The Doll

  Indeed, it was odd. When Wokulski had been a clerk, in the grocery store, he dreamed of perpetual motion: a machine that would operate by itself. But when he entered the Preparatory College, he discovered that such a machine was out of the question, whereupon his most secret and favourite ambition had been to invent some way of guiding balloons. What had been only a fantastic notion for Wokulski, as he strayed along false tracks, had already acquired the form of a practical problem for Ochocki.

  ‘The cruelty of fate!’ he thought bitterly. ‘Two people have been given the same aspirations, but one was born eighteen years earlier than the other: one born in poverty, the other in wealth; one could not even scramble up to the first floor of knowledge, the other lightly stepped up two floors.…He will not be diverted from his path by political storms as I was; he will not be interrupted by love, which he regards as a plaything; but for me, who spent six years in the wilderness, that feeling is essential and is salvation. Even more than that!…

  ‘Well—he is surpassing me in every sphere, though after all I have the same feelings, the same awareness of my predicament, and my work is certainly greater…’

  Wokulski knew men, and often compared himself to them. But wherever he was, he always saw himself as a little better than the rest. Whether as a clerk, who spent his nights studying, or as a student who strove for knowledge despite his poverty, or as a soldier under a rain of bullets, or as an exile who studied science in a snow-covered hut—he always had an idea in his soul that reached beyond the next few years. Others lived from day to day, to fill their bellies or pockets.

  Not until today had he met a man higher than he was, a madman who wanted to build a flying machine.

  ‘But don’t I too today have an idea for which I have been working over a year? Have I not acquired a fortune, do I not help people and make them respect me?…Yes, but love is a personal feeling: all good deeds accompanying it are merely fish caught in a cyclone. If that one woman and my memories of her were to disappear from the earth, then what would I be?…Nothing but a capitalist who plays cards at the club out of sheer boredom. Whereas Ochocki has an idea which will always draw him on, unless his mind gives way…

  ‘Very well, but suppose he does nothing and finishes up in a lunatic asylum instead of building a flying-machine? I will at least accomplish something and that microscope or electric lamp will certainly not signify more than the hundreds of people to whom I give an existence. Whence this ultra-Christian humility in me, then? Who knows what any man will accomplish? I am a man of action; he a dreamer. Let us wait a year…’

  A year! Wokulski awoke. It seemed to him that at the end of the road called a ‘year’ he saw only a bottomless abyss, which engulfed everything but contained nothing…Nothing?…Nothing!

  He looked around instinctively. He was in the depths of the Łazienki park, on a pathway to which no sound penetrated. Even the clumps of immense trees were silent.

  ‘What’s the time?’ a hoarse voice suddenly asked.

  ‘The time?’ Wokulski rubbed his eyes.

  A shabby man appeared before him out of the dusk. ‘When you’re asked politely,’ said the man, and came closer, ‘you should answer politely.’

  ‘Kill me, you will see for yourself,’ Wokulski retorted. The shabby man drew back. A few human shapes became visible to the left of the path.

  ‘You fools!’ Wokulski cried, walking on, ‘I have a gold watch and some hundred roubles cash. I won’t defend myself…’

  The shapes drew among the trees and one of them said in a stifled voice: ‘The likes of him turns up, confound him, just where he ain’t wanted…’

  ‘You animals! Cowards!’ Wokulski shouted almost madly. The thunder of retreating footsteps was the only reply.

  Wokulski pulled himself together: ‘Where am I? In the Łazienki…But—whereabouts? I have to go the other way…’ He had turned several times and no longer knew which direction he was going. His heart began beating violently; a cold sweat broke out on his forehead, and for the first time in his life he was afraid of the night and of losing his way…For a few minutes he hurried along aimlessly, almost breathless: wild notions whirled through his brain. Finally he saw a wall to his left, then a building: ‘Ah, the Orangery…’

  Then he came to a small bridge, where he rested and leaned on the parapet, thinking: ‘So I have come to this, then? A dangerous rival…my nerves in disorder…It seems to me that today I might write the last act of this comedy…’

  A straight path led to the lake, then to the Łazienki palace. Twenty minutes later he was on Aleje Ujazdowskie and got into a passing droshky; within a quarter of an hour he was in his own apartment. At the sight of the traffic and lights in the streets he regained his good spirits, even smiled and muttered: ‘What sort of vision was all that? Ochocki or someone…suicide…folly! I have got among the aristocracy after all, and as for what comes next—we shall see.’

  When he entered his study, the servant gave him a letter, written on his own paper by Mrs Meliton: ‘The lady was here twice,’ said the faithful servant, ‘once at five, then at eight o’clock…’

  XII

  Travels on Behalf of Someone Else

  WOKULSKI opened Mrs Meliton’s letter slowly, thinking of the recent incidents. It seemed to him that he could still see in the dark part of his study the thick clumps of trees in the Łazienki park, the vague outlines of the shabby men who had accosted him, and the hillock with the well, where Ochocki had confided in him. But the obscure pictures disappeared when he saw the lamp, with its green shade, a pile of papers and the bronze ornaments on his desk, and for a moment he thought that Ochocki with his flying-machine and his own despair were only a dream after all.

  ‘What sort of genius is he?’ Wokulski asked himself. ‘He’s only a dreamer…And Izabela is a woman like all the others. If she marries me—well and good; if she doesn’t, it won’t kill me.’

  He opened the letter and read:

  Dear Sir, Important news: in a few days, Łęcki’s house will be put up for sale, and the only purchaser will be Baroness Krzeszowska, their cousin and enemy. I know for certain she is only prepared to pay sixty thousand roubles for the house, in which case what is left of Izabela’s dowry, amounting to thirty thousand roubles, will be lost. The moment is very advantageous since Izabela, caught between poverty and marriage to the marshal, will gladly agree to any other solution. I suppose that you will not treat this coming opportunity as you did Łęcki’s promissory notes, which you tore up in my presence. Remember this: women like being embraced so much that it is sometimes necessary to trample them underfoot in order to intensify the effect. The more ruthless you are in this, the more certainly she will fall in love with you. Remember this!…

  In any case, you can do Bela a small favour. Baron Krzeszowski, pressed by need, has sold his wife a favourite race-horse, which is soon to race and which he greatly counted on. As far as I know their feelings about one another, Bela would be sincerely pleased if neither the Baron nor his wife were to own this horse on the day of the races. The Baron would be ashamed of having sold it, and the Baroness in despair if the horse wins and someone else profits by it. This gossip of the fashionable world is very subtle, but try to make use of it. Moreover, the opportunity will present itself, for I hear that a certain Maruszewicz, friend of both Krzeszowskis, is to propose the purchase of this horse to you.

  Remember that women are only the slaves of those who can hold them fast—and indulge their caprices.

  I am really beginning to think that you must have been born under a lucky star. Sincerely, A.M.

  Wokulski drew a deep breath: both pieces of information were important. He read the letter again, considering Mrs Meliton’s harsh style and smiling at the comments she made on her own sex. It was in Wokulski’s nature to grasp people or opportunities fast: he would grasp everyone and everything by the scruff of the neck—except Izabela. She alone was a being whom he wanted to have absolute freedom, if not domination.
r />   He glanced up: the servant was at the door. ‘Go to bed,’ he told him.

  ‘I’m just going, sir, only there was a gentleman here,’ the servant replied.

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘He left his card, it’s on your desk…’

  On the desk lay Maruszewicz’s visiting-card. ‘Aha…and what did he say?’

  ‘Nothing—that’s to say, he asked when you would be home. So I says about ten in the morning, then he says he’ll come tomorrow at ten, for a minute or two.’

  ‘Very well—goodnight to you…’

  ‘Goodnight, sir, thank you kindly.’ The servant went out.

  Wokulski felt completely sober. Ochocki and his flying-machine had lost their significance. Once again he felt an influx of the energy he had felt before leaving for Bulgaria. Then he had been going to make his fortune, but today he had the opportunity of throwing away his share for Izabela’s sake. Mrs Meliton’s phrase stuck in his memory: ‘…caught between poverty and marriage to the marshal…’ No, she would never find herself in that situation…And she would not be elevated by some Ochocki or other, with the help of a machine, but by himself…He felt such strength within him that had the ceiling started to collapse, he could have kept it in place with his own two hands.

  He took his notebook out of the desk and began reckoning: ‘A race-horse—nothing to it…I’ll spend a thousand roubles at most, of which at least part will return…The house is sixty thousand, Izabela’s dowry thirty thousand, making a total of ninety thousand. A trifle…almost a third of my fortune. Still, I’ll get back sixty thousand roubles for the house, if not more. Well! I must persuade Łęcki to entrust me with the thirty thousand, I’ll pay him five thousand a year interest. Surely that will be sufficient for him? I’ll put the horse out to stables, they can enter it for the race. Maruszewicz will be here at ten, at eleven I’ll go to the lawyer…I’ll get the money at eight per cent—seven thousand two hundred a year: and will certainly get fifteen per cent. Yes, and the house will bring in some income…But what will my partners say? As if that mattered! I have forty-five thousand a year, which will decrease by twelve or thirteen thousand, leaving thirty-two thousand roubles. My wife need never be bored…During the year I’ll dispose of the house again, even if I lose thirty thousand—which in any case will not be a loss, but her dowry…’

  Midnight. Wokulski began undressing. Influenced by this clearly defined aim, his tense nerves calmed down. He turned off the light, lay down and looked at the curtains, which were stirred by a breeze passing through the open windows, then fell asleep like a log.

  He rose at seven, so brisk and cheerful that the servant noticed it as he began moving about the room. ‘What is it?’ Wokulski asked.

  ‘Nothing, sir…only, if you please, the porter—he don’t dare trouble you to be godfather to his child at the christening.’

  ‘Ah! Did he ever ask if I wanted him to have the child?’

  ‘He never asked because you was at the war then.’

  ‘Very well, I’ll be godfather.’

  ‘Perhaps then sir, you’ll give me that old frock-coat, otherwise how can I go to the christening?’

  ‘Very well, take the frock-coat…’

  ‘And the mending of it, sir?’

  ‘Oh, don’t bother me…have it done, though I don’t know what…’

  ‘You see, sir, I want a velvet collar…’

  ‘Then have a velvet collar put on it, and go to the devil…’

  ‘You don’t have to be angry, sir, it’s in your honour not mine,’ the servant replied, and slammed the door as he went out. He felt that his master was in an exceptionally good humour.

  Dressed, Wokulski sat down to his accounts and drank tea. When he had finished, he wrote a telegram to Moscow for a bill for a hundred thousand roubles, and another to his agent in Vienna, instructing him to postpone certain purchases.

  A few minutes before ten Maruszewicz came in. The young man looked still more run-down and bashful than the day before. ‘Allow me’, said Maruszewicz after a few words of greeting, ‘to lay my cards on the table. This is concerned with an original proposition.’

  ‘I am prepared to listen to even the most original…’

  ‘Madame the Baroness Krzeszowska (I am a friend of both her and the Baron)’, said the run-down young man, ‘wishes to dispose of a race-horse. I at once guessed that you, with your social life, may wish to own a good horse. There’s an excellent chance of winning, for only two other horses, much weaker, are running in the race.’

  ‘Why does not the Baroness race the horse herself?’

  ‘She?…She’s a mortal enemy of racing!’

  ‘Why did she buy the horse, then?’

  ‘For two reasons,’ the young man replied, ‘firstly, the Baron needed money to pay off a debt of honour, and vowed to shoot himself if he didn’t get eight hundred roubles, even if it meant selling his beloved horse—and secondly, the Baroness doesn’t want her husband to have anything to do with horse-racing. So she bought the horse, but today the poor woman is quite ill with shame and despair, and is ready to dispose of it at any price.’

  ‘In other words?’

  ‘Eight hundred roubles,’ the young man replied, looking away.

  ‘Where is the horse?’

  ‘At Miller’s stables.’

  ‘And the papers?’

  ‘Here they are,’ the young man replied more cheerfully, taking a packet of papers from his coat-pocket.

  ‘Perhaps we can finish the transaction at once?’ Wokulski asked, glancing through them.

  ‘Immediately…’

  ‘And after lunch we might go and have a look at the horse.’

  ‘Oh, by all means…’

  ‘Please sign this receipt,’ Wokulski said, and took money out of his desk.

  ‘Eight hundred? Of course…’ the young man said. He took a sheet of paper and began writing. Wokulski noticed that the hands of the young man were trembling slightly and that his expression had altered. The receipt was written out formally. Wokulski laid down eight hundred roubles and put away the papers.

  A little later the young man, still embarrassed, left the study. As he ran downstairs he thought, ‘I am a wretch, a wretch…But in a few days I’ll give the old woman the two hundred roubles and say Wokulski added them when he saw the qualities of the horse. After all, he’ll never meet—either the Baron or his wife, not that…tradesman. He told me to write the receipt myself—capital! How easy it is to recognise a tradesman and a parvenu. Oh, I am being cruelly punished for all my foolishness…’

  At eleven, Wokulski went out, intending to call on his lawyer. But scarcely had he emerged from the gate than three droshky drivers whipped up their horses at the sight of his light-coloured topcoat and white hat. One was driving a hackney-cab, another an open droshky, while the third, as he tried to pass them, almost knocked over a porter carrying a heavy cupboard. An uproar started, a fight with whips, the whistling of policemen, people ran up, and in consequence, the two most spirited drivers were taken off in their own droshkies to the police-station. ‘A bad omen…’ Wokulski thought, then suddenly clapped a hand to his forehead. ‘A fine business,’ he said to himself, ‘I’m on the way to see the lawyer and buy a house without knowing what the house looks like, or even where it is.’

  He went back to his apartment and, with his hat on and walking stick under his arm, began to go through the street-directory. Fortunately he had heard that the Łęckis’ house was somewhere in the vicinity of Aleje Jerozolimskie; nevertheless, several minutes passed before he found the street and number. ‘I should have looked well,’ he thought, going downstairs, ‘one day I am persuading people to entrust their money to me, and on the next buying a pig in a poke. Of course I would at once have embarrassed either myself—or Izabela.’

  He jumped into a passing droshky and told the driver to go towards Aleje Jerozolimskie. He got out on a corner and walked down one of the side-streets.

  The day was f
ine, the sky almost cloudless, the pavements free of dust. The windows of houses were open, some just washed: a lively breeze teased the skirts of servant girls, making it plain to see that the servant-girls of Warsaw find it easier to clean windows on the third floor than to wash their own feet. In many apartments pianos were playing; in many yards barrel-organs or the monotonous cries of sand-vendors, sweepers, rag-and-bone men and other street traders were to be heard. Here and there a door-keeper in a blue blouse was yawning in a gateway; several dogs trotted down the street (there was no traffic); little children were playing at pulling the bark off the chestnut trees, whose bright green leaves had not yet darkened.

  All in all, the street looked clean, peaceful and gay. At the far end a fragment of the horizon and a clump of trees could even be seen; but this rural landscape, inappropriate to Warsaw, was veiled by scaffolding and a brick wall.

  As he walked along the right-hand pavement, Wokulski caught sight, more or less half-way down the street, of a house on the left side of unusually bright yellow. Warsaw has many yellow houses; it is probably the yellowest city in the world. However, this house seemed more yellow than the others, and would certainly have gained first prize in an exhibition of yellow objects (such as we may expect to see, one day). Going closer, Wokulski realised he was not alone in paying attention to this particular house: even the dogs, here more than on any other wall, had left their visiting-cards.