“But if this is very important; if, in truth, thou art unable to find another,—let it be according to thy wish; but I say sincerely that for me, after such a funeral, it will be difficult to assist at a wedding.”
Pan Stanislav did not say, it is true, at such a wedding, but Mashko divined his thought. “There is another circumstance, too,” continued he. “Thou must have heard of a certain poor little doctor, who fell in love to the death with thy betrothed. She was free not to return his love, no man will reproach her for that; but he, poor fellow, went his way somewhere to the land where pepper grows, and the deuce took him. Dost understand? I was in friendship with that doctor; he confided his misfortune to me, and wept out his secret. Dost understand? In these conditions to be groomsman for another—say thyself.”
“And did that man really die of love for my betrothed?”
“But hast thou not heard of it?”
“Not only have I not heard, but I cannot believe my own ears.”
“Knowest thou what, Mashko, marriage changes a man; but I see that betrothal does also,—I do not recognize thee simply.”
“Because, as I have said, I am so weary that breath fails me, and at such times the mask falls.”
“What dost thou mean by that?”
“I mean that there are two kinds of people,—one, of people who never limit themselves by anything, and arrange their modes of action according to every circumstance; the other, of people having a certain system which they hold to with more or less sequence. I belong to the second. I am accustomed to observe appearances, and, what is more, accustomed so long that at last it has become a second nature to me. But, for example, when travelling in time of great heat, a moment may come on the man who is most comme il faut, when he will unbutton not only his coat, but his shirt; such a moment has come on me, therefore I unbutton.”
“This means?—”