n
cries that made her shudder. She paused in the shadow of a doorway,
looked about her in terror, and gradually remembered all that had
happened: the play, the supper, how she had drunk, the singing and
how someone was again forcing her to drink; and amid all those
confused fragments of her memory there appeared the long equine face
of Kotlicki, the ride in the hack, and his kisses!

"The vile wretch! The vile wretch!" she whispered to herself,
recovering herself entirely; and she clenched her fists until the
nails dug into her flesh, so violent a wave of anger and hatred
surged through her. She was choking with tears of helplessness and
such humiliation that she sobbed spasmodically as she returned home.

It was already dawning.

Sowinska opened the door for her and grumbled in irritation: "You
should have come home earlier, instead of waking people at this hour
of the night."

Janina did not answer, bowing her head as under a blow.

"The base wretches! The base wretches!" That was the one cry that
arose in her heart, filled with rebellion and hatred.

Janina no longer felt the shame and the humiliation, but only a
boundless rage. She ran about the room as though she were mad,
unknowingly ripped her waist and, unable to control her fury, fell
exhausted upon her bed with her clothes on.

Her sleep was one dreadful torment. She sprang up every minute with
a cry as though to run away, then again, she raised her hand as
though with a glass full of wine and shouted through her sleep:
Vive! She would begin to sing or to cry every now and then with her
feverish lips: "The base wretches! The base wretches!"

CHAPTER IX

In a few days after the premiere of The Churls, which remained upon
the bill, but attracted ever smaller audiences, Glogowski came to
Janina's home.

"What is the matter with you? . . ." she exclaimed, extending her
hand in friendly greeting.

"Nothing. . . . Well, I improved my play a little. Did you read the
criticisms?"

"Some of them."

"I have brought all the reviews," said Glogowski. "I'll read them."

He began to read.

One of the important weeklies maintained that The Churls was a very
good, original, and superbly realistic play; that with Glogowski
there had, at last, appeared a real dramatist who had let a current
of fresh air into the stagnant and anaemic atmosphere of our
dramatic creativity, and had given us real people and real life. The
only cause for regret was that the