"That soap thinks that we are congratulating him on his marriage."
"But on what are you congratulating me?"
"How is that, don't you know?" asked every voice.
"I know nothing; what the hangman do you want?"
"Give him the morning number of 'The Kite,'" cries Poterkevich.
They give me the morning number of "The Kite," shouting, one interrupting the other, "Look among the despatches!"
I look at the despatches, and read the following,—
"Special telegram to the 'The Kite.' Magorski's picture, 'The Jews on the river of Babylon,' received the great gold medal of the Salon of the present year. The critics cannot find words to describe the genius of the master. Albert Wolff has called the picture a revelation. Baron Hirsch offers fifteen thousand francs for it."
I am fainting! Help! I have lost my senses to that degree that I cannot utter a word. I knew that my picture was a success, but of such a success I had not even dreamed. The number of "The Kite" falls from my hand. They raise it and read to me among current comments the following notes on the despatch,—
"Note I. We learn from the lips of the master himself that he intends to exhibit his picture in our garden of sirens.
"Note II. In answer to a question put by the vice-president of the Society of Fine Arts to our master, whether he intends to exhibit his masterpiece in Warsaw, he answered: 'I would rather not sell it in Paris than not exhibit it in Warsaw.' We hope that those words will be read by our posterity (God grant remote) on the monument to the master.
"Note III. The mother of our master, on receiving the despatch from Paris, fell seriously ill from emotion.
"Note IV. We learn at the moment of going to press, that the mother of our master is improving.
"Note V. Our master has received invitations to exhibit his picture in all the European capitals."