The terrible combination of these two old men haunted Izabela night and day. Sometimes it seemed to her she was doomed, and that Hell had opened up for her while she was still alive.
At such times Izabela thought of Wokulski much as a drowning man looks towards a light on the distant shore. And in her unutterable bitterness, she felt a touch of relief to know that an unusual man, much spoken of in society, was, after all, mad about her. Then she recalled famous travellers, or wealthy American industrialists who had laboured years in mines and had sometimes been pointed out to her at a distance in Parisian drawing-rooms.
‘Look there,’ some Countess or other, recently let out of a convent school, would twitter, tipping her fan in a certain direction, ‘do you see that man who looks just like an omnibus conductor? He’s said to be a great man who discovered something or other, though I don’t know what—a gold mine, or the North Pole…I don’t recollect his name, but a margrave from the Academy assures me that this man lived ten years at the Pole—or no, he lived underground. A terrible man! In his shoes I’d have died of fright, I assure you! Wouldn’t you?’
If only Wokulski had been such a traveller, or at least a miner who had made millions by living underground for ten years! But he was only a tradesman, and in haberdashery at that! He did not even know English; the parvenu in him was continually being shown up, and as a youth he had served food to restaurant customers. Such a man might at best be a good adviser, perhaps an invaluable friend (in private, when there were no visitors). Perhaps even…a husband, for people do suffer the most terrible misfortunes. But as a lover—that was simply absurd. If necessary, even the most aristocratic of ladies will take a mud-bath: but only a madman would enjoy it.
The fourth phase. Izabela met Wokulski several times in the Łazienki park, and had even deigned to return his bow. Amidst the greenery and beside the statues, this coarse man seemed yet again different from the man behind a shop counter. Suppose he had an estate, with a park, palace, and lake? Admittedly he was a parvenu, but he was supposed to be gentry all the same, the nephew of an Army officer. Compared with the marshal or the Baron, he looked like Apollo, the aristocracy were talking about him more and more, and what of that outburst of tears by the Duchess?
Moreover, the Duchess was obviously lending him her support with her friend the Countess and her niece Izabela. Those hour-long strolls with her aunt in the Łazienki park were terribly tedious, and the gossip about fashions, charities and the marriages forthcoming in society was so trying that Izabela was even rather sorry Wokulski did not come up to her during the strolls and talk for fifteen minutes or so. For it is interesting for people in society to talk to that kind of person, and to Izabela even peasants, for example, looked as if they might be amusing, with their different way of speaking and thinking.
Of course, a haberdashery salesman, and one who had his own carriage, would not be as amusing as a peasant…
Be that as it may, Izabela was not disagreeably surprised to hear one day from the Duchess that she was to go with her and the Countess to the Łazienki park, and that she was going to stop Wokulski. ‘We are bored, let him amuse us,’ the old lady said.
And as they were driving to the park at one o’clock, the Duchess said to Izabela, with a meaningful smile: ‘I have a premonition we shall meet him somewhere here…’
Izabela blushed a little, and decided not to speak to Wokulski at all, or at least to treat him haughtily, so he would not imagine things. Of course there could be no mention of love in those ‘imagining things’. Izabela did not even wish to appear affable, however, ‘Fire is all very well, especially in winter,’ she thought, ‘but only at a distance.’
However, Wokulski was not in the park. ‘Can it be,’ Izabela said to herself, ‘that he didn’t wait? Or is he ill?’ She did not suppose that Wokulski had any more urgent business in the world than to meet her; if he were late, she decided not only to treat him haughtily, but even to show her displeasure. ‘If punctuality is the politeness of kings,’ she thought, ‘then it should be at least the obligation of a tradesman.’
Half an hour passed, an hour, then two…It was time to go home, but Wokulski had not appeared. Finally the ladies got into their carriage; the Countess, cold as always, the Duchess rather thoughtful, and Izabela vexed. Her indignation did not diminish when her father told her that evening that he had attended a meeting in the afternoon at the Prince’s, where Wokulski had put forward his plan for a vast commercial partnership, and aroused something very close to enthusiasm among the blasé magnates.
‘I have been feeling for a long time,’ Mr Łęcki concluded, ‘that this man’s help will free me from the tender care of my relatives, and I shall take my rightful place in society again.’
‘For the partnership, father,’ said Izabela, shrugging slightly, ‘money is required…’
‘That is why I am having my house put up for auction; I know my debts will consume some sixty thousand roubles, but even so, I will have at least forty thousand left.’
‘Aunt says that no one will pay more than sixty thousand for the house.’
‘Oh, your aunt…’ Tomasz was cross, ‘she always says things to hurt or humiliate me. Krzeszowska, who doesn’t care two bits for us, will give sixty thousand—that middle-class creature! But naturally your aunt agrees with her, because it is a matter touching my house, my position…’
He flushed and began breathing heavily; but as he did not want to lose his temper in his daughter’s presence, he kissed her on the brow and went to his study.
‘Perhaps my father is right,’ Izabela thought, ‘perhaps he really is more practical than all the people who judge him so harshly. After all, it was father who first made the acquaintance of that…Wokulski. But what a boor he is! He didn’t come to the Łazienki, though the Duchess must have engaged him to do so. Still, perhaps it was better so: we should have made a picture, if an acquaintance had seen us walking about with a haberdashery salesman…’
During the next few days, Izabela heard of nothing but Wokulski. The drawing-rooms resounded with his name. The marshal vowed Wokulski must be descended from an ancient family, and the Baron—an expert on masculine looks (he spent half his time at a looking-glass)—declared that Wokulski was ‘really quite…quite…’ Count Sanocki wagered that he was the first sensible man in the country, and Count Liciński said this tradesman modelled himself on English industrialists, while the Prince rubbed his hands and smiled, saying ‘Aha!’
Even Ochocki, visiting Izabela one day, told her he had been for a stroll with Wokulski in the Łazienki park.
‘What did you talk about?’ she asked in surprise, ‘not about flying-machines, surely?’
‘Bah!’ her thoughtful cousin muttered, ‘Wokulski is probably the only man in Warsaw with whom it would be possible to do so. He’s a regular fellow…’
‘The only sensible man…the only tradesman…the only man who can talk to Ochocki?’ Izabela thought. ‘So—what is he, really? Ah, I know…’
It seemed to her she had found Wokulski out. He was an ambitious speculator, who wished to penetrate into good society, and had bethought himself of marrying her, the impoverished daughter of an eminent family. It was for this purpose and no other that he had gained the respect of her father, of the Countess her aunt, and of the entire aristocracy. Then, deciding he could make his way into the society of great gentlefolks without her, he suddenly cooled off and did not even come to the Łazienki.
‘I must congratulate him,’ she told herself, ‘he has all the virtues required to make a career for himself: not plain, capable, energetic and above all—shameless and abject. How dare he pretend to be in love with me, and with such facility? Really, these parvenus are outdistancing even us in their deception…What an abject man!’
Offended, she wanted to tell Mikołaj never to admit Wokulski to her drawing-room. At the most he might be permitted into the master’s study, if he came on business. But recollecting that Wokulski never called, she b
lushed.
Then she learned from Mrs Meliton of the latest disagreement between Baron Krzeszowski and his wife, and that the Baroness had bought the mare from him for eight hundred roubles, but would certainly give her back, because the races were to be held in a few days, and the Baron had placed some large bets.
‘Perhaps even this precious pair will be reconciled on this occasion,’ Mrs Meliton remarked.
‘Oh, what wouldn’t I give if the Baron didn’t acquire the mare and were to lose his bets!’ Izabela cried.
A few days later she heard as a great secret from Flora that the Baron would not get his mare back, for Wokulski had bought it…The secret was still so well-kept that when Izabela called on her aunt she fount the Countess and the Duchess in council, wondering how to bring about a reconciliation between the Krzeszowskis with the help of the mare.
‘Nothing will come of it,’ Izabela interrupted with a smile, ‘the Baron will not get his mare back.’
‘Would you care to wager?’ the Countess asked coldly.
‘Certainly, if I win that sapphire bracelet, aunt.’
The bet was accepted. Consequently, the Countess and Izabela were extremely interested in the races.
For a little while, Izabela was frightened; it was said the Baron was offering Wokulski four hundred roubles compensation, and that Count Liciński had undertaken to mediate between them. In the Countess’s drawing-room, it was even whispered that Wokulski would have to agree to this arrangement, not for the money, but for the Count’s sake. Then Izabela thought: ‘If he is a greedy parvenu, he’ll agree: but he won’t if…’
She dared not complete the phrase. Wokulski did it for her. He did not sell the mare, and even entered her for the race, ‘He is not so abject after all,’ she said to herself. And under the influence of this idea, she spoke very affably to Wokulski at the races.
Yet Izabela reproached herself inwardly for even this small manifestation of benevolence. ‘Why should he know we are interested in his race? No more than in the others…Why did I tell him he “must win”? And what did he mean by replying “I shall win if you want me to”? He forgets who he is. Never mind though—if a few civil words can make Krzeszowski fall ill with rage.’
Izabela hated Krzeszowski. Once he had flirted with her: then rejected, had taken his revenge. She knew he called her an ageing spinster, who would marry her own footman. This was something to remember for the rest of her life. But the Baron had gone still further than this unlucky phrase, and had even behaved cynically in her presence, mocking her elderly admirers and dropping hints about her ruined estate. And because Izabela had reluctantly felt obliged to refer to his middle-class wife, whom he had married for money though he never managed to get any out of her, a regular and even fierce battle was in progress between them.
The day of the races was a triumph for Izabela, and one of defeat and humiliation for the Baron. Admittedly he had driven up to the course and pretended to be very gay: but he was fuming inwardly. When he saw Wokulski hand the prize and the money for the horse to Izabela, he had lost control of himself, run over to the carriage and made a scene.
The impudent look of the Baron and his openly calling Wokulski her ‘admirer’ was a terrible blow to Izabela. She would have killed the Baron on the spot, if that had been a proper thing for a well-bred woman to do. Her suffering was all the worse because the Countess had listened to his outburst quite calmly, the Duchess with embarrassment, and her father had not even spoken, for he had long regarded Krzeszowski as a lunatic who should not be provoked but treated mildly.
It was at a time like this (when people had started glancing at them from the other carriages) that Wokulski had come to the aid of Izabela. Not only did he interrupt the flow of the Baron’s resentment, but had also challenged him to a duel. No one doubted this: the Duchess was quite alarmed for her favourite, but the Countess pointed out that Wokulski could not have done anything else, because when the Baron approached the carriage, he had pushed him and not apologised.
‘But just tell me,’ said the Duchess in dismay, ‘whether it is right to fight a duel over such a trifle. After all, everyone knows that Krzeszowski is absent-minded and a fool. The best proof of that is what he himself said to us…’
‘I agree,’ Tomasz exclaimed, ‘but after all Wokulski was not to know that, his attention had to be drawn to it.’
‘They’ll be reconciled,’ the Countess put in carelessly, and gave the order to drive home.
It was then that Izabela committed the worst infringement of her own notions of decorum, and pressed Wokulski’s hand in a significant manner. Even before they reached the corner she knew that it had been unforgivable. ‘How was it possible to do such a thing? What will a man like that think?’ she asked herself. But then the sense of justice awoke within her, and she had to admit that this man was not just anybody. ‘To give me pleasure (for he certainly had no other reason), he had tripped up the Baron by buying his mare. He had given all the prize money (a proof of disinterestedness) to charity, and through me (the Baron saw that). Above all, he challenged him to a duel as if he had guessed my thoughts. Well, duels nowadays usually finish with champagne: but all the same, the Baron will find out I am not yet an old…Yes, there’s something about this Wokulski…It’s a great pity he’s a haberdashery salesman. It would be pleasant to have such an admirer, if…if he had a different position in society.’
On returning home, Izabela told Flora of the incidents at the races, and had forgotten them within the hour. However, when her father reported later that night that Krzeszowski had chosen as his second Count Liciński, and that the latter was unconditionally demanding that the Baron apologise to Wokulski, Izabela made a contemptuous pout: ‘Fortunate man,’ she thought, ‘they insult me, but are to apologize to him. If anyone insulted my beloved in my presence, I would not accept an apology. He will, of course.’
When she had gone to bed and was falling asleep, a new thought suddenly came to her: ‘Suppose Wokulski doesn’t want an apology? After all, Count Liciński also intervened with him over the mare, but got nowhere. Oh Heavens, what am I thinking of?’ She answered her own question with a shrug and fell asleep.
Next afternoon, her father, herself and Flora were certain Wokulski would come to terms with the Baron, and that it would not even be proper if he did not. Tomasz did not go into town until afternoon, and returned very troubled.
‘What is it, father?’ Izabela asked, struck by his expression.
‘A wretched business,’ Tomasz replied, throwing himself into a leather arm-chair, ‘Wokulski has rejected the apologies and his seconds have made strict conditions.’
‘When is it to be?’ she asked more quietly.
‘Tomorrow, before nine o’clock,’ Tomasz replied, and wiped the sweat from his brow. ‘A wretched business,’ he went on, ‘there is confusion among our partners, for Krzeszowski is a good shot. If this man dies, all my calculations will go for nothing. I’d lose my right hand…he’s the only man who could possibly carry out my plans…There’s no one else I would entrust my capital to, and I am certain I would get at least eight thousand a year…Bad luck is haunting me, no doubt about it.’
The bad temper of the master of the house affected the others; no one ate any dinner. Afterwards Tomasz shut himself up in his study and walked about, which was a sure sign of unusual excitement. Izabela went to her room also, and lay down on her chaise-longue, as she always did in anxious times. Dreary thoughts oppressed her.
‘My triumph was short-lived,’ she told herself, ‘Krzeszowski really is a good shot. If he kills the only man who concerns himself with me nowadays, then what? Duelling is indeed a barbarous business. For Wokulski (taking him from a moral standpoint) is worth more than Krzeszowski, yet he may die. The last man in whom my father has placed his hopes…’
But here family pride spoke up in Izabela: ‘Still, my father doesn’t need Wokulski’s favours after all; he would entrust his capital to him, provide him with support
and he in return would pay interest. But it is a pity…’
She recalled the old manager of their former estate who had served them thirty years and whom she had much loved and trusted; Wokulski might have taken the place of the dead man for both of them, and become her sensible confidant—but he was going to die!
She lay with her eyes closed for some time, not thinking of anything: then extraordinary notions began coming into her head: ‘What a peculiar coincidence,’ she told herself. Tomorrow two men who had mortally offended her were going to fight for her sake—Krzeszowski, with his malicious remarks and Wokulski, with the sacrifices he had dared make for her. She had already almost forgiven him the purchase of the dinner-service and the promissory notes, and the money lost at cards to her father, on which the entire household had lived for several weeks…(No, she had not yet forgiven him that, and never would!)
So heavenly justice was, in a way, looking after the insult to her. Who would perish on the morrow? Perhaps both…In any case, he who had presumed to offer financial assistance to Izabela Łęcka. Such a man, like the lovers of Cleopatra, must not live…
Thus she reflected, sobbing: she was sorry for a devoted servant and perhaps confidant, but she humbled herself before the judgement of Providence, which does not forgive an insult to Miss Łęcka.
Had Wokulski been able to look into her soul just then, he would have fled in alarm and been cured of his obsession.
Izabela did not sleep all that night. She saw before her the picture by a French painter which represents a duel. Two men in black were taking aim at one another with pistols, under a group of green trees. Then (this was not in the picture) one of them fell, struck by a bullet. It was Wokulski. Izabela did not even attend his funeral, as she did not wish to betray her emotion. But she wept several times, at night. She was sorry for the unusual parvenu, this faithful slave, who was paying for his crimes towards her by his death.
She did not fall asleep till seven in the morning, then slept like a log till noon. Then she was awakened by an excited tapping at her bedroom door. ‘Who is it?’