Here he began to stir the coffee feverishly with a spoon; and Pan Stanislav, who was very lively, sprang up and said,—
“And thou, O beast! what didst thou say some months since,—that thou wert going to Italy because there no one loved thee, and thou didst love no one? Dost remember? Thou’lt deny, perhaps.”
“But what did I say this afternoon to thy betrothed? That thou and she had gone mad; and now I say that thou art doing well. Dost wish logic of me? To talk and to say something are two different things. But now I am more sincere, for I have drunk half a bottle of wine.”
Pan Stanislav began to walk through the room and repeat: “But, as God lives, it is fabulous! See what the root of the matter is, and what they all say when cornered.”
“To love is good, but there is something still better,—that is, to be loved. There is nothing above that! As to me, I would give for it all these; but it is not worth while to talk of me. Life is a comedy badly written, and without talent: even that which pains terribly is sometimes like a poor melodrama; but in life, if there be anything good, it is to be loved. Imagine to thyself, I have not known that, and thou hast found it without seeking.”
“Do not say so, for thou knowest not how it came to me.”
“I know; Vaskovski told me. That, however, is all one. The question is this,—thou hast known how to value it.”
“Well, what dost thou wish? I understand that I am loved a little; hence I marry, and that is the end of the matter.”
Thereupon Bukatski put his hand on Pan Stanislav’s shoulder.
“No, Polanyetski; I am a fool in respect to myself, but not a bad observer of what is passing around me. That is not the end, but the beginning. Most men say, as thou hast, ‘I marry,—that is the end;’ and most men deceive themselves.”