The Doll

  ‘Word of honour?’ asked the Jew, relishing her beauty.

  ‘On my word, you will all be paid off tomorrow. All of you, down to the last penny.’

  The Jew bowed low and retreated backwards as he left the study: ‘I’ll see if your ladyship keeps her word,’ he said as he left. Old Mikołaj was in the hall again and opened the door for Spigelman with such grace that the latter shouted at him from the stairs: ‘What are you falling over yourself for, Mr Butler?’

  Pale with fury, Izabela hurried to her father’s bedroom. Flora stopped her. ‘Leave him alone, Bela,’ she said imploringly, ‘your father is so ill …’

  ‘I assured that man all our debts will be paid and they must be. Even if it prevents us from going to Paris …’

  Tomasz, in slippers and without his frock-coat, was just walking about in his bedroom when his daughter entered. She observed that her father looked very poorly, his shoulders were bowed, his grey whiskers drooping, even his eyelids bowed, and he was as bent as an old man, but these observations only prevented her from an outburst of anger, not from settling the matter.

  ‘I apologise, Bela, for being in this undress … What has happened?’

  ‘Nothing, father,’ she replied, controlling herself, ‘some Jew was here …’

  ‘It must have been Spigelman … He’s as troublesome as a mosquito …’ Tomasz exclaimed, clutching his forehead, ‘let him come back tomorrow …’

  ‘That is precisely what he is going to do — he and the other …’

  ‘Good … very good … I have long been thinking of settling with them. Well, thank Heaven it has cooled off somewhat …’

  Izabela was astounded by her father’s tranquillity and wretched appearance. It was as though he had gained several years in age since that afternoon. She sat and looking around the bedroom asked, as if reluctantly: ‘Do you owe them a great deal, papa?’

  ‘Not much … a trifle … a few thousand roubles.’

  ‘Are these the promissory notes which my aunt mentioned that someone had bought up last March?’

  Mr Łęcki stopped in the middle of the room, cracked his fingers and exclaimed: ‘O goodness! I had quite forgotten them!’

  ‘So we have debts of more than a few thousand?’

  ‘Yes, yes … a little more. I think it must be from five to six thousand. I’ll ask that honest fellow Wokulski, he’ll see to it for me …’

  Despite herself, Izabela was shocked: ‘Spigelman says,’ she went on after a moment, ‘that it is impossible to get ten thousand interest on our fortune. Three thousand at the most, and then on a dubious mortgage …’

  ‘He’s right — on a mortgage, but commerce is not mortgages. Commerce can provide thirty per cent … But how does Spigelman know about our interest rate?’ Tomasz asked, wondering a little.

  ‘I told him without meaning to,’ Izabela explained, blushing.

  ‘That was a pity … a great pity … it is better not to mention such matters.’

  ‘Is it anything bad?’ she whispered.

  ‘Bad? Well, nothing bad, goodness me … But it is always better if people don’t know the source of one’s income … The Baron, or even the marshal himself, wouldn’t have the reputations of millionaires and philanthropists if all their secrets were known …’

  ‘Why is that, father?’

  ‘You are still a child,’ said Tomasz, somewhat embarrassed, ‘you are an idealist, so … it might set you against them. But you have common sense, after all. The Baron, d’you see, is in some company with usurers and the marshal’s fortune came mainly from lucky fires … and trading in beef during the Crimean war.’

  ‘So that is what my suitors are like?’ Izabela murmured.

  ‘It means nothing, Bela. They have money and plenty of credit, and that is the main thing,’ Tomasz assured her.

  Izabela shook her head as if to dispel disagreeable thoughts: ‘So, papa, we shall not be going to Paris?’

  ‘Why not, my child, why not?’

  ‘If you are going to pay five or six thousand to those Jews …’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ll ask Wokulski to get me that amount at six or seven per cent, and we will pay it off at four hundred a year. After all, we have ten thousand.’

  Izabela hung her head, softly drummed on the table and pondered: ‘Aren’t you afraid, papa — of Wokulski?’ she asked, after thinking.

  ‘I?’ Tomasz cried, and struck himself on the chest, ‘I’m afraid of Joanna, Hortensja, even of our Prince and all of them together, but not of Wokulski. If you’d seen how he bathed my head with eau de cologne today … And with what alarm he looked at me! He is the noblest man I ever met … He cares nothing for money, cannot profit from me but cares for my friendship … God has sent-me him and at a time when … I am beginning to feel my age and perhaps … death.’

  With this, Tomasz began blinking his eyes, from which a few tears oozed.

  ‘Papa, you are ill!’ Izabela cried, alarmed.

  ‘No, no — it is the heat, the vexation and above all — my grievances. Just think: did anyone call on us today? No one, because they think we have already lost everything … Joanna is afraid I may borrow money from her for tomorrow’s dinner … The same goes for the Baron and the Prince … When the Baron learns we have thirty thousand left, he will come here — for you. Just think that even if he married you with a dowry, he would not have to spend any money on me … But calm yourself; when they hear we have ten thousand a year, they will all come back again and you will reign in your drawing-room as before. My God, how vexed I am!’ said Tomasz, wiping his tearful eyes.

  ‘Am I to send for the doctor, papa?’

  Her father considered: ‘Tomorrow, tomorrow will do … by tomorrow it may have passed of its own accord.’

  At this moment a knock came at the door: ‘Who is it? Who’s there?’ asked Tomasz.

  ‘The Countess has come,’ said Flora’s voice from the corridor.

  ‘Joanna?’ Tomasz exclaimed with joyful surprise, ‘go to her, Bela … I must collect my wits somewhat … Well, just fancy! I wager she has found out about the thirty thousand … Go to her, Bela! Mikołaj!’

  And he began fidgeting around the bedroom looking for various parts of his attire, while Izabela went to her aunt, who was already awaiting her in the drawing-room. Seeing Izabela, the Countess embraced her: ‘So God is good, after all,’ she exclaimed, ‘to send you so much happiness! Well, I hear Tomasz got ninety thousand for the house and your dowry is safe. I’d never have supposed …’

  ‘Aunt, my father expected more, but some Jew, the new purchaser, frightened off other bidders,’ said Izabela, rather offended.

  ‘Oh, my child — haven’t you found out about your father’s impractical ways? He may have imagined the house was worth millions, while in fact it was worth seventy thousand or so at the most. After all, houses are auctioned every day, everyone knows what they are like and what is paid for them. Anyhow, there is nothing more to be said; let your father imagine he was cheated, but you, Bela, do pray for the health of that Jew who paid ninety thousand … By the way, did you know Kazio Starski is back?’

  A powerful flush appeared on Izabela’s face: ‘When? Where from?’ she asked, confused.

  ‘Straight from England, whence he’d gone from China. As handsome as ever, and now he’s going to his grandmama’s — she, apparently, is to leave him her fortune.’

  ‘Doesn’t she live in your neighbourhood?’

  ‘That is precisely what I want to talk to you about. He asked a great deal about you, and I, being sure you have been cured of some of your whims, have advised him to call on you tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, delightful!’ Izabela exclaimed, gratified.

  ‘There, you see,’ said the Countess, kissing her, ‘your aunt is always thinking of you. He is an excellent match for you, and it will be all the easier to bring it off now that Tomasz has some capital, which ought to suffice him, and Kazio has heard something of Aunt Hortensja’s w
ill in your favour. Well, I daresay Starski is somewhat in debt. But in any case, what will be left him of his grandmother’s fortune plus what you may get from Hortensja, ought to suffice you both for some time. Later — we will see. He still has an uncle; you have me, so your children will not be poor.’

  Izabela kissed her aunt’s hands in silence. At this moment she was so beautiful that the Countess, embracing her, drew her to a mirror and said, with a smile: ‘Well, mind you look like this tomorrow and you’ll see that the wounds in Kazio’s heart will re-open … Though it is a pity you turned him down that time … You would have had a hundred or a hundred and fifty thousand roubles more today … I imagine that the poor boy must have spent a great deal of money in his despair … But …’ the Countess added, ‘is it true that you and your father want to go to Paris?’

  ‘We intend to.’

  ‘Please, Bela,’ her aunt begged, ‘do not go. I particularly want to suggest that you spend the rest of the summer with me. And you must, even if only for Starski’s sake. You know, the young fellow will be bored in the country, he’ll dream … You can meet every day and under such circumstances it will be the easiest thing in the world to attach him to you, even obligate him …’

  Izabela blushed more than before and bowed her beautiful head: ‘Aunt!’ she whispered.

  ‘Come, my child, don’t play the diplomatist with me. A young lady of your age ought to marry — and whatever you do, avoid repeating your past mistakes. Kazio is a splendid parti; you won’t tire of him quickly, and if he … if he does, then at least he will be your husband and will have to be tolerant about many things, just as you will. Where’s your father?’

  ‘My father is rather unwell …’

  ‘Good Heavens! I daresay his unexpected good fortune has upset him …’

  ‘He was ill with rage at that Jew …’

  ‘Him and his illusions!’ the Countess replied, rising, ‘I’ll drop in on him for a moment to talk about your holiday. As for you, Bela, I expect you will be able to take advantage of the time.’

  After half an hour’s intimate talk with Tomasz, the Countess said goodbye to her niece, reminding her once again of Starski.

  At about nine, Tomasz, quite contrary to his habits, went to bed, while Izabela summoned her cousin Flora to her room for a talk: ‘You know, Flora,’ she said, reclining in the chaise-longue, ‘that Kazio Starski is back and is to call on us tomorrow …’

  ‘Ah …’ Flora breathed, as if this event were already known to her, ‘so he is not angry?’ she asked, emphasising the last word.

  ‘Surely not … At least, I don’t know,’ Izabela smiled, ‘aunt says he is very handsome …’

  ‘And in debt. But there is no harm in that. Who isn’t nowadays?’

  ‘What would you say, Flora, if I were to …’

  ‘Marry him? I’d congratulate you both, of course. But what would the Baron say, not to mention the marshal, Ochocki and above all — Wokulski?’

  Izabela rose hastily: ‘My dear, what on earth puts Wokulski into your head?’

  ‘Nothing …’ Flora replied, plucking at the tape of her bodice, ‘only I recall that in April you told me … that that man had been pursuing you with looks for a twelve-month, that he was surrounding you on all sides …’

  Izabela burst out laughing: ‘Ah, I remember! Of course, that was how it seemed … But today, now that I know him better, I can see he does not belong to the category of men one needs to fear. He adores me on the quiet, that’s so: but he will adore me just the same, even if I were to … get married. A look, a pressure of the hand suffices admirers of Wokulski’s sort …’

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘Completely. In any case, I’ve found that what seemed to me like snares on his part was nothing but business. Father is lending him thirty thousand roubles and who knows but what all his devices weren’t for that purpose?’

  ‘Suppose it were otherwise?’ Flora asked, continuing to play with the fringe of her bodice.

  ‘My dear, for goodness sake!’ Izabela protested, ‘why are you trying to vex me?’

  ‘You yourself said that such people can wait patiently, set their snares, even risk everything and smash …’

  ‘Not Wokulski, though.’

  ‘Recollect the Baron …’

  ‘The Baron insulted him in public.’

  ‘But he apologised to you.’

  ‘Oh Flora, don’t tease me,’ Izabela burst out, ‘you are intent on making a demon out of this tradesman, perhaps because we lost so much on the sale of the house … because father is ill … and because Starski is back.’

  Flora made a gesture as if to say more, but stopped: ‘Goodnight, Bela,’ she said, ‘perhaps you are right, now.’

  And she went out.

  All night long Izabela dreamed of Starski as her husband, Rossi as her Platonic lover number one, Ochocki as number two and Wokulski as the trustee of their fortune. Not until ten next morning was she awakened by Flora who reported that Spigelman and another Jew had come: ‘Spigelman? Oh yes … I had forgotten … Tell him to come back later. Is papa up?’

  ‘He’s been up an hour. I was just speaking to him about the Jews and he would like you to write a letter to Wokulski.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To ask him to be kind enough to call this afternoon and settle the bills of these Jews.’

  ‘Wokulski has our money, certainly,’ said Izabela, ‘but it would not do for me to write to him on this matter. You write, Flora, on father’s behalf. Here is paper, on my desk …’

  Flora wrote the letter and meanwhile Izabela began dressing. The arrival of the Jews was like a dash of cold water, and the thought of Wokulski troubled her: ‘So we really cannot do without this man?’ she said to herself, ‘well, if he has our money, then of course he must pay off our debts.’

  ‘Please ask him,’ she said to Flora, ‘to come as soon as possible. For if Starski finds this vile Jew here …’

  ‘He has known them longer than we have,’ Flora murmured.

  ‘All the same, it would be awful. You don’t know the tone of voice that … that … used to me yesterday.’

  ‘Spigelman,’ Flora put in, ‘yes, he is impertinent.’

  She sealed the letter and took it into the hall, meaning to send away the Jews who were waiting there. Izabela knelt in front of an alabaster statue of the Virgin Mary, imploring her that the messenger would find Wokulski at home and that Starski would not meet the Jews in the house.

  The alabaster Virgin Mary heard Izabela’s prayers: within an hour, at breakfast, Mikołaj handed her three letters. One was from the Countess, her aunt. In it, she informed Izabela that the doctor would call on her father for a consultation between two and three o’clock, that Kazio Starski was leaving town before that evening and might call at any moment.

  ‘Remember, dear Bela,’ her aunt concluded, ‘to behave so that the boy thinks of you on his journey and while in the country, to which you and your father must come within a few days. I have already arranged things so that he will not see any young ladies in Warsaw or in the country (apart from you, my angel). Except, of course, for his good old grandmother, the Duchess, and her uninteresting granddaughters.’

  Izabela made a slight grimace: she did not care for this emphasis: ‘My aunt is fussing over me,’ she said to Flora, ‘as if I had already lost all hope … I don’t like that.’

  And the picture within her of the handsome Kazio Starski darkened somewhat.

  The second letter was from Wokulski, announcing he would be at their service at one o’clock: ‘What time did you tell the Jews to come, Flora?’ Izabela inquired.

  ‘At one o’clock.’

  ‘Thank goodness! If only Starski doesn’t call just then,’ said Izabela, picking up the third letter: ‘This hand is somehow familiar,’ she added ‘whose is it, Flora?’

  ‘Don’t you recognise it?’ Miss Flora replied, with a glance at the envelope, ‘Baroness Krzeszowska’s …’


  A flush of anger mounted into Izabela’s face: ‘Ah, so it is,’ she exclaimed, throwing the letter down on the table, ‘please send it back, Flora, and write on the envelope ‘Not Read’ — what does she want, hateful woman …?’

  ‘You can easily find out,’ Flora murmured.

  ‘No, no, no! I don’t want any letters from that insufferable creature. Some new chicanery, no doubt, for she writes nothing else … Still, see what she says. This is the last time I accept her scrawls …’

  Flora opened the envelope slowly and began reading. Gradually her curiosity gave way to amazement, then to embarrassment: ‘I ought not to read this,’ she murmured, handing the letter to Izabela.

  Dear Izabela, (wrote the Baroness)

  I admit my behaviour hitherto may have earned your dislike and brought down upon me the rage of Merciful God, who looks after you so carefully. So I withdraw every thing, humble myself before you, dear Madam, and beg your forgiveness. For is it not proof of Heaven’s favour to you that you have been sent Wokulski? A man as mortal as any has become the instrument of the Supreme Hand to punish me and reward you. Not only did he wound my husband in a duel (may God forgive all the wickedness he has committed towards me) but he has also purchased the house in which my beloved child passed away, and is probably demanding huge rents. You are a witness not only of my defeat, but you have also made twenty thousand roubles more than the house was worth.

  In return for my repentance, dear Madam, pray persuade Mr Wokulski (who is angry with me, I know not why) to renew my lease and not to drive me out (by exaggerated demands) from the house where my only daughter expired. But this must be cautiously done, since Mr Wokulski does not wish — for reasons unknown to me — that anyone should speak of his purchase. For instead of buying the house himself (like an honest man) he put up the usurer Szlangbaum and also — in order to pay twenty thousand roubles above my offer — brought false bidders to the auction. Why did he behave in this mysterious fashion? You, my dear, must know that better than I, since it is you who are supposed to have invested your small capital with him. It is small, but with God’s help (which is so clearly watching over you) and the well-known resourcefulness of Mr Wokulski, it will certainly bring in interest to compensate you for the bitterness of your position hitherto.