‘You say that because you don’t know her,’ Wokulski interrupted stormily.
‘Every woman is exceptional, until she breaks your heart. It’s true I don’t know her, but I know others. To gain a great victory over a woman one must be both ruthless and shameless: two virtues you haven’t got. That is why I am warning you — do not risk much, for you will be outdistanced, if you haven’t been already. I have never spoken to you of such things before, have I? I don’t even look like a philosopher. … But I feel you are threatened by danger, so I repeat — beware! Do not engage your heart in a shameful game, for with her at your side you will be derided by every Tom, Dick and Harry. And I must tell you that when that happens a man feels such bitterness that … better not live to see it, God knows!’
Wokulski, on the settee, clenched his fist but kept silent. At this moment there was a knock on the door and Lisiecki appeared: ‘Mr Łęcki to see you. Shall I bring him in here?’
‘Ask him to step in,’ Wokulski replied, hastily buttoning his waistcoat and jacket.
Rzecki got up, shook his head mournfully and left the room. ‘I thought things were bad,’ he muttered in the passage, ‘but never that they were this bad …’
Hardly had Wokulski collected himself than Mr Łęcki entered, followed by the door-man. Mr Łęcki had bloodshot eyes and livid patches on his cheeks. He threw himself into an armchair, leaned back and breathed heavily. The door-man lingered on the threshold with an embarrassed expression and waited for orders, twiddling with the metal buttons on his livery.
‘Forgive me, Stanisław, but … a little water and some lemon juice, if you please …’ Tomasz whispered.
‘Soda water, lemon and sugar. Be quick!’ said Wokulski to the door-man. The latter went out, catching his great buttons on the door-handle.
‘It’s nothing,’ said Tomasz with a smile, ‘I have a short neck, then the heat and vexation … I’ll rest a moment …’
Concerned, Wokulski took off his tie for him and undid his collar. Then he soaked a towel in eau de cologne which he found in Rzecki’s desk and bathed the sick man’s neck, face and temples with filial concern. Tomasz pressed his hand: ‘I am better … Thank you,’ and he added in an undertone, ‘I like you as a ministering angel. Bela couldn’t have done it more delicately … Well, she was born to be served …’
The door-man brought a syphon and lemons. Wokulski made lemonade and gave it to Tomasz, from whose face the livid stains were gradually disappearing.
‘Go to my house,’ said Wokulski to the door-man, ‘and tell them to harness the horses. Bring the carriage around to the shop.’
‘Good of you … good of you …’ said Tomasz, pressing his hand and looking gratefully at him with bloodshot eyes, ‘I am not used to so much trouble being taken, for Bela knows nothing of such things …’
Izabela’s inability to look after sick people struck Wokulski disagreeably. But only for a moment.
Tomasz slowly regained strength. The copious sweat left his forehead, his voice grew stronger and only the network of little veins in his eyes bore witness to the attack. He even walked about the room, stretched and began: ‘Oh, you can have no idea, Stanisław, how vexed I was today. Will you believe that my house was sold for ninety thousand?’
Wokulski flinched.
‘I was positive,’ said Mr Łęcki, ‘that I’d get at least a hundred and ten thousand. In the court I heard people saying the property was worth a hundred and twenty … But what of it? A Jew had set his heart on buying it, a miserable usurer, that Szlangbaum … He came to terms with his competitors and who knows but with my lawyer too, and I lost twenty or thirty thousand.’
Now Wokulski looked apoplectic, but he said nothing.
‘I’d reckoned,’ went on Mr Łęcki, ‘that on the fifty thousand you’d pay me some ten thousand a year. Household expenses are six or eight thousand, so Bela and I could go abroad every year on the remainder. I even promised the child we’d go to Paris next week. Confound it! Six thousand roubles will barely suffice for a wretched existence and there’s no question of travelling … Wretched Jew! Wretched society, so subservient to usurers that no one dares to come into conflict with them even at an auction-sale. But what pains me most is the fact that some Christian, perhaps even an aristocrat, may be concealed behind this Szlangbaum.’
His voice grew more breathless and again livid colouring appeared on his cheeks. He sat down and drank some water: ‘Scoundrels … scoundrels …’ he whispered.
‘Please be calm,’ Wokulski said. ‘How much cash will you be able to let me have?’
‘I asked the Prince’s lawyer (for my own is a scoundrel) to collect the money due and hand it all to you, Stanisław … Thirty thousand altogether. And as you have promised me twenty per cent I’ll have six thousand roubles a year for my entire upkeep … It’s poverty, poverty!’
‘With that amount,’ Wokulski replied, ‘I can invest in a better business. You’ll get your ten thousand a year.’
‘Is that possible?’
‘Yes. I have a special opportunity.’
Tomasz jumped up: ‘My saviour! My benefactor!’ he said in an excited voice, ‘you are the noblest of men … But,’ he added, drawing back and pressing his hands together, ‘are you sure you do not stand to lose anything yourself?’
‘I? Don’t forget I am a tradesman …’
‘A tradesman! Come now,’ exclaimed Tomasz, ‘thanks to you I have learned that the word “tradesman” is today a synonym for greatness of soul, tact, heroism … You are a fine man!’
And he embraced him, almost weeping.
Wokulski made him sit down again for the third time, and at this moment someone knocked: ‘Come in …’
In came Henryk Szlangbaum, pale, with glittering eyes. He stopped in front of Tomasz, bowed to him and said: ‘Sir — I am Szlangbaum, son of the same “wretched usurer” you insulted in the shop in the presence of my colleagues and customers.’
‘Sir … I didn’t know … I am prepared to render you any satisfaction … first of all, I apologise … I was very angry,’ said Tomasz, agitated.
Szlangbaum calmed down: ‘Instead of giving me satisfaction,’ he replied, ‘please listen to me. Why did my father buy your house? Never mind that for today. But he did not cheat you — I’ll give you decisive proof of that. My father will at once let you have that house for ninety thousand — I’ll go further: the purchaser will let you have it for seventy thousand …’
‘Henryk!’ Wokulski interposed.
‘I have finished. Good-day,’ said Szlangbaum, and he left the room with a low bow to Tomasz.
‘What a disagreeable thing,’ Tomasz exclaimed after a moment, ‘I’m afraid I did utter a few bitter words about old Szlangbaum in the shop, but I didn’t know his son was there, upon my word … He will let me have the house back for seventy thousand after paying ninety thousand? Odd! What have you to say to that, Stanisław ?’
‘Perhaps the house is really only worth ninety thousand,’ Wokulski replied non-committally.
Tomasz began buttoning his clothes and tie. ‘Thank you, Stanisław,’ he said, ‘both for your help and for concerning yourself with my business affairs. But — Bela wants you to dinner tomorrow … Get the money from the Prince’s lawyer, and as to the percentage which you will be kind enough …’
‘I’ll pay it at once, six months in advance.’
‘I am most grateful,’ Tomasz went on. embracing him, ‘so — au revoir till tomorrow. Don’t forget the dinner …’
Wokulski conducted him across the yard to the gate, where the carriage was already waiting. ‘This heat is frightful,’ said Tomasz, getting into the carriage with some difficulty and assisted by Wokulski, ‘What a disagreeable thing about those Jews … He gave ninety thousand and is prepared to let it go for seventy … Fancy! Upon my word …’
The horses moved off in the direction of Aleje Ujazdowskie.
On the way home, Tomasz sat bemused. He did not feel the heat, only a
general weakness and roaring in the ears. Sometimes it seemed to him that he saw differently out of each eye, or that both saw worse. He leaned back in the corner of the carriage, rocking as if drunk with each jolt. His thoughts and feelings mingled in a strange way. Sometimes he imagined he was surrounded by a net of intrigues, from which only Wokulski could extricate him. Then that he was seriously ill and only Wokulski knew how to tend him. Then again that he was a dying, leaving behind an impoverished daughter deserted by everyone, whom only Wokulski would look after. And finally he thought it must be pleasant to own a carriage as light as this in which he was riding, and that if he asked Wokulski for it, the latter would make him a present of it.
‘Fearful heat!’ Tomasz muttered.
The horses stopped in front of the house, Tomasz got out and went upstairs without even nodding to the driver. He could hardly move his heavy legs and when he reached his study he fell into a chair with his hat on, and sat thus for a few minutes much to the amazement of the servant, who saw fit to call his mistress.
‘The business must have gone well,’ he said to Izabela, ‘for His Excellency is … sort of …’
Despite her apparent lack of interest, Izabela had been awaiting her father’s return and the result of the auction with the utmost impatience, and she went to his study as quickly as was appropriate to good manners. For she always bore in mind that a young lady with her surname was not supposed to betray her feelings, even in the face of bankruptcy. Yet for all her self-control Mikołaj saw (from the bright flush on her cheeks) that she was excited and added once again in an undertone: ‘Oh, the business must have gone well, because His Excellency … him …’
Izabela wrinkled up her beautiful brows and slammed the study door behind her. Her father was still sitting there with his hat on: ‘What’s the matter, father?’ she asked with a touch of distaste, looking at his bloodshot eyes.
‘Misfortune … ruin …’ Tomasz replied, taking off his hat with some difficulty, ‘I have lost thirty thousand roubles.’
Izabela went white and sat down on the leather chaise-longue.
‘A wretched Jew, a usurer, frightened away competition, bribed my lawyer, and …’
‘So we have nothing?’ she murmured.
‘How so, nothing? We still have thirty thousand, and ten thousand a year interest on it. That excellent Wokulski! I had no idea that such nobility existed … And you should have seen how he took care of me today.’
‘Took care of you? Why?’
‘I had a slight attack due to the heat and my vexation …’
‘What sort of attack?’
‘The blood ran to my head … but it is better now. Wretched Jew … but Wokulski — it was something quite unusual, I assure you.’ He burst into tears.
‘Papa, what’s wrong? I’ll send for the doctor,’ Izabela exclaimed, kneeling down by his chair.
‘No, it’s nothing … calm yourself … But it crossed my mind that if I were to die, Wokulski is the only man you would be able to trust …’
‘I don’t understand you.’
‘You mean you don’t recognise me, isn’t that it? You’re surprised I could entrust your fate to a tradesman. But d’you see … when some people have plotted against us in our misfortune, others have deserted us, he hastened to assist and perhaps even saved my life … We apoplectics sometimes pass very close to death … so when it got me, I asked myself who would look after you. Joanna wouldn’t, nor Hortensia, no one … Only wealthy orphans can find guardians.’
Seeing that her father was slowly regaining his strength and self-control, Izabela rose from her knees and sat down on the chaise-longue: ‘What part do you intend this gentleman to play?’ she inquired coldly.
‘Part?’ he echoed, eyeing her attentively, ‘the part … of an adviser … a friend of the family, a guardian. The guardian of the small estate that will be left to you.’
‘Oh, I have already long since estimated his value in that respect. He is an energetic man and attached to us. But less of that,’ she added after a moment, ‘how did you finish off the business of the house?’
‘I’ll tell you. A scoundrel of a Jew paid ninety thousand, so we have thirty thousand left. But since honest Wokulski is going to pay me ten thousand a year on this sum … Thirty-three per cent, imagine that!’
‘Thirty-three, how so?’ Izabela interrupted, ‘ten thousand is ten per cent …’
‘Not at all! Ten out of thirty means thirty-three per cent, for every hundred, d’you see?’
‘I don’t understand,’ Izabela replied, shaking her head, ‘I see that ten means ten: but if ten in tradesman’s language means thirty-three, so be it …’
‘You must realise that you don’t understand. I’d explain it but I’m so tired I’ll take a nap …’
‘Should I send for the doctor?’ asked Izabela, rising.
‘God forbid!’ exclaimed Tomasz with a gesture, ‘once I get into the doctors’ hands, I shan’t survive …’
Izabela insisted no longer: she kissed her father’s hand and brow, and went to her boudoir, deep in thought.
The uneasiness that had been haunting her for several days as to how the auction sale would end had left her without trace. So they still had ten thousand roubles a year, and thirty thousand in cash? So they could go to the Paris Exhibition, then perhaps to Switzerland, and back to Paris for the winter. Or no — for the winter they would come back to Warsaw and open their house again. And if some wealthy man, not old and ugly (as the Baron or marshal were — ugh!) should be found, not a parvenu and not stupid … (well, he might be stupid: in their world only Ochocki was clever, and he was an eccentric!). If such a suitor were to be found, Izabela would finally make up her mind …
‘Father is capital with that Wokulski of his!’ she thought, walking to and fro in her boudoir. ‘Wokulski my guardian! Wokulski might make a very good adviser, a plenipotentiary, even the trustee of my estate … But the title of guardian can only belong to the Prince, who is our cousin and old friend of the family …’
She continued walking to and fro with her arms crossed on her bosom and it suddenly occurred to her to ask why her father had grown so affectionate towards Wokulski this day? That man, by some magical power, having won over all her environment, had gained the last position — her father! Her father, Mr Tomasz Łęcki, had wept … He, from whose eyes not a single tear had flowed since the death of her mother …
‘I must admit, all the same, that he is a very good man,’ she told herself. ‘Rossi would not have been so pleased with Warsaw had it not been for Wokulski’s concern. Well, but he will never be my guardian, not even in the event of a misfortune … As for the estate, well certainly … he might control it, but my guardian! Father must be terribly enfeebled even to conceive such a notion …’
Towards six that evening, Izabela was in the drawing-room when the bell rang and she heard Mikołaj’s impatient voice: ‘I told you to come back tomorrow, my master is poorly today.’
‘What am I supposed to do when your master has money but is poorly, and when he’s well he has no money?’ replied another voice, lisping slightly like a Jew’s.
At this moment the rustle of a woman’s dress was heard in the vestibule, and Flora hastened in, saying: ‘Be quiet! Quiet, for goodness sake … Come back tomorrow, Mr Spigelman … Surely you know the money will be here …’
‘That’s just why I have come today, and for the third time too. Tomorrow other people will come, and I’ll be made to wait again.’
The blood went to Izabela’s head and without realising what she did, she suddenly went into the vestibule: ‘What is it?’ she asked Flora. Mikołaj shrugged and tip-toed back into the kitchen.
‘It’s me, your ladyship … David Spigelman,’ replied a little man with black beard and dark spectacles, ‘I’ve come to see His Excellency on a little matter of business …’
‘Bela, dear,’ Flora exclaimed, trying to draw her cousin away. But Izabela freed herself and seeing that
her father’s study was unoccupied, she told Spigelman to go in.
‘Think, Bela — what are you at?’ Flora protested.
‘I want to find out the truth once and for all,’ said Izabela. She shut the study door, sat down and looking into Spigelman’s dark glasses, she asked: ‘What business have you to discuss with my father?’
‘My apologies, your ladyship,’ said the visitor, bowing, ‘it is a very small matter. I only want my money back.’
‘How much is it?’
‘Altogether about eight hundred roubles.’
‘You will get it tomorrow …’
‘My apologies, your ladyship, but … for six months I’ve been getting that “tomorrow” week after week and don’t see neither interest nor capital …’
Izabela felt breathless and there was a pain in her heart. However, she mastered herself: ‘You know my father is to get thirty thousand roubles… Apart from that (she said this without thinking) we shall be getting ten thousand a year. Your small sum will not disappear — surely you understand that?’
‘How ten thousand?’ the Jew asked, and raised his head impudently.
‘What do you mean — “how”?’ she replied indignantly, ‘interest on our fortune…’
‘From thirty thousand?’ the Jew interrupted a smile, thinking she wanted to trick him.
‘Yes.’
‘My apologies, miss,’ Spigelman replied ironically, ‘I have been making money a long time but I never heard of no such interest. On thirty thousand His Excellency may get three thousand, even then on a very dubious mortgage. But what’s it to me? My business is to get my money back. For when the rest come tomorrow, they will be better than David Spigelman, and when His Excellency pays off the rest at interest, I’ll have to wait a year …’
Izabela rose: ‘I assure you you will get your money tomorrow,’ she exclaimed, eyeing him contemptuously.