Leon.—­I have been pushing the wheelbarrow of life, as all mortals do.  Every Monday I have thought that in a week there would be another Monday.  I assure you that there is some distraction in seeing the days spin out like a thread from a ball, and how everything that has happened goes away and gradually disappears, like a migratory bird.

Jadwiga.—­Such distraction is good for those to whom another bird comes with a song of the future.  But otherwise—­

Leon.—­Otherwise it is perhaps better to think that when all threads will be spun out from the ball, there will remain nothing.  Sometimes the reminiscences are very painful.  Happily time dulls their edge, or they would prick like thorns.

Jadwiga.—­Or would burn like fire.

Leon.—­All-wise Nature gives us some remedy for it.  A fire which is not replenished must die, and the ashes do not burn.

Jadwiga.—­We are unwillingly chasing a bird which has flown away.  Enough of it!  Have you painted much lately?

Leon.—­I do nothing else.  I think and I paint.  It is true that until now my thoughts have produced nothing, and I have painted a very little.  But it was not my fault.  Better be good enough to tell me what has caused you to call me here.

Jadwiga.—­It will come by itself.  In the first place, I should be justified in so doing by a desire to see a great man.  You are now an artist whose fame is world-wide.

Leon—­I would appear to be guilty of conceit, but I honestly think that I was not the last pawn on the chessboard in the drawing-room, and that is perhaps the reason why I have been thinking during the past two years and could not understand why I was thrown aside like a common pawn.

Jadwiga.—­And where is our agreement?

Leon.—­It is a story told in a subjective way by a third person.  According to the second clause in our agreement—­“sincerity”—­I must add that I am already accustomed to my wheelbarrow.

Jadwiga.—­We must not speak about it.

Leon.—­I warn you—­it will be difficult.

Jadwiga.—­It should be more easy for you.  You, the elect of art and the pride of the whole nation, and in the mean while its spoiled child—­you can live with your whole soul in the present and in the future.  From the flowers strewn under one’s feet, one can always chose the most beautiful, or not choose at all, but always tread upon them.

Leon.—­If one does not stumble.

Jadwiga.—­No!  To advance toward immortality.

Leon.—­Longing for death while on the road.

Jadwiga.—­It is an excess of pessimism for a man who says that he is accustomed to his wheelbarrow.

Leon.—­I wish only to show the other side of the medal.  And then you must remember, madam, that to-day pessimism is the mode.  You must not take my words too seriously.  In a drawing-room one strings the words of a conversation like beads on a thread—­it is only play.