‘What? What? What?’ Tomasz exclaimed, clutching his head with both hands, ‘he must have taken offence …’
‘Ah, of course … I mentioned to him the purchase of our house …’
‘Good God! It was you … All is lost! Now I understand … Of course he was offended. Well,’ he added after a moment, ‘who’d have thought him so touchy? Such a commonplace tradesman …’
XX
The Journal of the Old Clerk
SO HE HAS left! Stanisław Wokulski — great organiser of a transport company, great director of a firm which has a turnover of some four millions a year — has left for Paris like any postilion for Miłosna … One day he says (to me in person) that he doesn’t know when he’ll be leaving, and next day — bang! — he’s off.
He ate an elegant dinner at the Łęckis, drank his coffee, brushed his teeth — and was off. Well, well … after all, Mr Wokulski isn’t a common-or-garden clerk who has to obtain leave from his master for a holiday once every few years. Mr Wokulski is a capitalist, he has some sixty thousand roubles a year, is on familiar terms with counts and princes, fights duels with barons and can leave when he chooses. And you, my salaried clerks, look after the business! That is why you have wages and bonuses.
But is he supposed to be a tradesman? It’s tomfoolery, I’d say — not trade.
Still, there’s no reason why a man shouldn’t go to Paris, and on a mad impulse too — but not at times like these. Here we have the Berlin congress fuming, England claiming Cyprus, Austria after Bosnia … The Italians are shouting their heads off: ‘Give us Trieste, or else …’ I hear blood is flowing in Bosnia and (as soon as the harvest is in) war will break out sure as fate. And here he is setting out for Paris!
Hm! Now, why has he suddenly left for Paris? For the Exhibition? What concern is it of his? Is it perhaps in connection with the business he was to put through with Suzin? What sort of business can it be, I wonder, in which he’ll make fifty thousand roubles as if it were handed him on a plate? They mentioned oil-drilling equipment or railway machinery, or was it a sugar factory? Well, my dear angels, you aren’t by any chance going there to buy ordinary cannons rather than these fancy machines? France is on the point of a set-to with Germany … Young Napoleon is said to be staying in London, but after all Paris is nearer to London than Warsaw to Zamość …
Come, Ignacy, don’t be precipitous in your judgements of your master Mr W. (in such cases it is advisable not to use his full name), do not condemn him, for you’ll make a laughing-stock of yourself. Some important affair is underway here: that Mr Łęcki, who used to stay with Napoleon III, that alleged actor Rossi, an Italian (the Italians are forcibly reminding the rest of the world of Trieste!), and that dinner at the Łęckis immediately before his departure, and that purchase of the house …
Certainly Miss Łęcka is beautiful, but she is only a woman and Staś would not commit so many follies for her alone. All this has something to do with p——— (in such cases it is advisable to use abbreviations). There are big p——— involved in this.
It is already some two weeks since the poor fellow left, perhaps for ever … He writes dry, brief letters, says nothing about himself and sometimes makes me so miserable that I don’t know what to do (not on his account, surely — merely from habit). I remember his departure. We had just shut up the shop and I was drinking tea at this very table (Ir is still poorly), when suddenly Staś’s butler rushed in: ‘The master wants you!’ he roared and rushed out again. (What an impudent rascal he is, and how idle! You should have seen his expression when he appeared in the door and cried: ‘Your master wants you!’ Brute!) I wanted to admonish him: ‘You fool! Your master is your master,’ but he had rushed headlong away.
I hastily finished my tea, gave Ir some milk in a saucer and went to Staś. In the gateway I saw his butler flirting with three girls like young does. Well, I thought to myself, a loafer like you could cope with four of them, I daresay … (The devil himself can’t come to terms with these women, though. There’s Jadwiga, for instance, slender as could be, small and ethereal, but now her third husband has developed consumption.)
I went upstairs. The door to the apartment was open, and Staś himself was packing his suitcase by lamp-light. Something touched me: ‘What does this mean?’ I asked
‘I’m leaving for Paris tonight,’ he replied.
‘But yesterday you said you wouldn’t be leaving so soon …’
‘That was yesterday …’ he replied. He moved away from the suitcase and reflected for a moment. Then he added in a peculiar tone: ‘Only yesterday … I was mistaken …’
These words took me aback in a disagreeable way. I looked at Staś attentively and amazement overwhelmed me. I’d never have believed that a man apparently so healthy or at least not wounded, could change so in the course of a few hours. He was pale, his eyes sunken, almost wild …
‘How come this sudden change … of plans?’ I asked, feeling that I was not asking what I wanted to know.
‘My dear fellow,’ he replied, ‘don’t you know that sometimes a single word will change a plan, even a person … Not to mention what a whole conversation can do …’ he added in a whisper.
He continued packing and gathering together various articles, then went into the drawing-room. A minute passed — he did not return: two minutes — still no sign … I glanced through the open door and saw him leaning against the arm of a chair and absently staring out of the window. ‘Staś …’
He jumped, and returned to his packing, asking: ‘What is it?’
‘Something is the matter …’
‘No, nothing …’
‘I haven’t seen you like this for a long time …’
He smiled: ‘No doubt since the time when the dentist extracted a tooth that happened to be sound,’ he replied.
‘Your setting out like this looks strange,’ I said, ‘isn’t there anything you want to tell me?’
‘To tell you? Yes, of course … We have about a hundred and twenty thousand roubles in the bank, so you won’t be short of money … What else?’ he asked himself, ‘oh yes … Don’t keep it a secret any longer that I bought the Łęcki house. In fact, go there and fix the rents according to the previous terms. You can raise Baroness Krzeszowska’s by ten roubles or so, let her be vexed: but don’t be hard on the poorer tenants … A tailor lives there, and some students: take what they pay, providing they pay regularly.’
He glanced at his watch, and seeing he still had time, lay down in silence on the chaise-longue, his hands over his head, eyes closed. This sight was inexpressibly painful. I sat down at his feet and said: ‘Is anything the matter, Staś? Tell me what it is. I know I can’t help, but d’you see … Sorrow is like poison — it does you good to spit it out.’
Staś smiled again (I don’t like those half-smiles of his) and replied after a moment: ‘I remember — how long ago it was! — sitting in a room with some fellow who was strangely frank. He told me incredible things about his family, contacts, his great deeds and then — he listened very attentively to my own story. And later took advantage of it.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘I mean, old man, that because I don’t want to extract any confidences from you, I don’t need to make them to you.’
‘How so?’ I exclaimed, ‘is this how you regard confidences to a friend?’
‘Never mind,’ he said, getting up, ‘it’s all very well for school-girls … In any case, I have nothing to confide, not even in you. How tired I am,’ he muttered, stretching.
Not until this moment did that scoundrel of a butler come in; he took Staś’s suitcase and informed us the horses were waiting. Staś and I got into the carriage, but did not exchange a single word all the way to the railroad station. He eyed the stars and whistled softly, while I thought I must surely be on the way to a funeral.
At Vienna Station, Dr Szuman caught up with us: ‘You are going to Paris, then?’ he asked Staś.
‘How do
you know?’
‘Oh, I know everything. I even know that Mr Starski is travelling by the same train …’
Staś recoiled. ‘What sort of man is he?’ he asked the doctor.
‘An idler, a bankrupt — like all of them,’ Szuman replied, ‘and a former suitor into the bargain …’
‘I don’t care.’
Szuman said nothing, only eyed him obliquely.
They began ringing bells and blowing whistles. Travellers crowded into the carriages. Staś shook us by the hand.
‘When will you be back?’ the doctor asked him.
‘Never — if I had my way,’ Staś replied, and he got into an empty first-class compartment.
The train moved away. Pondering, the doctor watched its lights disappear, while I … almost burst into tears.
When the guards began closing the platform, I persuaded the doctor to take a walk along Aleje Jerozolimskie. The night was warm, the sky clear: I don’t recall ever having seen so many stars before. And because Staś had told me that he often used to look at the stars while he was in Bulgaria (amusing idea!) I decided to look at the sky myself every evening. (And perhaps our gaze will meet on one of those twinkling lights, and he won’t feel as lonely as he did then.)
Suddenly (goodness knows why) I began suspecting that Staś’s unexpected departure was connected with politics. I therefore decided to cross-examine Szuman and, wishing to catch him out, said: ‘It looks to me as if Wokulski is … in love, as it were.’
The doctor stopped dead on the pavement and, leaning on his stick, began laughing in a way that attracted the attention of the (fortunately) few passers-by: ‘Ha ha! Have you only just made that monumental discovery? Ha ha! This old fellow pleases me …’
It was a ridiculous joke. However, I bit my lip and retorted. ‘It was easy to make that discovery, even for someone … less skilled than I am (I think I caught him there!). But I prefer being cautious even in supposing things, Mr Szuman … In any case, I never dreamed that such an ordinary thing as love could bring about such havoc in a man.’
‘You are mistaken, old man,’ the doctor replied with a gesture. ‘Love is an ordinary thing in nature and even to God, if you like. But your stupid civilisation, based on Roman views long since dead and buried, on the interests of the papacy, troubadours, asceticism, the caste system and such-like rubbish has turned a natural feeling into — guess what? — a disease of the nervous system! Your supposedly chivalrous and romantic love is nothing more than a hideous commerce based on dishonesty, which is very properly punished by the lifelong imprisonment known as marriage … Woe to those who bring their hearts to such a market-place! How much talent, even life it devours … I know this very well,’ he went on, breathless with rage, ‘for although I’m a Jew and will remain one till the day I die, I was nevertheless brought up among your people and was even engaged to marry a Christian girl … Well, and they forced us to make so many compromises in our plans, they watched over us so tenderly in the name of religion, morality, tradition and goodness knows what else — that she died and I tried to poison myself … A man as clever as I am, and as bald.’
He stopped again on the sidewalk. ‘Believe me, Ignacy,’ he concluded in a hoarse voice, ‘you will not find anything as vile as human beings, not even among the animals. In Nature, the male belongs to the female who pleases him and whom he pleases. So there are no idiots among the animals. But among us! I am a Jew, so am not allowed to love a Christian woman … He is in trade, so he has no right to a well-born lady … And you, who have no money, have no right at all to any woman whatsoever. Your civilisation is rotten! I’d gladly perish, provided its ruins came down on top of me …’
We walked on to the corner. A damp wind had been blowing up for some minutes, and was driving straight at us: the stars began to disappear in the west, veiled in clouds. There were fewer street-lamps. From time to time a carriage drove along the Boulevard, bespattering us with invisible dust: late passers-by were hurrying home.
‘It’s going to rain … Staś will be nearly at Grodzisk by now,’ I thought. The doctor had pulled his hat down over his eyes and was walking along, brooding crossly. I felt more and more wretched, perhaps on account of the growing darkness. I’d never tell anyone this, but sometimes it seemed to me that Staś … no longer cared about politics, because he was quite at the beck and call of that young lady. I once mentioned something of this to him and his reply by no means decreased my suspicions.
‘Is it possible,’ I exclaimed, ‘that Wokulski should have forgotten general matters, politics, Europe?’
‘Not to mention Portugal,’ the doctor interposed.
This cynicism outraged me: ‘You mock,’ I said, ‘but you cannot deny that Staś could be something better than an unhappy admirer of Miss Łęcka. He might be a social agitator, not some wretched sighing lover …’
‘You are right,’ the doctor agreed, ‘but what of it? A steam-engine is not a coffee-grinder, you know, but a huge machine: but when its wheels break, it becomes a useless object and is even dangerous. In your Wokulski, there is such a wheel, that is rusting and breaking down …’
The wind blew more and more strongly; my eyes were full of dust. ‘Why should such a misfortune happen to him, of all people?’ I asked (but in a casual tone, so that Szuman would not think I was asking for information).
‘It is due both to Staś’s nature and the relationships civilisation forms,’ the doctor replied.
‘His nature? He was never amorous.’
‘And that has destroyed him,’ Szuman went on, ‘a thousand tons of snow, divided into flakes, merely scatter over the earth without harming the smallest blade of grass; but a hundred tons of snow, crammed into an avalanche, will smash houses and kill people. Had Wokulski been in love with a different woman every week of his life, he’d look fresh, he’d have his mind at rest and could do much good in the world. But, like a miser, he has hoarded his heart’s capital and now we see the results of this economy. Love is beautiful when it has the charm of a butterfly; but when it awakens like a tiger after a long lethargy, then there’s nothing amusing in it! A man with a healthy appetite is different from a man whose innards are rended with famine…’
The clouds were rising still higher: almost at the city gates we turned back. I thought that Staś must by this time be almost at Ruda Guzowska.
The doctor went on talking, more feverishly, waving his walking-stick still more fiercely: ‘There are rules of hygiene for dwellings and clothes, for food and work, which the lower classes do not observe, and that is the cause of their high mortality rate, their short lives and their debility. But there are also rules of hygiene for love, which the intelligentsia fail to observe and even violate, and that is one of the causes for their downfall. Hygiene tells a man to eat when he is hungry, but for all that a thousand rules will trip you up, protesting: “Forbidden!” You will eat when we authorise you to, when you fulfil this, that and the other conditions laid down by morality, tradition, fashion … You must admit that in this respect the most backward states are in advance of the progressive societies, or at least of their intelligentsia.
‘Just look, Ignacy, how well the nursery, the drawing-room, poetry, novels and plays work together to stupefy people. They urge you to seek ideals, be an ideal ascetic yourself and not only obey but even create some artificial condition or other. What’s the result? A man, usually less trained in these matters, becomes the prey of a woman who is trained for nothing but that purpose. So women really rule civilisation!’
‘What’s wrong with that?’ I asked.
‘Confound it,’ the doctor exclaimed, ‘haven’t you noticed, Ignacy, that if a man is spiritually a fly, a woman is still more so, for she has no wings or feet? Education, tradition, perhaps even inheritance make a monstrous thing of her with the pretence of making her a higher being. And this idle monstrosity, with its crooked feet, compressed trunk, empty brain — nevertheless has the task of bringing up future generations of mankind. S
o what does she instil in them? Does she teach her children to work for their living? No, they learn how to hold a knife and fork nicely. Do they learn how to understand the people among whom they will have to live? No, they learn to please by putting on grimaces and bowing. Do they learn real facts which determine our happiness or unhappiness? No, they learn to close their eyes to the facts and to dream about ideals. Our softness in life, our impracticality, laziness, flunkeyism and those terrible bonds of stupidity which have been weighing down mankind for centuries are the result of pedagogy as applied by women. And our women, in turn, are the product of a clerical, feudal and poetical theory of love, which is offensive to hygiene and to common sense…’
My head was whirling with the doctor’s statements and he pressed on along the street like a madman. Fortunately lightning flashed, the first drops of rain fell and the excited speaker suddenly cooled down, jumped into a droshky and told the driver to take him home.
Staś was nearly at Rogow now, surely. Was he aware that we talked of nothing but him? And what did the poor devil feel, with one storm overhead and another, perhaps worse, in his heart?
Goodness, what a downpour, what a cannonade of thunderclaps! Ir, wrapped up into a bundle, barked at it in a stifled voice in his sleep and I went to bed under only a sheet. The night was oppressive. Oh Lord, I thought, watch over those who are fleeing abroad from unhappiness this night!
Sometimes a small incident is enough to make things, ancient as human sins, appear to us in a completely new light. For instance, I have known the Old Town since my childhood and it always seemed crowded and dirty to me. Not until I was shown, as a curiosity, a drawing of one of the old houses (in the Illustrated Weekly, with a caption) did I suddenly notice that the Old Town is beautiful. From that time on I have been going there at least once a week, and I discover new beauties there, and am also amazed that I never noticed them before.