Читать книгу The Comedienne - Władysław Stanisław Reymont - Страница 5

"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. Director?"

"Oh, I don't know. I'd take a glass of cognac, but … "

"You're afraid of your wife? She does not appear in Nitouche, does she?"

"No, but … "

"Waiter! Two cognacs and sandwiches. … You will give the role 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 … "

"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!"

"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. Yesterday she boasted to him that you had her in mind when you announced in the papers that the role of Nitouche will be played by the beautiful and dashing Mme. X.X."

Cabinski began to laugh quietly.

"Only don't breathe a word about it. You'll see what will happen. Before him she will 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 whomever 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, joking, telling tales, and complaining while the tuning of the orchestra furnished an accompaniment 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?"

"There he is!"

"Which one of them."

"What will you have, madame?"

"I beg your pardon, which of those gentlemen 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 staring 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."

"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 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 standing 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 yourself. 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 purpose. 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 country 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 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 journeyed 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. Director … 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 modulated with ease and there was so much originality 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 courage failed her, for she noticed that an increasing number of people were curiously observing them.

"Hey there, Cabinski!"

"Man alive!"

"Director! What's that … a rendezvous? 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 individual 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."

"Don't fear, Wladek, they do not encumber the budget, for Cabinski has a custom of failing to pay his actors, particularly the young and pretty ladies."

Thereat they all began laughing.

"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 another. … "

"My funny sir, your belly grows at the expense 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 exaggerated youthful style and color, so that from afar she gave the impression of being a young woman.

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 children, while in truth she was nothing but a comedienne, both in life and behind the scenes. On the stage she impersonated dramatic mothers and all the elder, unhappy women, never understanding her parts, but acting them, nevertheless, 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, Majkowska 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.

"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. Counselor! … How can you say such things? … "

"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 before 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' 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."

"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 whispered.

"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 coquette!"

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 commences!"

"To the stage! to the stage!" was the cry that went up all over the hall as the actors hurried behind the scenes.

"Mr. Director!" called Majkowska, "you can give the role to

Nicolette … your wife agrees to it."

"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. … "

"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 entered and was looking at them, hastily covered her face with her parasol, so as not to burst out laughing at the comical look of embarrassment on Nicolette's face.

"I 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.

"It can't be done. We begin immediately."

"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 conversation, 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 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 collective can-canade, but every minute there was heard the sharp bang of the conductor's baton against his desk and the hoarse yell—"Halt! Start over again!" And swinging his baton he would mutter under his nose: "You cattle!"

The chorus rehearsal dragged on interminably. 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.

In the men's dressing-room Wicek was shining 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.

"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. .

"I 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!"

"Try it, Miss Nicolette … that part is well adapted to your voice. … I myself asked the director to give it to you," encouraged 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 orchestra 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 role, 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 conductor, intentionally skipped a measure, causing 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."

"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 Cabinska, 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 role into Cabinski's face. "It's known long ago that in your company there is no place for a respectable woman!"

"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 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, 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 answered overjoyed.

"Have you any kind of a voice?"

"A voice?"

"Do you sing?"

"At home I used to sing a little … but I do not think I have a stage voice … however, I … "

"Only come a little earlier and we shall try you out. … I shall speak to the musical director."