These words, and even more his partners’ desertion of the table, sobered the Baron. He left the club, went home and told his valet Konstanty to wake him at seven.
‘Your excellency must have gone and done something silly again,’ muttered his servant, crossly undressing the Baron.
‘You booby!’ said the Baron, vexed, ‘do you expect me to explain it all to you? I’m to fight a duel, so there…Because I choose to. At nine o’clock I am to shoot some wretched bootmaker or barber…Do you forbid me, then?’
‘You can shoot the devil himself,’ Konstanty replied, ‘all I would like to know is—who is to pay off your promissory notes? And the rent? And the housekeeping money? Just because you have a matter to see to at the cemetery, the landlord will put the bailiffs in and I’m afraid I’ll starve to death…A fine business, and no mistake!’
‘Then be off with you,’ roared the Baron, seizing a gaiter and throwing it at the retreating valet. The gaiter struck the wall and almost brought down a bronze statuette of Sobieski.
Having settled with his faithful servant, the Baron went to bed and began pondering on his wretched situation: ‘Just my confounded luck to have a duel with a tradesman,’ he thought. ‘If I hit him, I’ll look like a hunter who goes out for a bear and gets a peasant’s cow instead. If he hits me, it will be as though a droshky driver had hit me with his whip. If we both miss…No, we are to shoot for first blood. Damn appearances—I’d almost have preferred to apologise to this jackanapes in a notary’s office, dressed up for the occasion in a frock-coat and white tie…Oh these damnable liberal times! My father would have had such an impudent scoundrel whipped by his dog-keepers, but I have to give him satisfaction, as if I were a dealer in cinnamon myself…If only this confounded social revolution would come and finish us or the liberals off!’
He began dozing and dreamed Wokulski had killed him. He saw two messengers bringing his corpse to his wife, how she swooned away and threw herself on his blood-stained breast…How she paid all his debts and set aside a thousand roubles for his funeral…how he rose from the dead and took the thousand roubles for personal expenses… A blissful smile played over the Baron’s decrepit face, and he fell asleep like a baby.
At seven, Konstanty and Maruszewicz could hardly wake him. The Baron simply would not get up, muttering that he preferred disgrace and dishonour to getting out of bed so early. Only a carafe of cold water brought him to his senses.
The Baron jumped out of bed, boxed Konstanty’s ears, cursed Maruszewicz and vowed inwardly to kill Wokulski. But when he was dressed, he went out into the street, saw the beautiful weather and imagined he was seeing the sunrise—then his hatred for Wokulski diminished, and he decided only to shoot him in the leg.
‘That’s it,’ he added after a moment, ‘I’ll graze him, and he will limp for the rest of his life and tell people he got his mortal wound in a duel with Baron Krzeszowski! That would take care of me…What have my dear seconds made of all this? If some merchant or other gets it into his head that he must shoot at me, at least let him do so when I am out for a walk, not in a duel…What a frightful position to be in! I can imagine my dear wife will tell everyone I fight duels with the tradesmen…’
The carriages drove up. The Baron and the ‘English’ Count got into one, the silent Egyptologist with the pistols and a surgeon into the second. They set off for Bielany, and a few minutes later were overtaken by the Baron’s valet, Konstanty, in a droshky. The faithful servant swore by heaven and earth, and promised he would charge his master double the expense of this jaunt. Yet he was uneasy.
In the Bielany woods, the Baron and his three companions found the other party already there, and they set off in two groups towards the thickets immediately overlooking the Vistula bank. Dr Szuman was irritable, Rzecki stiff, Wokulski gloomy. The Baron stroked his thin beard, eyed him attentively, and thought: ‘He must eat well, that tradesman fellow…Compared to him, I look like an Austrian cigar beside a bull. May the devil take me, though, if I don’t shoot over the fool’s head, or even not at all…That would be best.’
Then he suddenly recollected that the duel was for first blood, fell into a rage and decided to kill Wokulski on the spot, without more ado: ‘Let these Philistines learn once and for all not to challenge the likes of us to duels,’ he said to himself.
Some dozen paces away, Wokulski was walking to and fro between the pine-trees, like a pendulum. He was not thinking of Izabela now: he could hear the twittering birds which crowded the whole wood, and the splashing of the Vistula along its bank. Against the background of nature’s tranquil serenity, the rattle of the pistols and snap of drawn bolts resounded strangely. A ferocious animal had awakened in Wokulski: the whole world disappeared from before his eyes, all that remained was this one man, the Baron, whose corpse he was to drag to the feet of the insulted Izabela.
They took up their stand. The Baron was still troubled by uncertainty about what to do to this tradesman fellow, and finally decided to shoot him in the hand.
Such wild fury was depicted on Wokulski’s face that the ‘English’ Count thought in surprise: ‘This is more than a question of the mare, or even of a push at the races!’ The Egyptologist, hitherto silent, gave the word. The antagonists moved off, their pistols levelled. The Baron aimed at Wokulski’s left elbow, lowered his pistol and lightly touched the trigger. In the last moment his pince-nez slipped, the pistol shifted a hair’s breadth, went off—and the bullet flew several centimetres wide of Wokulski’s arm. The Baron covered his face with the barrel of his pistol, and looking around it, thought: ‘The fool will miss…He is aiming at my head.’
Suddenly he felt a powerful blow on his temple: there was a roaring in his ears, black dots flickered before his eyes. He dropped his pistol and groaned. ‘In the head!’ someone shouted.
Wokulski threw down his pistol and left the spot. All ran to the kneeling Baron who, however, instead of giving up the ghost, said in a squeaky voice: ‘A most extraordinary accident, to be sure…I have a hole in my cheek, a tooth gone, but no bullet anywhere. Surely I haven’t swallowed it?’
The Egyptologist picked up the Baron’s pistol and examined it: ‘Ah,’ he exclaimed, ‘I see…the bullet went into the pistol, and the catch entered your cheek. The pistol is wrecked—a most interesting shot…’
‘Is Wokulski satisfied?’ the ‘English’ Count asked.
‘Yes.’ The surgeon bandaged the Baron’s face. Alarmed, Konstanty ran up from among the trees. ‘What’s this?’ he cried, ‘didn’t I say his Excellency would catch it?’
‘Silence, you ninny,’ the Baron roared, ‘be off with you to the Baroness and tell the cook I am gravely wounded…’
‘Now, if you please,’ said the ‘English’ Count gravely, ‘will you two gentlemen shake hands?’
Wokulski approached the Baron and did so. ‘A fine shot, Mr Wokulski,’ said the Baron with some difficulty, shaking him firmly by the hand, ‘it surprises me that a man of your trade…but perhaps that offends you?’
‘Not at all…’
‘That a man of your trade—highly respected, of course, should shoot so well. Where is my pince-nez? Ah, here…Mr Wokulski, a word in your ear, if you please.’
He leaned on Wokulski’s arm and they went a few yards into the wood. ‘I am disfigured,’ said the Baron, ‘I look like an old monkey with the mumps…I don’t want another quarrel with you, for I see you have good luck on your side. So tell me please—why have I been wounded? Not for pushing you,’ he added, looking straight at him.
‘You insulted a lady,’ Wokulski answered quietly.
The Baron took a step back: ‘Ah, c’est ça…’ he said, ‘I understand. I apologise once more and, as for that, know what I must do.’
‘And pray forgive me, Baron,’ Wokulski rejoined.
‘It is nothing…don’t mention it…never mind,’ said the Baron, shaking his hand, ‘the disfigurement will pass, and as for the tooth…Where is my tooth, doctor? Please wrap it up in a bit
of paper…As for my tooth, I should have had false ones long ago. You would scarcely believe, Mr Wokulski, what a state my teeth are in.’
Much pleased, they all parted. The Baron was surprised that a man in trade should be such a good shot, the would-be Englishman looked more than ever like a dummy, and the Egyptologist began observing the clouds again. In the other party, Wokulski was thoughtful, Rzecki delighted by the spirits and civility of the Baron, and only Szuman was cross. Not until their carriage had gone down the hill past the Camaldolite monastery did the doctor glance at Wokulski and mutter: ‘What savages! And to think I did not call the police about such fools…’
Three days after the strange duel, Wokulski was sitting locked in his study with a certain Mr William Collins. The servant, long intrigued by these conferences, which were held several times a week, was dusting in the next room, and from time to time would put his ear or eye to the key-hole. He could see some books on the table, his master writing in a notebook; he could hear the visitor put questions to Wokulski, who replied sometimes loudly and at once, sometimes in an undertone, shyly…But the servant could not imagine what they were talking about in this peculiar fashion, for the conversation was conducted in a foreign language: ‘It ain’t German, though,’ the servant muttered, ‘for in German they say “Bitte mein Herr,” and it ain’t French neither, for they don’t say “Monsieur bonjour”…and it ain’t Hebrew neither, nor no language whatsoever, so what is it? The old man must be thinking up some first-rate speculation altogether, if he talks so the devil himself wouldn’t understand him…And he’s found himself a partner too…May the devil take ’em…’
The bell rang. The watchful servant withdrew on tiptoe from the study door, went noisily into the hall and after a minute returned to knock at his master’s door.
‘What is it?’ asked Wokulski impatiently, looking out.
‘That gent has come, what comes here,’ the servant replied, and peered into the study. But apart from the notebook on the table and the red whiskers on Mr Collins’s countenance, nothing of any interest met his eye.
‘Why didn’t you say I am not at home?’ Wokulski asked crossly.
‘I forgot,’ said the servant, frowning and shrugging.
‘Ask him into the hall, you fool,’ said Wokulski, and he slammed the study door.
Soon Maruszewicz appeared in the hall. He was already embarrassed, and became even more so when he saw that Wokulski received him with evident disfavour: ‘Excuse me…am I interrupting? Perhaps you have important business?’
‘I am doing nothing at the moment,’ Wokulski replied sullenly, and he flushed slightly. Maruszewicz noticed this. He was certain something was going on in the apartment—perhaps a woman was there. In any case, he regained his composure, which he always possessed in the presence of embarrassed people.
‘I will take only a moment of your valuable time,’ said the rundown young man more boldly, waving his cane and hat ingratiatingly.
‘Well, what is it?’ said Wokulski. He sat down heavily in an armchair and indicated another to his visitor.
‘I have come to apologise, my dear sir,’ said Maruszewicz affectedly, ‘because I am unable to be of any service in the auction of the Łęcki property.’
‘How do you know of the auction?’ Wokulski was openly startled.
‘Can’t you guess?’ asked the agreeable young man with the utmost self-possession, blinking imperceptibly, for he was still not quite sure of his facts, even yet, ‘can’t you guess, my dear sir? It was honest old Szlangbaum…’
Suddenly he fell silent, as if the unfinished phrase had been bitten off inside his open mouth, while his left hand holding the cane and his right hand with the hat sank to rest on the arms of his chair. Meanwhile Wokulski did not move, but fixed a clear stare upon him.
He traced the almost imperceptible shades of expression moving across Maruszewicz’s features as a hunter watches startled hares running over a fallow field. He eyed the young man and thought: ‘So this is the respectable Catholic gentleman Szlangbaum is hiring for the auction, at a fee of fifteen roubles—which he advised me not to pay in advance. Aha! And when he took the eight hundred for Krzeszowski’s mare he was somehow confused…Hm… And it was he who spread the news I had bought the mare…He is serving two masters: the Baron, and the Baron’s wife… Yes, but he knows too much about my affairs…Szlangbaum has been careless.’
Thus thought Wokulski as he coolly eyed Maruszewicz. But the decayed young man, who was moreover very nervous, wilted under the gaze like a dove eyed by a spotted snake. First he turned a little pale, then sought to rest his weary eyes on some indifferent object, which he looked for in vain on the walls and ceiling of the room, until finally, drenched in a cold sweat, he knew his wandering gaze could not escape Wokulski’s influence. It seemed to him that the sombre merchant had caught hold of his soul with grappling-irons, and there was no resisting him. So he shifted his head a few times more, then finally sank with complete surrender into Wokulski’s gaze.
‘My dear sir,’ he said sweetly, ‘I see I must lay all my cards on the table…So I will tell you at once…’
‘Please do not trouble, Mr Maruszewicz, I know all I need to know already.’
‘But, my dear sir, you have formed an unfavourable opinion of me, you have been misled by gossip. On my word of honour, I have the best intentions…’
‘Believe me, Mr Maruszewicz, I do not base my opinions on gossip.’
He rose from his chair and looked away, which enabled Maruszewicz to come back to his senses somewhat. The young man hastily bade Wokulski farewell, left the house and, as he ran hastily downstairs, thought: ‘Unheard of, upon my soul! A street-trader like that trying to impress me! There was a moment, I swear it, when I wanted to strike him with my cane…The impudence of the fellow, upon my soul…He is ready to think I’m afraid of him, upon my soul if he isn’t! Oh God, how gravely You are punishing me for my frivolity! Wretched usurers are setting the bailiffs on me; I have a debt of honour due in a day or two, and that tradesman, that scoundrel…I’d like to know what he thinks, what he imagines about me? Nothing but that…Upon my soul, he must have killed someone, for no decent man has such a look in his eyes. Of course he almost killed Krzeszowski. Ah, the contemptible bully! He dared look at me like that—at me, for goodness sake!’
Nevertheless, he called on Wokulski again the next day, but as he did not find him in, he told the droshky to go to the store. Ignacy greeted him in the store, spreading out his hands as if putting the entire stock at his disposal. An inner voice told the old clerk, however, that this customer would not buy anything costing more than a few roubles and even then would have it charged to his account, very likely.
‘Is Mr Wokulski in?’ Maruszewicz asked, without removing his hat.
‘He’ll be in directly,’ Ignacy replied with a low bow.
‘Directly? What does that mean?’
‘Within fifteen minutes at most,’ Rzecki answered.
‘I’ll wait…Have them give my driver a rouble,’ said the young man, carelessly sinking into a chair. But his legs turned to water at the thought that the old clerk might refuse to give the driver a rouble. However, Rzecki obeyed the instructions, though he gave up bowing to the customer.
Wokulski entered within a few minutes. Seeing the detestable figure of the merchant fellow, Maruszewicz experienced such a variety of sensations that he hardly knew what he was saying, let alone what he was thinking. All he remembered was that Wokulski took him into the office behind the store, where the iron safe was kept, and that he told himself the feelings he experienced at the sight of Wokulski were contempt mingled with loathing. Later, he remembered that he had tried to mask these feelings with refined civility, which even in his own eyes looked more like humility.
‘What can I do for you?’ Wokulski asked, when they were seated (Maruszewicz could not precisely indicate the point in time when he performed the act of taking his seat in space).
Despite this,
he began, somewhat hesitantly: ‘I wanted to give you proof, my dear sir, of my goodwill…Madame the Baroness Krzeszowska, as you know, is anxious to buy the Łęcki property…Now, her husband has placed a veto on a certain part of her funds, without which the purchase cannot take place…Now…today…the Baron is in temporary difficulties…He needs…he needs a thousand roubles…he wants to effect a loan, without which…without which, d’you see, he will not be able to thwart his wife’s wishes with sufficient force…’
Seeing that Wokulski was again eyeing him searchingly, Maruszewicz wiped the sweat from his forehead.
‘So the Baron needs money?’
‘Yes,’ the young man replied hastily.
‘I will not give him a thousand roubles—but three, perhaps four hundred. And only against a receipt with the Baron’s own signature.’
‘Four hundred?’ the young man repeated automatically, and suddenly added: ‘I will bring you the Baron’s receipt within an hour. Will you be here?’
‘I shall.’
Maruszewicz left the office and came back with a receipt signed by Baron Krzeszowski inside of an hour. Wokulski read the document, put it in the safe and gave Maruszewicz four hundred roubles in exchange.
‘The Baron will try as soon as possible…’
‘There is no hurry,’ Wokulski replied, ‘apparently the Baron is ill?’
‘Yes…a little…He is leaving tomorrow or the day after…He will repay the money as soon as…’
Wokulski dismissed him with a very indifferent nod.
The young man quickly left the shop, forgetting to repay Rzecki the rouble for the driver. When he was in the street, he took a deep breath and began thinking: ‘Ah, the wretched tradesman! He had the impertinence to give me four hundred roubles instead of a thousand…God, how terribly You are punishing me for my frivolity…If I were to win, then upon my soul, I’d throw these four hundred roubles back into his face and the two hundred as well…God, how low I have sunk…’