Children of the Soil. Henryk Sienkiewicz

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СКАЧАТЬ on my nerves still more; second, I have a pain in my neck every morning, and in the back of my head, which indicates brain disease; third, I am naked.”

      “Thou naked?”

      “At least now. I have bought a number of Falks, all avant la lettre. I have plucked myself for a month, and if I receive from Italy a certain Massaccio, for which I have been bargaining, I shall ruin myself for a year.”

      Vaskovski, who from his features, or rather from the freckles on his face, was somewhat like Mashko, though much older, and with a face full of sweetness, fixed his blue eyes on Bukatski, and said,—

      “And that too is a disease of the age,—collecting and collecting on all sides!”

      “Oh, ho! there will be a dispute,” remarked Mashko.

      “We have nothing better to do,” said Pan Stanislav.

      And Bukatski took up the gauntlet.

      “What have you against collecting?”

      “Nothing,” answered Vaskovski. “It is a kind of old-womanish method of loving art, worthy of our age. Do you not think there is something decrepit about it? To my thinking, it is very characteristic. Once people bore within them enthusiasm for high art: they loved it where it was, in museums, in churches; to-day they take it to their own private cabinets. Long ago people ended with collecting; to-day they begin with it, and begin at oddities: I am not talking at Bukatski; but to-day the youngest boy, if he has a little money, will begin to collect—and what? Not objects of art, but its oddities, or in every case its trifles. You see, my dear friend, it has seemed to me always that love and amateurism are two different things; and I insist that a great amateur of women, for example, is not a man capable of lofty feeling.”

      “Perhaps so. There is something in that,” said Pan Stanislav.

      “How can this concern me?” inquired Mashko, passing his fingers through his English side whiskers. “It contains, to begin with, the decree of an ancient pedagogue about modern times.”

      “Of a pedagogue?” repeated Vaskovski. “Why, since a morsel of bread fell to me, as from heaven,[3] I renounced the slaughter of innocents and the rôle of Herod; secondly, you are mistaken in saying that I utter a decree. Almost with joy I see and note new proofs every hour that we are at the end of an epoch, and that a new one will begin shortly.”

      “We are in the open sea, and will not turn to shore soon,” muttered Mashko.

      “Give us peace,” said Pan Stanislav.

      But the unconquered Vaskovski continued,—

      “Amateurism leads to refinement; in refinement great ideals perish, and yield to desire for enjoyment. All this is nothing but paganism. No one can realize to what a degree we are paganized. But is there something? There is the Aryan spirit, which does not ossify, which never grows cold,—a spirit which has within it the divine afflatus, hence creative power; and this spirit feels hampered in pagan fetters. The reaction has set in already, and a rebirth in Christ will begin in this field, as in others. That is undoubted.”

      Vaskovski, who had eyes like a child,—that is, reflecting only external objects and ever fixed, as it were, on infinity,—fixed them on the window, through which were visible gray clouds pierced here and there by sun-rays.

      “It is a pity that my head aches, for that will be a curious epoch,” said Bukatski.

      But Mashko, who called Vaskovski “a saw,” and was annoyed by his discussions, begun from any cause or without cause, took from the side-pocket of his coat a cigar, bit off the end, and, turning to Pan Stanislav, said,—

      “Here, Stas, wouldst thou really sell that claim on Kremen?”

      “Decidedly. Why dost thou ask?”

      “Because I might consider it.”

      “Thou?”

      “Yes. Thou knowest that I consider this kind of business frequently. We can talk about it. I cannot say anything certain to-day; but to-morrow I will ask thee to send me the mortgage on Kremen, and I will tell thee whether the thing is possible. Perhaps after dinner to-morrow thou wilt come to me to drink coffee; we may settle something then.”

      “Well. If anything is to be done, I should prefer it done quickly; for the moment I finish with Bigiel, I wish to go abroad.”

      “Whither art thou going?” asked Bukatski.

      “I do not know. It is too hot in the city. Somewhere to trees and water.”

      “Another old prejudice,” said Bukatski. “In the city there is always shade on one side of the street, which there is not in the country. I walk on the shady side quietly and feel well; therefore I never go out of the city in summer.”

      “But Professor, art thou not going somewhere?” asked Pan Stanislav.

      “Of course. Pani Emilia has been urging me to go to Reichenhall. Perhaps I shall go.”

      “Then let us go together. It is all one to me where I go. I like Salzburg, and, besides, it will be pleasant to see Pani Emilia and Litka.”

      Bukatski stretched forth his transparent hand, took a tooth-pick from a glass, and, picking his teeth, began to speak in his cool and careless voice,—

      “There is such a mad storm of jealousy raging within me that I am ready to go with you. Have a care, Polanyetski, lest I explode, like dynamite.”

      There was something so amusingly contradictory between the words and the tone of Bukatski that Pan Stanislav laughed, but after a while he answered,—

      “It had not occurred to me that it is possible to fall in love with Pani Emilia. Thank thee for the idea.”

      “Woe to you both!” said Bukatski.

CHAPTER V.

       Table of Contents

      Next day, after an early dinner at Bigiel’s, Pan Stanislav betook himself to Mashko’s at the appointed hour. The host was waiting for him evidently; for in the study he found an exquisite coffee service ready, and glasses for liqueurs. Mashko himself did not appear at once, however; for, as the servant said, he was receiving some lady. In fact, his voice and the words of a woman came through the door from the drawing-room.

      Meanwhile, Pan Stanislav fell to examining Mashko’s ancestors, a number of whose portraits were hanging on the walls. The authenticity of these the friends of the young advocate doubted. A certain cross-eyed prelate afforded Bukatski a special subject for witticisms; but Mashko was not offended. He had determined, cost what it might, to force on the world himself, his ancestors, his genius for business, knowing that, in the society in which he moved, people would ridicule him, but no one would have energy to attack his pretensions. Possessing energy, limitless insolence, and a real turn for business besides, he determined to force himself upward by those qualities. People who did not like him called him shameless; and he was, but with calculation. Coming from a family uncertain even as to its nobility, he treated СКАЧАТЬ