“For a very short time,” answered Bukatski; “if thou could only know what horizons it opens.”
“And it kills—Fear God!”
“And kills! Tell me sincerely, has this ever occurred to thee, that it is possible to have a yearning for death?”
“No; I understand just the opposite.”
“But I will give thee neither morphine nor opium,” said Bukatski, at length; “only good coffee and a bottle of honest Bordeaux. That will be an innocent orgy.”
After some time they arrived at Bukatski’s. It was the dwelling of a man of real wealth, seemingly, somewhat uninhabited, but full of small things connected with art and pictures and drawings. Lamps were burning in a number of rooms, for Bukatski could not endure darkness, even in time of sleep.
The “Bordeaux” was found promptly, and under the machine for coffee a blue flame was soon burning. Bukatski stretched himself on the sofa, and said, all at once,—
“Perhaps thou wilt not admit, since thou seest me such a filigree, that I have no fear of death.”
“This one thing I have at times admitted, that thou art jesting and jesting, deceiving thyself and others, while really the joke is not in thee, and this is all artificial.”
“The folly of people amuses me somewhat.”