“On the contrary,” said Pani Bigiel, “you must tell us of both. I will ask you only on the veranda, for I have directed to bring coffee there.”
After a time they were on the veranda. The little Bigiels were running about in a many-colored crowd among the trees, circling about like bright butterflies. Bigiel placed cigars before Svirski. Marynia, taking advantage of the moment, went up to her husband, who was standing aside somewhat, and, raising her kindly eyes to him, asked:
“Why so silent, Stas?”
“I am tired. In the city there was heat, and in our house one might smother. I couldn’t sleep, for Buchynek got into my head.”
“I, too, am curious about that Buchynek, dost thou know? In truth, I am curious. Thou hast done well to see the place and hire it; very well.” And she looked at him with affection; but, seeing that he seemed really not himself, she said,—
“We will occupy Pan Svirski here, and do thou go and rest a while.”
“No; I cannot sleep.”
Meanwhile Svirski talked on. “There is no breeze,” said he; “not a twig in motion. A genuine summer day! Have you noticed that in the season of heat, and in time of such calm, the whole world seems as if sunk in meditation. I remember that Bukatski found always in this something mystical, and said that he would like to die on such a sunny day,—to sit thus in an armchair, then fall asleep, and dissipate into light.”
“Still, he did not die in summer,” remarked Bigiel.
“No, but in spring, and in good weather. Besides, taking things in general, he did not suffer, and that is beyond all.”