“We will stay to dine. Agreed.”
“And some one else has promised us to-day, so the society will only be increased. I will go now to tell them to prepare places for you.”
Pani Bigiel went out; but Pan Stanislav asked Bigiel,—
“Whom hast thou at dinner?”
“Zavilovski, the future letter-writer of our house.”
“Who is he?”
“That poet already famous.”
“From Parnassus to the desk? How is that?”
“I do not remember, now, who said that society keeps its geniuses on diet. People say that this man is immensely capable, but he cannot earn bread with verses. Our Tsiskovski went to the insurance company; his place was left vacant, and Zavilovski applied. I had some scruples, but he told me that for him this place was a question of bread, and the chance of working. Besides, he pleased me, for he told me at once that he writes in three languages, but speaks well in none of them; and second, that he has not the least conception of mercantile correspondence.”
“Oh, that is nonsense,” answered Pan Stanislav; “he will learn in a week. But will he keep the place long, and will not the correspondence be neglected? Business with a poet!”