orbed by the wreaths hanging on the walls which bore such
inscriptions as these: "To our companion on the occasion of her
birthday," "To a distinguished 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 covered 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 added, indicating the roles
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 role.

"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 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 fascinated by the memory of th