“A well-known method, dear professor,” said Bukatski, with a smile; “I divine what thy object is.”
The professor was as confused as if caught in some evil deed, and crossed his hands.
“I will lay a wager that it would help thee,” said he.
Bukatski answered with a gleam of his former humor, “Very well. In a couple of days I shall convince myself, on the other side of the river, how much it will help me.”
The arrival of Marynia pleased him, all the more that it was unexpected. He said that he had not thought to see any woman on this side of the river, and, moreover, one of his own. Therewith he began to scold them all a little, but with evident emotion.
“What sentimentalists they are!” said he. “It is simply a judgment to be occupied with such a skeleton grandfather as I am. Ye will never have reason. What is this for? What good in it? See, even before death, I am forced to be grateful; and I am sincerely, very sincerely grateful.”
But Marynia did not let him talk about death; on the contrary, she said with great firmness that he must go to Warsaw, and be among his friends. She spoke of this as a thing the execution of which was not subject to the least doubt, and she succeeded gradually in convincing Bukatski of it. She told him how to prepare, and at last he listened to her eagerly. His thoughts passed into a certain condition of yielding, in which they let themselves be led. He felt like a child, and, besides, a poor child.
That same day Osnovski visited him, and also showed as much interest and feeling as if he had been his own brother. Bukatski had out and out not expected all this, and had not counted on anything similar. Therefore, when later in the evening Pan Stanislav came a second time, and no others were present, he said to him,—
“I tell thee sincerely that never have I felt with such clearness that I made life a stupid farce, that I have wasted it like a dog.” And soon after he added, “And if I had found a real pleasure in that method by which I was living; but I had not even that satisfaction. How stupid is our epoch! A man makes two of himself; all that is best in him he hides away, shuts in somewhere in corners, and becomes a kind of ape. He rather persuades himself of the uselessness of life than feels it. How wonderful this is! One thing consoles me,—that in truth death is the only thing real in life, though, on the other hand, this again is not a reason why, before it comes, we should say of it as a fool says of wine, that it is vinegar.”
“My dear friend,” answered Pan Stanislav, “thou hast always tortured thyself with this endless winding of thought around some bobbin. Do not do that at present.”