The Doll

  ‘The doctor would say a new cell has been formed in my brain, or that several old ones had joined together,’ he thought. ‘Yes—but what now?’

  Hitherto he had had only one aim: to approach Izabela. Now he acquired another: to extricate Wysocki from destitution.

  ‘A small thing!’

  ‘And transfer his brother to Skierniewice,’ a voice added.

  ‘A mere nothing!’

  But behind these two people were several others, with still others behind them, then a huge crowd struggling with all kinds of poverty and finally—a whole ocean of suffering which must be mitigated as far as his powers allowed, or at least stopped from spreading.

  ‘Visions…abstractions…nervous exhaustion!’ Wokulski whispered.

  That was one way. At the end of the other, however, he saw a real and well-defined aim—Izabela.

  ‘I’m not Christ, to sacrifice myself for mankind.’

  ‘So—forget the Wysockis to begin with,’ the inner voice retorted.

  ‘Well, this is nonsense. Even though I’m excited today, I mustn’t make a fool of myself,’ Wokulski thought. ‘I’ll do what can be done, but I won’t renounce my own happiness, that’s too much…’

  At this moment he stopped at the door of his shop and went in.

  Inside, Wokulski found only one customer. It was a tall lady in black, of indeterminate age. Before her was a pile of dressing-cases—wooden, leather, plush, metal, plain and fancy, the most expensive and the cheapest—and all the clerks were attending to her. Klein kept proffering more, Mraczewski was praising the cases, while Lisiecki accompanied him with gestures. Only Ignacy came forward to greet his principal.

  ‘There’s a delivery from Paris,’ he told Wokulski, ‘I think we shall have to collect it tomorrow.’

  ‘As you like…’

  ‘And orders from Moscow for ten thousand roubles, for early May.’

  ‘I expected them.’

  ‘Two hundred from Radom, but the driver wants payment by tomorrow.’

  Wokulski shrugged. ‘We must have done with this huckstering trade once and for all,’ he exclaimed. ‘There’s no profit in it and the demands are too heavy.’

  ‘Break with our provincial trade?’ Rzecki asked in surprise.

  ‘Break with the Jews,’ Lisiecki put in in an undertone; ‘the boss is quite right to get out of those wretched deals. Sometimes I’m ashamed to give change, the money smells so of garlic…’

  Wokulski did not reply. He sat down at his accounts and pretended to be reckoning, but in reality he did nothing; he had not the energy. He recalled his recent dream of making mankind happy and decided he must be in a very nervous state. ‘Sentiment and imagination triumphed over,’ he thought. ‘It’s a bad sign. I may become a laughing-stock, be ruined…’

  He mechanically eyed the unusual countenance of the lady choosing a dressing-case. She was modestly dressed, her hair drawn back smoothly. Deep sorrow was etched upon her face, which was both white and yellowish; bad temper lurked in her tight lips, and anger or sometimes humiliation glittered in her downcast eyes. She was speaking in a low and mild voice, but bargaining more than any miser. This case was too expensive, that too cheap; this plush would fade, the leather would wear off that, and here rust was showing on the fittings. Lisiecki had already retreated, Klein was resting, and only Mraczewski was talking to her as if he knew her.

  Just then the door of the shop opened and a still more original individual appeared. Lisiecki was to say of him that he looked like a consumptive whose whiskers and moustache had begun to sprout in his coffin. Wokulski noticed that this customer had a gaping mouth and large eyes behind dark spectacles, from behind which still greater absent-mindedness peered.

  This customer entered while terminating a conversation with someone outside in the street, and at once withdrew to bid goodbye to his companion. Then he came in again, only to retire once more, raising his head as if to read the sign over the door. He glanced accidentally at the lady—and his dark spectacles dropped.

  ‘Oh!’ he exclaimed.

  But the lady turned away convulsively to the dressing-cases, then sank into a chair.

  Mraczewski hurried over to the newcomer and, smiling ambiguously, inquired: ‘What can we do for His Excellency?’

  ‘Cufflinks, d’you see…ordinary cufflinks, gold or metal… Only, d’you see, they must be shaped like a jockey’s cap and—with a whip.’

  Mraczewski opened the case containing cufflinks.

  ‘A glass of water!’ the lady cried in a feeble voice.

  Rzecki poured some from the carafe and handed it to her sympathetically. ‘Madam is ill? Perhaps a doctor…?’

  ‘I’m better…’ she retorted.

  The Baron was inspecting cufflinks, his back ostentatiously turned towards the lady. ‘Perhaps links in the form of a horse-shoe would be better, sir?’ Mraczewski asked. ‘I think these would suit Your Excellency, or these… Sporting gentlemen only wear sporting emblems, but they like a change too…’

  ‘Tell me, please,’ the lady suddenly turned to Klein, ‘what use are horse-shoes to a person who cannot afford to keep horses?’

  ‘Here, young man,’ said the Baron, ‘please select a few more trifles in the shape of horse-shoes.’

  ‘Perhaps an ash-tray?’ Mraczewski inquired.

  ‘Very well,’ said the Baron.

  ‘And perhaps an elegant inkwell, with a saddle and a little jockey and hunting-crop on it?’

  ‘I will take the inkwell with the saddle and jockey on it…’

  ‘Tell me, young man,’ said the lady to Klein, raising her voice, ‘are you not ashamed to stock such expensive trifles when our country is ruined? Is it not shameful to buy race-horses?’

  ‘Young man,’ said the Baron equally loudly to Mraczewski, ‘pray pack all these trifles—the ash-tray, the inkwell—and send them to me at home. You have a most elegant selection of goods here. Good-day to you! Adieu!’

  And he hurried out of the door, turning back several times to look at the sign over it.

  After the exit of the eccentric Baron, silence reigned in the store. Rzecki gazed at the door, Klein at Rzecki, and Lisiecki at Mraczewski who, being behind the lady, was able to make a very ambiguous grimace.

  The lady rose slowly from her chair and approached the cash-desk at which Wokulski was seated.

  ‘May I inquire,’ she said in a trembling voice, ‘how much that gentleman who has just left owes you?’

  ‘The account of that gentleman in this store, madam, if he has one, is his business and mine,’ said Wokulski with a bow.

  ‘Sir!’ the fretful lady went on, ‘I am Krzeszowska, and that man is my husband. His debts concern me, for he has appropriated my estate over which a law-suit is progressing at this very time…’

  ‘Forgive me, madam,’ Wokulski interrupted, ‘but relations between husband and wife are no concern of mine.’

  ‘Ah, so? No doubt that is most convenient—for a tradesman. Adieu.’

  And she left the shop, slamming the door.

  A few minutes after her departure, the Baron hurried in. He glanced out into the street a few times, then approached Wokulski.

  ‘My apologies,’ he said, trying to keep his eye-glasses in place, ‘but as a regular customer, I venture to inquire in confidence what that lady who has just left said to you? I apologise for my boldness, but in confidence…’

  ‘She said nothing that would bear repetition,’ Wokulski replied.

  ‘For, d’you see, she is—alas!—my wife. You know me—Baron Krzeszowski… She’s a devilishly fine woman, very polished and all that, but the death of our daughter has somewhat upset her and sometimes…d’you see… So—nothing…?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  The Baron bowed, and exchanged glances with Mraczewski, who winked at him. ‘So that’s how it is?’ the Baron said, looking sharply at Wokulski. And he hurried out into the street.

  Mraczewski turned to stone and flushed up to the roo
ts of his hair. Wokulski went a little pale but sat down again at his accounts.

  ‘Who are those eccentric individuals, Mraczewski?’ Klein asked.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ said Mraczewski, glancing sideways at Wokulski. ‘That was Baron Krzeszowski, a great eccentric and his wife, who is a trifle off her head. They’re related to me, of course, but what of it?’ he sighed, gazing into the mirror. ‘I haven’t any money, I have to serve behind a counter; they still have some, so they patronise me…’

  ‘They have money without working for it…’ Klein put in. ‘A fine state of affairs, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, never mind… Don’t drag me into your affairs,’ Mraczewski replied. ‘The Baron and Baroness have been at war together for a year. He wants a divorce, but she doesn’t; she wants to dislodge him from managing her property, to which he won’t agree. She won’t let him keep horses, particularly one race-horse; and he won’t let her buy the Łęcki house, in which the Baroness lives and where she lost her daughter. Odd people! Everyone laughs at their antics…’

  He spoke lightly and moved around with the air of a young gentleman who merely dropped in for a few moments but would be leaving directly. Wokulski changed colour as he sat at his accounts; he could not endure Mraczewski’s voice a moment longer.

  ‘The Krzeszowskis’ cousin…’ he thought. ‘He’ll be getting a love-letter from Izabela…. Ah, the scoundrel…’

  He turned back to his ledger with an effort. More people began coming into the store, selecting goods, bargaining, and paying. But Wokulski, absorbed in his work, only saw their shadows. And as he added up more columns, reached greater totals, the more he felt some indescribable rage boiling up within him. What was it about? And against whom? Never mind…enough that someone would pay for it, as soon as the occasion arose.

  By seven, the shop was decidedly emptier, the clerks were chatting together, Wokulski still reckoning. Then he again heard the insufferable voice of Mraczewski, saying in an arrogant tone: ‘What are you trying to confuse me for, Klein? All Socialists are criminals, because they are out to divide up other people’s property—and they’re hangmen, for they have one pair of boots between two and don’t believe in using pocket-handkerchiefs.’

  ‘You wouldn’t say that,’ Klein replied mournfully, ‘if only you’d read a few pamphlets, even short ones.’

  ‘Rubbish…’ Mraczewski interrupted, putting his hands in his pockets. ‘You expect me to read pamphlets that are out to destroy the family, religion and property! Well, you won’t find such stupid people in Warsaw.’

  Wokulski closed the ledger and put it into the desk. At this moment three ladies came into the store for gloves. Their purchase lasted fifteen minutes. Wokulski sat and stared out of the window; when the ladies had gone he called in a very calm voice: ‘Mr Mraczewski!’

  ‘Sir?’ asked the handsome young man, skipping up to the cash-desk.

  ‘From tomorrow you will look for another post,’ said Wokulski abruptly.

  Mraczewski turned to stone. ‘Why, sir? Why?’

  ‘Because there is no job for you here.’

  ‘But what’s the reason, sir? After all, surely I haven’t done anything wrong? Where shall I go if you dismiss me so suddenly?’

  ‘You’ll get good references,’ Wokulski replied. ‘Mr Rzecki will pay your wages for the next quarter—or for five months. The reason is that you and I don’t get on… We don’t get on at all. Ignacy, pay Mr Mraczewski until the first of October.’

  With that, Wokulski rose and went into the street.

  Mraczewski’s dismissal made such an impression that the other clerks said not a word to one another, and Rzecki told them to close the shop, though it was not yet eight o’clock. He at once hurried to Wokulski’s house, but did not find him there. He went again at eleven, but the windows were dark and Ignacy went despondently home.

  Next day, Maundy Thursday, Mraczewski did not appear in the shop. His colleagues were depressed and sometimes conferred quietly together.

  Wokulski came in about one o’clock. But before he could sit down at his desk, the door opened and Baron Krzeszowski hurried in with his usual hesitant step, attempting to fix his eye-glasses in place.

  ‘Mr Wokulski,’ he exclaimed distractedly, almost at the door, ‘I have just heard… I am Krzeszowski… I hear that poor Mraczewski has been dismissed on my account. But, Mr Wokulski, I was not in the least vexed with you yesterday… I respected the discretion you showed in the matter of myself and my wife… I know that you replied to her as becomes a gentleman…’

  ‘Baron,’ said Wokulski, ‘I have not asked you for a certificate of respectability. Apart from that—what can I do for you?’

  ‘I have come to ask forgiveness for poor Mraczewski, who even…’

  ‘I am not vexed with Mr Mraczewski, though he should apply to me himself…’

  The Baron bit his lip. He was silent a moment, as if stunned by the brusque reply; finally he bowed and with a quiet ‘Excuse me’, left the shop.

  Messrs Klein and Lisiecki retired behind the cases, and after a short conference returned into the shop, casting sad but eloquent glances at one another from time to time.

  At about three o’clock, Baroness Krzeszowska appeared. She seemed paler, greener and still more sombrely dressed than the previous day. She looked fearfully around and, catching sight of Wokulski, approached his desk: ‘Sir,’ she said quietly, ‘today I heard that a certain young man, Mraczewski, lost his post here on my account. His unhappy mother…’

  ‘Mr Mraczewski no longer works here, and will not be doing so,’ Wokulski replied with a bow, ‘so what can I do for you?’

  Evidently Baroness Krzeszowska had a long speech prepared. Fortunately, she looked into Wokulski’s eyes and…with the phrase ‘Excuse me’, left the shop.

  Messrs Klein and Lisiecki winked at each other more eloquently than hitherto, but made do with an unanimous shrug.

  Not until nearly five did Rzecki approach Wokulski. He leaned on the desk and said in a low voice: ‘Mraczewski’s mother, Staś, is a very poor woman…’

  ‘Pay his wages until the end of the year,’ Wokulski replied.

  ‘I think…Staś, I don’t think one should punish a man for having political opinions different from ours…’

  ‘Political opinions?’ Wokulski repeated in such a tone that a cold shiver ran up Ignacy’s spine.

  ‘Besides,’ Ignacy went on, ‘it’s a shame to let such a clerk go. He’s a handsome young man, the ladies like him…’

  ‘Handsome?’ Wokulski replied. ‘Then let him go and become a kept man, if he’s so handsome…’

  Ignacy withdrew. Messrs Klein and Lisiecki did not even glance at one another.

  An hour later, a certain Mr Zięba came into the shop, and Wokulski introduced him as the new clerk.

  Mr Zięba was about thirty; he was perhaps as handsome as Mraczewski, but looked far more serious and discreet. Before the shop closed, he had already made the acquaintance of and even gained the friendship of his colleagues. Rzecki discovered he was a fervent Bonapartist; Lisiecki had to admit that he himself was a very pale anti-Semite in comparison with Zięba, and Klein decided that Zięba must be at least a bishop of Socialism.

  In a word, all were pleased, and Zięba was content.

  IX

  Footbridges on which People of Various Worlds Meet

  EARLY ON Good Friday, Wokulski recalled that on this day and the next, Countess Karolowa and Izabela would be accepting charitable offerings in church.

  ‘I must go and give them something,’ he thought, and took five golden half-imperials from the safe. ‘Although,’ he added after a moment, ‘I have already sent them carpets, stuffed birds, a music box and even a mechanical fountain… Surely that will suffice to save one soul. I won’t go.’

  But in the afternoon he told himself that perhaps Countess Karolowa was expecting him. And in that case it would not do to decline or offer only five half-imperials. So he took five more
from the safe and wrapped them all up in tissue paper.

  ‘Yet,’ he told himself, ‘Izabela will be there, and it wouldn’t do to offer her only ten half-imperials.’ So he undid the roll, added ten more gold pieces and still debated whether to go or not.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I won’t join that charitable market-place.’

  He threw the roll into the safe and did not go to the ceremony that Friday.

  But on Easter Saturday the matter presented itself to him in a very different light. ‘I was insane,’ he said. ‘If I don’t go to church, then where else shall I meet her? How can I draw attention to myself if not with money? I’m losing my wits…’

  But still he hesitated, and not until about two in the afternoon, when Rzecki had ordered the store closed on account of the holiday, did Wokulski take from the safe twenty-five half-imperials and go in the direction of the church. He did not go in directly, however; something held him back. He wanted to see Izabela, but at the same time he was afraid to, and was ashamed of his half-imperials. ‘To throw down a pile of gold… How impressive in these days of paper money and—how bourgeois! Well, but what am I to do if they are waiting for money? Maybe it won’t be enough…’

  He walked to and fro in the street opposite the church, unable to take his gaze from it.

  ‘I’ll go in,’ he thought. ‘Just a moment, though… Oh, what has come over me?’ he added, feeling that his distraught soul could not accomplish even as simple an act as this without hesitation.

  Then he recalled how long it had been since he had been in church. ‘When was it? My wedding was once…my wife’s funeral another…’

  But in neither case had he been fully aware of what was happening; so now he looked at the church as if it were something completely new to him.

  ‘What’s that huge building, which has towers instead of chimneys, in which no one lives, where only the remains of the dead sleep? Why that waste of space and walls; for whom does the light burn night and day; why do crowds of people gather there? They go to the market for food, to the shops for goods, to the theatre for entertainment, but why here?’