Hawthorns and cresses are blooming.
I am singing and not sobbing,
For I have ceased to love thee too!
Hu-ha-hu!”
“Well,” thought Pan Stanislav, stopping to catch breath, “he has a bass, a real, a true bass; but what is he making such a noise with?”
When he had passed the rest of the steps, however, and then the narrow corridor, he understood the reason, for he saw through the open doors Svirski, dressed to his waist in a single knitted shirt, through which was seen his Herculean torso; and in his hands were dumb-bells.
“Oh, how are you?” he called out, putting down the dumb-bells in presence of his guest. “I beg pardon that I am not dressed, but I was working a little with the dumb-bells. Yesterday I was at your house, but found only Pani Polanyetski. Well, I brought our poor Bukatski. Is the little house ready for him?”
Pan Stanislav pressed his hand. “The grave is ready these two weeks, and the cross is set up. We greet you cordially in Warsaw. My wife told me that the body is in Povanzki already.”
“It is now in the crypt of the church. To-morrow we’ll put it away.”
“Well, to-day I will speak to the priest and notify acquaintances. What is Professor Vaskovski doing?”