Act I

Night. A lady's bedchamber in Bulgaria, in a small
town near the Dragoman Pass. It is late in
November in the year 1885, and through an open
window with a little balcony on the left can be
seen a peak of the Balkans, wonderfully white and
beautiful in the starlit snow. The interior of the
room is not like anything to be seen in the east
of Europe. It is half rich Bulgarian, half cheap
Viennese. The counterpane and hangings of the bed,
the window curtains, the little carpet, and all
the ornamental textile fabrics in the room are
oriental and gorgeous: the paper on the walls is
occidental and paltry. Above the head of the bed,
which stands against a little wall cutting off the
right hand corner of the room diagonally, is a
painted wooden shrine, blue and gold, with an
ivory image of Christ, and a light hanging before
it in a pierced metal ball suspended by three
chains. On the left, further forward, is an
ottoman. The washstand, against the wall on the
left, consists of an enamelled iron basin with a
pail beneath it in a painted metal frame, and a
single towel on the rail at the side. A chair near
it is Austrian bent wood, with cane seat. The
dressing table, between the bed and the window, is
an ordinary pine table, covered with a cloth of
many colors, but with an expensive toilet mirror
on it. The door is on the right; and there is a
chest of drawers between the door and the bed.
This chest of drawers is also covered by a
variegated native cloth, and on it there is a pile
of paper backed novels, a box of chocolate creams,
and a miniature easel, on which is a large
photograph of an extremely handsome officer, whose
lofty bearing and magnetic glance can be felt even
from the portrait. The room is lighted by a candle
on the chest of drawers, and another on the
dressing table, with a box of matches beside it.

The window is hinged doorwise and stands wide
open, folding back to the left. Outside a pair of
wooden shutters, opening outwards, also stand
open. On the balcony, a young lady, intensely
conscious of the romantic beauty of the night, and
of the fact that her own youth and beauty is a part
of it, is on the balcony, gazing at the snowy
Balkans. She is covered by a long mantle of furs,
worth, on a moderate estimate, about three times
the furniture of her room.

Her reverie is interrupted by her mother,
Catherine Petkoff, a woman over forty, imperiously
energetic, with magnificent black hair and eyes,
who might be a very splendid specimen of the wife
of a mountain farmer, but is determined to be a
Viennese lady, and to that end wears a fashionable
tea gown on all occasions.

CATHERINE (entering