves. 
 
 Janina suddenly awoke from that half 
 dream, for there passed near her an old man 
 with a fishing rod in his hand. He looked at 
 her in passing, sat down almost beside her on 
 the very edge of the river, cast his line into the 
 water and waited. 
 
 He had so honest a face that she felt a desire 
 to speak to him and was thinking how to 
 begin, when he addressed her first: "Would 
 you like to take a trip over to the other side? " 
 
 Janina glanced at him questiongly. 
 
 "Aha! I see that we don't understand 
 each other. I thought that you wanted to 
 drown yourself," he said. 
 
 "I wasn't even thinking about death," she 
 replied quietly. 
 
 1 ' Ha ! ha ! It would be an unexpected honor 
 for the river." 
 
The Comedienne A 2 5 
 
 He adjusted his fishing tackle and became 
 silent, centering all his attention on the fish 
 that had begun to circle about the bait and 
 the hook. 
 
 A deeper silence, as it were, diffused itself 
 about and began to fill Janina's soul with a 
 blissful calm. She felt that an immense 
 goodness was pervading her, that the majesty 
 of that expanse of heaven, of the waters and 
 the verdure was uplifting her and drawing 
 from her breast a hymn of thanksgiving and 
 the pure joy of living, free from all earthly 
 things. 
 
 The old man cast a sidelong glance at her 
 and on his narrow lips there hovered an 
 unfathomable smile. 
 
 Janina felt that look and in turn glanced at 
 him. Their eyes met in a long and friendly 
 gaze. 
 
 She felt a sudden and irresistible impulse to 
 reveal the depths of her soul to him. 
 
 She moved closer to him and said quietly: 
 "I was not thinking about death." 
 
 "Then you were seeking calm?" 
 
 "Yes, I wanted to take a look at nature and 
 to forget." 
 
 "Forget about what?" 
 
426 The Comedienne 
 
 "About life!" Janina whispered hoarsely 
 and tears of violent grief filled her eyes. 
 
 "You are a child. It must have been some 
 disappointment in love, some thwarted ambi- 
 tion, or perhaps the lack of a dinner that put 
 you in such a tragic mood." 
 
 4 'All that taken together is not enough to 
 make one feel very, very unhappy," answered 
 Janina. 
 
 "All that taken together is one big zero, for 
 according to my way of thinking there is 
 nothing that can make wholly unhappy an 
 individual who knows himself," he said. 
 
 "Who are you . . . that is, what do you 
 do?" he asked, after pausing a while. 
 
 "I am in the theater," answered the girl. 
 
 "Aha! the world of comedy! Simulation 
 which you afterwards take for reality. 
 Chimeras! All that warps the human soul. 
 The greatest actors are merely phonographs 
 wound up sometimes by sages, sometimes by 
 geniuses, but most often by fools. And they 
 speak to even greater fools. Actors, artists, 
 creators are merely blind instruments of 
 nature which uses them to reveal itself and 
 for ends known to itself alone! To them it 
 seems that they are something real, but that is 
 
The Comedienne 4 2 7 
 
 a sad deception, for they are merely instru- 
 ments which are thrown into the discard when 
 they are no longer needed or have lost their 
 usefulness." 
 
 "Who are you?" Janina asked, almost 
 unknowingly, stirred by his words. 
 
 "An old man as you see, who fishes and 
 likes to chat. Oh yes, I am very old. I come 
 here for a few hours every day in the summer- 
 time, if the weather is fair, and catch fish, if 
 they let themselves be caught. What good 
 will it do you to know who I am? My name 
 will tell you nothing. In the sum total of 
 humanity I am merely a pawn which is given 
 a certain number upon entrance into this 
 world and retains the same at the time of its 
 exit. I am a cell of feeling long ago registered 
 and classified by my fellow -beings as a 'ne'er- 
 do-well,' " he said, smiling. 
 
 "I had no intention of offending you by my 
 question." 
 
 "I never get angry about anything. Only 
 foolish people anger themselves or rejoice. A 
 man ought merely to look on, observe, and go 
 his own way," he added, drawing a gudgeon 
 from his hook. 
 
 Janina was a bit chilled by his gravity and 
 
428 The Comedienne 
 
 by his decisive way of speaking which 
 admitted of no discussion. 
 
 "Are you from the Warsaw Theater?" he 
 asked, throwing out his line again. 
 
 "No, I am in Cabinski's company. No 
 doubt you know him." 
 
 "I don't know him, nor have I heard about 
 him." 
 
 "Is it possible that you have never heard 
 anything about Cabinski, nor read about the 
 Tivoli?" asked Janina greatly surprised that 
 there could be anyone in Warsaw who did not 
 know and was not interested in the theater. 
 
 "I do not go to the theater at all and I do 
 not read the papers," he answered. 
 
 "Impossible!" 
 
 "One can see right away that you must not 
 be more than twenty years old, for you cry out 
 in amazement, 'Impossible!' and look at me as 
 though I were a lunatic or a barbarian." 
 
 "But after talking with you, it was impossi- 
 ble for me to assume even for a moment 
 that ..." 
 
 "That I am not interested in the theater, 
 yes, that I do not read the papers," he con- 
 cluded for her. 
 
 "I can't even understand why." 
 
The Comedienne 4 2 9 
 
 "Well, because that does not interest me at 
 all," he answered simply. 
 
 "Are you not at all interested in what is 
 going on in the world, in how people are living, 
 what they are doing, what they are thinking? " 
 
 " No. To you that doubtless appears mon- 
 strous; nevertheless it is entirely natural. Do 
 our peasants interest themselves in the theater 
 or in world affairs? They do not. Isn't that 
 true?" 
 
 "Yes, but they are peasants and that is 
 entirely different." 
 
 "It is the same thing, merely with this 
 addition ; that for them your famous and great 
 men do not exist at all and it doesn't make the 
 slightest difference to them whether Newton or 
 Shakespeare ever lived or not. And they are 
 just as well off with their ignorance, just as 
 well." 
 
 Janina became silent, for what he had said 
 appeared to her paradoxical and not very 
 true. 
 
 "What will I learn from your newspapers 
 and your theaters? Merely that people love, 
 hate, and fight one another the same as ever; 
 that evil and brute force continue to reign as 
 they always have done; that the world and life 
 
43 The Comedienne 
 
 are merely a big mill in which brains and con- 
 sciences are ground to dust. It is more com- 
 fortable to know nothing rather than that," he 
 continued. 
 
 "But is it right for anyone to seclude him- 
 self so egoistically from all that is going on in 
 the world?" asked Janina. 
 
 "Precisely in that lies wisdom. To desire 
 nothing for ourselves, care for nothing, and be 
 indifferent that is what we ought to aim at." 
 
 " Is it possible to attain such a state of com- 
 plete apathy?" 
 
 "It is attained through the experience of 
 life and through thinking. Remember that 
 the smallest pleasure, a mere momentary sat- 
 isfaction, always costs us more dearly than it is 
 really worth. The average man will not, for 
 instance, pay a thousand rubles for a pear, for 
 he knows that would be an insane absurdity, 
 and moreover, he knows the relative value of 
 a thousand rubles and of a pear. But out of 
 the capital of his life he is ready to squander 
 thousands for mere trifles for a light love 
 affair that lasts only as long as it takes a two 
 cent pear to ripen, for he has never considered 
 the almost priceless value of his own vital 
 energy and becomes blind to all, like a bull 
 
The Comedienne 43 1 
 
 when the toreador flashes a red rag before his 
 eyes, and pays for that blindness with a part of 
 his life. The majority of human beings die, 
 not from natural necessity, like a lamp when 
 its oil has burned out, but from bankruptcy, 
 from squandering their powers and strength 
 on foolish things that are worth a thousand 
 times less than one day of life." 
 
 "I would not want to live such a cold and 
 calculated life without frenzies, dreams, and 
 love." 
 
 "The world would not come to an end, if 
 people did not love." 
 
 11 It would be better to kill one's self than to 
 live and dry up like a tree." 
 
 "Suicide is the vulgar cry of the animal who 
 suffers; it is the rebellion of the atom against 
 the laws of the universe. One must allow the 
 candle of one's life to burn out slowly and 
 calmly to the very end in that lies 
 happiness." 
 
 "So that is happiness?" asked Janina, feel- 
 ing a sudden chill penetrating her soul. 
 
 "Yes. Peace is happiness. To negate 
 everything, to kill one's desires and passions, 
 to tear out of oneself illusions and whims that 
 is the way to attain it. It means to hold fast 
 
43 2 The Comedienne 
 
 your soul in the grip of self-knowledge and 
 prevent it from dissipating itself in foolish 
 things." 
 
 "Who would want to live under such a 
 yoke? What soul could endure it? " 
 
 "The soul is knowledge." 
 
 "So you advocate nothing but stony in- 
 difference and peace! Never to know of feel 
 anything else but this ! No, I prefer the ordi- 
 nary trend of life." 
 
 "There is still another way: the best remedy 
 for our mental sufferings is to expand our 
 hearts, to become one with nature." 
 
 "Let us drop that. I don't like to speak 
 about it, for it stirs me too strongly." 
 
 They both remained silent for a long while. 
 The old man gazed into the water and 
 mumbled something to himself, while Janina 
 was rapt in thought. 
 
 "All is foolishness," he began anew. 
 "Behold and wonder at the water, if nothing 
 more; it will suffice you for a long time. 
 Observe the birds, the stars, and the elements; 
 trace the growth of the trees, listen to the 
 wind, drink in perfumes and hues and every- 
 where you will find unparalleled, everlasting 
 miracles. It will replace for you entirely life 
 
The Comedienne 433 
 
 among people. Only do not gaze at nature 
 with the eyes of the vulgar, for then the most 
 beautiful bird songs will sound to you like 
 a mere screeching; the most majestic forest 
 will seem nothing but so much kindling wood; 
 in animals you will see nothing but meat for 
 food; the meadows will appear to you as so 
 much hay; for then, instead of feeling, you 
 will be calculating." 
 
 "All human beings are like that." 
 
 "There are a few who can read from the 
 book of nature and find in it sustenance for 
 their life." 
 
 Again they became silent. 
 
 The sun began to sink behind the hills on the 
 opposite shore and to shine ever more coldly 
 as though it were burnt out, dyeing the water 
 blood red with its parting rays. The thickets 
 seemed to shrink, for they appeared to grow 
 lower and wider at their bases. The yellow- 
 ish sands on the river bank became shrouded 
 by the gray dusk. The distant horizon 
 seemed to sink away in the mists which rose 
 up as though they were the smoke of the burnt- 
 out, smoldering sun. An even deeper silence 
 descended and enveloped the earth in sleep, as 
 though it were weary of the labors of the day. 
 
 28 
 
434 The Comedienne 
 
 Janina pondered over the words of the old 
 man and a quiet, gloomy sadness filled her 
 heart and cast a vague and shadowy fear over 
 her mind. A feeling of passive submission 
 and torpor overcame her. 
 
 She arose to go, for it was already growing 
 dark. 
 
 "Are you going?" she asked the old man. 
 
 [< Yes, it is already time and it is quite a way 
 to Warsaw." 
 
 "Then we shall go together." 
 
 He put away his fishing tackle in his cane, 
 deposited the fish in a small can and began to 
 walk along with Janina at a swift enough pace. 
 
 "I do not know your name," he began to 
 say slowly, "and I'm not at all interested in 
 that, but I see that you must not be very 
 happy in life. I am a crazy old man, as my 
 neighbors call me, and an old mason, as the 
 town gossips like to add; I'm alone and, 
 reconciled to my fate, I am awaiting the end. 
 Some time ago I knew a little of what it means 
 to suffer and love, but that is past long ago, 
 long ago," he whispered, gazing as it were, into 
 a distant past, with a faint smile of remem- 
 brance on his face. "The greatest boon that 
 man possesses is his ability to forget, other- 
 
The Comedienne 435 
 
 wise he could not live at all. But all this does 
 not interest you in the least, does it? I some- 
 times chatter nonsense, catch myself talking to 
 myself, and often forget things, for I'm just an 
 old man, you see. You have an honest-look- 
 ing face, so I will give you this bit of advice; 
 whenever you suffer, when everything dis- 
 appoints you and life becomes unbearable 
 flee from the city, go into the open country, 
 breathe in the fresh air, bathe in the sunlight, 
 gaze at the sky, think about eternity and pray 
 . . . and you will forget all your troubles. 
 You will feel better and stronger. The misery 
 of the people of to-day arises from their 
 estrangement from nature and from God, from 
 loneliness of the soul. And I will tell you one 
 more thing; forgive everything and be merci- 
 ful to all. People are bad only through their 
 ignorance, therefore you be good. The great- 
 est wisdom is in the greatest kindness. I am 
 here every day while it is warm. Perhaps 
 we shall meet again sometime. Good-bye, and 
 may you be happy." He nodded his head 
 kindly in farewell. 
 
 She gazed a long time after him until he 
 vanished from her sight near the church of 
 St. Mary. Janina rubbed her eyes, for it 
 
436 The Comedienne 
 
 seemed to her that this meeting had been 
 merely a hallucination. 
 
 "No, that cannot be," she whispered to her- 
 self, for she still felt upon her face the pure 
 gaze of his peaceful old eyes and heard his 
 voice saying: "Be good! Pray! Forgive!" 
 She repeated the words to herself as she walked 
 along the street. 
 
 "Forgive!" and she saw her father and 
 afterwards the theater, Cabinski, Majkowska, 
 Kotlicki, Mme. Anna, and Sowinska and 
 remembered those days of suffering, abuse, 
 and insult. 
 
 "Be good!" and she saw again Mirowska, 
 who bore the most painful wrongs with a smile, 
 who never did anyone any harm, and yet was 
 the laughing stock of the entire company. 
 Then, there was Wolska, who at the expense 
 of her own life saved her child from death and 
 who was cheated and forced into poverty. 
 There was Cabinska's nurse sacrificing herself 
 for a stranger's children. There was, too, 
 the old stage-director, slighted by everybody; 
 there were the peasants in the country, treated 
 like animals, and the exploited workmen in 
 the cities. There were all the swindles, 
 cheatings, and crimes which were going 
 
The Comedienne 437 
 
 on continually. Janina felt that something 
 within her was trembling, breaking, and 
 crying out in protest; that the suffering of 
 all humanity was pouring into her soul ; that all 
 the injustice, all the wrongs, all the suffering 
 and tears stood before her, and a grave voice 
 from above was saying: "Be good, forgive, 
 pray," while round about her a jeering laugh- 
 ter arose, as though in response to it. 
 
 She arrived at her home and for a long time 
 could not calm herself. She pressed her hands 
 to her head as though trying to still those 
 tumultuous thoughts that were whirling 
 through her brain in such confusion that she 
 could not distinguish truth from falsehood. 
 For in a moment of clairvoyant vision she had 
 seen that both the good and the bad suffered 
 equally, that all were struggling, all were cla- 
 moring for salvation and protesting against life. 
 
 "I shall go mad! I shall go mad!" Janina 
 whispered to herself. 
 
 On the next morning Wladek came to see 
 her. He seemed to be so good and kissed her 
 hand so tenderly that she could not help notic- 
 ing his devotion. He complained about 
 Cabinski and aired at length his grievances 
 against his mother. 
 
438 The Comedienne 
 
 Janina regarded him with a cold look, for 
 she understood almost at once that he wished 
 to borrow money from her. 
 
 "Go and buy me some powder, for I must 
 go to the theater to-day," she said to him. 
 
 Wladek rose eagerly to fulfill her behest. 
 
 "Close the door after you, for I am going to 
 dress." 
 
 He closed the door with the latch to which 
 he had his own key, and departed. 
 
 On the street, almost at the very door 
 Wladek spied the counselor. A sudden idea 
 flashed through his mind, for he smiled and 
 cordially approached the old man. 
 
 "Good morning, esteemed counselor." 
 
 "Good morning, how are you feeling, eh?" 
 
 "Thank you, I am entirely well, only Miss 
 Orlowska is ill. The directress has just asked 
 me to see how she was getting along." 
 
 1 ' What ? Miss Janina is ill ? They told me 
 so behind the scenes, but I did not believe it, 
 for I thought ..." 
 
 "Yes, she is sick. I am just now going for 
 some medicine." 
 
 "Is she dangerously ill?" 
 
 "Oh no, but would you like to convince 
 yourself personally?" 
 
The Comedienne 439 
 
 The counselor started violently, but then, 
 adjusting his glasses, he said: "Indeed, I 
 would like to. I wished to do so many times 
 before, but she is so inaccessible." 
 
 " I will smooth the way for you." 
 
 "You are joking. How can that be done? 
 Although, considering my friendly attitude 
 toward her ..." 
 
 "You can see her. Here is the latchkey to 
 her room. She will receive you; she even told 
 me that she would be pleased to have her 
 friends visit her, for she spends entire days all 
 alone." 
 
 "But if ..." 
 
 "Go. If she received me, she will receive 
 you all the more readily. I will be back in 
 about an hour and then we can have a chat." 
 So saying, Wladek left hurriedly. 
 
 The counselor wiped his glasses, fidgeted 
 about nervously, and had not yet made up his 
 mind whether to enter or not, when Wladek 
 turned back and called : 
 
 ' ' My dear counselor ! Lend me four rubles, 
 will you? I would first have to look for 
 Cabinski to get the money and the medicine 
 is needed here right away. I have taken an 
 unpleasant task upon myself, but what is one 
 
44 The Comedienne 
 
 going to do when companionship demands it? 
 I will return the money to you this evening, 
 only please don't say anything about this. 
 And pardon my boldness." 
 
 The counselor willingly reached for his 
 pocket book and, handing Wladek ten rubles 
 said: " I am glad I can help you. If any more 
 is needed, tell Miss Janina to mention only a 
 word to me and she can have it." 
 
 Wladek went off with the money, whistling 
 merrily. 
 
 The counselor entered the house, quietly 
 opened the door to Janina's apartment, took 
 off his hat and coat and walked into the room. 
 
 Janina was combing her hair and paid no 
 attention to the opening of the door, for she 
 thought that Wladek had returned. 
 
 The counselor coughed a few times and 
 approached her with extended hand. 
 
 Janina sprang up hastily and threw a scarf 
 over her naked shoulders. 
 
 ''Mr. Wladyslaw has just told me that you 
 were ill, so I thought it would be a sin not to 
 come to see you," said the counselor, speak- 
 ing rapidly, adjusting his glasses and smiling 
 a colorless, banal smile. 
 
 Janina stared at him in amazement, for a 
 
The Comedienne 44 1 
 
 moment, but when she felt the touch of his 
 cold, clammy hand in her own, she grew red 
 with anger, sprang toward the door so vio- 
 lently that the scarf fell to the floor, revealing 
 the stately lines of her shoulders, and opening 
 the door with an energetic gesture, cried: 
 "Leave the room!" 
 
 "But I give you my word of honor that I 
 hadn't even the slightest intention of offending 
 you. As a well-wishing friend I came here 
 merely to offer you my sympathy. Mr. 
 Wladyslaw . . ." " 
 
 "Is a scoundrel!" 
 
 "To that I'll agree, but you needn't get 
 angry at me and express your indignation in 
 such a drastic manner ; that is a trifle too ..." 
 
 "Please leave the room immediately!" 
 cried Janina, trembling with anger. 
 
 "A comedienne! A comedienne, upon my 
 word!" whispered the counselor to himself, 
 hastily putting on his overcoat, for he was 
 irritated and offended. He hurried out, 
 angrily slamming the door after him. 
 
 ' ' Oh, what a scoundrel ! What a scoundrel ! 
 and I belong to such a man ... I! They are 
 jackals, not human beings, jackals! Wher- 
 ever one turns there is mud and filth!" 
 
44 2 The Comedienne 
 
 And so great grew Janina's indignation, 
 that she cried almost aloud through her tears : 
 ' ' Base wretches ! wretches ! wretches ! ' ' 
 
 Soon afterwards, Wladek returned bringing 
 with him the powder, a bottle of whisky and 
 a package of sandwiches. He eyed Janina 
 curiously and looked about the room. 
 
 ' ' The counselor was here ! ' ' she flung at him 
 harshly. 
 
 The actor laughed cynically and exclaimed 
 in a barroom jargon, "I cornered him. Now 
 we can have a little feast." 
 
 Janina was about to tell him how base he 
 was, but suddenly there rang in her ears those 
 words : ' ' Be good ! Forgive ! * ' 
 
 She restrained herself and began to laugh, 
 but so harshly and so long that she fell upon 
 the bed and, tossing about on it, began to 
 repeat amid that dreadful, hysterical laughter: 
 " Be good! Forgive !" 
 
 After a week's intermission there began 
 again for Janina her former hard life and an 
 even harder battle, because now it had become 
 a struggle for mere daily bread. 
 
 She sang, as before, in the chorus, dressed 
 as a chorus girl, peered through the curtain at 
 
The Comedienne 443 
 
 the public, whose attendance at the theater 
 was decreasing every day, strayed about the 
 stage and the dressing-rooms during the inter- 
 missions, and listened to the whispered con- 
 versations, the music, and the quarrels. But 
 how different now were her thoughts and her 
 feelings, how different now and unlike her 
 former self was Janina ! 
 
 She no longer sought in the eyes of the 
 public enthusiasm and love of art, nor did she 
 cast challenging glances at the front rows of 
 seats, for poverty had taught her how to esti- 
 mate from the stage the size of the audience 
 and from it to draw deductions as to the pro- 
 portionate size of her salary. Poverty taught 
 her to take covertly from the storeroom the 
 bread that was often used on the stage and to 
 eat it on the way home ; frequently this was her 
 entire daily sustenance. No one admired her 
 now, or escorted her home; nor did she con- 
 tend with anyone about art. 
 
 Kotlicki had completely vanished, the coun- 
 selor was angry at Janina and kept away from 
 the theater, while Wladek spoke with her only 
 at times and visited her ever more rarely, 
 offering as his excuse his mother's growing 
 weakness and the need of being with her. 
 
444 The Comedienne 
 
 Janina knew that he was lying, but she did not 
 contradict him, for he was entirely indifferent 
 to her. She felt a deep contempt for him, but 
 could not break with him entirely because 
 there still lingered deep down in her conscious- 
 ness a memory of the happy hours they had 
 spent together. She treated him coldly and 
 did not let him kiss her, but she could not tell 
 him outright that he was a scoundrel, for he 
 was, in a way, the last link uniting her strange 
 soul with the world. 
 
 Janina had grown frightfully thin. Her 
 complexion became pale and unhealthy, 
 and from her enlarged glassy eyes there 
 looked forth a dreadful and constant 
 hunger! She walked about the theater like a 
 shadow, apparently quiet and calm, but with 
 that feeling of unceasing hunger mercilessly 
 tearing her within and with despair in her 
 face. 
 
 There were whole days when she had not a 
 bite of food, when she felt a painful emptiness 
 in her head and heard only one thing echoing 
 through her brain: "If I could only get some- 
 thing to eat! Something to eat!" Aside 
 from that one desire, everything vanished from 
 her mind and had no importance. 
 
The Comedienne 445 
 
 A similar poverty existed throughout the 
 whole company. The women shifted as best 
 they could, but the men, particularly the more 
 honest ones, sold everything they possessed, 
 even their wigs, to save themselves. 
 
 With what terror they awaited each eve- 
 ning ! ' ' Are we going to play to-night ? * ' This 
 whisper could be heard all over the theater: 
 in the dressing-rooms, behind the scenes, in 
 the restaurant-garden where the autumn wind 
 frolicked, and on the deserted veranda, where 
 the waiters, vainly waiting for guests, repeated 
 it. It was also repeated by Gold, who sat 
 huddled in his box office, shivering with cold. 
 
 An oppressive silence reigned in the 
 dressing-rooms. The funniest jokes of Glas 
 could not chase the clouds of worry from the 
 brows of the actors. They became careless in 
 their make-up and none of them learned their 
 roles, for everybody was waiting in dread 
 suspense for the performance and every now 
 and then going to the box office and asking in 
 a whisper: "Are we going to play to-night?" 
 
 Cabinski presented a new play every day, 
 but he could not draw the public. He gave 
 The Trip Around Warsaw and The Robbers, 
 and still the house was empty. They played 
 
44 6 The Comedienne 
 
 such curtain-raisers as Don C&sar de Bazan, 
 The Statue of the Commander, and The Fortune 
 Teller of La Voisin, but the theater remained 
 as deserted as ever. 
 
 " For goodness' sake, what do you want?" 
 the director cried to the public from behind the 
 curtain. 
 
 "Do you think they themselves know what 
 they want? If there were three hundred 
 people present, then another three hundred 
 would appear, but when there are only fifty 
 with the addition of cold and rain, then only 
 twenty remain," the editor explained to 
 Cabinski, for of all those numerous acquaint- . 
 ances who used to come behind the scenes 
 he alone remained, the rest having dispersed 
 with the first rains. 
 
 "The public is a herd that does not know 
 where it is going to graze on the following 
 day," said Mr. Peter, with animosity. 
 
 Oh yes, they hated that public, and yet 
 prayed to it. They cursed it, called it "a 
 herd" and "cattle," threatened it with their 
 fists and spat upon it, but only let that public 
 appear in larger numbers, and they fell upon 
 their faces before it and felt a deep gratitude 
 toward that capricious lady, who had a differ- 
 
The Comedienne 447 
 
 ent humor each day and each day bestowed 
 her favors upon someone else. 
 
 "The public is a harlot! a harlot!" whis- 
 pered Topolski threateningly. "To-day she 
 is with a monarch, to-morrow with a clown!" 
 
 "You have told the truth, but it will not 
 give you even a ruble," answered Wawrzecki, 
 whose humor still survived, but had already 
 become sharp and bitter, for Mimi had left 
 the company and gone to join another one at 
 Posen. 
 
 Several members of the company had 
 already left, although there still remained a 
 whole week till the end of the season. Espe- 
 cially the choruses had almost entirely dis- 
 persed, for they suffered the most from 
 poverty. 
 
 The rains continued to fall in the morning, 
 the afternoon, and the evening. The atmo- 
 sphere at the theater became unbearable. 
 There were draughts in the dressing-rooms, 
 and mud covered the floors, for the roof leaked 
 everywhere. The cold was intense. 
 
 To Janina it seemed that this theater was 
 slowly falling apart and burying everyone 
 among its ruins, while that other one on 
 Theatrical Place stood strong and invincible. 
 
44 8 The Comedienne 
 
 Its ponderous walls had grown black from the 
 rains and it appeared even sterner and might- 
 ier than before and filled Janina with a pious, 
 unexplainable awe whenever she gazed at it. 
 It sometimes seemed to her that this vast 
 edifice rested its columns on piles of corpses 
 and that it drank the blood, the lives, and the 
 brains of the actors in the smaller theaters and 
 throve and grew mighty on them. 
 
 4< I shall go mad! I shall go mad!" often 
 whispered Janina, pressing her burning head 
 with her hands, for dreams and hallucinations 
 tormented her even more than hunger. 
 
 There was still another thing which made 
 her deathly silent, so that she would sit for 
 whole hours listening within herself, and 
 thinking of those strange, indefinable impres- 
 sions and feelings which prevaded her ever 
 more frequently. Janina felt that something 
 dreadful was happening within her, that those 
 sudden fits of trembling and weeping which 
 would seize her without any explainable 
 cause, those violently changing moods to 
 which she gave way and those strange suffer- 
 ings were somehow unnatural and resulted 
 from something about which she feared to 
 think. She had no mother, nor anyone in 
 
The Comedienne 449 
 
 f 
 
 whom she could confide and who would en- 
 lighten her, but there came a moment when 
 with womanly instinct she knew that she was 
 about to become a mother. 
 
 Janina wept for a long time after that 
 discovery, but her tears were not tears of 
 despair, but only of tender pity, sensitiveness 
 and shame at the same time. She felt then 
 that death had crouched behind her and was 
 standing so close that it sent a shudder of 
 frenzy through her entire being and cast her 
 into an apathetic indifference. She ceased to 
 think and surrendered herself passively, with 
 the fatalism of people who have suffered long 
 or who have been crushed by some overwhelm- 
 ing misfortune, to the wave that bore her on 
 and did not even ask whither it was taking her. 
 
 One day, unable to endure any longer the 
 sharp pangs of hunger, Janina began to look 
 around her room for something which she 
 might sell. She began feverishly to rummage 
 in her trunks. She had only a few light 
 theatrical costumes. 
 
 Sowinska was again reminding her almost 
 every day about her overdue rent and that 
 daily nagging was an unbearable torment. 
 Janina could not ask her to sell those cos- 
 
45 The Comedienne 
 
 tumes, for she knew that Sowinska would 
 unscrupulously keep the money, so she decided 
 to sell them herself. 
 
 She wrapped one of the costumes in a piece 
 of paper and went to the door to wait for a 
 buyer of old clothes, but the porter was walk- 
 ing about the yard, servant girls were going to 
 and fro, and in the windows of the houses she 
 saw the faces of women who had often cast 
 scornful glances at her. No, she could not 
 sell here, for in a moment the whole house 
 would know about her poverty. She went 
 to one of the adjoining houses and waited a 
 short while. 
 
 u Any old things to buy! Any old things to 
 buy!" came the hoarse voice of an old Jew. 
 
 Janina called him. The Jew turned his 
 head and came to her. He was as dirty as he 
 was old. She went with him to the stoop of 
 some house. 
 
 "Do you want to sell anything?" asked the 
 Jew, laying his bag and stick on the stairs and 
 bending his thin face and red eyes over the 
 package. 
 
 "Yes," answered Janina, unwrapping the 
 paper. 
 
 The Jew took the costume in his dirty 
 
The Comedienne 45 1 
 
 hands, spread it out in the sunlight, looked 
 over it a few times, smiled imperceptibly, put 
 it back in the paper, wrapped it up, picked up 
 his bag and stick and said, "Such fineries are 
 not for me. ' ' He began to descend the stairway, 
 derisively smacking his lips. 
 
 "I will sell it cheap," Janina called after 
 him, thinking with fear that perhaps she might 
 get at least a ruble or a half -ruble for it. 
 
 "If you have some old shoes or pillow-slips, 
 I will buy them, but such a thing is of no use 
 to me. Who will buy it? Rubbish ! " 
 
 "I will sell it cheap," she whispered. 
 
 "Well, how much do you want for it?" 
 
 "A ruble." 
 
 "May I fall down dead, if that is worth 
 more than twenty kopecks. What is it worth, 
 who will buy it?" and he came back, un- 
 wrapped the costume, and again examined it 
 indifferently. 
 
 "The ribbons alone cost me a few rubles," 
 said Janina, and she became silent, deciding 
 that she would take the twenty kopecks. 
 
 "Ribbons! What's that ... all pieces!" 
 chattered the Jew, glancing over the costume 
 hastily. ' ' Well, I will give you thirty kopecks. 
 Do you want it? As I'm an honest man, I 
 
45 2 The Comedienne 
 
 can't give you more ... I have a good heart, 
 but I can't. Well, do you want it?" 
 
 This barter filled Janina with such disgust, 
 shame, and grief, that she felt like throwing 
 down everything and running away. 
 
 The Jew counted out the money to her, took 
 the costume and went away. From the window 
 of her room Janina saw how in the full light of 
 the yard he examined the dress once more. 
 
 "What shall I do with this?" she whispered 
 helplessly, pressing in her hand the dirty and 
 sticky kopecks. 
 
 Janina owed money to Mme. Anna for the 
 rent of her room, to the tender of the theater- 
 buffet, and to a few of her companions of the 
 chorus, but she no longer thought of this, only 
 took the thirty kopecks and went out to the 
 store to buy herself something to eat. 
 
 She returned home, and having eaten, she 
 wished to take a little nap, but Sowinska 
 entered and told her that someone was waiting 
 for her for the last half-hour and immediately 
 there entered Niedzielska's servant girl with 
 eyes all red from crying. 
 
 "Please Miss, come along with me, for my 
 mistress is very sick and wants to see you with- 
 out fail," she said. 
 
The Comedienne 453 
 
 "Is Madame Niedzielska so seriously ill?" 
 cried Janina, springing up from the bed and 
 hurriedly putting on her hat. 
 
 "The priest has already been there this 
 afternoon with the sacrament and she has only 
 a few hours to live," whispered the faithful old 
 servant with tears in her eyes. "She can 
 scarcely draw her breath and all I understood 
 her to say was that I should run to you and 
 tell you that she wants to see you right away. 
 And where is Mr. Wladyslaw?" 
 
 ' ' How can I know? He ought to be with his 
 mother," answered Janina. 
 
 "He ought to, but he is a worthless son," 
 whispered the servant in hollow tones. 
 "Already for a week he has not been at home, 
 for he had an awful quarrel with his mother. 
 My God! My God! how he swore at her and 
 abused her and even wanted to strike her. O 
 merciful Lord, that is the way he repaid her 
 for loving him so dearly that she even denied 
 herself food to supply him with money. She 
 was such a miser that she did not want to 
 spend money for a doctor or any medicines 
 and he ... oh! oh, God will punish him 
 severely for his mother's tears! I know that 
 you are not to blame for it, miss ... I can 
 
454 The Comedienne 
 
 guess that . . . but ..." she whispered 
 quietly, hobbling alongside of Janina and 
 every now and then wiping her eyes, all red 
 from crying and loss of sleep. 
 
 Janina hardly heard a word of what she 
 was saying for the noise and the din in the 
 street and the splashing of water flowing from 
 the drainpipes to the sidewalk drowned out 
 everything else. She went along only because 
 the dying woman had summoned her. 
 
 The first room of Niedzielska's home was 
 almost filled with people and Janina greeted 
 them as she passed through it, but no one 
 answered her and all eyes followed her with a 
 peculiar curiosity. 
 
 In the room where Niedzielska lay, there 
 were also a few persons seated about her bed. 
 Janina went straight to the sick woman. She 
 was lying flat on her back, but fixed her eyes 
 upon Janina as soon as she had crossed the 
 threshold. 
 
 On Janina's entrance the persons in the room 
 stopped talking so abruptly that the sudden 
 silence sent a strange thrill through her. She 
 met Niedzielska's gaze and could not tear her 
 eyes away from it. She sat down alongside of 
 the bed, greeting her in a subdued voice. 
 
The Comedienne 455 
 
 The old woman grasped her hand tightly 
 and in a quiet voice with a very strong accent 
 asked: "Where is Wladek?" 
 
 Her brows knit themselves in an expression 
 of severity and something like hatred gleamed 
 in the yellowish whites of her eyes. 
 
 "I don't know. How am I to know?" 
 answered Janina almost frightened by her 
 question. 
 
 "You don't know, you thief! You have 
 stolen my son and yet, you dare tell me that 
 you don't know!" gasped Niedzielska, striv- 
 ing to raise her voice a little, but it sounded 
 hollow and wild. Her eyes opened ever wider 
 and gleamed with hatred and menace, her pale 
 lips quivered nervously, and her thin, yellow 
 face twitched continually. She raised herself 
 a bit on her bed and in a hoarse voice, as 
 though rallying her remaining strength cried: 
 1 'You streetwalker! You thief! You . . ." 
 and she fell back exhausted, with a hollow 
 groan. 
 
 Janina sprang up, as though an electric 
 shock had passed through her, but the old 
 woman gripped her wrist so tightly that she 
 fell back again on her chair, unable to free 
 her hand. She glanced about desperately at 
 
456 The Comedienne 
 
 everybody, in the room, but their faces were 
 stern. She closed her eyes for a moment to 
 shut out the sight of the yellowish wrinkled 
 faces of those women who stood facing her like 
 specters glaring at her with their skeleton-like 
 faces in the shadowy twilight of the room. 
 
 " So that is she ! So young and already . . ." 
 
 "A base serpent." 
 
 11 1 would kill her like a dog, if she tried to do 
 the same with my son." 
 
 "I would have her locked up and sent to the 
 workhouse." 
 
 "In my days such women as that were put 
 into the pillory as a punishment . I 
 remember well." 
 
 "Be quiet! quiet!" whispered an old man 
 trying to pacify the women. 
 
 "And for her he ran away to the comedians, 
 for her he squandered so much money, for such 
 a low-down thing as she, he beat his mother! 
 May you perish, you base serpent!" 
 
 Such were the voices full of hatred and scorn 
 that hissed all about Janina and the poisonous 
 malignity that dripped from their words and 
 glances flooded her heart with an ocean of pain 
 and shame. She wanted to cry out: "Mercy, 
 people! I am innocent," but her head bent 
 
The Comedienne 457 
 
 ever lower on her breast and she had an ever 
 dimmer consciousness of where she was and 
 what was happening to her. Janina's soul 
 had already been- weakened too much by 
 misery to resist this blow. An immense wave 
 of fear began to shake her, for it seemed to her 
 that the hand of the old woman which held her 
 so tightly and those dreadful eyes bulging 
 from their sockets were drawing her down into 
 a dark abyss and that this was death and the 
 end of everything. 
 
 Later, Janina no longer heard anything 
 that was being said and saw no one but the 
 dying woman. At moments, she still felt a 
 desire to spring up and run away from there 
 but it was a mere flicker of will that passed 
 through her nerves without reaching her 
 consciousness. 
 
 So many previous sufferings, and now this 
 blow at her very heart, benumbed her brain 
 with a quiet madness. She grew frightfully 
 pale and sat as though dead, gazing at the face 
 of the dying woman. Those same fragments 
 of thoughts and visions now swarmed through 
 her brain that had done so once before: that 
 same vast mass of greenish waters seemed to 
 submerge her consciousness. She was not 
 
458 The Comedienne 
 
 even aware that they had torn her away from 
 Niedzielska and shoved her into a corner 
 where she stood immovable and bereft of her 
 senses. 
 
 Niedzielska was dying. It seemed as 
 though she had only been waiting for Janina 
 before giving herself up to death, for anger and 
 hatred kept her alive a few hours longer. 
 Now, there followed a general dissolution. 
 She lay there rigid and straight, with her 
 hands upon the coverlet, which they tugged at 
 automatically, and with her sad eyes gazing 
 upward as though into the eternity into which 
 she was entering. 
 
 The consecrated candle shed a yellowish 
 light upon her face impearled with the sweat 
 of her last struggle and death agony. Her 
 gray hair, scattered in a disheveled mass upon 
 the pillow, formed a sort of background upon 
 which appeared in sharper relief her withered 
 head, shaking with the unconscious and 
 frightful convulsions of death. She breathed 
 heavily and slowly and gasped with effort, 
 catching the air with her pale lips. At mo- 
 ments her face would writhe and her mouth 
 twitch with a dreadful spasm of pain and she 
 would raise her hands as though she wanted 
 
The Comedienne 459 
 
 to tear apart her throat to get more air. Her 
 white and fever-coated tongue slipped spas- 
 modically from her mouth and so tense did her 
 body become in the struggle with death that 
 the veins stood out like black whip cords on 
 ; her temples and throat. 
 
 The silence was full of weeping and sobbing 
 of those kneeling about and the awful groans 
 of the dying woman. Feverishly whispered 
 prayers, tear-streaming eyes, the sobbing of 
 the servant and the children filled the room 
 with an atmosphere of dreadful and over- 
 whelming tragedy. The dark shadows at the 
 farther end of the room trembled as though 
 engulfing it all. The candles diffused a 
 yellowish, ghastly light that seemed to steep 
 everything in boundless grief. 
 
 The room filled up completely with kneeling 
 people and only she, who lay there rigid, 
 unconscious, and dying, reigned from the 
 throne of death over that bowed throng beg- 
 ging for mercy. 
 
 An old man with silvery gray hair made his 
 way to the bed, knelt down, took a prayer 
 book from his pocket and, by the light of the 
 candle, began to read the Penitential Psalms. 
 He had a clear and melodious voice and the 
 
460 The Comedienne 
 
 words of the psalms, like a murmuring rain- 
 bow, or like flashes of lightning full of terror, 
 tears, might, and heavenly grace, floated above 
 the heads of all those present: 
 
 "Have mercy upon me, O Lord, for I am 
 weak; O Lord, heal me, for my bones are 
 vexed." 
 
 "Thou art my hiding place; Thou shalt pre- 
 serve me from trouble . . . " 
 
 "Many sorrows shall be to the wicked, but 
 he that trusteth in the Lord, mercy shall 
 compass him about." 
 
 " My lovers and my friends stand aloof from 
 my sore and my kinsmen stand afar off." 
 
 "They also that seek after my life lay snares 
 for me; and they that seek for my hurt speak 
 mischievous things and imagine deceits all 
 day long." 
 
 The words rang out ever stronger and 
 eddied through the air like the breath of a 
 mighty power that bent low all foreheads and 
 cast them down into the dust with tears of 
 sorrow, penance, and supplication. All those 
 
The Comedienne 461 
 
 present repeated them after the old man and 
 that confused, tearful and monotonous mur- 
 mur of voices awoke Janina from her torpor. 
 She felt that she was still alive, so she knelt 
 down on the threshold of the room and with 
 fever-parched lips whispered those sweet 
 words long since forgotten, and drew from 
 them a deep comfort full of sadness and 
 tenderness. 
 
 "Purge me with hyssop and I shall be clean; 
 wash me and I shall be whiter than snow." 
 
 "Hide not thy face from me, lest I be like 
 unto them that go down into the pit." 
 
 "And of thy mercy cut off mine enemies, 
 and destroy all them that afflict my soul, for 
 I am thy servant." 
 
 She repeated the words fervently and large 
 tears rolled down her face, uniting with the 
 tears of all the other mourners and purging her 
 soul of all sorrows and memory of what had 
 passed. But after a while those tears began 
 to stream so freely and stifle her so that Janina 
 quietly arose and left the place. 
 
 On the street she met Wladek running 
 
4 62 The Comedienne 
 
 toward the house in haste and fear. He 
 stopped to ask her about his mother, but she 
 went on without even glancing at him. 
 
 Almost all feelings were dead within Janina, 
 save that of a deathly weariness. She entered 
 the lighted Church of St. Ann on the Cracow 
 Suburb and, seating herself in one of the pews, 
 gazed at the illuminated altar and the throng 
 of kneeling worshipers. She heard the 
 solemn tones of the organ and a wave of song 
 rising above it. She saw looking at her from 
 the walls and the altars the peaceful and 
 happy faces of saints, but all this did not 
 awaken a single emotion in her. 
 
 "Thou wilt cut off mine enemies and de- 
 stroy all them that afflict my soul. Thou wilt 
 destroy them . . ." Janina repeated mechani- 
 cally and left the church. No, no, she could 
 not pray she could not. 
 
 Janina slept after all this with a deep, stony 
 sleep that was free from dreams. 
 
 On the following day Cabinski gave her a 
 big r61e that used to be Mimi's. Janina 
 accepted it with indifference. With the same 
 indifference she went to Niedzielska's funeral.' 
 She walked at the end of the procession 
 unnoticed by anyone and gazed indifferently 
 
The Comedienne 463 
 
 at the thousands of graves in the cemetery and 
 at the coffin and not a scintilla of feeling stirred 
 in her even at the sound of the sobbing over 
 the grave. Something had broken within her 
 and she had lost all ability to feel what was 
 going on about her. 
 
 In the evening Janina went to the theater 
 for the performance. She dressed as usual 
 and sat thoughtlessly gazing at the rows of 
 candles pasted to the tables, at the scribbled 
 walls and at the rows of actresses sitting before 
 their mirrors. 
 
 Sowinska continually hung about the dress- 
 ing-room and observed her curiously. 
 
 Her companions spoke to Janina, but she 
 did not answer them. Every now and then, 
 she fell into a state of torpor in which one 
 beholds without seeing anything and lives 
 without feeling, while deep within, at the very 
 bottom of her consciousness, there was 
 reflected the image of that dying woman and 
 there swarmed and hissed those stinging and 
 scornful whispers of her neighbors, mixed 
 with the words of the Penitential Psalms. 
 
 Suddenly, a tremor ran through Janina, for a 
 voice reached her from the stage which sounded 
 like Grzesikiewicz's; so she arose and went out. 
 
4 6 4 The Comedienne 
 
 Wladek was standing on the stage, engaged 
 in a lively conversation with Majkowska, 
 whose naked shoulders he was kissing. 
 
 Janina paused behind one of the scenes, for 
 some feeling without a name passed through 
 her heart, like the sharp, cold edge of a dagger, 
 but was swiftly gone again, awakening in her a 
 certain knowledge. 
 
 "Mr. Niedzielski!" she called. 
 
 The actor threw back his shoulders, while 
 across his clean-shaven face there passed a 
 shadow of impatience and boredom. He 
 whispered yet a few words into the ear of Mela, 
 who smiled and departed, and then, without 
 trying to disguise his ill humor, he approached 
 Janina. 
 
 "Did you want anything?" he asked 
 irascibly. 
 
 "Yes ..." 
 
 In the despondency that filled her at that 
 moment Janina wanted to tell him that she 
 was unhappy and ill. She longed to hear a 
 warm word of sympathy and felt an irresist- 
 ible need of telling her troubles to someone 
 and of weeping on some friendly breast, but on 
 hearing the sharp tone of Wladek's voice, she 
 suddenly remembered how much she had 
 
The Comedienne 4 6 5 
 
 suffered through him and how base he was, so 
 she suppressed those desires within herself. 
 
 "Are we going to play to-day?" she asked. 
 
 "We are. There are about a hundred ru- 
 bles in the treasury." 
 
 "Ask them for some money for me." 
 
 "What do you think! Do you want me to 
 make a fool of myself? Moreover, I'm going 
 right home." 
 
 Janina glanced at him and said in a quiet, 
 expressionless voice: "Take me home, for I 
 feel so very miserable." 
 
 "I have no time, I must immediately run to 
 my own home, for already they are all waiting 
 for me there." 
 
 "Oh, how base you are! How base you 
 are!" she whispered. 
 
 Wladek recoiled a few steps, not knowing 
 whether he should smile, or pretend to be 
 offended. 
 
 "Are you saying that to me, to me?" he 
 asked. He did not dare to swear, for that girl 
 with her proud face and glance of a lady 
 imposed respect upon him and thrust back into 
 his throat, as it were, the brutalities that he 
 wanted to hurl at her. 
 
 "To you!" Janina answered. "You are 
 
 30 
 
466 The Comedienne 
 
 base! You are the basest person in the 
 world . . . do you hear! . . . the basest!" 
 
 "Janina!" he cried endearingly, as though 
 he wanted to shield himself thereby from her 
 accusation. 
 
 11 1 forbid you to address me in that manner, 
 it insults me!" 
 
 "Have you gone crazy, or what has hap- 
 pened to you? What sort of farce do you call 
 that!" he choked out in anger. 
 
 " I have found out what you are and I scorn 
 you with my whole soul." 
 
 "Whew! So that is the kind of pathetic 
 r61e you have chosen to play? Are you pre- 
 paring it for your debut at the Warsaw 
 Theater?" 
 
 Janina answered him only with a look of scorn 
 and walked away. 
 
 Sowinska came up to her and with a myste- 
 rious and cruel pity in her voice whispered: 
 "It isn't good for you to get so irritated and 
 also, you ought not lace yourself so tightly." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "It may harm you, because . . . because 
 . . ."andshewhisperedtherestintojanina'sear. 
 
 The blood rushed to Janina's face with shame 
 at the thought that Sowinska had recognized 
 
The Comedienne 4 6 7 
 
 her condition which she was seeking to conceal. 
 She had no more strength left to reply to her, 
 nor time either, for she had to go on the stage. 
 
 They were playing The Peasant Emigration 
 and Janina appeared in the first act as a super. 
 
 In the men's dressing-room that evening, a 
 storm broke out. In the intermission before 
 the so-called "Christmas Eve" scene of the 
 play, Topolski, who was acting the part of 
 "Bartek Kozica," sent to Cabinski a letter, 
 or a sort of ultimatum demanding fifty rubles 
 for himself and Majkowska and, in case of a 
 denial, refusing to play any further. While 
 waiting for Cabinski's reply, he began slowly 
 to remove his make-up. 
 
 Cabinski came running almost with tears 
 in his eyes and cried: "I will give you twenty 
 rubles. Oh, oh! you people have no mercy 
 on me!" 
 
 "Give me fifty rubles and we shall continue 
 to play; if you don't then ..." Here he 
 unglued one half of his mustache and began to 
 take off his leggings. 
 
 "For God's sake man! there is only one 
 hundred rubles in all in the treasury and that 
 is hardly enough to cover the expenses." 
 
 "Let me have fifty rubles immediately, or 
 
468 The Comedienne 
 
 else you can finish the play yourself or return 
 the public its money," calmly said Topolski, 
 pulling off his other legging. 
 
 "Up till now, I had thought that you, at 
 least, were a man! Just think what you are 
 doing to us all," pleaded Cabinski. 
 
 "Don't you see, Director ... I am 
 undressing." 
 
 The intermission was being prolonged and the 
 public outside was beginning to shout and 
 stamp its feet with impatience. 
 
 "No, I should sooner have expected death 
 than that! And you, who are my best friend, 
 are you going to go back on me now?" con- 
 tinued Cabinski. 
 
 "My dear Director, there's no use talking 
 any further. You can fool everyone else, but 
 not me." 
 
 "But I haven't the money. If I give you 
 thirty rubles now, I will have nothing left 
 with which to pay the rent of the theater!" 
 cried Cabinski in despair, running about the 
 dressing-room. 
 
 "I have said: if you do not give us fifty 
 rubles, we shall go straight home." 
 
 In the hall there began to rise a very pande- 
 monium of shouts and catcalls. 
 
The Comedienne 469 
 
 "All right, here is fifty rubles, take them. 
 You are robbing your own companions, but 
 you don't care a rap about that, for you'll 
 have something with which to organize your 
 own company. Here, take them, but that 
 ends all relations between us!" 
 
 "Don't worry about my company; I shall 
 reserve the position of a stage-hand for you." 
 
 "Sooner will you check coats in my theater, 
 before I join yours." 
 4 ' Silence, you clown ! ' ' 
 
 "I'll call the police and they'll quiet you 
 right away!" shouted the infuriated Cabinski. 
 
 "I'll silence you immediately, you circus 
 performer!" cried Topolski, who had just 
 finished dressing, and, taking Cabinski by the 
 collar, he gave him a kick that sent him flying 
 out of the dressing-room ; then he himself went 
 out on the stage. 
 
 The performance was concluded peacefully, 
 but a new quarrel started around the box 
 office. The actors and actresses stood there 
 in a close group so that only their heads and 
 faces, shining with the grease used to wash off 
 the paint, were visible in the gaslight. They 
 were all shouting for money and demanding 
 their overdue salaries. They shook their 
 
The Comedienne 
 
 fists threateningly at the cashier's window, 
 their eyes flashed lightning, and their voices 
 were hoarse from shouting. 
 
 Cabinski, still red and trembling from the 
 abuse that had just met him, quarreled with 
 everybody and swore and wanted to pay only 
 the usual installments. 
 
 " Whoever isn't satisfied with what he gets, 
 let him go to Topolski! It's all the same to 
 me . . ."he cried. 
 
 Janina approached the window and said: 
 "Director, you promised to pay me to-day." 
 
 "I haven't the money!" 
 
 "But neither have I," she begged quietly. 
 
 "I am not paying the others either, and yet, 
 they do not importune me as you do." 
 
 "Mr. Cabinski, I am almost dying from 
 hunger," she answered straightforwardly. 
 
 "Then go and earn some money. All the 
 others know how to help themselves. I like 
 naive women, but only on the stage. A 
 comedienne! Go to Topolski, he will advance 
 you the money." 
 
 "Oh, Topolski assuredly won't let the mem- 
 bers of his company suffer poverty. He will 
 pay each what is due him and will not cheat 
 people!" cried Janina impulsively. 
 
The Comedienne 47 1 
 
 "Then you can go straight to him and don't 
 show up here again!" shouted Cabinski, 
 driven to fury by the mention of Topolski. 
 
 "Listen there, Director!" began Glas, but 
 Janina listened no longer and, pushing her way 
 through the crowd, left the theater. 
 
 "Go and earn it ..." she repeated to 
 herself. 
 
 She walked along the almost empty streets. 
 The gas-lamps cast a ghastly, yellowish glare 
 like that of funeral tapers on the silent and 
 deserted thoroughfares and alleys. The dark- 
 blue vault of the sky hung over the city like a 
 huge canopy embroidered with brightly scintil- 
 lating stars. A cool breeze swept down the 
 streets and chilled Janina to the marrow. 
 
 "Go and earn it!" she again repeated to 
 herself, passing before the Grand Theater. 
 She had come here without being aware of it. 
 
 Janina glanced at the building and turned 
 back. An unbearable pain racked her head, 
 as though there was a burning iron ring about 
 it. She was so utterly weak and worn-out 
 that at moments she could scarcely resist the 
 desire to sit down on the curbstone and 
 remain there. Then again, so desperate a 
 realization of her poverty filled her that she 
 
472 The Comedienne 
 
 was almost ready to give herself to anyone 
 who might ask, if she could only relieve that 
 agonized trembling within herself, that almost 
 deathly weakness and exhaustion. 
 
 She dragged herself heavily along the 
 streets, for she no longer knew what to do, 
 and the chill night air, the silence, and that 
 deathly weariness gave her a sort of painful 
 ecstasy. Before her eyes there hovered only 
 phantom forms and fiery spots, so that she 
 knew not where she was or what was happen- 
 ing to her. She felt only one thing and that 
 was that she would no longer be able to endure 
 it. 
 
 "What am I going to do further?'* Janina 
 asked thoughtlessly, looking before herself. 
 
 The silence of the sleeping city and the si- 
 lence of the dark heavens seemed to be the only 
 answer to her question. 
 
 Janina felt as though she were falling 
 swiftly down a steep incline and that there, 
 at the very bottom, lay the outstretched 
 corpse of Niedzielska. 
 
 "Death!" she answered herself. "Death!" 
 and she gazed fixedly at that dead face with 
 the congealed tears on its cheeks, and not fear, 
 but an immense silence enveloped her soul. 
 
The Comedienne 473 
 
 She looked all about her as though she were 
 seeking for the cause of that deep silence at her 
 side. 
 
 Then, she began thinking of her father, of 
 the theater, and of herself, but as though they 
 were things which she had only seen or read 
 about. 
 
 ''What am I going to do?" Janina asked 
 herself aloud after she had returned home. It 
 was impossible for her to see or even to imagine 
 what the morrow would be like. 
 
 "In this condition I can't go to the theater, 
 I can't go anywhere. But what am I going to 
 do? " That question smote her now and then, 
 as with a club. 
 
 Day began to dawn and flood the room with 
 its drab and gray light, but Janina still sat 
 on the same spot, gazing blankly out of the 
 window, with deeply sunken eyes and whisper- 
 ing with lips blackened by fever: "What am I 
 going to do? What am I going to do? " 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE season ended. Cabinski was leaving 
 for Plock with an entirely new company, 
 for Topolski had taken away his best forces 
 and the rest had scattered among various 
 companies. 
 
 In the pastry shop on Nowy Swiat, Krzy- 
 kiewicz, who had broken with Ciepieszewski, 
 was organizing a company of his own. Stanis- 
 lawski was also starting a small company on 
 a profit-sharing basis. Topolski was already 
 preparing his company for its trip to Lublin. 
 
 The local garden-theaters were all closed 
 for the season and a deathly silence reigned 
 over them. The stages were boarded up and 
 the dressing-rooms and entrances locked. The 
 verandas were strewn with broken chairs 
 and rubbish. The autumn leaves fluttered 
 from the trees and torn scraps of programs of 
 the last performances rustled about sadly 
 in the breeze. The season was over. 
 
 Nobody visited the theater any more, for 
 
 474 
 
The Comedienne 475 
 
 the migratory birds were preparing for their 
 flight, only Janina from force of habit, still 
 would come here, gaze a moment at the 
 deserted haunts and return again. 
 
 Cabinska wrote her a very cordial letter, 
 inviting her to her home. Janina went there 
 and found that they were already packing up 
 for their journey. Immense trunks and bas- 
 kets stood in the middle of the rooms, a large 
 pile of various stage paraphernalia together 
 with mattresses and bedding lay on the floor 
 the entire outfit of a nomadic life. 
 
 In Cabinska' s room, Janina no longer found 
 either the wreaths or the furniture, or the 
 canopied bed ; there shone only the bare walls 
 with the plaster broken here and there by the 
 hasty removal of pictures and the pulling out 
 of hooks. A long basket stood in the middle 
 of the room and the nurse, perspiring from her 
 exertion, was packing into it Pepa's wardrobe. 
 Cabinska, with a cigarette in her mouth, 
 directed the packing and continually scolded 
 the children, who were tumbling in great glee 
 over the mattresses and the straw strewn about 
 the packages. 
 
 She greeted Janina with exaggerated cor- 
 diality and said: " There is such a dust in here 
 
476 The Comedienne 
 
 that it is unbearable. Nurse, be careful how 
 you pack, so that you don't crush my dresses. 
 Let us go out on the street," she said to Janina, 
 putting on her coat and hat. 
 
 She pulled Janina along to her pastry shop 
 and there, over a cup of chocolate, began to 
 apologize to her for the discourtesy that 
 Cabinski had shown her at the box office. 
 
 "Believe me, the director was so excited 
 that he really did not know what he was saying. 
 And can you wonder at it? He was giving his 
 best efforts and even pawning his personal 
 effects, only that the company might lack 
 nothing and, in the meanwhile, along comes 
 Topolski, creates a rumpus and breaks up his 
 company. Even a saint would lose patience 
 in those circumstances and, moreover, Topol- 
 ski told my husband that you were going to 
 join his company." 
 
 Janina answered nothing, for she was now 
 entirely indifferent toward the whole matter, 
 but when Cabinska told her that on that very 
 afternoon they were leaving for Plock and that 
 she should immediately pack her things, for 
 the expressman would call for them directly, she 
 answered with decision: "Thank you for your 
 kindness, Mrs. Directress, but I shall not go." 
 
The Comedienne 477 
 
 Cabinska could scarcely believe her ears and 
 cried out in amazement: "Have you already 
 secured an engagement and where?'* 
 
 "Nowhere, nor do I intend to," answered 
 the girl. 
 
 "How is that! Are you going to abandon 
 the stage? You who have a big future before 
 you!" 
 
 "I have had more than enough of acting," 
 answered Janina with bitterness. 
 
 "Come now, don't reproach me with it, 
 you know it's your first year on the stage 
 and they wouldn't give you big r61es at once, 
 anywhere." 
 
 "Oh, I am no longer going to try for them." 
 
 "And I had already been planning that in 
 Plock you would live together with us and 
 that would not only make it easier for you, 
 but my daughter also could derive more 
 benefit from it. Please think it over and I, 
 on my part, assure you that you will also get 
 roles." 
 
 "No, no! I have enough of poverty and 
 have absolutely no more strength left to bear 
 it any further and, moreover, I cannot, I 
 cannot ..." answered Janina quietly, with 
 tears in her eyes, for that proposal flashed 
 
478 The Comedienne 
 
 before her mind like the dawn of a better future 
 and awakened for a moment her old enthusi- 
 asm and dreams of artistic triumph. But 
 immediately she thought of her present condi- 
 tion and the sufferings that she would have to 
 endure on that account, so she added with 
 even greater emphasis: "No, I cannot! I 
 cannot!" 
 
 But she could not hold back the tears which 
 continued to stream quietly down her face 
 until even Cabinska was touched and, drawing 
 nearer to her, whispered with sincere sym- 
 pathy, "For God's sake what is the matter 
 with you? Tell me, perhaps I shall be able to 
 help you." 
 
 In reply Janina blushed faintly, warmly 
 clasped Cabinska's hand, and hastily left the 
 pastry shop. 
 
 Tears were stifling her; life was stifling her. 
 
 Immediately afterward Stanislawski came 
 to Janina and urged her to leave with him for 
 the small provincial towns. He was organiz- 
 ing a company of from eight to nine persons 
 in which each was to hold a share. He offered 
 Janina leading r61es and spoke in glowing 
 terms of the certain success that awaited them 
 in the provincial towns. He enumerated all 
 
The Comedienne 479 
 
 those whom he was engaging: all young people 
 and novices, full of energy, zeal, and talent. 
 And he promised himself that he would lead 
 them along the path of true art, that his 
 company would be in the nature of a school for 
 drama and that he would be a real teacher 
 and father, who would make of these people 
 true artists worthy of the theater and its 
 traditions. 
 
 Janina refused Stanislawski briefly. She 
 thanked him heartily for the kindness he had 
 shown her during the summer and took leave 
 of him cordially, as though forever. 
 
 When he had gone, she determined finally to 
 end it all. She had not yet told herself deci- 
 sively: "I will die!" So far, if someone had 
 told her that she was contemplating suicide 
 she would have denied it sincerely, but already 
 that thought and desire were lurking in the 
 subconscious depths of her mind. 
 
 Janina knew when the Cabinskis were 
 leaving, so she went down to the steamboat 
 landing. She stood upon the bridge and 
 watched them steam away. She gazed at the 
 gray waves of the Wisla splashing against the 
 sides of the pier and at the distant horizon 
 veiled in autumn mists, and such an intense 
 
480 The Comedienne 
 
 sadness and grief overwhelmed her that she 
 could not move from the spot, or tear her eyes 
 away from the water. 
 
 Night fell and Janina still stood there, gaz- 
 ing before her. The rows of lights on the river 
 banks sprang up from the darkness like golden 
 flowers and dotted the rocking, greenish sur- 
 face of the water with quivering gleams. The 
 din and hum of the city echoed dimly behind 
 her, the hacks sped with noisy clatter across 
 the bridge, the bells of the tramcars clanged 
 incessantly, crowds of people passed by with 
 laughter; sometimes the echo of a song reached 
 Janina, or the merry tones of a hand organ, 
 then again, a warm breath of wind, saturated 
 with the raw odor of the river, fanned her 
 feverish face. All these sights and sounds 
 beat against her as against a lifeless statue and 
 rebounded again without making any impres- 
 sion on her. 
 
 The water in its depths began to pass 
 through ever stranger transformations: it 
 turned black, but that blackness was inter- 
 woven with gleams of light, flames of red, 
 streaks of violet, and rays of yellow, like the 
 glowing flame of pain. There, in those silent 
 depths, there seemed to be a better and fuller 
 
The Comedienne 481 
 
 life, for the waves murmured so joyously, 
 broke against the piers and stone bulwarks and, 
 as though with frenzied laughter, united again, 
 blended, tumbled over one another and flowed 
 on. Janina seemed almost to hear their 
 care free laughter, their calling to one another 
 and their voice of mighty joy. 
 
 "What are you doing here?" suddenly said 
 a voice behind her. 
 
 Janina trembled and turned around slowly. 
 Wolska was standing before her and curiously 
 and uneasily watching her. 
 
 "Oh, nothing, I was just gazing about." 
 
 "Come with me, the air here isn't healthy," 
 said Wolska, taking Janina by the arm, for 
 she read in her dimmed eyes a suicidal 
 intent. 
 
 Janina allowed herself to be led away and 
 only after they had gone some distance, she 
 asked quietly, "So you have not left with 
 Cabinski?" ' 
 
 1 ' I couldn't. You see, my Johnnie's health is 
 again worse. The doctor has forbidden me to 
 move him from bed and I believe that it would 
 kill him, ' ' whispered Wolska sadly. ' ' I had to 
 stay, for, of course, I can't send him to the 
 hospital. If it comes to the worst, we shall 
 
482 The Comedienne 
 
 die together, but I will not forsake him. The 
 doctor still gives me some hope that he will 
 
 recover." 
 
 Janina gazed with a strange feeling at the 
 face of Wolska which, though worn and faded, 
 beamed with a deep motherly love. She 
 looked like a beggar woman in her dark, 
 stained cloak and gray dress, frayed at the 
 bottom; she wore a straw hat and black 
 mended gloves and carried a parasol which was 
 rusty from continual use. But through all 
 this poverty there shone, as bright as the sun, 
 her love for her child. She saw and heeded 
 nothing else, for all that did not concern her 
 child had no meaning for her. 
 
 Janina walked alongside of her, gazing with 
 admiration at this woman. She knew her 
 story. Wolska was the daughter of a rich and 
 intelligent family. She fell in love with an 
 actor, or else with the theater itself, and went 
 on the stage and, although later her lover 
 abandoned her and she suffered poverty and 
 humiliation, she could not tear herself away 
 from the theater and now, she centered all her 
 love and all her hopes upon her child that had 
 been seriously ill since the spring. 
 
 ''Where does she get all her strength?" 
 
The Comedienne 483 
 
 thought Janina and then, turning to Wolska, 
 she asked: "What are you doing now?" 
 
 Wolska shuddered, a faint blush flitted over 
 her worn face and her lips quivered with a 
 painful expression as she answered : " I sing . . . 
 What else could I do? I must live and must 
 earn enough to pay Johnnie's doctor bills. 
 I must. Although it fills me with shame to 
 do it, I must. Alas, such is my fate, such is 
 my fate!" she moaned complainingly. 
 
 "But I don't know what you mean," said 
 Janina, who could not understand why Wolska 
 should feel ashamed to earn a living by singing. 
 
 "Because, you see, Miss Janina, I don't 
 want anybody to know about it. ... You 
 will keep it to yourself, won't you?" she 
 begged with tears in her eyes. 
 
 "Certainly I give you my word. More- 
 over, whom would I tell . . . ? I am all alone 
 in the world." 
 
 "I sing in a restaurant on Podwal St.," said 
 Wolska in a low and hurried voice. 
 
 " In a restaurant! " whispered Janina, stand- 
 ing stock-still in amazement. 
 
 " What else could I do? Tell me, what else 
 could I do? I need money for food and rent. 
 How else could I earn it, when I don't even 
 
484 The Comedienne 
 
 know how to sew? At home I knew how to 
 play on the piano a bit and could speak a little 
 French, but of course, that would not bring me 
 a penny now. I saw an advertisement in the 
 Courier for a singer, so I went there and got the 
 position. They pay me a ruble a day together 
 with meals and ..." but tears choked her 
 voice and she grasped Janina's hand and 
 pressed it feverishly. Janina returned the 
 hand-clasp with a similar one and they walked 
 on in silence. 
 
 "Come along with me, won't you? It will 
 make me feel a little more at ease, " said Wol ska. 
 
 Janina willingly agreed. 
 
 They entered the restaurant "Under the 
 Bridge" on Podwal St. It was a long and 
 narrow garden with a few miserable trees. 
 At the very entrance there was a well. A 
 whitewashed fence on the left side of the 
 garden divided it from the neighboring prop- 
 erty which must have been a lumberyard, 
 for piles of beams and boards could be seen 
 looming above the fence. A few kerosene 
 lanterns illuminated the place. A number of 
 little white tables with varnished tops and 
 around them three times that number of 
 rough-hewn chairs constituted the entire fur- 
 
The Comedienne 4 8 5 
 
 nishings of that summer restaurant. A small 
 office on the ground floor and the top of the 
 neighboring house enclosed the right side of 
 the garden, while at the back there arose a 
 high, rough brick wall with small, dirty, and 
 barred windows ; it was the rear of the former 
 Kochanowski Palace, standing on the corner 
 of Miodowa and Kapitulna Streets. 
 
 Near the fence, a small stage shaded by a 
 canvas roof with its two open sides facing 
 toward the audience, formed a sort of niche, 
 the walls of which were covered with a cheap, 
 blue paper dotted with silver stars. The 
 smoking kerosene footlights on one side of 
 the stage cast a drab light upon a musician 
 with a disheveled gray beard and grease- 
 stained coat, who was pounding away at the 
 keyboard of a wretched piano with an auto- 
 matic motion of his arms and head. 
 
 The garden was filled with a public of work- 
 ing-class people and those from the poorer 
 section of the city. 
 
 Janina and Wolska pushed their way 
 through the crowd to that little office building 
 in which there was a dressing-room for the 
 performers, divided into a men's and women's 
 compartment by a red cretonne curtain. 
 
486 The Comedienne 
 
 "I am already waiting!" came a hoarse, 
 drunken voice from behind the curtain. 
 
 "You can begin your part, I will come right 
 away!" answered Wolska, dressing herself in 
 feverish haste in a grotesque, red costume. 
 
 In a few minutes she was all ready for her 
 appearance. Janina followed her out and took 
 a seat facing the stage. Wolska, all flushed 
 with hurrying and still closing the last buttons 
 and hooks of her costume, appeared on the 
 stage, greeting the public with a long bow. 
 The musician struck the yellow keys and at 
 the same moment there arose the tones of a 
 song: 
 
 Once upon a stump among the hills, 
 Between the oaks there sat two turtle-doves, 
 And I know not for what sport of love's 
 They kissed each other with their bills. 
 
 The strains of the old, sentimental song 
 from The Cracovians and the Mountaineers 
 floated on, interruped only by frequent bursts 
 of applause, the banging of beer glasses against 
 the tables, the clatter of plates, the slamming 
 of doors and the reports or rifles in the shoot- 
 ing galleries. The lanterns diffused a hazy 
 and muddy light; girls in white aprons and 
 
The Comedienne 4 8 7 
 
 with their hands full of beer glasses, passed in 
 and out among the tables, flirted with the 
 drinking men and flung cynical remarks and 
 answers at those who accosted them. Ribald 
 laughter and coarse jokes flew around like 
 fire-works and were immediately answered by 
 broad, thoughtless merriment. 
 
 The public expressed its satisfaction with 
 the singing by shouting, beating time with 
 their canes, and banging their beer glasses. 
 At moments the wind would entirely drown 
 out the singing, or bend the few wretched 
 trees with a rustling sound and scatter the 
 leaves over the stage and the heads of the 
 public. 
 
 Wolska continued to sing. Her red vaude- 
 ville costume, with low-cut front, gleamed like 
 a gaudy spot against the blue background of 
 the stage and excellently accentuated her thin, 
 thickly painted face, her sunken and pale 
 eyes, and her sharp features which looked like 
 the skeleton-like face of a starving man. She 
 swayed from side to side with a heavy motion 
 to the measure of the song: 
 
 Such ardent love took hold of me, 
 I embraced Stach most tenderly. 
 
488 The Comedienne 
 
 Her voice floated through the garden with a 
 hollow, rasping sound and added to the din 
 made by that noisy and drunken crowd. 
 Brutal laughs broke out in sharp, penetrating 
 scales, and those bravos emitted by the drunken 
 threats of a Sunday public and interrupted by 
 hiccoughs, beat against the stage with a hoarse 
 and hollow roar together with the biting 
 jibes that were not spared the singer. But she 
 heard nothing and sang on, indifferent and 
 cold to all that surrounded her. She flung 
 forth tones, words, and mimicry with the 
 automatism of a hypnotized woman, only at 
 moments, her eyes would seek Janina's as 
 though they were begging for pity. 
 
 Janina grew pale and red by turns, unable 
 to endure any longer that alcohol-saturated 
 atmosphere and that drunken din which filled 
 her with aversion and disgust. 
 
 "I would rather die!" she thought. Oh, 
 no, she would never be able to amuse such a 
 public. She would spit in its eyes and scorn 
 herself and then ... if there were no other 
 way out . . . drown herself in the Wisla! 
 
 Wolska finished her song and her partner, 
 dressed in a Cracovian costume, went about 
 among the drinking crowd with his notes in his 
 
The Comedienne 489 
 
 hand, collecting money. Remarks that froze 
 one with their cynicism and brutal frankness, 
 were hurled into his face, but he only smiled 
 with the dull smile of a habitual drunkard, 
 nervously twitched his lips and humbly bowed 
 his thanks for those ten-copeck pieces that 
 were thrown on his notes. 
 
 Wolska, with closed eyes, stood beside the 
 piano, nervously tugged at the golden lace of 
 her waist and, groaning with painful anxiety, 
 counted in her mind the number of copecks 
 which her partner placed together with the 
 notes beside her. The pianist again struck 
 the keys and Wolska and her partner began to 
 sing together some comic couplets, interwoven 
 with a kind of "Krakowiak" which they 
 danced in a half dreamy manner. 
 
 Janina could hardly wait for the end of the 
 performance and, without saying anything 
 about the impression that that drinking den 
 had made on her, she took leave of Wolska and 
 fairly ran away from that garden, that public, 
 and that degradation. 
 
 During the entire day following, she did not 
 leave her home. She ate nothing and hardly 
 thought at all, but lay in bed and gazed 
 blankly at the ceiling, following with her eyes, 
 
490 The Comedienne 
 
 the last fly that crept drowsily and half dead 
 over it. 
 
 In the evening, Sowinska came in, sat down 
 on a trunk and, without any introduction, 
 said harshly: "The room is already rented to 
 another tenant, so to-morrow you can clear 
 out of here. And since you owe us fifteen 
 rubles, I will keep all your duds and give them 
 back to you only when you pay me the 
 money." 
 
 "Very well," answered Janina and she 
 looked at Sowinska indifferently, as though 
 nothing out of the ordinary were at stake. 
 "Very well, I shall go!" she added in a quieter 
 tone and arose from the bed. 
 
 "You will doubtlessly manage to help your- 
 self in some way, won't you? You will yet come 
 to see me in a carriage, eh?" said Sowinska 
 and an ugly, hostile light gleamed in her owlish 
 eyes. 
 
 "Very well," repeated Janina in the same 
 mechanical way and began to pace up and 
 down the room. 
 
 Sowinska, growing tired of waiting for some 
 kind of reply, left the room. 
 
 "So all is ended!" whispered Janina in a 
 hollow voice and the thought of death became 
 
The Comedienne 49 l 
 
 a conscious reality in her mind and shone 
 alluringly. 
 
 "What is death? A forgetting, a forget- 
 ting!" she answered herself aloud, standing 
 still and sinking her eyes in those murky deeps 
 that opened up before her soul. 
 
 "Yes, a forgetting, a forgetting!" she 
 repeated slowly and for a long time sat motion- 
 less, gazing at the flame of the lamp. 
 
 The night dragged on slowly, the house 
 became quiet, the lights were gradually extin- 
 guished in the long rows of windows and an 
 ever deeper silence spread itself about, until 
 everything became steeped in this drowsy 
 silence. 
 
 The gray light of dawn was already begin- 
 ning to streak the horizon and to illumine the 
 faint outlines of the housetops when Janina 
 awoke from her torpor and gazed about the 
 room. She felt fully determined, so she sprang 
 up from her chair and, driven on by some 
 thought that lit up her eyes with a strange 
 fire, walked quietly to the door and opened it. 
 But the noisy click of the latch which she 
 closed after her penetrated her with such a 
 strange, sharp fear that she reeled back against 
 the frame of the door and breathed heavily for 
 
492 The Comedienne 
 
 a few moments. Finally, she quietly pulled 
 off her shoes and boldly, but with the utmost 
 caution, passed through the hall and entered 
 a large room adjoining the kitchen which was 
 used as a dining room and a workroom in the 
 day time and as a sleeping room for Mme. 
 Anna's apprentices at night. The close and 
 heavy air of the room almost suffocated Janina. 
 With outstretched hands and bated breath, 
 she stole toward the kitchen so slowly that 
 those minutes seemed an eternity to her. At 
 moments, she paused and, overcoming her 
 trembling that awful trembling listened to 
 the loud breathing and snoring of those sleep- 
 ing there and then went on again, setting her 
 teeth with a desperate strength. Large drops 
 of perspiration rolled down her forehead from 
 exertion and fear and her heart beat so slowly 
 and painfully that she almost felt the pulsation 
 of it in her throat. The kitchen door was open 
 and Janina passed through it like a shadow, 
 but she stumbled against the bed of the ser- 
 vant-girl, which stood very near the door. She 
 grew numb with fear and for a long time stood 
 motionless and breathless, almost in a state 
 of suspended animation, gazing with terrified 
 eyes at the bed whose dim outlines she could 
 
The Comedienne 493 
 
 scarcely make out in the darkness. But 
 finally, rallying all her strength and courage, 
 she walked boldly to the shelf upon which 
 stood various kitchen utensils and supplies 
 and felt one after another with the greatest 
 caution, until finally, her hand rested upon a 
 flat oblong bottle containing essence of vine- 
 gar. She had seen it here a few hours ago and 
 now, having found it, she snatched it up so 
 violently from among the other articles that 
 a tin cover fell with a crash upon the floor. 
 Janina unconsciously bent her head in terror, 
 for the clash of the falling cover resounded 
 with such a tremendous echo in her brain that 
 it seemed as though the whole world were 
 crashing down on her. 
 
 "Who's there?" called the servant, awak- 
 ened by the noise. "Who's there?" she 
 repeated in a louder voice. 
 
 "It is I . . . I came for a drink of water," 
 answered Janina with a choking voice, after 
 a long while, nervously pressing the bottle to 
 her breast . The servant indistinctly mumbled 
 something and did not speak again. 
 
 Janina ran to her room, as though pursued 
 by the furies of madness, no longer caring 
 whether anyone heard her or might awaken 
 
494 The Comedienne 
 
 and, having reached it, locked the door and 
 only then collapsed, half dead from, exhaustion 
 and trembled so violently that she thought 
 she would fall to pieces. The tears, which 
 she did not even feel, began to stream down 
 her face. They gave her so great a relief 
 that she fell asleep. In the morning Sowinska 
 again reminded her that it was time to move 
 and, brutally opening the door before her, 
 told her to get out. Janina dressed hastily and, 
 without answering a word, left the house. 
 
 She walked along the streets, feeling nothing 
 but her homelessness and that dizziness in her 
 head which was engulfing all her thoughts. 
 She passed through Nowy Swiat and the 
 Ujazdowskie Allees and did not stop until she 
 reached the lake in Lazienki Park. 
 
 The trees stood dying and their yellow 
 leaves spread a golden carpet over the paths. 
 The tranquillity of an autumn day hung in the 
 air and only now and then a flock of sparrows 
 flew by with a noisy twitter, or the swans upon 
 the lake cried out mournfully and beat with 
 their wings the muddy-green water that looked 
 like worn velvet. All around could be seen 
 the destruction wrought by the hand of golden 
 autumn. Wherever it touched the trees, 
 
The Comedienne 495 
 
 there the leaves withered and fell to the ground, 
 the grass dried up and the last autumn asters 
 bent their lifeless heads and dripped with dew, 
 as though weeping tears after death. 
 
 "Death!" whispered Janina, pressing in her 
 hands the bottle that she had secured on the 
 previous night and she sat down, perhaps on 
 the same bench on which she had sat that 
 spring. It seemed to her that she was slowly 
 drowsing away and that her thoughts were 
 fading, for her consciousness had begun to 
 disintegrate and she was already ceasing to 
 feel and to know. Everything was falling 
 away from her and dying, like the nature 
 about her that also seemed to be burning out 
 and drawing its last breath. 
 
 A rapturous feeling, full of peace and calm, 
 filled Janina' s heart, for the entire past was 
 vanishing from her memory; all her miseries, 
 all her disappointments, and all her struggles 
 faded away, paled and dispersed, as though 
 absorbed by that pale autumn sun that hung 
 over the park. It seemed to her that she had 
 never passed through them, never felt any- 
 thing, never suffered anything. It seemed to 
 her that she was curling up within herself, 
 growing smaller and shrinking, like that 
 
49 6 The Comedienne 
 
 withered leaf that hung upon the barbed wire 
 of the fence, all ready to drop and be hurled 
 down into the abyss of death by that light 
 breath of wind. Then again it seemed to her 
 that she was ripping to pieces, like that spider 
 web that tangled itself about the grass and 
 floated in glistening filaments through the air; 
 that she was unwinding into such gossamer 
 strands, into ever finer and finer filaments, 
 until she had vanished away into infinity and 
 lost all consciousness of herself. This feeling 
 moved her strongly and a strange tenderness 
 and pity for herself filled her heart with 
 sorrow. 
 
 "Poor girl! How unhappy she is!" whis- 
 pered Janina, as though she was speaking of 
 some other person. 
 
 Janina' s soul was so rapidly disintegrating in 
 its agony that she no longer had a full and clear 
 conception of what the miseries were that had 
 vanquished her, what misfortunes had broken 
 her, nor did she know why she was weeping or 
 who she was. 
 
 "Death!" she repeated mechanically and 
 that word found a deep and unconscious echo 
 in her brain and nerves and pressed only a 
 few tears from her eyes. 
 
The Comedienne 497 
 
 She stopped, without knowing why, before 
 the marble figure of the dancing Faun. The 
 rains had darkened his stony body and rusted 
 the locks of his hair that curled like hyacinths, 
 and his face, furrowed by streams of water, 
 seemed to have grown longer since the spring, 
 but in his eyes there gleamed and burned 
 that same mockery and his crooked legs con- 
 tinued their mad dance. "lo! lo! lo!" he 
 seemed to sing, shaking his flute, laughing and 
 jeering at everything, and raising boldly to the 
 sun his head which was crowned as though 
 with a bacchantic wreath by the withered 
 leaves that had fallen on it. 
 
 Janina gazed at him, but being unable 
 to remember or understand anything, she 
 passed on. 
 
 On Nowy Swiat, in one of the chambres 
 garnies, she asked for a room, ink, letter- 
 paper, and envelopes. When everything had 
 been supplied, Janina locked herself up in the 
 room and wrote two letters: one brief, dry, and 
 painfully ironical letter to her father and an- 
 other longer and entirely calm one to Glogowski. 
 She notified them both of her suicide. She ad- 
 dressed the letters with the greatest accuracy 
 
 and laid them in a conspicuous place. 
 
 32 
 
49 8 The Comedienne 
 
 Afterwards Janina calmly took from her 
 pocket the bottle with the poison, uncorked it, 
 held the liquid up to the light and then, with- 
 out thinking or hesitating any longer drank 
 it to the very dregs. 
 
 Suddenly, she stretched out her arms, a 
 gleam of terror shot across her face, her eyes 
 closed, as though blinded by some measureless 
 void that opened before, and she fell prone 
 upon the floor, in dreadful convulsions of pain. 
 
 A few days later, Kotlicki, having returned 
 from Lublin where he had installed Topolski's 
 company, was sitting in a coffee-house, looking 
 over the newspapers, and by some strange 
 chance his eye fell upon the following item 
 among the local accidents of the day: 
 
 "THE SUICIDE OF AN ACTRESS 
 
 "On Tuesday, in the chambres garnies on 
 Nowy Swiat, the servants were aroused by 
 moans issuing from one of the rooms which 
 an hour ago had been engaged by an unknown 
 woman. They broke open the door and a 
 dreadful sight met their eyes. Upon the 
 floor lay writhing in pain a young and beauti- 
 ful woman. Two letters left behind by her 
 
The Comedienne 499 
 
 revealed that she was a certain Janina Orlow- 
 ska, a former chorus girl who appeared last 
 season in the N. N. Theater under Cabinski's 
 management. 
 
 "A physician was called and the uncon- 
 scious woman was taken to the Hospital of 
 the Infant Jesus. Her condition is serious 
 but it still holds forth some hope. Miss 
 Orlowska poisoned herself with essence of vine- 
 gar, as is attested by the bottle that was found 
 in her room. The cause of her desperate act 
 is unknown, but an investigation is being 
 made. ..." 
 
 Kotlicki read this over several times, knitted 
 his brows, tugged at his mustache, read it 
 again and, finally, crumpled up The Courier 
 and threw it in anger upon the floor. 
 
 ' ' A comedienne ! A comedienne ! " he whis- 
 pered scornfully, biting his lips. 
 
 THE END 
 

 GENERAL LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA-BERKELEY 
 TURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWE 
 
 This book is due on the last date stamped below, or on tl 
 
 date to which renewed. 
 Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. 
 
 JUNl 
 
 2ttar'56HK 
 
 JU.N - 
 241ay'6lEM| 
 
 REC'D LO 
 
 OtC 
 
 
 APR 2 I S94 
 c - BERKELEY 
 
 LD 21-100m-l,'54(1887sl6)476 
 
ID 
 
 U. U. DtHKtLtY LlDhAKItb 
 
 COMBlhSbflfl 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY