The Doll

  ‘I was pleased to hear it,’ Wokulski replied with a smile, ‘for I say the same things privately. In any case, I am entering a race for the first and last time in my life…’

  He shook hands with the tall sportsman, who muttered, when Wokulski had gone a few yards, ‘A spirited fellow, that…’

  Only now did Wokulski buy a programme, and it was with a feeling of something like shame that he read that in the third race the mare Sultanka, out of Ali by Klara, owned by X.X., was ridden by the jockey Young (yellow shirt and blue sleeves). Prize: three hundred roubles: the winning horse to be put up for sale on the spot.

  ‘I was crazy,’ Wokulski muttered, going towards the stand. He thought that Izabela would surely be there, and planned to go straight back home if he did not find her.

  He became pessimistic. The women looked ugly, their colourful dresses barbarous, their flirtations hateful. The men were stupid, the crowd vulgar, the band out of tune. Entering the stand, he sneered at its squeaking steps and old walls, stained with rain leaks.

  Acquaintances bowed to him, women smiled at him, here and there people whispered: ‘Look!…Look!…’ But he did not notice. He halted on the top level of the stand, and looked through his field-glasses at the variegated and noisy crowds on the road, right as far as the corner, but saw only clouds of yellow dust.

  ‘What purpose do these stands serve for the rest of the year?’ he wondered. And it seemed to him that every night, on these rotting benches, dead bankrupts, remorseful coquettes, all kinds of idlers and wastrels took their seats, having been expelled from Hell, and that by the sorrowful light of the stars, they watched the races of skeleton horses who had perished on this course. It seemed to him that even at this moment he could see mouldering garments and smell the stench of decay.

  He was aroused by a shout from the crowd, the ringing of a bell and cheers. The first race was over. Suddenly he looked at the course, and saw the Countess’s carriage driving up to the barriers. The Countess was sitting with the Duchess, and Mr Łęcki and his daughter were behind.

  Wokulski himself did not know when he ran down from the stand or when he entered the enclosure. He pushed someone, someone asked for his ticket…He ran straight across and at once came up to the carriage. The Countess’s footman bowed to him from the box, and Mr Łęcki exclaimed: ‘Here is Mr Wokulski…’

  Wokulski greeted the ladies, whereupon the Duchess pressed his hand in a significant manner, and Łęcki asked: ‘Is it true, Mr Wokulski, that you have bought Krzeszowski’s mare?’

  ‘Yes, it is…’

  ‘Well, you know you have played a fine trick on him, and given my daughter a pleasant surprise.’

  Izabela turned to him with a smile: ‘I have made a wager with my aunt,’ she cried, ‘that the Baron would not keep his mare for the races, and I won—now I have wagered the Duchess that the mare will win…’

  Wokulski went around the carriage and approached Izabela, who continued: ‘Really, the Duchess and I only came for this race. For aunt pretends that the races only make her cross. Oh, you must win…’

  ‘I shall—if you desire it,’ Wokulski replied, looking at her with admiration. She had never before seemed so beautiful as in this outburst of excitement. Nor had he ever dreamed she would talk to him so kindly.

  He looked at the others. The Duchess was cheerful, the Countess smiling, Mr Łęcki beaming. The Countess’s coachman on the box was making a bet with the driver that Wokulski would win. Laughter and joy were all around them. He delighted in the crowd, the stands, the carriages; the women in their colourful dresses were pretty as flowers, lively as birds. The music was out of tune, but gay: the horses neighed, sportsmen placed bets, hawkers cried their beer, sausage-rolls and oranges for sale. The sun was joyful, so were the sky and the earth, and Wokulski felt in such a strange mood that he wanted to embrace everything and everyone.

  The second race was over, the music struck up again. Wokulski ran across to the stands, and meeting Young who was carrying his saddle and had just left the weighing-in, he whispered: ‘Mr Young, we must win…a hundred roubles over and above our agreement. Even if it kills the mare…’

  ‘Ach,’ the jockey muttered, eyeing him with a touch of cool surprise.

  Wokulski had his carriage brought closer to that of the Countess and went back to join the ladies. He was surprised to see that no one was standing near them. Admittedly, the Baron and the marshal had approached the carriage, but on being coldly received by Izabela, had soon withdrawn. But young men merely bowed from a distance and passed by.

  ‘I understand,’ Wokulski thought, ‘the news that the house is to be auctioned off has cooled them down. But now,’ he added inwardly, looking at Izabela, ‘you will see who really loves you, not your money.’

  The bell rang for the third race. Izabela stood up on the seat; a blush appeared on her face. A few yards away Young passed mounted on Sultanka, with the expression of a man who is bored. ‘Run well, you beautiful creature!’ Izabela cried.

  Wokulski jumped into his carriage and opened his field-glasses. He was so absorbed by the race that for a moment he forgot Izabela. The seconds dragged like hours: it seemed to him he was bound to the three horses which were going to race, and every unnecessary movement they made caused him a prickling sensation. He thought that his mare was lacking in fire and that Young was too blasé. He listened involuntarily to the conversations around him: ‘Young will walk away with it…’ ‘But… just look at the bay!’ ‘I’d give ten roubles if Wokulski were to win. He’d wipe the smiles off the faces of those Counts.’ ‘Krzeszowski would be furious…’

  The bell rang. The three horses set off at a gallop: ‘Young’s in the lead!’ ‘Nonsense…’ ‘They’ve passed the corner…’ ‘The first corner, but the bay is just behind…’ ‘Now the second!’ ‘He’s moved ahead again!’ ‘The bay is coming up!…’ ‘The red jacket is falling back!…’ ‘The third corner!’ ‘But Young is not troubled by them!’ ‘The bay is catching up!’ ‘Look, look! The red jacket is coming up after the bay!’ ‘The bay is last! You’ve lost your bet!’ ‘The red jacket is catching up with Young!…’ ‘He won’t overtake him, he’s already whipping the horse!’ ‘No, no…Bravo, Young! Bravo, Wokulski! The mare is going like the wind! Bravo! Bravo! Bravo!…’

  The bell. Young had won. The tall sportsman took the mare by the bridle, led her to the judges’ stand and cried: ‘Sultanka! Ridden by Young. Owner—anonymous!’

  ‘Anonymous, indeed! Wokulski…Bravo, Wokulski!’ the crowd roared. ‘The owner is Mr Wokulski,’ the tall gentleman repeated, and sent the mare to be put up for auction.

  Wild enthusiasm for Wokulski arose among the crowd. No race had excited the spectators so much; there was rejoicing that a Warsaw tradesman had beaten two Counts.

  Wokulski approached the Countess’s carriage. Mr Łęcki and the elderly ladies congratulated him; Izabela was silent. At this moment the tall sportsman ran up; ‘Mr Wokulski,’ he said, ‘here is the money—three hundred roubles prize, eight hundred for the mare, which I have bought…’

  Wokulski turned with the packet of banknotes to Miss Izabela: ‘Will you permit me to hand you this for your charities?’ Izabela accepted the packet with a smile and beautiful glance.

  Then someone pushed against Wokulski. It was Baron Krzeszowski. Pale with rage, he approached the carriage, stretched out his hand to Izabela and exclaimed in French: ‘I am pleased, dear cousin, that your admirers are triumphant…I’m sorry it had to be at my expense, though. How do you do, ladies?’ he added, bowing to the Countess and Duchess.

  The Countess’s face clouded over; Mr Łęcki was embarrassed, Izabela turned white. The Baron put on his pince-nez in an impertinent manner and, gazing fixedly at Izabela, said: ‘Yes, indeed—I have the devil’s own luck with your admirers, cousin…’

  ‘Baron…’ the Duchess interrupted.

  ‘Surely I have not said anything wrong, have I? I merely said I have the devil’s own luck…’

/>   Wokulski, standing behind, touched his arm: ‘A word, Baron,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, it is you, is it?’ the Baron replied, eyeing him. They stepped aside.

  ‘You pushed me, Baron…’

  ‘I beg your pardon…’

  ‘That is not enough…’

  ‘Surely you don’t expect satisfaction from me?’ the Baron asked.

  ‘Precisely so…’

  ‘In that case, I’m at your service,’ said the Baron, looking for a visiting-card, ‘oh, confound it, I didn’t bring any…Perhaps you have a notebook and pencil, Mr Wokulski?’

  Wokulski handed him a pencil and notebook, in which the Baron wrote his name and address, not omitting to add a flourish to it. ‘I shall be delighted,’ he said, bowing to Wokulski, ‘to finish off the accounts for my Sultanka.’

  ‘I shall endeavour to give you full satisfaction.’ They parted with an exchange of the most elegant bows.

  ‘A quarrel, upon my word,’ said the mortified Mr Łęcki, who had seen this exchange of civilities. The Countess, vexed, ordered the carriage to go home without waiting for the races to finish. Wokulski barely had time to catch up with the carriage and bid goodbye to the ladies.

  Before the carriage moved away, Izabela leaned out, gave Wokulski the tips of her fingers and whispered: ‘Merci, monsieur…’

  Wokulski was dazed with joy. He stayed until the last race without knowing what was going on around him; then, taking advantage of a pause, left the course.

  Wokulski went straight from the races to Dr Szuman. The doctor was sitting by an open window, wearing a ragged, padded dressing-gown, proofing a thirty-page pamphlet on ethnography, which had taken over a thousand observations and four years of time to write. It was an article on the colour and form of hair of people living in the Polish kingdom. The learned doctor told everyone that a few dozen copies of the work would be published at most, but had secretly ordered the printing of four thousand copies, and was certain a second edition would be called for. Despite his jokes on his own beloved subject and complaints that no one was interested, Szuman believed in the depths of his soul that everyone in the civilised world would be extremely interested in the question of the colour of hair and relation between length and radius. At this very moment he was wondering whether it would be proper to head his article with the motto: ‘Show me your hair, and I shall tell you what you are.’

  When Wokulski entered and sank wearily onto a sofa the doctor began: ‘How these proofreaders desecrate everything! Here I have a few hundred figures of three decimal places—but half of them are wrong! They think a thousandth or even a hundredth part of a millimetre is of no consequence, and do not realise—the ignoramuses!—that this is the whole point. Upon my word, it would have been impossible to invent or even print logarithmic tables in Poland. Your true Pole starts to sweat at the second decimal place, at the fifth he runs a temperature, and at the seventh has a stroke.…What have you been up to?’

  ‘I am going to fight a duel,’ Wokulski replied.

  The doctor jumped up and ran over to the sofa so hastily that the wings of his dressing-gown gave him the look of a bat. ‘What? A duel?’ he cried, eyes flashing, ‘perhaps you think I’ll accompany you to serve as doctor? I am to stand and watch two fools shoot at one another’s heads, and perhaps attend one of them into the bargain? I wouldn’t dream of being involved in such tomfoolery!’ he exclaimed, both hands at his head, ‘and in any case I’m no surgeon, I gave up practising medicine long ago.’

  ‘Come as my second, then, if you won’t come as a doctor…’

  ‘Ah, that is another matter,’ the doctor replied without hesitation, adding, ‘who are you to fight this duel with, pray?’

  ‘Baron Krzeszowski.’

  ‘He’s a good shot,’ the doctor muttered, his lower lip protruding, and he went on, ‘what is it all about?’

  ‘He pushed me at the races…’

  ‘At the…? And what in Heaven’s name were you doing at the races?’

  ‘I had a horse running, and even won a prize.’

  Szuman struck the back of his head with one hand, suddenly raised first one, then the other, of Wokulski’s eyelids and began examining his pupils carefully.

  ‘Do you think I have gone mad?’ Wokulski asked him.

  ‘Not yet. Is this supposed to be a joke,’ he added after a moment, ‘or are you serious?’

  ‘Very serious. I want no reconciliation and ask that strict conditions be observed.’

  The doctor returned to his desk, sat down, leaned his chin on one hand and, after some consideration, said: ‘A woman, eh? Even turkeys will only fight for…’

  ‘Szuman, mind what you say,’ Wokulski interrupted in a stifled voice, straightening his back.

  The doctor again eyed him searchingly: ‘So this is how things are?’ he muttered, ‘very well…I’ll be your second. If you are so anxious to smash open your skull, you may as well do so in my presence: perhaps I may even be able to help, somehow…’

  ‘I’ll send Rzecki to see you at once,’ Wokulski declared, shaking him by the hand.

  From the doctor’s house he went back to his shop, spoke briefly to Ignacy, returned to his apartment and went to bed before ten o’clock. As before, he slept like a log. Strong emotions were essential to his leonine nature; only when experiencing them did his spirit, torn apart by passion, regain its equilibrium.

  Next day, at about five, Rzecki and Szuman called on the ‘English’ Count, who was Krzeszowski’s second. On the way, both Wokulski’s friends remained silent: only once did Ignacy remark: ‘Well, and what have you to say to all this, doctor?’

  ‘Only what I have already said,’ Szuman replied, ‘we’re approaching the fifth act. Either this is the end of a gallant man, or the start of a whole series of follies…’

  ‘And of the worst sort, for they will be political,’ Mr Rzecki interposed. The doctor shrugged and looked the other way: Ignacy with his everlasting politics struck him as insufferable just then.

  The ‘English’ Count was awaiting them with another gentleman who kept looking out of the window at the clouds, and moving his Adam’s apple every few minutes as if he were gulping something down with difficulty. He looked only semi-conscious: but in fact he was an unusual man, a lion-hunter and profound scholar of Egyptian antiquities.

  In the middle of the ‘English’ Count’s study was a table covered with a green cloth and surrounded by four high chairs: on the table lay four sheets of paper, four pencils, two pens and an ink-well of such dimensions that it might have been meant for a hip-bath. When all had sat down, the Count began: ‘Gentlemen, Baron Krzeszowski admits he may have pushed Mr Wokulski, for he is absent-minded. Dear me, yes…In consequence, at our insistence…’ Here the Count glanced at his companion who had just gulped with a ceremonious air, ‘at our insistence,’ the Count went on, ‘the Baron is prepared to apologise, even in writing, to Mr Wokulski, whom we all respect—dear me, yes. What have you to say to this?’

  ‘We are not authorised to take any steps for reconciliation,’ replied Rzecki, in whom the former Hungarian officer had come to life again. The learned Egyptologist opened his eyes wide and gulped twice. Amazement flashed across the Count’s face; however, he controlled himself and replied in a tone of dry politeness: ‘In that case may we know the conditions?’

  ‘You gentlemen may state them,’ Rzecki replied.

  ‘Oh no, not at all,’ said the Count.

  Rzecki coughed: ‘In that case, I venture to suggest…the opponents to stand at twenty-five paces, take five paces…’

  ‘Dear me, yes…’

  ‘Pistols to be loaded…First blood…’

  ‘Dear me, yes…’

  ‘The time, if convenient, tomorrow morning…’

  ‘Dear me, yes…’

  Rzecki bowed without getting up. The Count took out a sheet of paper, and amidst a general silence, prepared a document which Szuman at once copied. Both documents were witnessed, and within fo
rty-five minutes the matter was done. Wokulski’s second bade farewell to their host and his companion, who again lost himself gazing at the clouds.

  In the street, Rzecki said to Szuman: ‘Very agreeable people, these gentlemen of the aristocracy…’

  ‘May the devil take them! May the devil take you all, with your silly conventions…’ the doctor exclaimed, shaking his fist.

  That evening, Ignacy took the pistols and called on Wokulski. He found him alone, at tea. Rzecki poured himself some, and exclaimed: ‘Mind you, Staś, they are perfectly honourable people. The Baron who, as you know, is very absent-minded, is prepared to apologise to you…’

  ‘No apologies.’

  Rzecki fell silent. He drank the tea and dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief. After a long pause he said: ‘Of course, you will have considered the store… In the event of…’

  ‘No accident will befall me,’ Wokulski replied angrily.

  Ignacy sat for another quarter-hour in silence. He did not like the tea, his head ached. He finished it, looked at his watch, then left his friend’s house, saying farewell: ‘Tomorrow we leave at half-past seven in the morning.’

  ‘Very well…’

  When Ignacy had gone, Wokulski sat down at his desk, wrote a few lines on a piece of notepaper and put Rzecki’s address on the envelope. It seemed to him he could still hear the Baron’s unpleasant voice: ‘I am pleased, cousin, that your admirers have triumphed…I’m sorry it was at my expense, though…’ And wherever he looked, he saw Izabela’s beautiful face flushed with shame.

  Unutterable rage was fuming within his heart. His hands were becoming like iron bars, his body taking on such strange rigidity that surely any bullet would rebound from it. The word ‘death’ crossed his mind and for a moment he smiled. He knew death does not attack the bold; it merely confronts them like a mad dog, and glares with green eyes, waiting for a muscle to twitch.

  That night, as every night, the Baron was playing cards. Maruszewicz, who was also at the club, reminded him at midnight, then again at one and two o’clock, that he ought to go to bed as he was to get up at seven next morning. The absent-minded Baron answered: ‘Presently! Presently!’ but sat on until three, at which time one of his partners exclaimed: ‘Basta, Baron! Sleep a few hours, for your hands will tremble and you’ll miss your mark.’