The Doll

‘Precisely what I told you in my reports. Business going well, goods arriving, still more orders coming in. We need another clerk.’

  ‘We’ll hire two, we’ll expand the store, it will be splendid.’

  ‘Fancy that …’

  Wokulski glanced sideways at him and smiled to see that the old man had regained his good humour.

  ‘But what is going on in town? Things must be going well as long as you are in the shop.’

  ‘In the town?’

  ‘Have any of my regular customers quit business?’ Wokulski interrupted, now pacing about the room.

  ‘No one! New ones have appeared …’

  Wokulski stopped, as if hesitating. He poured another glass of wine and tossed it off.

  ‘Is Łęcki buying at our store?’

  ‘Mostly on credit …’

  ‘Ah …’ Wokulski sighed with relief. ‘What is his financial position?’

  ‘They say he’s quite bankrupt and that his apartment house will be put up for auction later this year.’

  Wokulski leaned over and began to play with Ir.

  ‘Well … And Miss Łęcka isn’t married yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Isn’t she engaged?’

  ‘I doubt it. Who today would marry a girl with expensive tastes and no dowry? She’s getting older too, though she’s still pretty. Naturally enough …’

  Wokulski straightened his back and took a deep breath. His stern face bore a strangely tender expression.

  ‘My dear old fellow,’ he said, taking Ignacy by the hand, ‘my honest old friend! You can’t begin to guess how glad I am to see you again, still here in this room. Do you recall how many evenings and nights I’ve spent here? … how you used to give me dinner … how you gave me clothes … Remember?’

  Rzecki looked at him attentively and thought the wine must have been good to unlock Wokulski’s lips so.

  Wokulski sat down on the sofa, leaned his head against the wall, and spoke as if to himself: ‘You’ve no idea what I suffered, far away from everyone, never knowing whether I should ever see them again, so terribly alone. For, don’t you see, the worst loneliness is not the one that surrounds a man, but the emptiness within himself, when he has not carried away with him even a warm look or a friendly word or spark of hope from his homeland …’

  Ignacy shifted on his chair, to protest: ‘Allow me to remind you that at first I wrote very friendly letters, perhaps even excessively sentimental ones … Your brief replies upset me.’

  ‘Am I blaming you?’

  ‘No, but you can blame the others still less, for they don’t know you as I do.’

  Wokulski looked up.

  ‘I don’t bear any resentment against them. Perhaps — a trifle — towards you, because you used to write so very little about … the town. Besides, the newspapers were often lost in the post, there were gaps in the news and I was tormented by awful forebodings.’

  ‘Of what? There was no war here!’ Ignacy replied in amazement.

  ‘That’s so … You even managed to divert yourselves very well, as I recall. You had splendid tableaux in December. Who took part in them?’

  ‘Well, I don’t go to such nonsense.’

  ‘That’s so. But I’d have given — oh, ten thousand roubles, just to see them. How absurd! Isn’t it?’

  ‘Certainly, though loneliness and boredom explain a good deal …’

  ‘Perhaps yearning too,’ Wokulski interrupted. ‘It poisoned my every free moment, my every hour of rest. Pour me some wine, Ignacy.’

  He drank it, again began to walk about the room and speak in a stifled voice: ‘It came upon me first during a passage across the Danube that lasted from dusk till late at night. I was alone, with only a gipsy guide. We could not talk, so I watched the scenery. In that place, I saw sandbanks just like those here. Then it occurred to me that I was so far away from home that the only link between myself and all of you were these stars, but that probably none of you were looking at them at that moment, no one was thinking of me, no one! … I felt as though torn asunder, and not until that moment did I realise how deep was the wound in my soul …’

  ‘Truly, the stars have never interested me,’ Ignacy whispered.

  ‘From that day on, I suffered a strange sickness,’ Wokulski said. ‘As long as I was writing letters, doing accounts, inspecting goods, dispatching my agents or watching out for thieves, I had relative calm of mind. But when I tore myself away from business, and even when I momentarily laid down my pen, I felt a pain — do you understand me, Ignacy? — as if there were grit in my heart. It became so that I’d walk about, eat, talk, think reasonably, look at the scenery, even laugh and be cheerful, yet all the time I’d feel this dull pain, this uneasiness, this interminable disquiet …

  ‘This chronic state, indescribably agonising, was blown into a tempest by the slightest circumstance. A tree of familiar outline, some rocky hill, the colour of a cloud or flight of a bird, even a breath of wind, with no other reason, woke such insane despair within me that I fled from other people. I sought out a solitary refuge to fall to the ground and howl like a dog, unheard by anyone …

  ‘Sometimes, in this flight from myself, night would overtake me. Then dark shadows with sunken eyes would appear to me in the undergrowth, among the fallen tree-trunks, and would shake their heads sorrowfully. And all the rustling leaves, the distant noise of carts passing by, the trickling water would blend into one mournful voice, which asked: “Passer-by, what has become of you?”

  ‘Yes, what had become of me? …’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Ignacy interrupted. ‘What sort of madness was it?’

  ‘Yearning …’

  ‘For what?’

  Wokulski shivered.

  ‘Well, for everything … for home …’

  ‘Why didn’t you come back home, then?’

  ‘What would my return have meant? … Anyhow, I couldn’t.’

  ‘You could not?’ Ignacy echoed.

  ‘I could not — and basta! I had nothing to return for,’ Wokulski replied impatiently. ‘It was all the same whether I died here or there … more wine!’ he finished suddenly, reaching out his hand.

  Rzecki looked at his feverish face and drew the bottle out of reach.

  ‘Let it be — you’re excited enough as it is.’

  ‘That’s why I want to drink …’

  ‘And that is why you should not drink,’ Ignacy interrupted. ‘You are talking too much … perhaps more than you would have wished,’ he added, emphatically.

  Wokulski drew back. He reflected, then answered with a shake of the head: ‘You are wrong.’

  ‘I’ll prove it to you,’ said Ignacy in a stifled voice, ‘You didn’t go abroad merely to make a fortune …’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Wokulski, after a pause.

  ‘For what use are three hundred thousand roubles to you, when a thousand is ample for a year?’

  ‘That is so.’

  Rzecki approached his lips to Wokulski’s ear.

  ‘What’s more … you didn’t bring this money back for yourself.’

  ‘Who knows but what you’re right?’

  ‘I guess a great deal more than you may think.’

  Suddenly Wokulski laughed.

  ‘Aha, so that’s what you think?’ he exclaimed. ‘I assure you, you old dreamer, that you know nothing.’

  ‘I fear your sobriety, which makes you talk like a madman. Do you understand me, Staś?’

  Wokulski went on laughing.

  ‘You’re right, I’m not used to drink and the wine has gone to my head. But I’ve collected myself now. I’ll tell you simply that you are mistaken. And now, to spare me becoming tipsy, drink up — to the success of my plans.’

  Ignacy poured a glass, and pressing Wokulski’s hand firmly said: ‘To the success of your great plan!’

  ‘Great to me, but in reality very humble.’

  ‘So be it,’ said Ignacy. ‘I’m so old I prefer to know no more.
I’m so old that I only want a decent death. Give me your word that when that time comes …’

  ‘When that time comes, you’ll be my best man.’

  ‘I already was, once — and unhappily,’ said Ignacy.

  ‘With the widow Mincel, seven years ago?’

  ‘Fifteen years ago.’

  ‘Yes, you’re still the same as ever,’ laughed Wokulski.

  ‘So are you. To the success of your plans, then. Whatever they may be, I know one thing they must be worthy of you. And now — I say no more …’

  At this, Ignacy drank his wine and threw the glass to the floor. It shattered with a crash which awoke Ir.

  ‘Let’s go into the shop,’ said Ignacy. ‘There are conversations after which it is good to talk business.’

  He took the key and they went out. In the passageway wet snow engulfed them. Rzecki opened the door and lit some gas-jets.

  ‘What a fine display,’ Wokulski exclaimed. ‘Surely everything is new?’

  ‘Almost everything. You’d like to see … This porcelain. Pray observe …’

  ‘Later. Give me the ledger.’

  ‘Income?’

  ‘No, the debtors.’

  Rzecki opened the bureau, took out the ledger and drew up a chair. Wokulski sat down and glanced down the list of names, seeking one name in it.

  ‘A hundred and forty roubles,’ he read aloud. ‘Well, that is not a great deal.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ Ignacy inquired. ‘Ah — Łęcki.’

  ‘Miss Łęcka has an account too … very good,’ Wokulski continued, peering at the page as if the writing were indistinct. ‘Hm … hm … the day before yesterday she bought a purse … Three roubles? … Surely you overcharged her?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Ignacy. ‘It was a first-rate purse, I picked it out myself.’

  ‘What kind was it?’ Wokulski asked carelessly, as he closed the ledger.

  ‘One of these. Look, how elegant …’

  ‘She must have deliberated a great deal among them … She is said to be very particular in her tastes.’

  ‘Not at all, why should she deliberate?’ Ignacy replied. ‘She looked at this one …’

  ‘This one …’

  ‘And wanted to take that one …’

  ‘Ah, that one …’ Wokulski whispered, taking it up.

  ‘But I suggested another, in this style.’

  ‘This is a nice piece of work, all the same.’

  ‘The one I chose was still finer!’

  ‘I like this one very much. You know … I’ll take it myself, for mine is quite worn out …’

  ‘Wait, I’ll pick you a better one,’ Rzecki exclaimed.

  ‘Never mind. Show me other things, perhaps something else will come in useful.’

  ‘Cuff-links? A tie, galoshes, an umbrella …?’

  ‘I’ll take an umbrella … and a tie. Choose them yourself. I’ll be your only customer, and will pay cash.’

  ‘A very good method,’ Rzecki said, pleased. He rapidly took a tie out from a drawer and an umbrella from the window and handed them to Wokulski with a smile. ‘With your discount,’ he said, ‘as trade, you owe seven roubles. An excellent umbrella … Goodness me …’

  ‘Let us go back to your room,’ said Wokulski.

  ‘Won’t you look around the shop?’

  ‘Ah, what concern is …?’

  ‘Your own shop, this fine shop, of no concern to you?’ Ignacy asked in surprise.

  ‘How can you suppose that? … But I’m rather tired.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Rzecki, ‘you’re right. Let us go.’

  He turned out the lights and closed the shop, letting Wokulski go first. In the passage, they met the wet snow again, and Paweł bringing dinner.

  V

  The Democratisation of a Gentleman and Dreams of a Society Lady

  MR TOMASZ Łęcki, his only daughter Izabela and his cousin Flora, did not live in their own house, but rented an apartment of eight rooms near Aleje Ujazdowskie. There he had a drawing-room with three windows, his study, his daughter’s boudoir, a bedroom for himself, a bedroom for his daughter, a dining room, a room for Flora and a dressing-room, not to mention the kitchen and quarters for servants, who consisted of the old butler Mikołaj, his wife, the cook, and a maid, Anna.

  The apartment had many advantages. It was dry, warm, spacious, light. It had marble stairs, gas, electric bells and taps. Each room could be linked with the others if required, or form an entity by itself. The furniture was adequate, neither too much nor too little, and each piece was distinguished by comfortable simplicity rather than striking ostentation. The sideboard made one feel certain that the silver would not disappear; the beds brought to mind well-deserved repose; the table might groan, and the chairs could be sat on without fear of their collapsing, while anyone might doze in the armchairs.

  Anyone who entered moved about freely: no one needed to fear that something would get in the way, or that he might break something. No one was bored while waiting for the master of the house, for he was surrounded by things well worth looking at. All in all, the sight of antique objects still able to serve several more generations instilled a solemn mood in the beholder.

  Its inhabitants stood out against this background.

  Mr Tomasz Łęcki was a man of over sixty, not tall, but stout, full-blooded. He wore a small white moustache, his hair was white and brushed upwards. He had grey, understanding eyes, an upright posture and walked briskly. People made way for him in the street, and simple people said: ‘He must be a real gentleman …’

  And it was true that Mr Łęcki could number whole crowds of senators in his family. His father had owned millions of roubles, and he himself, when young, had had thousands. Later, however, a part of his fortune had been engulfed by political events, and the rest by travelling in Europe and mixing in high society. Before 1870, Mr Łęcki had been in attendance at the Court of France, then at the court in Vienna and in Rome. Charmed by the beauty of Łęcki’s daughter, Victor Emmanuel had honoured him with friendship and even wished to bestow the title of Count upon him. It is understandable, therefore, that Mr Łęcki wore mourning crepe on his hat for two months after the death of that amiable monarch.

  But for some years now Mr Łęcki had not left Warsaw, for he no longer had the money to sparkle in royal Courts. But his apartment became a gathering-place for the elegant world and remained so until a rumour began to spread to the effect that Tomasz had lost not only his fortune but also Izabela’s dowry.

  The first to withdraw were the marrying men, then the ladies with plain daughters, whereupon Mr Tomasz himself broke with the rest and restricted his acquaintance exclusively to members of his family. But when he saw a coolness here too, he withdrew entirely from society and even (to the dismay of many worthy persons), as an owner of a tenement house in Warsaw, joined the merchants’ social club. They wanted to make him president, but he declined.

  But his daughter went on frequenting the home of the old Countess Karolowa and a few of the latter’s female friends, and this in itself started the rumour that Tomasz still had his fortune and that he had quit society partly through eccentricity, partly to find out who his true friends were, and to choose for his daughter a husband who would love her for herself and not for her dowry.

  So once again a crowd of admirers began to gather around Miss Łęcki, and piles of visiting cards lay on the little table in her boudoir. Visitors were not received, however, but this did not arouse much annoyance, for a third rumour now started, to the effect that Łęcki’s house was to be put up for auction.

  At this, confusion prevailed in society. Some vowed that Mr Łęcki was bankrupt, others were ready to swear that he had merely concealed his fortune to assure the happiness of his only child. Marriageable men and their relatives were agonisingly uncertain. Neither to risk anything nor to lose anything, they paid their tributes to Miss Izabela without involving themselves too much, and quietly left cards at her home, praying they
would not be invited there before the situation had cleared.

  There was no question of Mr Łęcki paying return visits. People explained this as due to his eccentricity and grief over the death of Victor Emmanuel.

  Meanwhile Mr Łęcki walked in Aleje Ujazdowskie every day and played whist at the club in the evenings. His expression was always so tranquil, his attitude so haughty, that the admirers of his daughter lost their heads entirely. The most sensible of them waited, but the boldest began once more to bestow upon her their veiled glances, their quiet sighs or a trembling pressure of the hand, to which the young lady responded with an icy, often contemptuous indifference.

  Izabela was an uncommonly pretty woman. Everything about her was original and perfect. More than average in height, a very shapely figure, copious blonde hair with an ash tint, a straight nose, a somewhat supercilious mouth, pearly teeth, ideal hands and feet. Her eyes were especially impressive, being sometimes dark and dreamy, sometimes full of light and merriment, or sometimes clear blue and as cold as ice.

  The play of her features was striking. When she spoke, her lips, brows, nostrils, hands, her whole figure seemed to speak too — and above all her eyes spoke, and seemed to want to pour out her soul into that of her interlocutor. When she listened, she seemed to long to drink up the speaker’s soul. Her eyes knew how to fondle, caress, weep without tears, to burn and freeze. Sometimes one would think she was about to put her arms around someone and lean her head on his shoulder: but when the fortunate man melted in delight, she would suddenly make a gesture which said she was not to be caught, for she would either disappear or thrust him away, or simply tell a footman to turn her admirer out of doors …

  Izabela’s soul was a curious phenomenon.

  If anyone had asked her point-blank what this world is, and what she herself was, she would certainly have replied that the world is an enchanted garden full of magical castles, and that she herself was a goddess or nymph imprisoned in a body.

  From her cradle, Izabela had lived in a beautiful world that was not only superhuman but even supernatural. For she slept in feathers, dressed in silks and satins, sat on carved and polished ebony or rosewood, drank from crystal, ate from silver and porcelain as costly as gold.