Sanatorium under the sign of the hourglass - Bruno Schulz [49]
"Your vulgarity," said my father, "defiles everything it comes into contact with. You have given us a picture of these sons of fire as seen by your profane eyes. As to me, all my sympathy is with that unfortunate tribe of salamanders, those poor, disinherited creatures of fire. The mistake committed by that once-so-splendid tribe was that they devoted themselves to the service of mankind, that they sold themselves to man for a spoonful of miserable broth. They have been repaid by scorn because the stupidity of plebeians is boundless. Now these once-so-sensitive creatures have to live in degradation. Can one wonder that they don't like their dull and coarse fare, cooked by the wife of the beadle of the city school in a communal pot that they have to share with men under arrest? Their palates, the delicate and refined palates of fiery spirits, crave noble and dark balms, aromatic and colorful potions. Therefore, on the festive night when we shall all sit in the great city hall at tables covered with white cloth and when the light of a thousand illuminations will sparkle over the city, each of us will dip his roll of bread in a beaker of raspberry juice and slowly sip that noble liquor. This is the way to fortify the firemen, to regenerate all the energy they squander under the guise of fireworks, rockets, and Bengal fires. My heart is full of fellow feeling for their misery and undeserved abasement. I have accepted from their hands the saber of a captain in the hope that I might lead them from their present degradation to a future pledged to new ideas."
"You are completely transformed, Jacob," said my mother, "you are magnificent! All the same, I hope that you will stay at home tonight. Don't forget that we have not had a chance to talk seriously since my return from the country. And as for the firemen," she added, turning to Adela, "I really think that you are a little prejudiced. Though ne'er-do-wells, they are decent boys. I always look with pleasure at those slim young men in their shapely uniforms; I must say, though, that their belts are drawn in a shade too tightly at the waist. They have a natural elegance, and their eagerness and readiness to serve the ladies at any time is really touching. Whenever I drop my umbrella in the street or stop to tie a bootlace, there is always one of them at hand, ready to help and to please. I daren't disappoint them so I always wait patiently for one of them to appear and to perform the little service that seems to make them so happy. When, having performed his duty, he walks away, he is at once surrounded by a group of his colleagues who discuss the event with him eagerly, while the hero illustrates with gestures what actually happened. If I were you, Adela, I would willingly make use of their gallantry."
"I think that they are nothing but a bunch of loafers," said Theodore, the senior shop assistant. "We don't even let them fight fires anymore because they are as irresponsible as children. It is enough to see how enviously they watch groups of boys throwing buttons against a wall to understand that they have brains like hares. Whenever you look out a window at boys playing in the street, you are sure to see among them one of these large chaps breathlessly running about, almost crazy with pleasure at the boys' game. At the sight of a fire, they jump for joy, clap their hands, and dance like savages. No, one cannot rely on them to put out the fires. Chimney sweeps and city militiamen are the people to use. This would leave fairs and popular festivals to the firemen. For instance, at the so-called storming of the Capitol on a dark morning last autumn, they dressed up as Carthaginians and lay seige, with a devilish noise, at the Basilian Hill, while the people who watched them sang: 'Hannibal, Hannibal ante portas!' Toward the end of autumn, they become lazy and somnolent, fall asleep standing up, and, with the first snows, disappear completely from sight. I have been told by an old stove