nough of the more intimate phases of life
behind the scenes, regarded Sowinska with a certain awe. She knew
that it was not for gain that the old woman shoved the younger ones
into the mire of degradation, but for some hidden reason. At times,
she feared her, unable to endure the enigmatic look with which
Sowinska scrutinized her face. She felt instinctively that Sowinska
seemed to be waiting for something or watching for some opportunity.

On one of those lachrymose days of Sowinska's Janina, who was just
starting for the theater, dropped in to see her.

Entering the room she stood amazed. Sowinska was kneeling beside an
open trunk, while on the bed, the table and the chairs were spread
the parts of some theatrical costume and on the floor were lying
stacks of faded copies of roles. Sowinska was holding in her hand
the photograph of a young man with a strange face, long and so thin
that all the cheek bones could be seen distinctly protruding through
the skin. He had an abnormally high forehead with wide temples and a
huge head. Large eyes gazed out of the pale face like the sunken
hollows in a dead man's skull.

Sowinska turned to the girl with the photograph in her hands and in
a voice trembling with anguish, whispered: "Look, this is my
son . . . and these are my sacred relics!"

"Was he an artist?"

"An artist? . . . I should say so, but not like those monkeys of
Cabinski's. How he played! The papers wrote about him. He was in
Plock and I went to see him. When he appeared in The Robbers the
whole theater shook with applause and cries of admiration. I sat
behind the scenes and when I heard his voice and saw him I was so
overcome with emotion that I thought I would die for very joy!

"I loved him so dearly that I would have let myself be torn to
shreds for him! . . . He was an artist, an artist! He never owned a
penny and poverty often devoured him like a dog, but I tried to help
him as much as I could. I slaved for him and lived on nothing but
tea and bread to save something for him."

She ceased speaking while tears flowed softly down her faded, pale
face.

Janina, after a long silence, asked quietly: "Where is your son
now?"

"Where?" she answered, rising from the floor. "Where? . . . He is
dead! He shot himself."

She began to breathe heavily.

"My whole life has been like that!" she began again. "His father was
a tailor and I kept a shop. In the beginning all went well for we
had plenty of money a