“The bar has been filled from our ranks at all times,” answered Pan Zavilovski; “but will the noble succeed in other branches? As God lives, I cannot tell. I hear, and hear that we ought to undertake everything; but people forget that to undertake and to succeed are quite different. Show me the man who has succeeded.”
“Here he is, respected sir, Pan Polanyetski: he in a commission house has made quite a large property; and what he has is in ready cash, so that he could put it all on the table to-morrow. He will not deny that my counsels have been of profit to him frequently; but what he has made, he has made through commerce, mainly in grain.”
“Indeed, indeed!” said the old noble, gazing at Pan Stanislav, and staring from wonder, “has he really made property? Is it possible? Is he of the real Polanyetskis? That’s a good family.”
“And that stalwart man with brown hair?”
“Is Svirski the artist.”
“I know him, for I saw him abroad; and the Svirskis did not make fires as an occupation.”
“But he can only paint money, for he hasn’t made any.”
“He hasn’t!” said Mashko, in a confidential tone. “Not one big estate in Podolia will give as much income as aquarelles give him.”
“What is that?”
“Pictures in water-colors.”