The Doll

  But the thought of Izabela’s marriage overcame him with rage and despair. At this moment he would gladly have packed the earth with dynamite and blown it sky-high.

  But he came to his senses yet again: ‘Well, what should I do if it pleased her to marry? Or even if it pleased her to take lovers—my clerk, some officer or other, a waggoner or footman…What could I do about it?’

  Respect for the personality and individuality of other people was so great in him, that even his madness yielded before it. ‘What should I do? What?’ he repeated, clutching his fevered brow with both hands.

  He called at the store for an hour, did some business, then went home: at four o’clock the valet produced linen from a wardrobe, and a barber came to shave and trim his hair for him. ‘Well, what’s the news, Mr Fitulski?’ he asked the barber.

  ‘Nothing, and it will get worse. The Berlin congress is thinking of suppressing Europe, Bismarck hopes to suppress the congress, and the Jews hope to skin us alive…’ said the young artist, who was handsome as a seraphim and as neat as if he had just stepped out of a fashion-plate.

  He tied a towel around Wokulski’s neck, and as he soaped his chin with lightning rapidity, went on: ‘The town, sir, is pretty quiet just now. I was at a party in Saska Kepa last night, but oh my! what common young people they were, sir. They got to fighting while we were dancing, and just think…Head a trifle higher, s’il vous plaît…’

  Wokulski raised his head and noticed that his barber had gold links in his very grubby cuffs.

  ‘Fighting, sir, while we were dancing,’ the dandy went on, flashing a razor before Wokulski’s eyes, ‘and just think, one of them struck a lady as he was trying to kick someone else—just to show off! There was a hullaballoo, a duel…I was naturally chosen as second, but I really was in a fix today, only having the one pistol, when half an hour ago up comes the offender and said it would be stupid to fight, and that he might yield for once, seeing as how…Head a trifle to the right, s’il vous plaît…Well, and would you believe it, sir, I was so vexed I took him by the scruff of the neck, put my knee to his posterior and—off with him through the door. A genuine gent wouldn’t fight such a booby, sir, now would he? Face to the left, s’il vous plaît…’

  He finished the shave, washed Wokulski’s face and, wrapping him up in a cloth like a criminal’s shroud, went on: ‘Fancy that now, but I never yet saw a trace of a lady in your house, sir, though I come at all times of day…’ He took out a brush and comb, and began combing his hair for him: ‘All times of day, sir, and I’ve an eye for such things, sir, I do assure you. But never a sight of a skirt, not to mention bloomers or a scrap of ribbon. Yet there was a time when I saw a pair of stays—in a Canon’s house, it was! True, he found them in the street and was going to post them (anonymously) to the newspaper. But, my dear sir, at the officer’s quarters, especially them hussars…(Head a fraction lower, s’il vous plaît…) Oodles of them! At one officer’s I met four young ladies, laughing their heads off, too. From then on I always bow to him in the street, mark my words, though he dropped me and still owes five roubles. But if I can afford six roubles a seat at the Rubinstein concert, then I’m not going to begrudge five roubles to such a virtuoso, now am I? Should I darken the hair a trifle, je suppose que oui?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ Wokulski replied.

  ‘I thought not,’ the barber sighed, ‘there isn’t a scrap of affectation about you, sir—but that’s bad! I know several ballet girls who’d be delighted to enter relations with you, sir. It would be worthwhile, upon my word! Splendidly built, muscles like iron, bosoms like spring mattresses, ever so graceful and not at all stuck-up, particularly when they’re still young. For the older a woman is, the more expensive she’ll be, no doubt that’s why no one wants an old thing of sixty, she’ll be too expensive. She’d make Rothschild go bankrupt! But you can give a beginner three thousand roubles a year, some little presents, and she’ll be faithful to you…Ah, the ladies, God bless ’em…They gave me the sciatica, but I can’t be cross with ’em…’

  He finished his task, bowed according to the rules of etiquette and left, smiling; from his splendid appearance and the bag in which he carried his brushes and razors, you’d have taken him for an official from the Ministry.

  After he had gone, Wokulski did not even think twice of the young and undemanding ballet girls. He was preoccupied by a very profound question, which could be paraphrased in two words: to wit, frock-coat or tail-coat? ‘If I wear a tail-coat I’ll look like a snob conforming to the conventions, which in the end do not bother me. But if I wear the frock-coat, I may offend the Łęckis. Besides, suppose someone else is present? Well, there’s no help for it—as I have my own carriage and race-horse, I must wear the tail-coat.’

  Meditating thus, he could not help smiling at the depths of naivety into which his acquaintance with Izabela had thrust him: ‘Would old Hopfer or any of my university and Siberian friends ever imagine me worrying about such matters?’ he thought.

  He put on his evening clothes, stood at the mirror and felt gratified. The close-fitting garments revealed his athletic frame to the best advantage.

  The horses had been waiting fifteen minutes, and it was already five-thirty. Wokulski put on a light top-coat and left the house. As he climbed into the carriage he was very pale but calm, like a man going out to encounter danger face to face.

  XVI

  ‘She’, ‘He’ and the Others

  ON THE DAY Wokulski was expected to dinner, Izabela came home from the Countess’s at five. She was somewhat vexed and very languid and altogether perfectly lovely.

  This day had brought her good fortune and disappointment. The great Italian tragedian, Rossi, whom she and her aunt had known in Paris, was in Warsaw for some performances. He called on the Countess at once, and asked anxiously about Izabela. He was to call again, and the Countess invited her niece. However, Rossi did not come; instead, he sent a letter to apologise for the disappointment and to excuse himself because of an unexpected visit from a high-ranking personage.

  In Paris some years ago Rossi had been Izabela’s ideal; she fell in love with him, and did not even conceal her feelings—as far as possible for a young lady of her social standing, of course. The celebrated actor knew this, called at the Countess’s home every day, performed and recited everything Izabela asked for, and when he left for America, presented her with an Italian version of Romeo and Juliet, with a dedication: ‘Heaven is here where Juliet lives…’

  The news that Rossi had come to Warsaw and had not forgotten her excited Izabela. By one o’clock that afternoon, she was with her aunt. Every now and again she went to the window, every rattle hastened the beating of her heart, she jumped every time the bell rang: she forgot what she was talking about, bright blushes appeared on her face…But Rossi did not come.

  And today she was beautiful. She had dressed especially for him, in a silk dress of cream colour (from a distance it looked like crushed linen), she had diamond earrings (no bigger than pea-seeds) and a red rose at her throat. And nothing came of it. But let Rossi be the one to regret not coming…

  After waiting four hours she came home offended. Despite her fury, she picked up the copy of Romeo and Juliet, looked through it, and thought: ‘Suppose Rossi were suddenly to come here…It would be even better here than at the Countess’s.’ With no witnesses present, he could whisper feverish phrases to her; he would learn how she treasured his souvenir, and above all would find (as the looking-glass so clearly declared) that in this dress, with this rose, and seated in this gleaming blue armchair, she looked heavenly.

  She recalled that Wokulski was coming to dinner, and shrugged involuntarily. The haberdashery tradesman seemed so ludicrous in comparison with Rossi, whom the whole world admired, that she was quite simply overcome with pity for him. Had Wokulski been on his knees to her at this moment, she might even have stroked his hair, played with him as she would with a big dog, and read Romeo’s complaint to Lawrence:

&nb
sp; ‘Heav’n is here

  Where Juliet lives; and every cat and dog

  And little mouse, every unworthy thing,

  Live here in Heaven and may look on her;

  But Romeo may not: more validity.

  More honourable state, more courtship lives

  In carrion flies than Romeo: they may seize

  On the white wonder of dear Juliet’s hand,

  And steal immortal blessing from her lips:

  …Flies may do this, but I from this must fly;

  They are free men, but I am banished.

  …O friar! the damned use that word in hell;

  Howlings attend it; how hast thou the heart,

  Being a divine, a ghostly confessor,

  A sin-absolver, and my friend professed,

  To mangle me with that word “banished”?’

  She sighed:—who knows how often the celebrated exile had thought of her while saying these lines? Perhaps he did not even have a confidant. Wokulski might be such a confidant; surely he knew how to yearn for her, since he had risked his life for her sake.

  Turning a few pages back, she read:

  ‘O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?

  Deny thy father and refuse thy name;

  Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love

  And I’ll no longer be a Capulet…

  ’Tis but thy name that is my enemy;

  Thou art thyself though, not a Montague.

  …What’s in a name? that which we call a rose

  By any other name would smell as sweet;

  So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d,

  Retain that dear perfection which he owes

  Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name;

  And for thy name, which is no part of thee,

  Take all myself.’

  What a strange likeness there was between the two of them—Rossi the actor, and she, Miss Łęcka. Refuse thy name…Yes, but what would be left? Yet even a princess might marry Rossi, and the world would only admire her sacrifice. To marry Rossi…to look after his theatrical wardrobe, perhaps sew buttons on his night-shirts? Izabela was taken aback. To love him hopelessly—that sufficed. To love him and sometimes talk to someone about this tragic love…Perhaps to Flora? No, she hadn’t enough feeling. Much better talk to Wokulski. He would look into her eyes, would suffer both for himself and for her, she would tell him and mourn over her own and his sufferings, and in this manner the hours would pass very agreeably. A haberdasher for a confidant! One could forget his trade, of course …

  Simultaneously, Tomasz was twirling his grey whiskers and walking about in his study, thinking: ‘Wokulski’s a very clever and energetic fellow. If I’d had such a right-hand man (he sighed) I should not have lost my fortune. But it can’t be helped, and I have him today. The sale of the house should leave me with forty—no, fifty—thousand, perhaps sixty thousand roubles…Well, let us not exaggerate: say fifty thousand, or only forty thousand…I’ll let him have it, he will pay me some eight thousand roubles a year interest, and the rest (if matters prosper in his hands as I trust), I’ll have him invest the rest of the interest. The sum will double in five or six years, and in ten may be quadrupled…Because money increases fantastically in commerce. But what am I saying? If Wokulski is really a businessman of genius, he ought and certainly will get a hundred per cent. In that case, I’ll look him in the eye and tell him point-blank: ‘You can pay others fifteen or twenty per cent yearly, but not me, for I understand these matters.’ And he, of course, seeing whom he is dealing with, will yield at once and may even produce an income beyond my wildest dreams…’

  The bell in the vestibule rang twice. Tomasz retired into the depths of his study and sat down, taking a volume of economics by Supinski for the occasion. Mikołaj opened the door and in a moment Wokulski appeared.

  ‘Ah, how are you?’ Tomasz exclaimed, stretching out a hand. Wokulski bowed low before the white hair of the man he would have been glad to call ‘Father’.

  ‘Sit down, Stanisław. A cigarette?…Pray do…What’s the latest? I’m just reading Supinski’s book—a clever fellow, that! Yes indeed—nations who do not know how to work and economise must disappear from the face of the earth…Economy and work, that’s the ticket! All the same, our partners are beginning to look sour, you know.’

  ‘Let them do as they choose,’ Wokulski replied, ‘I am not profiting by a single rouble of theirs.’

  ‘I shall never desert you, Stanisław,’ said Tomasz, in a firm tone, adding after a moment: ‘I am selling or at least having my house sold in a few days. I’ve had a great deal of trouble with it; the tenants don’t pay their rent, the caretakers are rascals, and I had to satisfy the mortgagees out of my own pocket. It’s not surprising that in the end it grew tedious.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Wokulski interposed.

  ‘And I hope,’ Tomasz went on, ‘that fifty or at least forty thousand roubles will be left to me.’

  ‘How much do you hope to get for the house?’

  ‘Oh, a hundred, or up to a hundred and twenty thousand. And I’ll place whatever I get in your hands, Mr Stanisław.’

  Wokulski nodded in agreement, and thought that all the same Tomasz was not going to get more than ninety thousand for his house. This was the amount he had at his disposal just then and he could not incur debts without damaging his credit.

  ‘And I will place it all in your hands, Stanisław,’ Mr Łęcki went on, ‘I merely wanted to inquire if you will accept?’

  ‘Certainly…’

  ‘And what interest will you give me?’

  ‘I can guarantee twenty, and more if business picks up,’ Wokulski replied, adding privately that he would not have been able to pay anyone else more than fifteen.

  ‘A sharp fellow, this,’ Tomasz thought, ‘he himself gets a hundred per cent, but only pays me twenty …’ However, he went on aloud: ‘Very well, my dear Stanisław. I accept twenty per cent, providing you pay it in advance.’

  ‘I’ll pay in advance—every six months,’ Wokulski replied, fearing Łęcki would spend the money too fast.

  ‘Very good,’ said Tomasz very affably, adding with some emphasis, ‘But all the profits above twenty per cent—please do not pay them to me, not even if I beg you to…d’you understand me? Add it to the capital. Let it grow, isn’t that the idea?’

  ‘The ladies are waiting,’ said Mikołaj, appearing at this moment in the study door. Mr Tomasz rose gravely from his armchair and ceremoniously conducted his guest into the drawing-room.

  Later on, Wokulski tried several times to remember that drawing-room and the manner in which he had entered it; but he could not recollect all the details. He remembered bowing several times to Tomasz on the threshold, and that later he was engulfed in an agreeable perfume, as a result of which he bowed to a lady in a cream-coloured gown with a red rose at her throat, then to another lady, tall and dressed in black, who eyed him in alarm. At least, so it seemed to him.

  Not for a while did he realise that the lady in the cream-coloured dress was Izabela. She was seated in an armchair and, turning with incomparable charm to him and looking kindly into his eyes, said: ‘My father will have to have a good deal of practice before he will satisfy you as a partner. I ask for your tolerance on his behalf.’ She stretched out one hand, which Wokulski scarcely dared touch.

  ‘As a partner,’ he replied, ‘Mr Łęcki need only have a trustworthy lawyer and book-keeper, who will check his account from time to time. The rest is our business.’ It struck him he had said something very stupid, and flushed.

  ‘You must have a great deal to do in such a large store.’ said Flora in her black dress, and she became still more agitated.

  ‘Not really. My business is to provide the capital, and make contact with suppliers and purchasers. But the kinds of goods and the pricing are done by the shop staff.’

  ‘But is it possible to rely on other people?’ Miss Flora sighed.

  ‘Yes, I have an ex
cellent manager who is also a friend, and who looks after the business better than I could.’

  ‘You are fortunate, Stanisław,’ Mr Łęcki exclaimed, catching the phrase, ‘and are you not going abroad this year?’

  ‘I should like to go to the Paris Exhibition …’

  ‘Oh, I envy you,’ Izabela cried, ‘I have thought of nothing but the Exhibition for the past two months, but somehow papa doesn’t show any desire to go.’

  ‘Our trip depends entirely on Mr Wokulski,’ her father replied, ‘so I advise you to invite him to dinner as often as possible and serve delicious food to put him in a good humour.’

  ‘I promise that whenever you favour us, I’ll peep into the kitchen myself. Will good intentions suffice this time?’

  ‘I am most grateful for your offer,’ Wokulski replied, ‘but that cannot affect the date of the departure of you both for Paris, because that depends entirely on your wishes.’

  ‘Merci,’ Izabela whispered.

  Wokulski bowed his head: ‘I know that “Merci” of hers,’ he thought, ‘it has to be paid for in bullets…’

  ‘Shall we go in?’ Flora murmured. They went into the dining room, where a round table set for four stood in the centre. Wokulski found himself between Izabela and her father, facing Flora. He was already perfectly calm, so calm that he was uneasy. His madness of love had left him, and he even asked himself if this was the woman he loved? For was it possible to love as he did, and yet feel such tranquillity in his soul, such extreme tranquillity, when sitting only a pace away from the cause of his madness? His thoughts were so free that he not only saw every expression on the countenances of his companions but (which was really rather amusing), he looked at Izabela and made the following calculations: ‘That dress—fifteen yards of silk at a rouble: fifteen roubles…Lace at ten roubles, and work fifteen or so…Forty roubles altogether for the dress, about a hundred and fifty for the necklace, and the rose—ten groszy.’