The Doll

  In the street he caught up with her, and asked: ‘Where are you going?’

  There were traces of tears on her face. She raised her apathetic gaze to Wokulski, and replied: ‘Your way, if you like.’

  ‘So? Come then.’

  It was not yet five o’clock, broad daylight: some passers-by looked around after them. ‘I must be mad to do anything like this,’ Wokulski thought, going in the direction of the store. ‘Never mind the scandal, but what sort of ideas have I got into my head? Evangelism? It’s the height of absurdity. However, I don’t care. I am only carrying out the will of another…’

  He turned into the gate of the block in which his shop was, and went into Rzecki’s room, the girl following. Ignacy was in and, seeing the extraordinary pair, raised his hands in amazement.

  ‘Can you leave us alone for a few minutes?’ Wokulski asked him. Ignacy said not a word. He took the key from the back door and left the room.

  ‘Both of you?’ the girl murmured, taking out her hat-pin.

  ‘One moment,’ Wokulski interrupted. ‘You were in church just now, miss, weren’t you?’

  ‘You saw me?’

  ‘You were praying and crying. May I ask why?’

  Surprised, the girl shrugged as she answered, ‘Are you a priest, then, to ask me that?’ And looking more attentively at Wokulski, added: ‘Ah—all this fuss! It’s silly.’

  She moved as if to go, but Wokulski stopped her: ‘Wait. Someone would like to help you, so don’t be in a hurry and just answer me openly.’

  Again she gazed at him. Suddenly her eyes lit up and a flush came into her face. ‘I know!’ she cried, ‘you must be from that old gent! He promised to look after me, several times. Is he very rich? Of course he is, very… He rides in his own carriage and sits in the front row at the theatre.’

  ‘Listen,’ Wokulski interrupted, ‘and answer me; why were you crying in the church?’

  ‘Well, you see…’ the girl began, and told him such a bold tale of some squabble with her landlady that Wokulski turned pale as he listened: ‘The animal…’ he whispered.

  ‘I went to have a look at those graves,’ the girl went on, ‘I thought it might keep my mind off things. But not likely—when I remembered the old hag I had to cry out of sheer rage. And I asked the Lord God to afflict the old hag with sickness, or to help me get away from her. And God must have heard me, if that gent wants to look after me…’

  Wokulski sat motionless. Finally he asked: ‘How old are you?’

  ‘I usually say I’m sixteen, but I’m nineteen really.’

  ‘Do you want to get away from it?’

  ‘Oh, to Hell even. They’ve treated me so hatefully…but…’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Nothing will come of it. If I leave today, then they’ll take me back after the holidays is over and treat me like they did after New Year, when I was sick for a week…’

  ‘They won’t…’

  ‘How so? I’m in debt…’

  ‘Much?’

  ‘Hm…about fifty roubles. I don’t know how it came about, but they make me pay double for everything. There it is though…It’s always so with the likes of us. And when they hear that the old gent has money, then they’ll say I stole from them and will slander me as they choose.’

  Wokulski felt his boldness ebbing away. ‘Tell me, do you want to get work?’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘You might learn to sew.’

  ‘That’s no use. I worked in a laundry once. But no one can manage on eight roubles a month. Besides, I’m not that worthless yet, so I can do without sewing for anyone.’

  Wokulski looked up: ‘Do you want to leave that place?’

  ‘Yes, I do!’

  ‘Then make up your mind. Either you go to work, because no one can expect to live for nothing in the world…’

  ‘That isn’t true,’ she interrupted. ‘That old gent don’t work, but he has money. Sometimes he told me I wouldn’t have to worry my head no more…’

  ‘You won’t go to that man, but to the Magdalenes instead. Or—back to where you came from.’

  ‘The nuns won’t take me. I’d have to pay my debts first, and have a recommendation.’

  ‘If you go there, everything will be arranged.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’ll give you a letter, which you will take with you, and you can stay there. Do you want to—or not?’

  ‘Ha—give me the letter first. Then I’ll see what it is like.’

  She sat down and gazed about the room. Wokulski wrote the letter, told her where to go and added: ‘Here’s money for the trip, and for moving your things. If you are a good girl, and industrious, they will be good to you; but if you don’t take advantage of this opportunity—then do what you want. You may go.’

  The girl laughed out loud: ‘The old woman will be mad! I’ll show her…Ha ha! But…may be you’re only putting me on?’

  ‘Go,’ said Wokulski, indicating the door.

  She glanced inquiringly at him once again, and went out with a shrug.

  Presently Ignacy appeared: ‘What kind of an acquaintance was that?’ he asked sourly.

  ‘You’re right…’ said Wokulski thoughtfully. ‘I never yet saw such an animal, though I know many beasts.’

  ‘Thousands in Warsaw alone,’ Rzecki replied.

  ‘I know. It is no use condemning them, though, for they are continually being reborn and, in consequence, society will sooner or later have to be reconstructed from top to bottom. Or perish.’

  ‘Hm…’ Rzecki whispered, ‘I thought as much.’

  Wokulski said goodbye to him. He felt like a man with fever over whom cold water had been thrown.

  ‘But before society can re-create itself,’ he thought, ‘I can see that the sphere of my philanthropy will narrow down very much. My fortune will not suffice to ennoble inhuman instincts. I prefer yawning ladies seeking charity to weeping and praying monsters…’

  The picture of Izabela appeared to him, surrounded by an aureole even brighter than before. The blood rose to his head and he blamed himself inwardly for comparing her with such a creature! ‘I’d sooner throw away money on carriages and racehorses than on that sort of wretch!’

  On Easter Sunday, Wokulski drove to the Countess’s house in a hired carriage. There he found a long line of carriages of all kinds and elegance. There were smart droshkies serving gilded youths, ordinary droshkies hired by the hour by retired persons; old carriages, old horses, old equipment and servants in worn livery; and new little barouches direct from Vienna, whose footmen had flowers in their button-holes and whose drivers laid their whips across their thighs like marshals’ batons. There were even fantastic Cossacks dressed in trousers so baggy that their masters might have placed all their hopes within them.

  In passing he also noticed that in the crowd of drivers, the servants of great gentlefolk behaved in a very dignified manner, while those of bankers wished to run the whole show (for which they were much abused), but that the droshky-men were the most resolute. However, the drivers of the hired carriages kept close together, despising the rest and being despised by them.

  When Wokulski entered the vestibule, a grey-haired doorkeeper with a black ribbon around his neck bowed low and opened the door to the cloakroom, where a gentleman in a black frock-coat relieved him of his overcoat. At the same time, the Countess’s butler Józef hurried up: he knew Wokulski well, and he had brought the music-box and singing-birds from the store to the church. ‘Her Excellency expects you,’ said Józef.

  Wokulski reached into his waistcoat pocket and handed him five roubles, feeling he was behaving like a parvenu. ‘How stupid of me,’ he thought. ‘No—not stupid—merely a nouveau riche who has to pay everyone at every step he takes in this society. Well, it costs more to convert women who have sinned.’

  He went up the marble staircase that was decorated with flowers, Józef in front. On the first landing he had his hat on his head, on the second he took it off
, not knowing whether he was behaving properly or not. ‘I might have gone in to join them with my hat on,’ he said to himself.

  He noticed that although Józef was past middle age, he darted up the stairs like a young goat, and had already disappeared, so that Wokulski was left alone, not knowing which way to go nor to whom he should announce himself. It was only a moment, but anger began boiling up within him.

  ‘What conventions do they safeguard themselves with, then?’ he thought. ‘Oh—if only I could overthrow all this…’

  And for ten seconds or so he saw that between himself and this respectable world of elegant conventions a struggle must ensue in which either this world must collapse—or he perish. ‘All right—let me perish…but I’ll leave behind a memory of myself…’

  ‘You will leave behind forgiveness and mercy,’ a voice whispered to him.

  ‘Am I then—so vile?’

  ‘No, you are noble.’

  He pulled himself together—before him stood Mr Tomasz Łęcki. ‘How are you, Stanisław,’ he said majestically, ‘I welcome you even more warmly since your arrival is linked with a very agreeable event in our family…’

  ‘Can Izabela have become engaged?’ Wokulski thought, and there was a blackness before his eyes.

  ‘Imagine, my dear sir, that on the occasion of your visit… Are you listening, Stanisław?… On the occasion of your call I have reached agreement with my sister Joanna… But you turn pale?… Come, you will find many acquaintances here. Pray do not suppose the aristocracy is quite so alarming…’

  Wokulski pulled himself together: ‘Mr Łęcki,’ he said, coldly, ‘in my tent near Plevna even greater gentlefolk used to visit me. And they were so agreeable towards me that I do not easily become excited at the sight of such gentry as…one meets in Warsaw.’

  ‘Upon my word…’ Mr Łęcki murmured and bowed.

  Wokulski was taken aback: ‘There’s a flunkey for you,’ went through his head, ‘And I…I was apprehensive of such people as this?’

  Mr Łęcki took him by the arm and conducted him in a very ceremonial manner into the first drawing-room, where there were only men.

  ‘You see, my dear sir—the Count…’ Tomasz began.

  ‘I know him,’ Wokulski said, adding inwardly, ‘He owes me some three hundred roubles…’

  ‘The banker…’ Tomasz then explained. But before he could utter the banker’s name, the banker himself came up, saluted Wokulski and said: ‘Upon my word, there’s a great deal of excitement in Paris about those boulevards. Have you replied?’

  ‘I wanted to speak to you first,’ Wokulski replied.

  ‘Let us meet somewhere, then. When are you at home?’

  ‘I have no fixed time, and would prefer to come to your house.’

  ‘Pray call on me next Wednesday, then, for lunch, and we will finish with the matter once and for all.’

  They said goodbye. Tomasz pressed Wokulski’s arm more warmly: ‘The general…’ he began. Seeing Wokulski, the general shook him by the hand and they greeted one another like old acquaintances.

  Tomasz became increasingly affectionate toward Wokulski and began to be surprised, seeing that this tradesman knew so many of the most eminent persons in town, and not only those distinguished by unearned titles and fortunes.

  When they went into the second drawing-room, where there were a number of ladies, the Countess Karolowa came over to them. Józef, the butler, was hovering in the background.

  ‘They have set up a sentry,’ Wokulski thought, ‘so as not to compromise the nouveau riche tradesman. Considerate of them, but…’

  ‘I am so pleased, Mr Wokulski,’ said the Countess, taking him over from Tomasz, ‘so pleased that you have done as I asked. There is someone here who wishes to make your acquaintance.’

  The appearance of Wokulski had caused something of a sensation in the first drawing-room: ‘General,’ said the Count, ‘Countess Karolowa is beginning to introduce us to tradespeople. This Wokulski…’

  ‘Is as much a tradesman as you or I,’ the general replied.

  ‘Prince,’ said another Count, ‘how on earth did that Wokulski get invited here?’

  ‘Our hostess invited him,’ the Prince retorted.

  ‘I have no prejudice against tradespeople,’ the Count went on, ‘but Wokulski has been involved in military supplies and made a fortune…’

  ‘Yes, yes…’ the Prince interrupted. ‘That sort of fortune is usually suspect, but I can vouch for Wokulski. The Countess spoke to me of him, and I have asked officers who served in the war, including my own nephew. The general opinion is that the supplies Wokulski was concerned with were honest. Even the men, when they got good bread, used to say it must have been baked with Wokulski’s flour. Furthermore,’ the Prince went on, ‘Wokulski came to the attention of some very highly placed personages indeed and had some very attractive propositions made to him. In January this year he was offered two hundred thousand roubles merely for his signature in a certain enterprise, but he refused.’

  The Count laughed and said: ‘No doubt he might have held out for more than two hundred thousand…’

  ‘Yes, but then he would not have been here today,’ the Prince replied and moved away with a nod.

  ‘Old fool,’ the Count whispered, looking after the Prince contemptuously.

  In the third drawing-room, which Wokulski now entered with the Countess, there was a buffet and many small and large tables, at which guests sat in couples, threes or even foursomes. Servants were handing round food and wine, and Izabela was directing them, evidently taking the place of the hostess. She wore a pale blue gown, and had large pearls at her throat. She was so beautiful, her gestures so queenly, that Wokulski turned to stone as he looked at her. ‘How can I even so much as dream of her?’ he thought in despair.

  At the same moment, he caught sight in a window-seat of the young man who had been in church the previous day, and who was now sitting alone at a small table, without taking his eyes off Izabela. ‘Of course, he loves her…’ Wokulski thought, and he felt as though the chill of the grave had enveloped him. ‘I am lost…’ he added, to himself.

  All this lasted only a few seconds.

  ‘Do you see that old lady between the bishop and the general?’ the Countess asked Wokulski. ‘That is Duchess Zaslawska, my best friend, who insists on meeting you. She is very interested in you,’ the Countess went on, smiling, ‘she has no children, and several pretty grand-daughters. Make a good choice! Meanwhile, keep your eye on her, and when those gentlemen go away I will introduce you. Ah, Prince!’

  ‘How do you do,’ the Prince said to Wokulski, ‘may I, cousin?’

  ‘Of course,’ the Countess replied. ‘Here is a vacant table for you both…Allow me to leave you for a moment.’

  ‘Let us sit down, Mr Wokulski,’ said the Prince. ‘This is indeed convenient, as I have an important matter to discuss with you. Pray imagine that your plans have caused a tremendous upheaval among our cotton manufacturers…Isn’t that the word: “cotton”?… They insist you want to kill the industry. Is the competition you are creating really so dangerous?’

  ‘It is true’, Wokulski replied, ‘that I have three or even four million roubles credit with the Moscow manufacturers, but I do not yet know whether their products will suit our market.’

  ‘A huge sum of money, to be sure,’ the Prince murmured. ‘Do you not see a genuine threat to our factories in it?’

  ‘Not in the least. I see only an insignificant decrease in their own immense profits, which are no concern of mine. My duty is to concern myself with my own profits and give my customers good value; for our goods will be cheaper.’

  ‘Have you reflected upon this problem as a citizen?’ the Prince asked, pressing his arm. ‘As things are, we have so little to lose…’

  ‘It seems to me it is enough for a citizen to provide cheap products for consumers and to smash the monopoly of factory owners, who have nothing in common with us except that they exploit
our customers and workers…’

  ‘You think so? I hadn’t considered that. However, I’m not concerned with factory owners but with our country, our unhappy country…’

  ‘What may I offer you?’ asked Izabela, suddenly approaching. The Prince and Wokulski rose.

  ‘How pretty you look today, cousin,’ said the Prince, taking her hand. ‘I much regret that I am not my own son… Although perhaps it is just as well. For if you were to turn me down, which is very likely, I should be very unhappy… I beg your pardon!’ the Prince added, ‘allow me, cousin, to introduce Mr Wokulski. An active man, an active citizen… That is recommendation enough, is it not?’

  ‘We have met,’ Izabela whispered in response to Wokulski’s bow. He looked into her eyes and saw there such horror, such wretchedness, that he was once again overcome by despair. ‘Why did I come here?’ he thought. He glanced at the window and again noticed the young man, who was still sitting there alone with an untouched plate, covering his eyes with one hand. ‘Why did I come here, wretched man that I am…’ thought Wokulski, feeling as if his heart were being torn out of him with pincers.

  ‘Would you care for some wine?’ Izabela inquired, eyeing him with surprise.

  ‘If you like,’ he replied mechanically.

  ‘We must become better acquainted, Mr Wokulski,’ said the Prince. ‘You must join our sphere in which, believe me, there are sensible and noble hearts—but a lack of initiative.’

  ‘I am a nouveau riche, I have no title,’ Wokulski replied, merely for the sake of answering.

  ‘On the contrary, you have one title at least—work: the second, honesty; the third—talent; the fourth—energy… We need these for the rebirth of our country, so give us them and we will take to you as to a brother…’

  The Countess approached. ‘May I, Prince?’ she said, ‘Mr Wokulski…’ She gave him her hand and both went over to the Duchess’s armchair.

  ‘This, Duchess, is Mr Stanislaw Wokulski,’ said the Countess to an old lady in black, covered with costly lace.

  ‘Sit down, please,’ said the Duchess, indicating the chair by her. ‘Your first name is Stanisław, then? And which branch of the Wokulskis do you belong to, pray?’