The Doll

  ‘The heart of an angel!’ thought Wokulski. One evening he said to her: ‘Do you know what strikes me when I look at you?’

  She glanced at him in alarm.

  ‘That if you were to touch a badly hurt person, not only would the pain leave them, but surely their wounds would heal.’

  ‘You think me a witch?’ she asked, very troubled.

  ‘No, madam. I think the saints must have looked like you.’

  ‘Mr Wokulski is right,’ affirmed Mrs Misiewicz.

  Mrs Stawska began laughing. ‘Oh, the saints — and me!’ she replied. ‘If anyone could look into my heart, he’d realise how much I deserve condemnation … But now it is all the same to me,’ she added, with despair in her voice.

  Mrs Misiewicz imperceptibly crossed herself, but Wokulski did not notice. He was thinking of another woman.

  Mrs Stawska could not describe her feelings for Wokulski. She had known him by sight for several years, he had even impressed her as a handsome man, but he never concerned her. Then Wokulski vanished from Warsaw, the news spread that he had gone to Bulgaria, and later that he had made a great fortune. He was much talked of, and Mrs Stawska began to grow interested in him as an object of public curiosity. When one of her acquaintance said of Wokulski: ‘That’s a man with diabolical energy,’ Mrs Stawska liked the phrase ‘diabolical energy’, and she made up her mind to observe Wokulski more closely.

  With this purpose in mind she sometimes called at the store. A few times she did not find Wokulski there at all, once she saw him, but from the side, and once she exchanged a few words with him. Then he made a peculiar impression on her. She was struck by the contrast between the phrase ‘diabolical energy’ and his manner: he did not look in the least diabolical, rather he was calm and sorrowful. And she noticed one other thing: he had large, dreamy eyes, so very dreamy …

  ‘A handsome man,’ she thought.

  One summer day she had met him in the gateway of the house she lived in. Wokulski looked at her with interest, and she was overcome with such embarrassment that she blushed to the roots of her hair. She was vexed with herself for this embarrassment and blushing, and had been cross with Wokulski for a long time because he looked at her so curiously.

  From that time on, she had been unable to conceal her embarrassment whenever his name was mentioned in her presence: she felt a sort of compunction, but did not know whether it was for him or for herself. But it was rather for herself, for she never felt compunction for other people; and in the end — what fault was it of his that she should be so absurd and embarrassed without any cause?

  When Wokulski bought the house she was living in, and when Rzecki lowered the rent with his approval, Mrs Stawska (although they explained

  ‘He’s an extraordinary man,’ Mrs Misiewicz would tell her, sometimes. Mrs Stawska listened in silence, but gradually decided that Wokulski was the most extraordinary man who existed in this world.

  After Wokulski’s return from Paris, the old clerk visited Mrs Stawska more often, and made ever greater confidences in her. He said — as a very great secret, of course — that Wokulski was in love with Miss Łęcka and that he, Rzecki, didn’t approve at all.

  Dislike for Miss Łęcka and sympathy for Wokulski began increasing within Mrs Stawska. Already at that time it occurred to her, though only for a moment, that Wokulski must be terribly unhappy, and that anyone who extricated him from the wiles of the coquette would be most deserving.

  Later, two great catastrophes befell Mrs Stawska: the trial over the doll, and the loss of her earnings. Not only did Wokulski continue his acquaintance with her, which after all he need not have done; but he even exonerated her in court, and offered her a well-paid post in the store. Then Mrs Stawska admitted to herself that this man concerned her, and that he was as dear to her as Helena and her mother.

  From that time on, a strange life began for her. Everyone who visited them spoke to her of Wokulski, either directly or by implication. Mrs Denowa, Mrs Kolerowa and Mrs Radzińska explained to her that Wokulski was the best match in Warsaw; her mother insisted that Ludwik was dead and, even if he weren’t, then he didn’t deserve to have her remember him. Finally Rzecki, whenever he called, told her that his Staś was unhappy, that he must be saved and that the only person who could save him was herself.

  ‘How?’ she asked, not understanding properly what she was saying.

  ‘Love him, and a way will be found,’ Rzecki replied.

  She did not reply, but privately reproached herself bitterly because she could not love Wokulski, although she wanted to. Her heart had dried up: she wasn’t even sure whether she still had one. Admittedly, she thought continuously of Wokulski during her work in the store, or at home; she looked forward to his visits, and was irritable and sad when he didn’t come. She often dreamed about him, but that, after all, is not love; she was not capable of love. To tell the truth, she had even stopped loving her husband. It seemed to her that memories of the absent are like a tree in autumn, from which leaves fall in drifts, leaving only a black skeleton.

  ‘What has love to do with me?’ she thought, ‘all passion is spent in me.’

  Meanwhile, Rzecki was still carrying on his sly plans. First he told her that Miss Łęcka would ruin Wokulski, then that only another woman could bring him to his senses; then he confided that Wokulski was much more tranquil in her company and finally (though he said this in the form of an implication) that Wokulski was beginning to love her.

  Influenced by these confidences, Mrs Stawska grew thinner, looked poorly, even began to be afraid. For she was dominated by one thought: what would she say if Wokulski were to confess that he loved her? Admittedly her heart had long since died, but would she have the courage to reject him, and admit that nothing concerned her any more? Could she not be concerned by a man such as he, not because she owed him something, but because he was unhappy, and loved her? ‘What woman,’ she thought, ‘could not but take pity on a heart so deeply wounded, and so silent in its pain?’

  Plunged in this inner conflict, which she could not confide in anyone, Mrs Stawska failed to notice the changes in Mrs Miller’s attitude, her smiles and insinuations.

  ‘How’s Mr Wokulski?’ the shop woman would sometimes ask. ‘Today you look wretched … Mr Wokulski ought not to let you work so …’

  One day, about the middle of March, Mrs Stawska came home to find her mother in tears. ‘What is it, mama? … What has happened?’ she inquired.

  ‘Nothing, nothing, my child. Am I to poison your life with gossip? Good God, how detestable people are!’

  ‘You must have had an anonymous letter. I keep getting anonymous letters every few days, which call me Wokulski’s mistress, but what of it? I guess it is the work of Baroness Krzeszowska, and throw the letters into the fire.’

  ‘No, no, my child … If it were only an anonymous letter … But that worthy Mrs Denowa and Mrs Radzińska were here today … But why should I poison your life? They say (apparently it’s to be heard all over town) that instead of going to the shop, you visit Wokulski …’

  For the first time in her life, a lioness awoke in Mrs Stawska. She raised her head high, her eyes flashed and she replied firmly: ‘Even if it were so, what then?’

  ‘For goodness sake, what are you saying!’ her mother groaned, pressing her hands together.

  ‘What if it were so?’ Mrs Stawska insisted.

  ‘And your husband?’

  ‘Where is he? Anyway, let him kill me …’

  ‘But your daughter? … Little Helena?’ the old lady whispered.

  ‘Let’s not talk of her, but of me …’

  ‘Helena … my child … But you aren’t …?’

  ‘His mistress? No, I’m not, because he hasn’t asked me. What do I care for Mrs Denowa or Mrs Radzińska, or my husband who has deserted me? I don’t know what has come over me … I only feel that this man has taken away my soul.’

  ‘Be sensible, at least … Besides …’

  ‘I
am, as far as I can be. But I care nothing for a world that condemns two people to torture, simply because they love one another. Hatred is allowed,’ she added, with a bitter smile, ‘stealing, killing — everything is allowed, except love. Ah, mama, if I am not right, then why did not Christ say to people “Be sensible” instead of “Love one another”?’

  Mrs Misiewicz fell silent, alarmed by this unexpected outburst. She felt that the heavens were falling when such phrases came from the lips of this dove, the like of which she had never heard, never read, which had never occurred to her, not even when she had typhus.

  Next day Rzecki called: he entered with a troubled expression, and when she told him everything, he left, broken. Because that very day, an incident had occurred: who had come to the store to see Szlangbaum but Maruszewicz, and they’d talked for nearly an hour. The other clerks, on hearing that Szlangbaum was buying the store, had grown meek before him at once. But Ignacy stiffened, and when Maruszewicz left, he immediately inquired: ‘What business do you have with that scoundrel, Henryk?’

  But Szlangbaum had already stiffened too, so he replied to Mr Rzecki, thrusting out his lower lip: ‘Maruszewicz wants to borrow money for the Baron and obtain a position for himself, for they’re already saying in town that Wokulski is handing his company over to me. He promises me in return that the Baron and Baroness will call on me, at home.’

  ‘And will you receive such a viper?’ asked Rzecki.

  ‘Why ever not? The Baron will be for me, and the Baroness for my wife. In my soul, I’m a democrat, but what am I to do, if foolish people think a drawing-room looks better with barons and counts in it than it does without ’em? A lot is done for the sake of social contacts, Mr Rzecki.’

  ‘I congratulate you.’

  ‘Well, well …’ Szlangbaum added. ‘Maruszewicz also told me it’s going about town — that Staś has started keeping that … that Stawska. Is it true, Mr Rzecki?’

  The old clerk spat at his feet and went back to his desk.

  Towards evening he called on Mrs Misiewicz to take council with her, and he learned from her own mother that Mrs Stawska was not Wokulski’s mistress simply because he hadn’t asked her.

  He left Mrs Misiewicz in despair: ‘Let her be his mistress,’ he said to himself. ‘Oh, goodness … How many well-known ladies are the mistresses of the vilest fellows … But the worst is that Wokulski doesn’t think about her at all. Here’s a fine to-do! Ha, something will have to be done.’

  But as he couldn’t think of anything, he went to Dr Szuman.

  XXXII

  How Eyes Begin to Open

  THE DOCTOR was sitting by a lamp, with a green lampshade, industriously looking through a heap of papers.

  ‘What’s this?’ Rzecki inquired, ‘are you working on human hair again? Goodness, what a quantity of figures … Like a store ledger.’

  ‘That’s because they are the accounts of your stores and your company,’ Szuman replied.

  ‘Where did you get them?’

  ‘I’ve had enough, Szlangbaum is trying to persuade me to entrust my capital to him. As I prefer having six thousand a year to four thousand, I’m prepared to listen to his suggestions. But as I don’t like acting in the dark, I asked for figures. Well, as I see, we shall do business.’

  Rzecki was surprised. ‘I never thought,’ he said, ‘that you would concern yourself with such matters.’

  ‘That’s because I’ve been stupid,’ the doctor replied with a shrug. ‘Wokulski has made a fortune before my very eyes, Szlangbaum is making one, and here I sit like a stone on my few pennies. He who doesn’t go ahead, retreats.’

  ‘But making money isn’t your concern!’

  ‘Why isn’t it? Not everyone can be a poet or a hero, but everyone needs money,’ said Szuman. ‘Money is the larder of the noblest force in nature — human labour. It’s the “open sesame” at which all doors fly open, it’s the table-cloth on which one can always find a dinner, it’s the Aladdin’s lamp, by rubbing which everything one wants is to be had. Magic gardens, splendid palaces, beautiful princesses, faithful servants, friends ready to make sacrifices — all these are to be had with money.’

  Rzecki bit his lip: ‘You were not always of this opinion,’ he said.

  ‘Tempora mutantur et nos mutamur in illis,’ the doctor replied, calmly. ‘I’ve wasted ten years studying hair, I spent a thousand roubles publishing a brochure a hundred pages long and … not even a dog remembers it, or me. I will try to devote the next ten years to financial operations, and am convinced in advance that people will love and admire me. Providing I open a drawing-room, and keep a carriage.’

  For a moment they were silent, and did not look at one another. Szuman was moody and Rzecki almost ashamed. Finally he remarked: ‘I would like to talk to you about Staś.’

  The doctor impatiently pushed the papers aside: ‘What can I do to help him?’ he muttered, ‘he’s an incurable dreamer who will never regain his senses. He is moving disastrously towards material and spiritual ruin, like all of you, and your entire system.’

  ‘What system?’

  ‘Your Polish system.’

  ‘And what would you replace it with, doctor?’

  ‘Our Jewish one …’

  Rzecki almost jumped off his chair: ‘Only a month ago, you were calling the Jews “kikes”.’

  ‘So they are. But they have a great system; it will triumph, whereas yours is leading to bankruptcy.’

  ‘And where is this new system to be found?’

  ‘In the minds that have emerged from the Jewish masses, and which have ascended to the peaks of civilisation. Take Heine, Borne, Lassal, Marx, Rothschild, Bleichroder, and you’ll discover the new ways of the world. It’s the Jews who have established them: despised, persecuted, but patient and full of genius.’

  Rzecki rubbed his eyes; he felt he was dreaming, though awake. After a moment he said: ‘Forgive me, doctor, but … are you making fun of me? Six months ago I heard something entirely different from you …’

  ‘Six months ago,’ replied Szuman, irritated, ‘you heard me protest against the old order, but today you are hearing a new programme. A man isn’t an oyster which grows so close to its rock that one needs a knife to pull it off. A man looks around him, he thinks, makes judgements and consequently rejects his former illusions, when he realises that they are illusions. But neither you nor Wokulski can grasp this. You’re all going bankrupt, all of you … Fortunately your places will be taken by new powers.’

  ‘I fail to understand you.’

  ‘You will in a moment,’ the doctor declared, growing more excited. ‘Take the Łęcki family — what have they done? They squandered a fortune; it was squandered by the grandfather, father and the son, who was left with thirty thousand saved by Wokulski — and a beautiful daughter, to serve as security. But what have the Szlangbaums been doing in the meanwhile? Making money. The grandfather made money, so did the father, so is the son today, although until recently he was but a modest clerk, but within a year he’ll give our commerce a shake-up. And they know this, for old Szlangbaum wrote a charade last January: “The first in German stands for serpent, the second a plant: together — they climb,” and he told me the answer was “Szlangbaum”. A poor charade, but a good piece of work,’ the doctor added, smiling.

  Rzecki looked away. Szuman went on: ‘Take the Prince, what’s he doing? He sighs over “this unhappy country”, and that’s all. Or Baron Krzeszowski. He thinks of acquiring money from his wife. Or Baron Dalski. He is withering away for fear his wife deceives him. Mr Maruszewicz hunts for loans, and when he can’t get them, he sneers; while Mr Starski sits by his dying grandmama, to get her to sign a will drawn up in his favour.’

  ‘Other gentlemen, both high and low, who have a premonition that all Wokulski’s business is going to pass into Szlangbaum’s hands are already paying calls on the latter. They don’t know, poor devils, that he will lower their incomes by at least five per cent … The cleverest of them, Ocho
cki, on the other hand, dreams of flying machines instead of exploiting the electric lamp he has invented. Bah! It seems to me he has been asking Wokulski’s advice about them for some days past. Birds of a feather: dreamers both …’

  ‘Surely you don’t reproach Staś for anything, doctor?’ Rzecki interrupted impatiently.

  ‘No, except that he has never cultivated his profession, but has always chased after illusions. As a clerk, he wanted to be a scholar, but once he started studying, he decided he wanted to be a hero. He made a fortune, not because he was a tradesman, but because he was insane about Miss Łęcka; and now that he’s gaining her — though that is still very uncertain — he’s already begin to take council with Ochocki. … Upon my word, I don’t understand it; what can a financier have to talk about with a man like Ochocki? … Lunatics!’

  Rzecki pinched himself so as not to quarrel with the doctor: ‘Pray notice,’ he remarked after a moment, ‘I came to see you, not only about Wokulski, but about a woman … A woman, Mr Szuman, against whom even you won’t find anything to say.’

  ‘Your women are worth precisely as much as your men. In ten years, Wokulski might be a millionaire and a power to be reckoned with in this country, but because he has involved his destiny with Miss Łęcka, he’s selling a profitable store, abandoning a trading company no worse than the store, and will proceed to squander his fortune. Or Ochocki … Anyone else, in his shoes, would be working on electric lighting, since his invention has succeeded. Meanwhile, he gads around Warsaw with that pretty Mrs Wąsowska, to whom a good dancer means more than the greatest inventor. A Jew would act differently. If he were an electrical engineer, he’d find himself a woman who would either sit in his workshop with him, or who could sell electricity. If he were a financier like Wokulski, he wouldn’t fall blindly in love, but would choose a rich wife. Or he might marry a poor and pretty one, but then her charms would have to pay interest. She would open a drawing-room for him, attract visitors, smile at the rich, flirt with the richest — in a word, would support the interests of the firm in all ways, instead of wrecking it.’