The Doll

  ‘Mr Wokulski might also treat his horse to some sugar, as it bore him so well today,’ interrupted Mrs Wąsowska, rather sulkily.

  ‘Don’t tease,’ said the Duchess, ‘men like riding, not coddling themselves.’

  ‘Ungrateful things,’ Mrs Wąsowska murmured, giving the Duchess her hand. They walked off, and soon disappeared through a gate. Mrs Wąsowska glanced back, but on seeing that Wokulski was watching her, she quickly turned away her head.

  ‘Shall we look for the engaged pair?’ asked Izabela.

  ‘As you choose,’ Wokulski replied.

  ‘But perhaps it will be better to leave them alone? They say that happy people don’t care for witnesses.’

  ‘Were you never happy?’

  ‘Me? … Of course. But not in the same way as Ewelina and the Baron.’

  Wokulski looked at her attentively. She was pondering, as tranquil as the statue of a Greek goddess. ‘No, this woman will not deceive me,’ Wokulski thought.

  They walked for some time in silence towards the wilder side of the park. From time to time, a window of the palace appeared between the old trees, gleaming with red flames of sunset.

  ‘Was it your first visit to Paris?’ Izabela asked.

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘It’s a marvellous city, isn’t it?’ she exclaimed, suddenly looking into his eyes. ‘Let people say what they choose, but Paris — even conquered — is still the centre of the world. Did it give you that impression?’

  ‘It was very impressive. After a few weeks there I seemed to gain strength and energy. Not until I went to Paris did I really learn to be proud of the fact that I work for a living.’

  ‘Pray explain…’

  ‘It’s very simple. Here, human labour produces poor results: we’re a poor and neglected country. But there, work illuminates like the sun. The buildings, covered from roof to pavement in ornaments like valuable caskets … And those forests of pictures and statues, whole regions of machinery, and that chaos of factory and craftsmen’s products! In Paris I realised that man only seems to be a frail, weak being. In reality, man is a creature of genius and an immortal giant, who can erect cliffs with as much ease as he creates from them something more delicate than lace.’

  ‘Yes,’ Izabela replied, ‘the French aristocracy had the opportunity and the time to create masterpieces.’

  ‘The aristocracy?’ asked Wokulski.

  Izabela came to a halt in the alley: ‘Surely you don’t want to claim that the galleries of the Louvre were created by the Convention or by manufacturers of Parisian haberdashery?’

  ‘Of course not, but the magnates didn’t create them either. They’re the collective work of French builders, bricklayers, painters and sculptors from all over the world, who have nothing in common with the aristocracy. To crown idlers with the benefits and work of men of genius, or even only working men — that’s capital!’

  ‘Idlers and aristocracy?’ cried Izabela. ‘I think that phrase is more forceful than just.’

  ‘May I ask you a question?’ Wokulski inquired.

  ‘Pray do …’

  ‘First, I withdraw the word “idlers”, if it offends you, but then … Pray show me a man in the sphere we are speaking of who has done something? I know some two hundred of these men, and they’re acquaintances of yours too. And what do they all do, from the Prince — the most excellent person in the world — though in his case, it may be explained by his age, down to … well, even Mr Starski, who can’t justify his everlasting holidays by possessing a fortune.’

  ‘My young cousin? He has surely never tried to serve as an example of anything. Besides, we aren’t talking about our aristocracy, but about the French.’

  ‘And what do they do?’

  ‘Oh, Mr Wokulski, they have done a great deal. In the first place, they created France, they were her knights, her leaders, ministers and priests. Finally, they collected the art treasures you admire so.’

  ‘Please tell me, now — they gave a great many orders, and spent a great deal of money, but someone else created both France and the art. They were created by poorly paid soldiers and sailors, by farmers and craftsmen burdened by taxation, and finally by artists and scholars. I’m an experienced man, I assure you it’s easier to plan than to execute, and easier to spend money than to make it.’

  ‘You’re an irreconcilable foe of the aristocracy.’

  ‘No, madam, I cannot be an enemy of those who do me no harm. But I think they occupy privileged places without earning the right to them, and that they preach contempt for work in society, and admiration for idle extravagance to maintain their own places.’

  ‘You’re prejudiced, since even this idle aristocracy — as you call it — plays an important part in the world. What you call extravagance is really comfort, pleasure and polish, which the lower orders learn from the aristocracy, and so grow civilised themselves. I have heard from very liberal people that there must be classes in society that cultivate science, art and refined manners — first, so that others may take living examples from them, and then to provide encouragement for noble actions. So in England and France more than one man, even of low birth, providing he acquires a fortune, will first of all establish a house for himself in order to invite persons of good society, and then he tries to behave so that he himself is accepted.’

  A powerful flush appeared on Wokulski’s face. Izabela noticed this without looking, and went on: ‘Finally, what you call the aristocracy, and what I call the upper class, is a good race. Perhaps a certain part of it idles too much: but when anyone of that class sets about doing something, he is at once marked by energy, good sense and nobility. Excuse me for quoting what the Prince has often said to me about you: “If Wokulski were not a fine gentleman, he wouldn’t be what he is today.”’

  ‘The Prince is mistaken,’ Wokulski replied drily. ‘What I have, and what I know weren’t given to me by genteel birth, but by hard work. I’ve done more, so I own more than others.’

  ‘But could you have done more if you’d been born someone else?’ Izabela asked. ‘My cousin Ochocki is a scientist and democrat like you, and despite that he believes there are good and bad races of men, as does the Prince. He quotes you as proof of inheritance: “Wokulski,” he says, “has won success from destiny, but his toughness of spirit comes from his breeding.”’

  ‘I am very grateful to all those who do me the honour of including me in some privileged race,’ said Wokulski, ‘but I shall never believe in privilege without work, and shall always set the benefits to society of the low-born higher than any well-bred pretensions.’

  ‘Don’t you think there is benefit to society in the cultivation of refined feelings and elegant manners?’

  ‘Of course, but that role in society is played by women. Nature gave them more sensitive hearts, more lively imaginations, more subtle minds — it is they, not the aristocracy, who preserve elegance, kindliness in manners in everyday life, and can arouse the most elevated feelings in us. Woman is the lamp whose light gilds the road of civilisation. She is the unseen source of actions requiring unusual effort or strength.’

  Now Izabela blushed. They walked on for a time in silence. The sun had already set, and the moon’s scythe was gleaming in the west, between the trees. Wokulski, lost in thought, was comparing the two conversations of the day, one with Mrs Wąsowska, the other with Izabela: ‘How different these two women are! … And was I not right to attach myself to this one?’

  ‘May I ask you a question that troubles me?’ asked Izabela suddenly, in a soft voice.

  ‘Pray do …’

  ‘Is it not true that when you left for Paris you were very offended with me?’

  He wanted to reply that it had been worse than offence, for it had been the suspicion of deceit, but said nothing.

  ‘I feel guilty towards you … I suspected you …’ she began.

  ‘Of malversions in acquiring your father’s house through money-lenders?’ Wokulski asked, smiling.

>   ‘Oh no!’ she replied vivaciously, ‘on the contrary, I suspected you of a very Christian action, which I couldn’t have forgiven in anyone else. For a time I thought you had bought our house … and paid too dearly for it.’

  ‘Surely your mind is at rest now?’

  ‘Yes. I know that the Baroness Krzeszowska wants to pay ninety thousand for it.’

  ‘Really? She has said nothing to me, though I can foresee what will happen.’

  ‘I am so pleased you lost nothing, for … now I can thank you with my whole heart,’ said Izabela, giving him her hand. ‘I understand the significance of what you did. My father would have been abused or cheated by the Baroness, but you saved him from ruin, perhaps from death. One doesn’t forget such things.’

  Wokulski kissed her hand.

  ‘It’s dark already,’ she said awkwardly. ‘Let us go back to the palace. Surely everyone else has left the park.’

  ‘If she isn’t an angel, then I’m a swine,’ Wokulski thought.

  Everyone was already in the palace, where supper was soon served. The evening passed gaily. Towards eleven, Ochocki took Wokulski to his apartment. ‘Well?’ Ochocki said, ‘I hear that you and my cousin Izabela have been talking about the aristocracy. Did you convince her, sir, that they are canaille?’

  ‘No. Izabela defends her opinions very well. How splendidly she talks!’ Wokulski replied, trying to conceal his confusion.

  ‘No doubt she told you that the aristocracy cultivate the sciences and arts, that they are the guardians of refined manners and that their attitude is the aim towards which our democrats are striving and are ennobled … I keep hearing these arguments: I’ve had enough of them.’

  ‘At the same time, you yourself believe in good breeding,’ said Wokulski, painfully touched.

  ‘Naturally … But this good breeding must be continually renewed, otherwise it soon goes bad,’ Ochocki replied. ‘Well, goodnight, sir. I must see what the barometer reads, for the Baron’s bones ache, and tomorrow we may have rain.’

  Scarcely had Ochocki left him than the Baron appeared in Wokulski’s room, coughing, feverish, but all smiles. ‘Ah, very nice,’ he said, and his eyelids twitched nervously, ‘very nice … You betrayed me, sir. You left my fiancée all alone in the park … I’m joking, joking,’ he added, pressing Wokulski by the hand, ‘all the same, I could rightly be vexed with you, were it not that I came back quite soon and … just then met Mr Starski, who was coming in our direction from the other end of the alley.’

  Wokulski flushed like a boy for the second time that evening. ‘Why did I get involved in this net of intrigue and deceptions?’ he thought, still irritated by Ochocki’s words.

  The Baron coughed and, after a rest, went on in a lower voice: ‘Pray do not suppose, sir, that I am jealous of my fiancée. That would be despicable … She’s not a woman, but an angel, for whom I would at any moment sacrifice my entire fortune, my life … What am I saying? I’d place my eternal life in her hands, just as confidently as I believe the sun will rise tomorrow. I may not see it, for each of us is mortal, goodness knows. But of her I have no fear, not a shadow of fear, I give you my word of that, Mr Wokulski. I wouldn’t believe my own eyes, not to mention any suspicions or hints,’ he included, more loudly.

  ‘But,’ he began again after a few moments, ‘that Starski is a horrible person. I wouldn’t say this to anyone else, but do you know how he behaves with women? Do you think he sighs, flirts, begs for a kind word, for a touch of the hand? No, sir: he treats them like females in the most brutal manner. He acts on their nerves by his talk, his looks…’

  The Baron broke off, his eyes bloodshot. Wokulski suddenly said, sharply: ‘Who knows, Baron, but that Starski isn’t right? We’re taught to regard women as angels, and we treat them so. But if they are primarily females, then we look even more stupid and feeble in their eyes than we are, and Starski must triumph. He’s the master of the cashbox who also possesses the real key to the lock, Baron!’ he concluded with a laugh.

  ‘You say this, Mr Wokulski?’

  ‘I do, sir, and sometimes I wonder whether we don’t adore women too much, whether we don’t treat them too seriously: more seriously, more ceremoniously than we should.’

  ‘Ewelina is one of the exceptions!’ cried the Baron.

  ‘I don’t deny that there are exceptions, but who knows whether a man like Starski hasn’t discovered a general law?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said the Baron, irritated, ‘but the law doesn’t apply to Ewelina. If I defend her — or rather, don’t wish her to know Starski, since she can defend herself, it’s merely because a man like that shouldn’t spoil her pure mind with his phrases … Well, you’re bored. Excuse me for the visit, at such an unsuitable time.’

  The Baron went out, closing the door quietly. Wokulski remained alone, plunged in melancholy thoughts: ‘What was it Ochocki said about having had enough of Izabela’s arguments? So what she said wasn’t an outburst of feeling, but a lesson studied long ago? Her arguments, her excitement, even her emotions are only means by which well-bred young ladies bewitch fools like me?

  ‘But perhaps he’s in love with her and wishes to discredit her in my eyes? Well, if he loves her, why should he discredit her? Let him speak up, and let her choose … Of course, Ochocki’s chances are better than mine: I haven’t lost my senses to the point of not appreciating that … Young, handsome, talented — ha! Let him choose: fame, or Izabela …

  ‘Besides,’ he went on to himself, ‘what’s it to me if Izabela always uses the same arguments? She isn’t the Holy Ghost, to think up new ones every time, nor am I so unusual that it would be worth her while to strive for originality. Let her say what she likes … What’s more important is the fact that general laws about women don’t apply to her. Mrs Wąsowska is first and foremost a pretty female of the species, but not her …

  ‘Didn’t the Baron say the same thing of his Ewelina?’

  The lamp went out. Wokulski quenched it, and threw himself into bed.

  For the next two days it rained, and the guests at Zasławek did not go out. Ochocki took to his books and hardly ever showed himself; Ewelina suffered from migraine; Izabela and Felicja read French magazines, and the rest of the company, led by the Duchess, played whist. On one occasion, Wokulski noticed that Mrs Wąsowska, instead of indulging in a flirtation with him, for which opportunities kept arising, behaved very indifferently. He was struck, however, that when Starski tried to kiss her hand, she hastily drew it away, and told him, crossly, never to dare to do it again. Her anger was so sincere that Starski himself was surprised, and embarrassed, while the Baron, though his cards were not going well, was in an excellent humour. ‘Would you allow me to kiss your hand?’ he asked, some time after this incident.

  ‘You — of course,’ she replied, giving him her hand. The Baron kissed it as though it were a relic, glancing triumphantly at Wokulski, who thought that his titled friend really had little reason for over-much satisfaction.

  Starski was gazing at his cards so intently that he appeared not to notice what had happened.

  On the third day it cleared up, and the fourth was so fine and dry that Felicja proposed a drive to pick mushrooms. That day the Duchess ordered lunch earlier and dinner later. Towards twelve-thirty, the brake drove up in front of the palace, and Mrs Wąsowska gave the signal to get in. ‘Let’s make haste and not waste time … Where’s your shawl, Ewelina? Let the servants get into the brake and take the baskets. And now,’ she added, glancing fleetingly at Wokulski, ‘let each gentleman choose his lady …’

  Felicja wanted to protest, but at this moment the Baron leaped to Ewelina, and Starski to Mrs Wąsowska, who bit her lip, said: ‘I never thought you would choose me again …’ and gave Wokulski a withering look.

  ‘We, cousin, shall keep together,’ Ochocki cried to Izabela, ‘but you will have to sit on the box, for I’m going to drive.’

  ‘Mrs Wąsowska won’t let you, for you will overturn us,’ exclaimed Felicja,
to whom Fate had ordained Wokulski.

  ‘Oh, let him drive, let him overturn us,’ said Mrs Wąsowska, ‘today I wouldn’t care if we all got our legs broken … I pity the mushroom that gets into my hands.’

  ‘I’m the first of them,’ exclaimed Starski, ‘if it comes to being devoured …’

  ‘Very well, if you agree to have your head cut off first,’ Mrs Wąsowska replied.

  ‘I lost it long ago …’

  ‘Not before I noticed … But let us be off…’

  XXVII

  Woods, Ruins, Enchantments

  THEY set off. The Baron, as usual, was whispering to his fiancée, Starski flirting outrageously with Mrs Wąsowska, who accepted it cordially enough, to Wokulski’s surprise, and Ochocki drove the four-in-hand. This time, however, his enthusiasm was restrained by the vicinity of Izabela, to whom he kept turning.

  ‘That Ochocki is a merry young fellow,’ thought Wokulski, ‘he says he’s had quite enough of Izabela’s arguments, but now he’s talking to her and nobody else … Of course, he wants to prejudice me against her …’ And he fell into a very dismal frame of mind, for he was certain that Ochocki was in love with Izabela, and that there was really no point in struggling against such a rival. ‘Young, handsome, talented,’ he told himself. ‘She’d have neither eyes nor sense if, in choosing between us, she didn’t give him priority. But even if she did, I’d have to admit she has a noble nature to prefer Ochocki to Starski. Poor Baron, and his even more wretched fiancée, who is so obviously pining for Starski. She must have a very empty head and heart …’

  He contemplated the autumn sunshine, the grey stubble and the ploughs slowly moving across the fallow earth and, with profound grief in his soul, he imagined for a moment that he had entirely lost hope and resigned his place by Izabela to Ochocki: ‘What’s to be done? What shall I do if she chooses him? It was my misfortune ever to have met her …’