It occurs to me to take counsel with Eva. She plays to-day; I will fly to the theatre and see her after the play.
There is time yet.
Half an hour later I am in her dressing-room.
Eva will finish directly; meanwhile, I look around.
Our theatres are not distinguished, as is known, for luxury of furnishing. A chamber with white walls; two jets of gas quivering from the draught; a mirror; a washstand; a number of chairs; and in one corner, a long chair, probably the private property of the diva,—this is her dressing-room. Before the mirror a multitude of toilet articles, a cup of black coffee partly drunk, boxes with rouge and white, lead for the brows, a number of pairs of gloves, still retaining the form of the hand, and among them two false tresses; at the side walls bunches of costumes, white, rose-colored, dark, light, and heavy; on the floor are two baskets full of things pertaining to female costumes. The room is full of odor of toilet powder. What a medley everywhere; how everything has been cast about in a hurry! How many colors and reflections; what shadows; what a play of light from the quivering gas-jets!
That is a picture of its own kind; there is character in it. Of course there is nothing here more than in an ordinary dressing-room of a woman, still there is something which causes that chamber to seem, not a dressing-room, but a sanctuary of some kind; there is a certain spell and charm there. Above this disorder, this medley and hurry, between these scratched walls, hovers the inspiration of art.
A thunder of applause is heard. Ha! it is finished. Through the walls come to my ears the sound of calling; "Adami! Adami!" A quarter of an hour passes; they are shouting yet.
At last Eva rushes in; she is in the character of "Theodora." She has a crown on her head; her eyes blackened underneath; on her cheeks a blush of rouge; her dishevelled hair falls like a storm on her naked neck and shoulders. She is feverish and exhausted to that degree that she speaks to me in a whisper barely audible.
"How art thou, Vladek?" and removing her crown hurriedly, she throws herself in her regal robes on the long chair. Evidently she cannot utter words; for she looks at me silently, like a suffering bird. I sit near her, place my hand on her head, and think only of her.
I see in those blackened eyes the flame of unquenched ecstasy; I see on that forehead simply the stigma of art. I see that the woman brings to the altar of that theatrical Moloch her health, blood, and life, that breath is lacking in her breast at that moment. Such pity embraces me, such sorrow, such sympathy, that I know not what to do.