‘Why?’
‘Fifteen minutes ago I had a note from Mrs Meliton saying the dinner-service and silver have already been sold.’
‘Already? … Who has bought them?’ Izabela cries, seizing her cousin’s hand.
Flora is taken aback.
‘Apparently some merchant from Russia …’ she says, but it is clear she is not telling the truth.
‘You know something, Flora! Please tell me …’ Izabela implores. Her eyes fill with tears.
‘Very well, only don’t give the secret away to your father.’
‘Who was it? Who has bought them?’
‘Wokulski,’ Flora replies.
In a moment Izabela’s eyes became dry and took on a steely tint. She rejects her cousin’s hand angrily, walks to and fro in the boudoir, sits down in a small chair opposite Flora. She is no longer an alarmed and upset beauty, but a great lady who intends to reprimand, perhaps dismiss, one of her servants.
‘Tell me, cousin,’ she said in a splendid contralto voice, ‘what is the meaning of this silly plot you are all hatching against me?’
‘Me? … a plot?’ Flora echoed, pressing her hands to her bosom. ‘I don’t understand you, Bela …’
‘Yes — you, Mrs Meliton and this … amusing hero … this Wokulski.’
‘Wokulski and me?’ Flora exclaims. This time her amazement is so sincere that it cannot be doubted.
‘Well, perhaps you are not plotting,’ Izabela goes on, ‘but you know something, all the same.’
‘Of Wokulski I know what everyone else knows. He owns that shop in which we sometimes buy things, he made a fortune in the war …’
‘And he is involving my father in a trade company, haven’t you heard?’
Flora’s expressive eyes grew very large.
‘Involving your father?’ she said, shrugging. ‘What sort of trade company can Wokulski involve him in?’
But at this moment her own words alarm her.
Izabela could not doubt Flora’s innocence; she walked to and fro a few times like a caged lioness, then suddenly asked: ‘At least tell me what you think of this man?’
‘Wokulski? I think nothing of him, except perhaps that he is seeking notoriety and useful contacts.’
‘So it was for notoriety that he donated a thousand roubles to the orphanage?’
‘Of course. He gave twice that to charity.’
‘Why did he buy up my dinner-service and the silver?’
‘So that he can sell them again at a profit,’ Flora replied. ‘Things like that are in demand in England.’
‘And why … why did he buy up papa’s bills of exchange?’
‘How do you know it was he? He would have no reason for doing so.’
‘I know nothing,’ Izabela snapped feverishly, ‘but I feel, I understand everything. This man is trying to draw close to us …’
‘He has made your father’s acquaintance, after all,’ Flora said.
‘Then it is me he wants to approach,’ exclaimed Izabela, with another outburst. ‘I saw that by …’
She was ashamed to add ‘the way he looked at me’.
‘Aren’t you exaggerating, Bela?’
‘No. What I feel at this moment is not exaggeration, but clairvoyance. You can’t even guess how long I have known—or rather how long he has been pursuing me. Only now I recall there was no new play at the theatre, no concert, no lecture at which I did not encounter him, and yet only now does that … that automaton seem terrible to me …’
Flora almost rose from her little chair as she whispered: ‘Do you think he may dare …?’
‘To be infatuated with me?’ Izabela interrupted with a sudden laugh. ‘I wouldn’t dream of preventing that. I’m neither so naive nor so falsely modest as not to know that I am attractive … even to servants, Heaven help me! … It used to irritate me, like a beggar who stops one in the street, or rings the door-bell or writes begging letters. But now — I’ve learned to understand the phrase “Of him who has much, much shall be required”.
‘In any case,’ she added, with a shrug, ‘men honour us in such unceremonious ways with their adoration that I am no longer surprised by their importunity or impertinent looks, but would be surprised if it were otherwise. If I meet a man in a drawing-room who does not refer to his affection for me and his suffering on my account, or does not fall gloomily silent in a manner betraying still greater affection and suffering, or who fails to display icy coldness meant to signify the utmost affection and suffering, why then — I feel something is wanting, as if I had forgotten my fan or handkerchief … Oh, I know them very well! All these Don Juans, poets, philosophers, heroes, all these sensitive, disinterested, suffering, dreamy or powerful souls … I know this masquerade through and through, and it amuses me very much, I assure you. Ha ha ha! How diverting it all is …’
‘I don’t understand you, Bela,’ Flora interposed, clasping her hands.
‘Then you are no woman.’
Flora made a gesture of denial, then of uncertainty.
‘Listen,’ Izabela exclaimed. ‘A year ago we lost our position in society. No, don’t deny it, for it is so, everyone knows it. Today we’re ruined …’
‘You exaggerate …’
‘Flora, don’t console me, don’t lie to me … Didn’t you hear at dinner that even those few roubles my father has were won at cards from …’
As she spoke, Izabela shuddered from top to toe. Her eyes glittered, her face flushed.
‘And at such a time this … this tradesman comes, acquires our bills of exchange, our dinner-service, binds my father and aunt to him, in other words — surrounds me on all sides with his snares, like a hunter trapping an animal. He’s no mournful admirer, not a suitor for my hand who can be rejected, but — a conqueror! He doesn’t sit and sigh, but wheedles his way into my aunt’s good graces, binds my father’s hands and feet, and hopes to make off with me by force, if he cannot make me yield myself to him … Don’t you understand this subtle villainy?’
Flora was horrified. ‘If this is so, you have one very simple recourse. Tell …’
‘Tell whom what? My aunt, who is only too ready to support this man in the hope of marrying me off to the marshal? Or perhaps I should tell my father, and alarm him and so hasten the disaster? I’ll do one thing: I shall not let my father be drawn into any kind of commercial undertaking with this man, even if I have to go on my knees to him, even if I have to forbid it in the name of my dead mother.’
Flora gazed at her with admiration. ‘Really, Bela,’ she said, ‘you exaggerate. With your will-power, your ingenuity …’
‘You do not know such people, but I have seen them at work. They can crush iron bars in their bare hands. They are terrible. They know how to move all earthly powers which we are not even aware of, to suit their own ends. They can smash us, snare us, grovel before us, risk everything and even—wait patiently …’
‘You talk like a novel.’
‘I speak from the knowledge of my own forebodings, which warn me … they cry out that this man went to the wars to acquire me. And hardly has he returned than he lays siege to me on all sides … But let him beware! He wishes to buy me, does he? Well, let him … He will find out that I am very expensive … He wishes to trap me in his snares? Let him lay them … I will elude him even if it means yielding to the marshal … Good God, I had not even guessed the depths of the abyss into which we are descending until I saw this … From the drawing-rooms of the Quirinal — to a tradesman’s shop. This is more than a decline; it is shame; it is humiliation.’
She sat down on the chaise-longue, covered her face with both hands, and sobbed.
VII
The Dove Goes Out to Encounter the Serpent
THE dinner-service and the silver of the Łęcki family were already sold, and the jeweller had brought Tomasz the money, deducting a hundred or so roubles for his services. Nevertheless, Countess Karolowa did not cease loving Izabela; on the contrary, the energy and self-sacrifice Izabela had di
splayed in selling the heirlooms aroused a new source of family affection in the old lady’s heart. Not only did she persuade Izabela to accept a beautiful gown, not only did she call on her every day or invite her to her house, but (proof of inconceivable favour!) she even offered her the carriage for the whole of Holy Wednesday.
‘Drive around the town, my angel,’ said the Countess, kissing her niece, ‘and make your purchases. Only remember that during the collection you must look charming … as charming as only you know how … I beg you …’
Izabela made no reply, but her gaze made it evident that she was only too glad to indulge her aunt.
Exactly at eleven on the morning of Holy Wednesday Izabela was already seated in the open carriage with her devoted Flora. Spring breezes were blowing along the Boulevard, wafting that peculiar sharp scent which precedes the bursting out of leaves on the trees and the appearance of the first primroses; the grey grassplots had taken on a greenish tinge; the sun shone so warmly that the ladies put up their parasols.
‘A beautiful day,’ Izabela sighed, looking at the sky that was scattered here and there with white clouds.
‘Where to, madame?’ asked the footman, as he slammed the carriage door.
‘To Wokulski’s shop,’ Izabela replied with nervous haste.
The footman jumped on to his box and the stout bay horses moved off at a ceremonial trot, neighing and tossing their heads.
‘Why Wokulski’s, Bela?’ asked Flora, somewhat startled.
‘I want some French gloves, some perfume …’
‘We could get it elsewhere.’
‘I want to go to Wokulski’s,’ said Izabela drily.
For some days she had been haunted by a peculiar uneasiness which she had already experienced once before in her life. Years ago, in a zoological garden abroad, she had seen a tiger asleep in one of the cages, against the bars in such a way that part of its head and one ear was outside.
Izabela had had an irresistible desire to seize the tiger by that ear. The stench of the cage horrified her, the powerful paws of the animal made her shrink with indescribable fear, but all the same she felt she must at least touch the ear of the tiger.
This strange impulse had struck her as both dangerous and absurd. So she forced herself to go on further; but after a few minutes she had returned. Again she retreated, looked at other cages, tried to think of something else. But in vain. She went back once more, and even though the tiger was no longer asleep, but growling and licking its terrible paws, Izabela had run over to the cage, put out her hand and — trembling, pale — touched the tiger’s ear.
A little later she had been ashamed of her foolishness, but at the same time she felt that bitter satisfaction known to those who obey the voice of instinct in an important matter.
Today she had awakened with a similar longing. She despised Wokulski; her heart faltered at the mere thought that this man might have paid more for the silver than it was worth, yet she felt an irresistible desire to go into his shop, look into Wokulski’s eyes and pay him for a few trifles with the money that had come from him. Fear seized her at the thought of this encounter, but an inexplicable instinct drove her on.
In Krakowskie Przedmieście she caught sight in the distance of the sign ‘J. Mincel & S. Wokulski’ and saw a new, still-unfinished shop with five windows of plate-glass next to it. Several craftsmen and labourers were working there, some wiping the glass from within, others gilding and painting the door and shop-front, yet others putting great brass bars across the windows.
‘What is that shop they are building?’ she asked Flora.
‘It is probably for Wokulski, I hear he has taken a larger site.’
‘That shop is for me!’ thought Izabela, fidgeting with her gloves.
The carriage stopped, the footman jumped down and helped the ladies descend. But when he opened the door into Wokulski’s shop with a crash, Izabela shrank so that her legs almost gave way under her. For a moment she wanted to go back to the carriage and flee; but she controlled herself and went in, her head high.
Rzecki was already standing in the centre of the shop to greet her, rubbing his hands and bowing low. In the depths, Lisiecki was stroking his splendid beard and exhibiting a bronze candelabra to a woman seated in a chair. The slender Klein was choosing a walking-stick for a young man who rapidly armed himself with eye-glasses at the sight of Izabela — while Mraczewski, scented with heliotrope, eyes ablaze, was twirling his moustache at two blushing young ladies accompanied by elderly ladies, inspecting toilet articles.
Wokulski, bent over accounts, was seated to the right of the door, at a desk.
When Izabela entered, the young man inspecting walking-sticks straightened his collar, the two young ladies glanced at one another, Lisiecki broke off half-way through a rounded phrase about the style of the candelabra, though he retained an elegant pose, and even the lady listening to his discourse turned in her chair. For a moment the shop was silent, then Izabela asked in a beautiful contralto voice:
‘Is Mr Mraczewski here?’
‘Mr Mraczewski!’ Ignacy cried.
Mraczewski was already before Izabela, blushing like a cherry, scented like a censer, his head bowed like a clump of rushes.
‘We have come for some gloves.’
‘Size five and a half,’ Mraczewski replied, already holding the box which trembled a little under Izabela’s gaze.
‘Not those …’ she interrupted, smiling. ‘Five and three-quarters … You have forgotten already!’
‘Madam, there are things a man never forgets … If, however, you desire size five and three-quarters, I will serve you, in the hope you will soon grace our establishment again with your presence. Because gloves size five and three-quarters’, he added with a soft sigh, putting other boxes forward, ‘will certainly be too large …’
‘He’s a genius,’ Ignacy whispered softly, winking at Lisiecki, who shrugged contemptuously.
The lady in the chair turned back to the candelabra, the two girls to their toilet articles, the young man in eye-glasses went on selecting his walking-stick — business reverted to its calm progress. Only Mraczewski feverishly darted up and down ladders, opened drawers, brought out more and more boxes, explaining to Izabela in Polish and French that she could not wear any other size of gloves but five and a half, or use any perfumes except Atkinson’s original, or adorn her dressing-table with anything but French oddments.
Wokulski bent over his desk so that the veins stood out on his forehead, and kept counting to himself: ‘29 and 36 is 65, and 16 makes 80 and 73 is …’
Here he broke off and looked furtively towards Izabela as she was talking to Mraczewski. Both had their profiles towards him, so he could see the burning gaze of the clerk fixed upon Izabela and the way in which she was replying with smiles and kindly encouragement.
‘29 and 36 is 65, and 15 …’ Wokulski thought, but suddenly the nib of his pen broke. Without looking up, he got a new one from the drawer and at this moment, without knowing why, he asked himself: ‘Am I supposed to be in love with her? What nonsense! A year ago I had a disordered brain, and it seemed to me I was in love … 29 and 36 … 29 and 36 … I never dreamed she could mean so little to me … How she looks at that fool! Well, she is obviously a woman who flirts even with clerks, and probably with carriage-drivers and footmen too … Now for the first time I’m calm … Good God! And I longed for it so …’
A few more persons entered the shop and Mraczewski reluctantly turned to them as he slowly tied up Izabela’s packages.
Izabela approached Wokulski and, pointing in his direction with her parasol, said distinctly: ‘Flora, kindly pay that gentleman. We are going home.’
‘The cash desk is over here,’ Rzecki exclaimed, hurrying to Flora. He took the money and both withdrew into the depths of the shop.
Izabela moved slowly towards the desk at which Wokulski was seated. She was very pale. The sight of this man seemed to exert a magnetic effect upon her.
‘Am I addressing Mr Wokulski?’
Wokulski arose and replied indifferently: ‘At your service.’
‘So it was you who bought our dinner-service and silver?’ she said in a stifled voice.
‘Yes, madam.’
Now Izabela hesitated. But presently a pale glow returned to her face. She continued: ‘I expect you intend to sell them.’
‘That is why I bought them.’
Izabela’s flush intensified.
‘Does the future purchaser live in Warsaw?’ she asked.
‘I do not sell such things here, but abroad. There … they give better prices …’ he added, noticing a question in her eyes.
‘Do you expect to make a great deal of profit?’
‘I bought them for that purpose.’
‘Is that why my father does not know that the silver is in your possession?’ she asked ironically.
Wokulski’s lips quivered.
‘I bought the dinner-service and silver from a jeweller. I make no secret of it. I brought no third party into the transaction because one does not do that in trade.’
Despite these gruff replies, Izabela sighed with relief. Her eyes even darkened somewhat and lost their gleam of hatred.
‘If my father were to change his mind and wish to buy these objects back, what price would you ask?’
‘The price I paid. With a percentage of from six … to eight per annum, of course.’
‘So you would forgo the profit you expected? Why is that?’ she interrupted quickly.
‘Because, madam, trade does not depend merely on profit but on the circulation of cash.’
‘Goodbye and … thank you for the explanation,’ said Izabela, seeing that Flora had finished paying.
Wokulski bowed and seated himself at the ledger again.
When the footman had taken the packages and the ladies were seated in the carriage, Flora reproachfully asked: ‘Did you speak to that man, Izabela?’
‘Yes, and I do not regret having done so. He lied all the time, but…’
‘What do you mean by that “but”?’ asked Flora uneasily.
‘Don’t ask me … Don’t speak to me unless you want me to burst into tears in public …’