"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 disheveled, 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.
"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 threateningly, 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!"