Then Franz Mincel went up, followed by Jan Mincel, August Katz and at the end me. Each kissed the old lady’s dry hand, which was etched with blue veins, and said: ‘Gut Morgen, Grossmutter!’
And each obtained his mug and three rolls.
When we had hastily drunk the coffee, the servant girl carried away the empty basket and the mugs, the old lady her jug, and both disappeared.
The traffic was still passing by outside the window, and a crowd of people moved to and fro; from this, every now and then someone would break away to enter the shop.
‘Soap-powder, please …’ ‘Ten groszy’s worth of almonds …’ ‘Licorice for a grosz …’ ‘Grey soap …’
About midday the business at the grocery counter dropped off, but more and more customers now appeared on the right-hand side of the store, which was Jan’s province. They asked for plates, glasses, irons, coffee-mills, dolls and sometimes large greenish-blue or poppy-red umbrellas. These customers, both ladies and gentlemen, were well dressed, sat down on the chairs provided, and asked to be shown a quantity of objects, as they bargained and demanded more.
I recall that when I was tired of going to and fro and of wrapping up groceries on the left-hand side of the shop, what bothered me most on the right-hand side was the thought: what does this customer really want? And does he intend to buy anything? In the end, however, a great deal was sold: the daily income from haberdashery was several times greater than that from groceries and soap.
Old Mincel was in his shop Sundays too. In the morning he said his prayers, and about midday would tell me to come to him for a sort of lesson.
‘Sag mir — tell me: was ist das? What is this? Das ist Schublade — this is a drawer. Look and see what is in the drawer. Es ist Zimt — it is cinnamon. What is cinnamon needed for? For soup, for dessert. What is cinnamon? It is bark from a certain tree. Where does the cinnamon tree grow? In India. Look at the globe — India is over here. Give me 10 groszy worth of cinnamon … O, du Spitzub! If I discipline you ten times, you will know how much cinnamon to sell for 10 groszy …’
We would go through each drawer in the shop and he would tell me the story of every article. When he was not tired, he would dictate problems to me and told me to add up the ledger or copy letters.
Mincel was a very orderly old man, who could not endure dust, and would wipe it off even the tiniest object. But he never needed to dust the canes, thanks to his Sunday lessons in accounting, geography and shop-keeping.
Within a few years we had become so used to each other that old Mincel could not do without me, and I even began to regard his canes as quite natural in family relationships. I remember I could not get over my remorse at smashing an expensive samovar, but instead of seizing a cane, old Mincel merely exclaimed: ‘What have you done, Ignacy? What have you done?’
I would sooner have felt his cane rather than hear that quavering voice again, or see his fearful look.
Weekdays, we ate our dinners in the shop, first the two young Mincels and August Katz, then my master and I. On holidays we all gathered upstairs and sat down at the same table. Every Christmas Eve Mincel would give us gifts, and his mother used to set up a Christmas tree for us (and her son) in the utmost secrecy. On the first day of each month we were all paid our wages (I got ten zloty). On this occasion, Katz, the two nephews, the servant girl and I had to declare how much he or she had saved. Not saving, or rather not putting away even a few groszy every day was as terrible a crime as stealing in the eyes of Mincel. During my time, several clerks and a number of apprentices came and went in the store, all of whom were dismissed by my master only because they saved nothing. The day on which this came to light was their last with us. Promises, vows, kissing of hands and even falling on one’s knees were of no avail. The old man did not stir from his armchair, did not look at the supplicant, only showed him the door with the single word: ‘Fort! … Fort!’ The principle of saving had already grown into a mania with him.
This good man had one fault — he hated Napoleon. He himself never mentioned Napoleon, but at the sound of that name he was seized with a kind of fury: his face grew livid, he spat and shrieked, ‘The rogue! Spitzbub! Bandit!’
On hearing such shameful words for the first time, I almost swooned away. I felt like saying something very bold to the old man, then taking refuge with Mr Raczek, who was already married to my aunt. Suddenly I saw Jan Mincel put one hand over his mouth, mutter something and grimace to Katz. I pricked up my ears and this is what Jan was saying: ‘The old man is raving! Napoleon was a good fellow, even if only because he got rid of those dogs of Krauts! Isn’t that so, Katz?’
And August Katz winked and went on cutting up soap.
I was astounded, but at that moment took a great liking to Jan Mincel and August Katz. Later I realised that there were two great factions in the little shop, one of which consisted of old Mincel and his mother who loved the Germans very much, while the other consisted of the young Mincels and Katz, who hated them. As I recall, I was the only neutral person.
In 1846 we heard that Louis Napoleon had escaped from captivity. This year was important to me, because I was promoted and my master, old Jan Mincel, passed away in a somewhat peculiar manner.
The business in our shop decreased that year, on account of the general uneasiness prevailing and also because my master reviled Louis Napoleon too often and too loudly. People began taking a dislike to us, and one day someone — perhaps Katz — even smashed the glass in the shop-window.
But this incident, instead of entirely alienating the public, attracted them to the shop, and for a week we had as big a turn-out as ever; it reached such a point that our neighbours envied us. But a week later, this artificial business boom again decreased and it was empty in the shop.
During my master’s absence one evening, in itself an unusual event, a second stone was thrown through the glass. The Mincels in alarm took refuge upstairs and tried to find their uncle. Katz ran into the street to see who was responsible for this outrage, whereupon two policemen appeared dragging along — guess whom? None other than my master, and they charged him with breaking the glass this time and probably the previous time, too.
The old man denied it in vain: not only had he been caught in the act, but a stone was found on his person … So the poor wretch was taken off to the police station.
After a great deal of explaining and talk, the matter was smoothed over naturally enough; but from this time on, the old man lost his spirit entirely and grew thin. One day, he sat in his armchair by the window, and he never rose from it again. He passed away with his chin resting on the ledger, still holding the string that moved the mechanical Cossack.
For some years, his nephews kept the shop going in Podwal Street, and not until 1850 did they split up so that Franz stayed behind with the grocery store, while Jan took the haberdashery and soap and moved to Krakowskie Przedmieście, to the shop we now occupy. A few years after this, Jan married the beautiful Małgorzata Pfeifer and when she (God rest her soul!) became a widow, she bestowed her hand in marriage upon Staś Wokulski, and in this way, he inherited the business, which had been carried on by two generations of Mincels.
My old master’s mother survived a long while; when I returned from abroad in 1853, I found her still in the best of health. Every morning she would come into the shop and say: ‘Gut Morgen, meine Kinder! Der Kaffee is schon fertig …’
But her voice grew feebler from year to year, until it finally disappeared for ever.
In my time, a man’s master was the father and teacher of his apprentices and the most vigilant servant of his shop: his mother or wife was the lady of the house, and everyone in the family worked in the shop. Today, an employer merely takes his profits and usually knows little about the shop, while he is more anxious that his children should not enter trade. I do not refer here to Staś Wokulski, who has wider views, only in general I think a tradesman ought to stick to his shop and create his own staff, if he wants them to be at all decent.
They say Andrássy has demanded sixty million gulden for unforeseen expenses. So Austria is arming too, and yet Staś writes that there will be no war. He was never one for empty words, so he must be very well-versed in politics. So this means he is not staying in Bulgaria simply for love of business …
I wonder what he is doing there? How I wonder …
IV
The Return
IT is a wretched Sunday in March; it is nearly noon, but the streets of Warsaw are almost deserted. People stay indoors, or seek shelter in gateways, or flee hunched up before the drenching rain and snow. The rattle of droshkies is rarely heard, for they have stopped running. The drivers have got off their boxes to take refuge under the hoods of their vehicles, while the horses, soaked with rain and bespattered with snow, look as if they would only be too pleased to hide under the shafts and shelter themselves with their own ears.
Despite, or because of, the ugly weather, Ignacy is very cheerful, as he sits in his barred room. Trade is going very well, displays for the windows next week are already planned and, above all, Wokulski is due back any day. Ignacy will at last be able to hand over the accounts and the burden of managing the store, and within two months at most, he will set off on vacation. After twenty-five years of work — and such work — he deserves some respite. He will think of nothing but politics, will walk about, run and jump through fields and woods, whistle and even sing, as he did when he was young. Were it not for his rheumatism which, however, will pass in the country …
So, although the rain and snow beat against the window, although it pours so hard that the room is quite dark, Ignacy is in a vernal frame of mind. He takes his guitar out from beneath the bed, tunes it, plucks a few chords, and begins to sing a very romantic air …
‘Spring is awakening everywhere in nature, greeted by the wistful song of the nightingales! In the green grove by the stream bloom two beautiful roses.’
… These magical sounds arouse the poodle Ir as he sleeps on the sofa, and he begins to peer at his master with his one eye. But the sounds do more than this, for they summon a great shadow in the yard, which halts by the barred window and tries to look into the room, thus attracting Ignacy’s attention.
‘It must be Paweł,’ he thinks.
But Ir is of another mind, for he jumps up from the sofa and uneasily sniffs at the door, as if scenting someone unfamiliar.
A noise is heard in the passage. A hand seeks the doorknob, finally the door opens and on the threshold stands someone wrapped in a huge fur coat, spattered with snow and raindrops.
‘Who are you?’ Ignacy asks, and his face becomes flushed.
‘Have you forgotten me already, old fellow?’ the visitor asks quietly and slowly.
Ignacy grows confused. He puts on his eyeglasses, then lets them fall, pulls the coffin-like box from under his bed, hastily stows away the guitar and puts the box on his bed.
Meanwhile, the visitor has taken off his great fur coat and sheepskin hat. When one-eyed Ir has sniffed him, he begins to wag his tail, fawn upon him and grovel, whining joyously.
Ignacy approaches his visitor, more uneasy and bent than ever.
‘Why, I believe …’ he says, rubbing his hands together, ‘I believe I have had the pleasure …’
Then he draws the visitor to the window, blinking at him.
‘Staś! … For goodness sake …’
He claps him on his powerful shoulders, presses both his hands and finally puts his own hand on his head, with its hair cut short, as if to anoint his sinciput.
‘Ha! Ha! Ha!’ laughs Ignacy. ’Tis Staś himself … Staś back from the wars … What, had you forgotten your shop and your old friend?’ he adds, striking him forcefully on the shoulder. ‘Why, if you aren’t more like a soldier or sailor than a merchant … He hasn’t been near the shop in eight months … What a chest! … What a head! …’
The visitor smiled too. He grasped Ignacy by the shoulders, embraced him warmly and kissed him on the cheeks, to which the old clerk submitted, though without returning the embrace.
‘What’s the latest news here, old fellow?’ the visitor exclaimed. ‘You’re thinner, paler …’
‘On the contrary, I am putting on weight.’
‘You’ve turned grey … How are you?’
‘Very well. And things are going well in the shop too, we have increased the sales a little. In January and February we took twenty-five thousand roubles … My dear Staś! Eight months … But that’s over and done with … Why don’t you sit down?’
‘Of course,’ the visitor replied, sitting down on the sofa, upon which Ir immediately placed himself, his head on Staś’s knee.
Ignacy brought up a chair.
‘Something to eat? I’ve ham and a little caviar.’
‘Very well.’
‘Something to drink too? I have a bottle of reasonable Hungarian wine, but only one wine glass that is not broken.’
‘I’ll drink from a tumbler,’ replied the visitor.
Ignacy began to scuttle around the room, opening the cupboard chest and table-drawer in turn.
He produced the wine, put it away again, then set out ham and bread on the table. His hands and cheeks were quivering and a good deal of time passed before he was sufficiently himself to get together all the provisions he had previously mentioned. Not until he had partaken of a small glass of the wine did he regain his much-shaken equilibrium.
Meanwhile, Wokulski was eating.
‘Well, and what’s the latest news?’ asked Ignacy, in the coolest tone imaginable, tapping his visitor’s knee.
‘I suppose you mean in politics?’ replied Wokulski. ‘There will be peace.’
‘Then why is Austria arming?’
‘At a cost of sixty million gulden? She wants to seize Bosnia and Herzegovina.’
Ignacy opened his eyes very wide.
‘Austria wants to seize …’ he echoed. ‘How so?’
‘How so?’ Wokulski smiled. ‘Because Turkey cannot prevent her.’
‘And what about England?’
‘England will get compensation.’
‘At Turkey’s expense?’
‘Of course. The weak always pay the costs of any conflict between the strong.’
‘And justice?’ exclaimed Ignacy.
‘Justice lies in the fact that the strong multiply and increase, and the weak perish. Otherwise the world would become a charitable institution, which would indeed be unjust.’
Ignacy shifted his chair.
‘How can you say such things, Staś? Seriously, joking aside …’
Wokulski turned his calm gaze upon him.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘What is so strange in it? Doesn’t the same law apply to me, to you, to all of us? … I’ve wept for myself too often to feel for Turkey …’
Ignacy lowered his eyes and was silent. Wokulski went on eating.
‘Well, and how did things go with you?’ asked Ignacy in his normal voice.
Wokulski’s eyes gleamed. He put down the bread and leaned against the arm of the sofa.
‘Do you remember,’ he asked, ‘how much money I took with me when I went abroad?’
‘Thirty thousand roubles, in cash.’
‘And how much do you suppose I’ve brought back?’
‘Fifty … perhaps forty thousand roubles … Am I right?’ asked Rzecki, looking at him uncertainly.
Wokulski poured a glass of wine and drank it slowly.
‘Two hundred and fifty thousand roubles, mostly in gold,’ he said distinctly. ‘And since I told them to buy banknotes, which I’ll sell when the peace is signed, I shall have over three hundred thousand roubles …’
Rzecki leaned towards him, his mouth open.
‘Don’t be alarmed,’ Wokulski went on, ‘I made it honestly, by hard, very hard, work. The secret was that I had a rich partner and was satisfied with four or five times less profit than others. So my capital, while continually growing, was in constant circulation. Well,’ he added after
a time, ‘I was very lucky too … Like a gambler who backs the same number ten times running at roulette. High stakes? … nearly every month I risked my entire fortune, and my life every day.’
‘Was that the only reason you went there?’ Ignacy asked.
Wokulski looked at him mockingly.
‘Surely you didn’t expect me to turn into a Turkish Wallenrod?’
‘But to risk your neck for money, when you had a good living …’ Ignacy muttered, shaking his head and raising his eyebrows.
Wokulski shuddered and jumped up.
‘That good living,’ he said, clenching his fist, ‘was stifling me and had stifled me for six years … Don’t you remember how many times a day I was reminded of the two generations of Mincels or of the angelic goodness of my late wife? Was there anyone among my closest or not so close acquaintances — except you — who did not torment me with a word, gesture or look? How often was it said of me, and almost to me, that I was tied to my wife’s apron-strings, that I owed every penny to the industry of the Mincels, and nothing, nothing at all to my own efforts, though it was I who built up the shop and doubled its profits …
‘The Mincels, it was always the Mincels! Why don’t they compare me to the Mincels now? In six months I’ve made ten times the money that two generations of Mincels made in a half-century. A thousand Mincels in their shops and night-caps would have to sweat their hearts out to make what I’ve made amidst bullets, knives and typhus. Now I know how many Mincels I’m worth, and I swear I’d risk it all again for this result! I’d sooner fear bankruptcy and death than owe it to the people who buy umbrellas in my store, or than kiss the hands of people who deign to equip themselves in my store with water-closets …’
‘You’re still the same,’ Ignacy murmured.
Wokulski cooled down. He put one hand on Ignacy’s arm and looked into his eyes as he mildly said: ‘You’re not angry, old fellow?’
‘Why? As if I didn’t know that a wolf doesn’t look after sheep … Naturally enough …’
‘What’s the latest here — tell me!’