as the earth baked by the July sun, gray as
his fallows and pastures, slow as the ripening of the grain. Autumn
corresponds entirely to the old age of the peasant that desperate,
ugly old age with its bleared eyes and earthy complexion, like the
ground beneath the plow; it lacks strength and goes about in
beggars' garments like the earth that has been reft of the bulk of
its fruits with only a few dried and yellow stalks sticking out here
and there in the potato fields; the peasant is already slowly
returning to the earth from whence he sprung, the earth which itself
becomes dumb and silent after the harvest and lies there in the pale
autumn sunlight, quiet, passive, and drowsy. . . . Afterwards comes
winter: the peasant in his white coffin, in his new boots and clean
shirt, lies down to rest in that earth which has, like him, arrayed
itself in a white shroud of snow and fallen to sleep that earth
whose life he was a part of, which he unconsciously loved, and with
which he dies together, as cold and hard as those ice-covered
furrows that nourished him. . . ."

Kotlicki meditated a moment and then continued: "And yet you think
that you can remain in the theater without becoming a hysterical
type? That's impossible! This phantom life, this daily portrayal of
new characters, feelings and thoughts upon that shifting plane of
impressions, amid artificial stimulants this must metamorphose every
human being, demolish his former personality and recast or rather
disintegrate his soul so that you can put almost any stamp upon it.
You must become a chameleon; on the stage, for art's sake, in life,
from necessity."

"In other words, one must degenerate to become an artist," added
Janina.

"Well, what of that? . . . Even though you fall, others will surely
reach the goal and convince themselves that it wasn't worth reaching
that it isn't worth striving for, nor shedding a single tear, nor
bearing a single pang . . . for everything is illusion, illusion,
illusion . . . ."

They became silent. Janina felt a sudden chill depression. That
former fear of the unknown, experienced at Bukowiec, now took
possession of her.

Kotlicki leaned with one elbow on the table and looked absently into
the crystal carafes containing the arrack. He poured out and drank
glass after glass. The conversation with Janina had wearied him; he
continued to speak to her, but felt vexed at himself for having said
so much. His yellow face, covered with fr