The Dressing Room

A short story

“The Hessels in Their Dressing Room” by Edouard Vuillard (1903)

I have been in this dressing room my entire life.

You have been in your dressing room for the entirety of yours, too.

We all inhabit the same theatre. Backstage, there is an endless corridor of rooms. Each room contains exactly one soul. Sometimes, we visit each other’s rooms and stay for a while, but most of the time we are alone. In our dressing rooms.

Some people get very limited time in their dressing room before they are called to the stage. We all watch as they are escorted to the curtain. Some are so young they can’t even walk to the stage. They must be carried. They don’t understand why they must leave their room so early, but they do know it must happen. No one likes to watch the young ones go before the curtain. In fact, most of us pretend they never do. It is much easier to watch the elderly being escorted because they’ve had plenty of time to get dressed and prepared for the final show. We watch them go down the corridor with a quiet satisfaction. They’ve had plenty of time. Or so we think. And we pretend we’ll never grow old like they did. We shut the door as they pass and continue whiling away in our dressing rooms.

I don’t like my dressing room very much. I’ve tried to make a run for it and get to the other side of the curtain while no one’s watching. I’ve been stopped on each attempt. Some people are successful in their rush to get to the stage early. They didn’t like their rooms either. Some mornings, I’ll get up to find that someone I knew left their room in the middle of the night. Much of the time, it’s someone I wouldn’t have expected to leave. I haven’t tried to run for the stage in quite some time. People tell me this is a good thing. I am not so sure.

I spend much of the time in my dressing room wondering when I’ll have to leave. Will I be prepared for the final show? Some people are convinced they know the reason for their time inside the dressing rooms. They even think they know who built the theater and the stage. Some have told me they know who occupies the seats. They aren’t scared for the final show. Or so they say. I think all of us, even the most assured, have trepidation about the day when we’ll be brought before the curtain.

Some people go on spending time in their dressing rooms pretending they’ll never be called to the stage. These are the ones it is most sad to see walking down the corridor. Many are so indignant that they must be carried by the escort. Yesterday, I watched one such case. The man being taken to the stage couldn’t have been older than forty years of age; he was trying to run back to his dressing room as the escort pulled him along. He even broke free, but once he got back to where his door should have been, it was gone. He knew there was no going back to the dressing room. He started walking towards the stage on his own volition. In tears.

Lately, I’ve been trying my best to prepare for the day when I am called to the stage. I will hear the knock on my door. I will walk down the corridor. I will stand behind the curtain waiting to see what lies on the other side. And I will find out. I do believe something is waiting for me there. I’ve had my doubts, but I can’t bring myself to believe there is only an empty theatre waiting for us all when we get to the final show. Why would we wait in our dressing rooms for nothing?

But maybe there is nothing. Maybe I am preparing for nothing. These are the doubts that creep in. The doubts don’t usually linger too long, but they are still close by even when not present. Lingering outside my dressing room at all times.

There aren’t too many dressing rooms I visit to see other people. There seems to be more people who come to visit mine. I sometimes upset people when I don’t visit their rooms enough. But there used to be a room I would visit almost daily. The woman who lived there would visit mine, too. I liked to be in her room. It was warm and comforting. The opposite of my own room which is cold and desolate. For a time, she brought warmth and comfort into my room as well. But I brought the cold and desolation of mine into hers.

I miss her room. I don’t think she misses mine.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever set foot in a dressing room as warm as hers. A room that makes me feel welcomed and whole again. I want to create a room that could bring such warmth to someone else.

I look around my room. I see the broken mirror. I see the broken drawers on the vanity. I see the door of my wardrobe off of its hinges, resting against the wall. I see the torn carpet. I smell the stale air. And I wonder: How can I fix this?

I hear a knock on my door.

The suddenness hits me like a slap. Could this be who I think it is? After all this time?

“Come in,” I say with a feigned resolve.

The door opens slowly, “They’re ready for you.”

The final show has arrived. And it must go on.