The Doll

  Mikołaj began serving. Though not in the least hungry, Wokulski ate some spoonfuls of consommé, drank port-wine, then tried the sirloin and drank beer with it. He smiled without knowing why and, in an onset of boyish audacity, decided to commit some faux-pas at table.

  First he placed his knife and fork on a small stand by his plate after tasting the sirloin. Miss Flora very nearly winced, but Tomasz began talking very vivaciously about an evening at the Tuileries, where he had danced a minuet with some marshal’s wife at the request of the Empress Eugenie.

  A dish of pike was served next, and Wokulski attacked it with his knife and fork. Flora very nearly swooned, Izabela glanced at her neighbour with indulgence, while Tomasz began eating the fish with his knife and fork too.

  ‘How stupid you all are,’ Wokulski thought, feeling something not unlike contempt for his companions awakening within him. To make matters worse, Izabela exclaimed (though without even a trace of malice): ‘Papa, you must show me how to eat fish with a knife one of these days.’

  This struck Wokulski as simply vulgar: ‘I see I shall fall out of love with her before dinner is over,’ he told himself.

  ‘My dear,’ said Tomasz to his daughter, ‘not eating fish with one’s knife is merely a convention. Isn’t that so, Mr Wokulski?’

  ‘A convention? I couldn’t say,’ Wokulski replied, ‘it is merely the transference of a custom from conditions which it suits to conditions where it does not.’

  Tomasz actually fidgeted in his seat. ‘The English regard it as almost an insult,’ Flora declared.

  ‘But the English have sea-fish, which can only be eaten with a fork: they would eat our bony fresh-water fish in another manner …’

  ‘Oh, the English never go against conventions,’ Flora said defensively.

  ‘That is so,’ Wokulski agreed, ‘they do not under ordinary circumstances, but in less usual ones they adopt the rules, “do what is most convenient”. I myself have seen very distinguished peers eating mutton and rice with their fingers, and taking soup from basins.’

  The lesson struck home. Nevertheless, Tomasz heard it with satisfaction, and Izabela with something bordering on surprise. This merchant, who had eaten mutton with peers and clung so boldly to his theory of using a knife for fish had gained stature in her imagination. Who knows but this theory did not seem of more importance to her than the duel with Krzeszowski?

  ‘So you are an enemy of etiquette?’ she inquired.

  ‘No, but I do not want to be its slave.’

  ‘Yet there are societies in which it is always observed.’

  ‘I can’t say. But I have seen the highest society where—under certain circumstances—it has been forgotten.’

  Tomasz bowed his head slightly; Flora had turned blue in the face; Izabela looked almost cordially at Wokulski. Even more than ‘almost’…There were moments in which she dreamed of Wokulski as some sort of Haroun al Raschid, disguised as a merchant. Admiration, even liking, awoke in her heart. This man might certainly be her confidant; she would be able to talk to him about Rossi.

  After the ice-cream, Flora remained in the dining-room, entirely flabbergasted, but the others went into the master’s study for coffee. Just as Wokulski had finished, Mikołaj brought Tomasz a letter on a tray, saying: ‘They are waiting for an answer, sir.’

  ‘Ah, from the Countess …’ said Tomasz, glancing at the superscription, ‘will you excuse me?’

  ‘We might go into the drawing-room,’ Izabela interposed, smiling at Wokulski, ‘and in the meantime my father will write a reply.’ She knew Tomasz had written that letter to himself, for he simply had to have a half-hour nap after dinner.

  ‘You forgive me?’ asked Tomasz, pressing Wokulski’s hand.

  Wokulski left the study with Izabela, and they went into the drawing-room. She sat down in an armchair with her own inimitable grace, indicating another only a few feet away to him. When Wokulski found himself alone with her, the blood surged to his head. His emotion intensified when he saw that Izabela was looking at him in a strange way, as if she sought to penetrate to his depths and chain him to her. This was no longer the Izabela of the Easter ceremonies nor even of the races; this was an intelligent and feeling being, who was about to ask him seriously about something, and wanted to speak frankly.

  Wokulski was so curious about what she was going to tell him and had lost so much control over himself, that he would certainly have killed anyone who interrupted them at this moment. He looked at Izabela in silence, and waited.

  Izabela was confused; for a long time she had not experienced such chaotic feelings as now. Phrases ran through her mind: ‘He bought the dinner service…He deliberately lost at cards to my father…He insulted me …’ and then ‘He loves me…He bought the race-horse…He had a duel…He has eaten mutton with peers of the realm …’ Contempt, anger, admiration, liking—all created a turmoil in her soul, like drops of heavy rain: at the heart of this storm, however, there was the need for confiding her daily cares and her various doubts and her tragic love for the great actor to somebody else.

  ‘Yes, he could be—he will be—my confidant,’ thought Izabela, plunging a sweet look into Wokulski’s startled eyes and leaning forward slightly as if to kiss him on the brow. Then she was seized by irrational shame; she retreated into the depths of her armchair, blushed and slowly let her eyelashes sink, as if sleep were coming upon her. Watching the play of her features, Wokulski was reminded of the miraculous waves of a northern dawn, and of those strange melodies without words or music which sometimes resound in the human soul like echoes from a better world. Dreaming, he listened to the feverish tick of the grandfather clock and to the throbbing of his own pulses, and was surprised that two such rapid phenomena nevertheless dragged in comparison with the speed of his own thoughts.

  ‘If there is such a place as Heaven,’ he told himself, ‘then even the blessed cannot know greater happiness than I do at this moment.’

  The silence persisted so long that it began to be improper. Izabela came to herself first: ‘You had a misunderstanding,’ she said, ‘with Baron Krzeszowski?’

  ‘About the races,’ Wokulski said hastily, ‘the Baron could not forgive me for buying his mare.’

  She looked at him for a moment with a kindly smile: ‘After that, you had a duel which…made us very anxious,’ she added more softly, ‘and then the Baron apologised to me,’ she concluded quickly, looking away. ‘In the letter he wrote me on that occasion, the Baron spoke of you with great respect and friendship …’

  ‘I am very…very gratified …’ Wokulski stammered.

  ‘Why so, pray?’

  ‘That the circumstances should work out in such a manner…The Baron is a distinguished person.’

  Izabela stretched out one hand and placed it for an instant in Wokulski’s feverish palm: ‘Despite the Baron’s unquestioned virtues, it is you alone I have to thank…Thank you…There are services which are not soon forgotten, and in truth,’ (here she began speaking more slowly and softly), ‘in truth, you would relieve my conscience by asking me for something that might compensate for your…civility.’

  Wokulski let her hand go and straightened his back. He was so confused that he did not pay attention to the word ‘civility’.

  ‘Very well,’ he replied, ‘if you so wish, I’ll admit even to…services. But might I in return, make a request of you?’

  ‘Yes …’

  ‘Well, then,’ he said in a state of fever, ‘I ask for one thing—to serve you as long as my strength permits. Always, in everything…’

  ‘Oh come,’ Izabela interrupted, with a laugh, ‘that really is a stratagem. I want to repay one favour, you want to make me incur others. Is that right?’

  ‘What is wrong in it? Do you not, after all, accept services from servants?’

  ‘They are paid for it,’ she replied, looking into his eyes playfully.

  ‘So there is one difference only between them and me—they are paid, and it is not
proper to pay me. Impossible, even…’

  Izabela shook her head.

  ‘What I am asking,’ Wokulski continued, ‘does not exceed the boundaries of the most commonplace human relationships. Ladies always give orders—we carry them out, that’s all. People in your social sphere do not even have to ask for favours: they take them as a right. On the other hand, I have fought my way to it, and am now begging you for it, because it would be a sort of distinction for me to carry out your orders. Merciful Heaven! If coachmen and footmen can wear your colours, why should not I deserve that honour?’

  ‘Ah, so that is what you mean? It is not necessary to give you my scarf—you have already taken it by force. But as for taking it back…It’s too late, even if only on account of the Baron’s letter.’

  She gave him her hand again, which Wokulski respectfully kissed. Footsteps were heard in the next room, and Tomasz came in, beaming after his nap. His handsome face wore such a cordial expression that Wokulski thought: ‘I’d be a scoundrel if your thirty thousand roubles didn’t bring you in ten thousand a year, you honest old man.’

  They sat together another fifteen minutes, talking of an entertainment for charitable purposes held in the ‘Swiss Valley’, of Rossi’s arrival and of the trip to Paris. Finally Wokulski regretfully left his agreeable companions, promising to come more often and to travel to Paris with them.

  ‘You will see how amusing it is there,’ said Izabela in farewell.

  XVII

  Germination of Certain Crops—and Illusions

  IT WAS eight-thirty in the evening when Wokulski returned home. The sun had just set, but a strong eye could already have perceived the larger stars glittering in the blue and gold sky. The merry cries of passers-by were audible in the streets; joyful tranquillity had taken up its abode in Wokulski’s heart.

  He recalled Izabela’s every movement, every smile, every glance and every expression, seeking with anxious concern for a shadow of dislike or pride in them. In vain. She had treated him as an equal and a friend, had invited him to visit them more often, and had even demanded that he ask a favour…‘Suppose I had proposed to her at that moment?’ he thought, ‘then what?’ And he attentively considered the image of her features which filled his soul; but again he could perceive no shadow of dislike. Instead—a playful smile. ‘She’d have replied,’ he thought, ‘that we still do not know each other well enough, that I ought to deserve her hand…Yes, that is certainly what she would have replied,’ he repeated, continually recalling to mind those unmistakable signs of liking.

  ‘On the whole,’ he thought, ‘I have been unjustly prejudiced against high society. After all, they are men and women like the rest of us: perhaps they have greater sensibility. Knowing that we are boors chasing after profits, they avoid us. But when they discover our honest hearts, they attract us to them…What a delicious wife such a woman would make! Of course I ought to deserve her, first. Of course!’

  Influenced by these thoughts, he felt a great benevolence awaken within him, encompassing first the Łęcki household, then their relatives, then his own store and all the people who worked in it, then all the tradesmen he had dealings with, finally the entire country and all mankind. It seemed to Wokulski that every passer-by in the street was his blood-relative, nearer or more distant, whether cheerful or mournful. And he very nearly stopped on the pavement to accost people, like a beggar, and to ask them: ‘Is there anything you need? Ask me, command me, please—in her name…’

  ‘Life has gone badly for me hitherto,’ he told himself. ‘I was an egoist. Ochocki—now, there is a splendid soul: he wants to fix wings upon mankind, and can forget his own happiness for that idea. Fame is nonsense, of course, but work for the general good—that’s the foundation.’ Then he added with a smile: ‘This woman has already made me a rich man, and a well-known man, but if she persists, she will make me—goodness knows what! Perhaps a holy martyr, who devotes his work, even his life, to the good of others. Of course I’d do that, if she wanted me to.’

  His shop was closed, but a light twinkled through an opening in the shutters: ‘They’re still busy,’ Wokulski thought.

  He turned into the gate, and entered the shop through the back door. On the threshold he met Zięba, who said goodnight and bowed low; there were still several people inside the shop. Klein was ascending a ladder to straighten something on the shelves; Lisiecki was putting on his overcoat, and behind the cash-desk was Rzecki, with a ledger in front of him, and a man, weeping, standing before him.

  ‘The boss!’ Lisiecki exclaimed. Shading his eyes with one hand, Rzecki glanced up at Wokulski; Klein bowed to him several times from the top of the ladder, while the weeping man suddenly turned around and sank at his feet with a loud groan.

  ‘What’s this?’ Wokulski asked in surprise, recognising the old cashier Oberman.

  ‘He has lost over four hundred roubles,’ Rzecki replied sternly, ‘of course there was no fraud, I’ll take my oath on that, but even so the firm cannot be the loser, particularly as Mr Oberman has several hundred roubles saved with us. So—one of two things,’ Rzecki went on crossly, ‘either Mr Oberman pays up, or Mr Oberman loses his position. We’d do good business, indeed, if all our cashiers were like Mr Oberman.’

  ‘I’ll repay the money, sir,’ said the cashier, sobbing, ‘I’ll pay it back, but let me spread it over a few years at least. The five hundred roubles I have saved with you is my whole fortune. My boy has finished school and wants to study for a doctor, and old age is just around the corner…God knows—and so do you, sir—how a man has to work before he can put by so much money. I’d have to be born again to make as much…’

  Klein and Lisiecki, both dressed to leave, awaited the verdict of their principal.

  ‘Yes,’ Wokulski exclaimed, ‘the firm cannot be the loser. Oberman must repay.’

  ‘Very well, sir,’ the unhappy cashier murmured.

  Messrs Klein and Lisiecki said goodnight and left. Sighing, Oberman started to go after them. But when the three of them were alone, Wokulski hastily added: ‘Oberman, repay the money and I’ll refund it to you…’

  The cashier sank at his feet. ‘Come, come,’ Wokulski interrupted, ‘if you say a single word to anyone about this arrangement, I shall take my gift back—mind that, Oberman?…Otherwise they’ll all decide to lose us some money. So go home and say nothing…’

  ‘I understand, sir. May God send you the very best of everything,’ the cashier replied and went out, trying in vain to conceal his joy.

  ‘He already has,’ Wokulski said, thinking of Izabela.

  Rzecki was not pleased: ‘You know, Staś,’ he exclaimed, when they were alone, ‘you would do better not to interfere in the running of the shop. I knew in advance you would not make him repay the whole amount, I wouldn’t have asked that myself. But the booby ought to have paid a hundred roubles or so, as punishment…In the end, the devil take it, he might have been forgiven the whole amount; but he should have been kept in suspense at least a few weeks…Otherwise we might as well shut up shop once and for all.’

  Wokulski laughed: ‘I’d be afraid of the anger of Heaven,’ he replied, ‘had I done anyone an injustice on a day like this.’

  ‘A day like what?’ Rzecki asked, opening his eyes widely.

  ‘Never mind—only today do I see how necessary it is to be merciful.’

  ‘You always were, and too much so,’ Ignacy said irritably, ‘and you’ll find out that other people will not be the same towards you.’

  ‘They already are,’ Wokulski said, and gave him his hand in farewell.

  ‘They already are?’ Ignacy repeated, mimicking him, ‘they already are? I hope you never have to put their sympathy to the test, that’s all.’

  ‘I have it without that. Goodnight.’

  ‘Hm! We’ll see how it looks if the need arises. Goodnight, goodnight…’ said the old clerk, noisily putting his ledgers away.

  Wokulski walked home and thought: ‘I really must pay a call o
n Krzeszowski. I’ll go tomorrow…He apologised to Izabela like the decent fellow he is. Tomorrow I’ll thank him and—may the devil take me if I don’t try to help him. Though it will be difficult to do anything for such an idle and frivolous fellow. Never mind, I can only try…He has apologised to Izabela, I’ll free him from his debts.’

  Feelings of tranquillity and unshakeable certainty so dominated all others in Wokulski’s soul just now that when he got home, instead of dreaming (as usually happened), he set to work. He brought out a thick exercise-book, already nearly full, then a book with Polish—English exercises, and began writing down sentences, pronouncing them in an undertone and trying to imitate his teacher, Mr William Collins, as closely as possible.

  But during pauses of several minutes, he thought either of tomorrow’s visit to Baron Krzeszowski and how to free him from his debts, or of Oberman, whom he had saved from ruin. ‘If a blessing is of any value,’ he told himself, ‘then I cede to her the whole capital of Oberman’s, together with added interest…’

  Then it occurred to him that this was not a very splendid gift for Izabela—making only one man happy! He could not do it for the whole world: but it would be worth elevating at least a few people in order to celebrate getting to know Izabela better. ‘Krzeszowski will be the second,’ he thought, ‘though it is no service to save such fellows. Aha!’ He struck his forehead and, putting aside his English exercises, brought out the file of his private correspondence. This was a morocco case, in which incoming letters were filed according to date, with an index in the front.

  ‘Aha!’ he said, ‘the letter of my penitent and her guardian…page 603…’

  He found the page and read the two letters attentively: one was elegantly written, the other as if scrawled by a childish hand. The first informed him that Maria So-and-So, formerly a girl of loose conduct, was now learning to sew and make dresses, and was behaving piously, obediently, modestly and nicely. In the second letter, Maria herself…thanked him for his help and asked only to be found some occupation: