The Comedienne. Władysław Stanisław Reymont
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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 disheveled 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 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. … "
The waiters burst out laughing, while the barmaid banged her metal tray against the counter.
"Wicek!" called someone from the entrance.
"At your service, Mr. Manager."
"Are they all here for the rehearsal?"
"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 director?"
"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 respectable 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."
"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 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 roles 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 sleep and from an invisible layer of rouge. She had large, dark-blue eyes, full and carmined lips, classical features, and a proud bearing. She played the principle roles.
"Come here a minute, Mr. Director … there is a little matter I would like to speak to you about."
"Always at your service, madame. Perhaps 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. 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