ut neither do I ask you what you do! . . . So what's the use of
quarreling about it? . . . Only I will not let you touch Majkowska!
With you it's merely a question of intrigue, while with me it's one
of existence. You know right well that there is not another such
pair of heroic actors as Mela Majkowska and Topolski, anywhere in
the provinces, and perhaps not even at the Warsaw Theater. To tell
the truth, they are the sole props of our company! You want to oust
Mela, do you? . . . I tell you she has the sympathy of the whole
public, the press praises her . . . and she has real talent! . . ."

"And I? . . ." she asked threateningly, facing him.

"You? . . . You also have talent, but" . . . he added softly,
"but . . ."

"There are no 'buts' about it! You are an absolute idiot. . . . You
have no conception whatever about acting, or plays, or artists. You
are yourself a great artist, oh, such a great artist! Do you
remember how you played the part of Francis in The Robbers? . . . Do
you? . . . If you don't, I'll tell you . . . You played it like a
shoemaker, like a circus clown! . . ."

Cabinski sprang up as though someone had struck him with a whip.

"That's a lie! The famous Krolikowski played it in the same way;
they advised me to imitate him, and I did . . ."

"Krolikowski played like you? . . . You're a fool, my artist!"

"Pepa, you had better keep quiet, or I'll tell you what you are!"

"O tell me, please do tell me!" she cried out in a rage.

"Nothing great, nor even anything small, my dear."

"Tell me plainly what you mean . . ."

"Well then, I'll tell you that you are not a Modrzejewska," laughed
Cabinski.

"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?