The Doll

  ‘Łęcki is your client, then?’ asked the handsome dark man.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He has … a sister in Cracow who is bequeathing to his daughter …’

  ‘Suppose she doesn’t, though?’

  The gentleman with whiskers was taken aback for a moment: ‘Don’t talk such nonsense to me! Why shouldn’t his sister in Cracow make a will, seeing she’s sick?’

  ‘I don’t know nothin’ about that,’ the handsome dark man replied (Ignacy had to admit he had never before seen such a handsome man).

  ‘But he has a daughter, Mr Cynader,’ said the owner of the flowing whiskers uneasily, ‘you know his daughter Izabela, don’t you, Mr Cynader? I’d give her — well, a hundred roubles and no questions asked.’

  ‘I’d give her a hundred and fifty,’ said the handsome dark man, ‘though of course that Łęcki is a doubtful case.’

  ‘Doubtful? And what about Mr Wokulski?’

  ‘Mr Wokulski? Ah — that’s big business,’ replied the dark man, ‘but she’s stupid and Łęcki is stupid and so are they all. And they will destroy Wokulski, and he can’t do anything about it.’

  Ignacy saw red: ‘Good God!’ he thought, ‘so they even talk about Wokulski at auction-sales, and about her. And they even predict she will destroy him. Good God!’

  Some confusion had occurred at the table occupied by the auctioneers; all the spectators surged in that direction. Old Szlangbaum approached the table, nodded on the way to the emaciated Jew and winked imperceptibly at the stately individual to whom he had been talking in the café. At the same moment, Baroness Krzeszowska’s lawyer hurried in, took his place in front of the table without so much as looking at her and muttered to the auctioneer: ‘Be quick, be quick, for goodness sake, I have no time to waste …’

  A new group of persons entered the court a few moments after the lawyer. They consisted of a married couple apparently in the butchering line of business, an old lady with a teenage grandson and two gentlemen: one was stout and grey-haired, the other curly-haired and consumptive-looking. Both had humble expressions and shabby clothing but on catching sight of them, the Jews began whispering together and pointing at them with expressions of admiration and respect. Both stopped so near Ignacy that he involuntarily overheard some comments the grey-haired gentleman made to his curly-haired companion: ‘Do as I do, Ksawery. I am in no hurry, I assure you. I’ve been going to buy a nice little house for three years now, something costing a hundred thousand or so, for my old age — but I’m in no hurry. I see in the papers what houses are up for auction, I read them slowly, I work it all out in my head, then I come here to see what offers people make. And now that I’ve gained experience and want to buy a property — the prices all go up in a most impractical way, damnation take them, and I have had to start all my calculations over again. But when we start, I assure you we’ll beat down the prices …’

  ‘Silence!’ someone at the table shouted. The court-room grew quiet, and Ignacy listened to the description of an apartment house situated in so-and-so street, with three wings and three floors, a driveway, garden and the like. During this important event, Mr Łęcki went pale then pink by turns, and Baroness Krzeszowska kept sniffing a crystal flask in a gold case.

  ‘Why, I know that house!’ the individual in green glasses like a sacristan, suddenly exclaimed, ‘I know that house! It’s worth a hundred and twenty thousand roubles at least …’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ exclaimed the gentleman with the look of a scoundrel, next to the Baroness Krzeszowska, ‘what sort of a house is it? It’s a positive ruin, it’s a morgue …’

  Mr Łęcki turned very pink. He nodded to the sacristan and asked in a whisper: ‘Who is that scoundrel?’

  ‘Him?’ asked the sacristan, ‘he’ll be hanged one day … Don’t pay no attention, Your Excellency.’ And he added loudly: ‘Upon my word, a man could safely pay a hundred and thirty thousand for it.’

  ‘Who is that scoundrel?’ the Baroness asked the individual with a wicked look on his face, ‘who’s that in the green spectacles?’

  ‘Him?’ asked the man, ‘he’s a well-known criminal … he left jail not so long ago. Don’t pay any attention to him, madam. Not worth spitting on …’

  ‘Silence, there!’ an official voice called from the table.

  Smiling in a familiar manner, the sacristan winked at Mr Łęcki and pushed his way between the bidders to the table. There were a total of four: the Baroness’s lawyer, the stately individual, old Szlangbaum and the emaciated Jew, next to whom the sacristan stopped.

  ‘Sixty thousand and five hundred roubles,’ said Baroness Krzeszowska’s lawyer.

  ‘Good God! It’s not worth a penny more,’ put in the individual with the face of a scoundrel. The Baroness glanced triumphantly at Mr Łęcki.

  ‘Sixty-five thousand,’ said the majestic individual.

  ‘Sixty-six …’ added Szlangbaum.

  ‘Seventy thousand!’ cried the sacristan.

  ‘O! O! O!’ the Baroness burst into tears, collapsing on the shabby sofa. Her lawyer hastily quit the table and hurried off to defend his murderer.

  ‘Seventy-five thousand!’ shouted the stately individual.

  ‘This is killing me!’ the Baroness groaned.

  There was a stir in the court-room. An aged Lithuanian took the Baroness by the arm, of which Maruszewicz (who had appeared from Heaven knows where for this solemn occasion) relieved him. Sobbing, leaning on Maruszewicz, the Baroness left the courtroom, calling down curses upon her lawyer, the court, the bidders and the auctioneers. Mr Łęcki smiled faintly and meanwhile the emaciated Jew was saying: ‘Eighty thousand and one hundred roubles …’

  ‘Eighty-five,’ interposed Szlangbaum.

  Mr Łęcki was all eyes, all ears. His eyes perceived nothing but the three bidders and his ears caught the words of the stately individual: ‘Eighty-eight thousand …’

  ‘Eighty-eight thousand and one hundred roubles,’ said the emaciated Jew.

  ‘Ninety thousand, then!’ concluded old Szlangbaum, banging the table with his fist.

  ‘Ninety thousand roubles,’ said the auctioneer, ‘going …’

  Forgetting his manners, Mr Łęcki leaned over to the sacristan and whispered: ‘Bid! Make a bid, sir!’

  ‘What are you fighting for?’ the sacristan asked the emaciated Jew.

  ‘What are you fussing about?’ another auctioneer addressed the sacristan, ‘are you buying the property then? Be off with you!’

  ‘Ninety thousand roubles … going …’ shouted the auctioneer.

  Mr Łęcki’s face turned grey.

  ‘Ninety thousand roubles … gone!’ the auctioneer cried, and struck the green baize with his little hammer.

  ‘Sold to Szlangbaum!’ some in the court exclaimed.

  Mr Łęcki gazed dully around and only now did he notice his lawyer: ‘My dear sir,’ he said in a trembling voice, ‘this isn’t right …’

  ‘What isn’t?

  ‘No, it isn’t right … it’s dishonest …’ Mr Łęcki repeated indig-nantly.

  ‘What isn’t right?’ his lawyer echoed, rather vexed, ‘after paying off your mortgage you’ll make thirty thousand …’

  ‘But that house cost me a hundred thousand, and might have fetched more, if more care had been taken — a hundred and twenty thousand.’

  ‘Yes,’ the sacristan confirmed, ‘that house is worth about a hundred and twenty thousand.’

  ‘D’you hear that, my good man?’ Mr Łęcki said, ‘if only more care had been taken …’

  ‘My dear sir, no recriminations, please! You have been taking the advice of crooked dealers, of scoundrels from jail …’

  ‘Come, now!’ the sacristan replied, offended, ‘not everyone who has been to jail is a scoundrel. As for advice …’

  ‘Yes, that house was worth a hundred and twenty thousand,’ exclaimed the scoundrel-like individual, unexpectedly coming to Łęcki’s aid.

  Mr Łęcki gazed
at him glassily, but could not yet realise the situation fully. He did not bid his lawyer good-bye, put his hat on in the court-room and as he went out, muttered: ‘Through Jews and lawyers I have lost thirty thousand roubles … I might have got a hundred and twenty thousand.’

  Old Szlangbaum was leaving too: then he was accosted by Mr Cynader, the handsome dark man Ignacy had seen just before: ‘What sort of business are you up to, Mr Szlangbaum?’ he asked him, ‘you might have bought that house for seventy-one thousand. It’s worth no more today.’

  ‘Not to some, perhaps, but to another it is: I do always good business,’ said the pensive Szlangbaum.

  Finally Rzecki too left the court, in which another sale was taking place and another audience had already collected. Ignacy went downstairs slowly and thought: ‘So Szlangbaum bought the house, and for ninety thousand, as Klein predicted. But Szlangbaum is not Wokulski, after all … Staś wouldn’t do anything so silly! No! As for Izabela, it’s all nonsense, gossip …’

  XIX

  First Warning

  IT WAS one o’clock in the afternoon when Ignacy drew near to the store, feeling ashamed and uneasy. How could anyone waste so much time … precisely when the most customers were in the shop? And hadn’t some disaster occurred? What pleasure was there to be gained from wandering about the streets amidst the heat, dust and smell of roasting asphalt? The day really was remarkably hot and glaring; the pavements and buildings gave off a glow; metal signs and lamp-posts could not be touched and because of the excess of light, tears came into Mr Ignacy’s eyes and black spots danced across his field of vision. ‘If I were the Lord,’ he thought, ‘I’d save half the heat of July for use in December …’

  Suddenly he noticed the store’s display windows (he was just passing) and was astounded. The display had not been changed for two whole weeks. Here another week had passed without the display being changed! The same bronzes, vases, fans, the same travelling bags, gloves, umbrellas and toys. Had anyone ever seen anything to dreadful?

  ‘I’m a wretch,’ he muttered, ‘first I got drunk, today I’m wandering about … The devil will get me, sure as fate …’

  Hardly had he entered the store, uncertain which burdened him most — his heart or his feet — than Mraczewski seized on him. His hair had been trimmed in the Warsaw style, he was combed and perfumed as before, and was serving customers out of sheer pleasure, for he himself was a customer and from foreign parts too. The local ladies could not get over their admiration.

  ‘For goodness sake, Ignacy,’ he exclaimed, ‘I’ve been waiting three hours for you! You must all have gone off your heads!’ He took him by the arm and without paying any attention to a couple of customers, who stared at them in amazement, hurriedly drew Rzecki into the office where the safe was kept. Here he thrust the old clerk who had gone grey in service into a hard chair and stood before him, ringing his hands like a desperate Germont before Violetta, as he said: ‘You know what? I realised that after I’d left here the business would go to pieces, but I never expected it to happen so soon … The fact that you don’t stay in the store doesn’t matter so much — it won’t run away. But as for the stupidities the old man is committing — that’s a disgrace!’

  Ignacy’s eyebrows seemed about to disappear from his forehead altogether in amazement. ‘I beg your pardon!’ he exclaimed, jumping up. But Mraczewski made him sit down again.

  ‘Not a word!’ the perfumed young man interrupted, ‘do you know what is going on? Suzin is leaving tonight for Berlin to see Bismarck, and then on to Paris for the Exhibition. It is essential — essential, d’you hear? — that we persuade Wokulski to go with him. But that blockhead …’

  ‘Mr Mraczewski! How dare you …?’

  ‘It’s my nature, and Wokulski is mad! Only today did I find out the truth … D’you know how much the old man might make in this Paris business with Suzin? Not ten, but fifty thousand roubles, Mr Rzecki! And that booby not only refuses to go, but even says he doesn’t know whether he will go at all. He doesn’t know, yet Suzin can only wait a few days at the most for the deal.’

  ‘How about Suzin?’ asked Mr Ignacy, genuinely perturbed.

  ‘Suzin? He’s angry and — what’s worse — bitter. He says Stanisław Petrovich is no longer the man he used to be, that he despises him — in a word, they disagree! Fifty thousand roubles profit and the trip free. Well, just tell me whether St Stanisław himself wouldn’t have gone to Paris on such terms?’

  ‘Certainly,’ Ignacy muttered, ‘where’s Staś — that’s to say Mr Wokulski?’ he added, rising.

  ‘In your apartment, writing accounts for Suzin. You’ll find out for yourself how much you stand to lose by this folly …’

  The office door opened and Klein appeared, a letter in his hand. ‘Łęcki’s butler brought this for the old man,’ he said, ‘maybe you’ll hand it to him, for he’s rather bad-tempered today.’

  Ignacy took the pale blue envelope adorned with a pattern of forget-me-nots, but hesitated. Meanwhile Mraczewski glanced over his shoulder at the superscription: ‘A letter from little Bela!’ he exclaimed, ‘here’s a go!’ and he hurried out of the office, laughing.

  ‘Devil take it,’ Ignacy muttered, ‘can all these rumours be true, then? So it’s for her that he is spending ninety thousand roubles on buying that house, and losing fifty thousand from Suzin? A total of a hundred and forty thousand roubles! And that carriage, and the races, and those donations to charity! And … and that Rossi who stared at Miss Łęcki as fervently as a Jew at Moses’ tablets! Ach — away with ceremony!’

  He buttoned up his jacket, straightened his back and went to his room with the letter. Not until this moment did he notice that his shoes were squeaking somewhat, and felt a sort of relief.

  Wokulski was sitting in Ignacy’s room over a pile of papers, without his coat and waistcoat, writing. ‘Here you are,’ he said, looking up at Rzecki’s entry, ‘you won’t mind me using your place as though it were mine?’

  ‘The boss being formal!’ exclaimed Mr Ignacy, bitterly, ‘here’s a letter from … from them, from the Łęckis.’

  Wokulski glanced at the superscription, feverishly tore open the envelope and pored over the letter — once, twice, thrice he read it. Rzecki upset something on the desk, then noticing that his friend had finished reading and was thoughtfully resting his head on one hand, said drily: ‘Are you going to Paris with Suzin today?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘I hear it’s an important deal … fifty thousand roubles.’

  Wokulski did not say a word.

  ‘So you’ll be going tomorrow or the next day, for apparently Suzin is prepared to wait for you a day or two?’

  ‘I don’t know whether I’ll be going at all.’

  ‘That’s too bad, Staś. Fifty thousand roubles is a fortune, a pity to let it slip. If people hear you have let such an opportunity go by …’

  ‘They will say I’ve gone mad,’ Wokulski interrupted.

  Again he fell silent, then suddenly exclaimed: ‘Suppose I have a more important duty to fulfil than making fifty thousand roubles?’

  ‘Is it politics?’ Rzecki asked quietly, with alarm in his eyes and a smile on his lips.

  Wokulski handed him the letter: ‘Read this,’ he said, ‘you will see there are better things than politics.’

  Ignacy took the letter with some hesitation, but on Wokulski’s renewed command, read it:

  ‘The wreath is perfectly beautiful and I thank you in Rossi’s name for this gift. Placing emeralds between the golden leaves was incomparably tasteful. You simply must come to us for dinner tomorrow so we may discuss Rossi’s farewell performance, and our trip to Paris too. Papa told me yesterday we shall be leaving within a week at the latest. We shall of course travel together, since without the pleasure of your company the journey would lose half its charm for me. Au revoir. Izabela Łęcka.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Ignacy, indifferently casting the letter to the table, ‘no one th
rows fifty thousand roubles — if not more — into the mud for the pleasure of travelling to Paris with Miss Łęcka and even talking about presents for her … her admirers.’

  Wokulski rose and, leaning both hands on the table, asked: ‘What if it suited me to throw my entire fortune in the mud for her sake — what then?’

  The veins stood out on his forehead, his shirt-front heaved feverishly. The same sparks which Rzecki had noticed during the duel with the Baron glittered and died away in his eyes.

  ‘What then?’ Wokulski repeated.

  ‘Then — nothing,’ Rzecki replied calmly, ‘I’d merely admit that I was mistaken for I don’t know how often in my life …’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘About you. I thought that a man who had risked death … and gossip to acquire a fortune would have some higher aim …’

  ‘Don’t mention higher aims to me,’ Wokulski cried, banging the table, ‘I know what I have done for those higher aims, but what have they done for me? Is there no end to the demands of the oppressed who allow no rights to me? I want for the first time to do something for myself … My head’s full to overflowing with clichés that no one ever puts into action … Personal happiness — that’s my obligation now … otherwise I’d shoot myself, if I didn’t see something for myself ahead, other than monstrous burdens. Thousand of people are idle, but one man has his “duty” towards them … Did you ever hear anything more abominable?’

  ‘Wasn’t the ovation for Rossi a burden?’ Mr Ignacy asked.

  ‘I didn’t do it for Rossi …’

  ‘Merely to please a woman, I know. Of all savings banks, a woman is the least secure,’ Rzecki replied.

  ‘Mind what you say!’ Wokulski hissed.

  What I have said, rather … You seem to think you have only just invented love. I know about it, too — hm! A few years back, I, like a half-wit, fell in love, and yet my Heloise was carrying on all the time with other men. My God! How much all those glances tortured me as I saw them exchanged … In the end embraces were exchanged in my presence, even … Believe me, Staś, I am not as naive as some people think. I have seen a great deal in my life, and have come to the conclusion that we put too much heart into the game called love.’