The Doll

  Wokulski looked at the violinist and was first struck by certain likenesses between him and Starski. Molinari had the same small moustache, the same little beard and the same expression of boredom which characterises men who are lucky with women. He played well, and looked respectable, but one could see that he had accepted the role of a benevolent demi-god to his followers. From time to time, the violin sounded louder, the man behind the maestro took on an expression of admiration, and a quiet, brief rustle went through the audience. Amidst the fashionably dressed men, and the listening, musing, dreamy or dozing ladies, Wokulski caught sight of women’s faces marked with an unusual expression. There were heads thrown passionately back, flushed cheeks, burning eyes, parted and trembling lips, as though they were under a drug.

  ‘Horrible,’ thought Wokulski, ‘what sick individuals are these, harnessed to the triumphal car of this man!’

  Then he looked to one side, and was struck cold. He saw Miss Łęcka, still more excited and impassioned than the others. He could not believe his own eyes.

  The maestro played some fifteen minutes, but Wokulski no longer heard a single note. Finally, a long burst of applause awoke him. Then again he forgot where he was, but for all that he very distinctly saw Molinari whisper into Mr Rzezuchowski’s ear, Mr Rzezuchowski take him by the arm—and introduce him to Izabela.

  She greeted him with a blush and look of indescribable admiration. And because all were now summoned to supper, the maestro gave her his arm and took her into the supper room. They passed right by him, Molinari even elbowed him, but they were so occupied with each other that Izabela didn’t notice Wokulski. Then they sat down at a table for four—Mr Szatalski with Miss Rzezuchowska, Molinari with Izabela—and it was evident they were very pleased to be together.

  Again it seemed to Wokulski that a veil had fallen from before his eyes, and he could see beyond it an entirely different world, and another Izabela. But at the same moment, he felt such chaos in his mind, pain in his chest, madness in his nerves, that he fled to the entrance hall and then into the street, afraid he was going to lose his mind. ‘Merciful God!’ he whispered, ‘take this curse off me!’

  A few paces from Molinari, Mrs Wąsowska was sitting at a microscopic table with Ochocki. ‘My cousin begins to interest me more and more,’ said Ochocki, looking at Izabela. ‘Do you see her?’

  ‘I’ve been watching for an hour,’ Mrs Wąsowska replied, ‘but it strikes me Wokulski has noticed something too, for he was very changed. I am sorry for him.’

  ‘Oh, you can set your mind at rest regarding Wokulski. True he is crushed today, but he’ll come around again. Such men aren’t slain by a fan.’

  ‘There may be a scene…’

  ‘Not likely,’ said Ochocki. ‘People with strong feelings are only dangerous when they have no reserves left.’

  ‘You mean that woman…what’s her name?—Sta…Star…?’

  ‘God forbid, there’s nothing there, and never was. Besides, for a man in love, another woman doesn’t provide a reserve.’

  ‘What does?’

  ‘Wokulski has a powerful mind, and knows of a wonderful invention which would really turn the world upside down.’

  ‘Do you know of it?’

  ‘I know the content, I’ve seen the proof; but not the details. I swear,’ said Ochocki, growing excited, ‘that a man could sacrifice ten mistresses for such a cause.’

  ‘So you sacrifice me, ungrateful one?’

  ‘Are you my mistress? I’m not a madman, after all.’

  ‘But you are in love with me.’

  ‘As Wokulski is with Izabela? Not on your life…Although I’m prepared at any moment to…’

  ‘You’re badly bred, anyway. But—so much the better if you’re not in love with me.’

  ‘I know why. You are sighing for Wokulski.’

  A strong blush overcame Mrs Wąsowska; she grew so confused that she dropped her fan. Ochocki retrieved it. ‘I don’t want to play a game with you, monster,’ she said after a moment. ‘He concerns me, inasmuch as…I’m doing all I can for him to win Bela, because…that madman loves her.’

  ‘I swear that of all the women I know, you are the only one worth anything! But enough of this. Ever since I found out that Wokulski loves Bela (and how he does!), my cousin has been making a strange impression on me. Earlier, I used to regard her as exceptional—today, she strikes me as ordinary; earlier, as exalted—today, shallow…But this is only at moments, and I see I may be wrong.’

  Mrs Wąsowska smiled. ‘It’s said,’ she remarked, ‘that whenever a man looks at a woman, Satan puts rose-coloured spectacles on him.’

  ‘Sometimes he takes them off.’

  ‘Not without suffering for it,’ Mrs Wąsowska replied. ‘But do you know, sir,’ she added, ‘since we are almost cousins, let us be less formal with each other…’

  ‘Thank you, I think not.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I have no intention of becoming your admirer, madam.’

  ‘I am offering you friendship.’

  ‘Precisely. It is a bridge over which…’

  At this moment Izabela suddenly rose from her seat and came to them: she was indignant.

  ‘Are you abandoning the maestro?’ Mrs Wąsowska asked her.

  ‘He is impertinent!’ said Izabela, in a tone which contained anger.

  ‘I’m very glad, cousin, that you’ve found out that clown so quickly,’ said Ochocki. ‘Won’t you sit down?’

  But Izabela gave him a thunderous look, began talking to Malborg, who had just come up, then went out of the room. On the threshold she glanced over her fan at Molinari, who was talking very gaily to Miss Rzezuchowska.

  ‘It seems to me, Mr Ochocki,’ said Mrs Wąsowska, ‘that you will have to become another Copernicus before you learn caution. How could you call that man a clown in Izabela’s presence?’

  ‘But she called him impertinent!’

  ‘Nevertheless she is interested in him.’

  ‘Well, please don’t joke with me. If she isn’t interested in a man who adores her…’

  ‘Then she will interest herself all the more in a man who despises her.’

  ‘A taste for strong condiments is a sign of weak health,’ Ochocki commented.

  ‘Which of us women here is healthy!’ said Mrs Wąsowska, embracing the company with a contemptuous glance. ‘Give me your hand, and let’s go into the drawing-room.’

  In the hall they met the Prince, who greeted Mrs Wąsowska with great satisfaction.

  ‘Well, Your Highness, and Molinari?’ she asked.

  ‘Beautiful tone…very…’

  ‘And shall we receive him at home?’

  ‘Oh yes—in the vestibule.’

  Within a few minutes the Prince’s witticism had gone all around the rooms. Mrs Rzezuchowska had to leave her guests because of a sudden migraine.

  When Mrs Wąsowska, talking with friends on the way, went into the drawing-room with Ochocki, she saw Izabela already sitting there with Molinari. ‘Which of us was right?’ she asked, nudging Ochocki with her fan: ‘Poor Wokulski!’

  ‘I assure you he is less so than Izabela.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because if women only love men who despise them, my cousin will soon have to be crazy about Wokulski.’

  ‘Will you tell her that?’ asked Mrs Wąsowska indignantly.

  ‘Never! After all, I am his friend, and that alone places me under an obligation not to warn him. But I’m a man too, and God knows I feel it, when this sort of conflict arises between a man and a woman.’

  ‘The man will lose it.’

  ‘No, madam. The woman will lose, and completely. After all, that is why women everywhere are slaves—they attach themselves to those who despise them.’

  ‘Don’t commit sacrilege.’

  As Molinari had started talking to Mrs Wywrotnicka, Mrs Wąsowska approached Izabela, took her arm and they began promenading about the drawing-room. ‘So you’ve become
reconciled to the impertinent?’ Mrs Wąsowska inquired.

  ‘He apologised,’ Izabela replied.

  ‘So quickly? And did he mend his ways?’

  ‘It is my business to see that he need not.’

  ‘Wokulski was here,’ said Mrs Wąsowska, ‘and left rather suddenly.’

  ‘Long ago?’

  ‘When you were sitting down to supper: he was standing right by the door.’

  Izabela frowned. ‘My dear Kazia,’ she said, ‘I know what you mean. Let me tell you once and for all, that I have no intention of renouncing my likings and pleasures for Wokulski’s sake. Marriage isn’t a prison, and I am less suited than anyone to being a prisoner.’

  ‘You are right. Though is it proper to hurt such feelings for a whim?’

  Izabela grew embarrassed: ‘What am I supposed to do?’

  ‘That depends on you. You are not engaged to him, yet.’

  ‘Quite so. I understand now,’ and Izabela smiled.

  Mr Malborg and Mr Niwiński were standing by a window and watching both ladies through their eye-glasses. ‘Beautiful creatures,’ sighed Mr Malborg.

  ‘Each in a different style,’ Mr Niwiński added.

  ‘Which do you prefer?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘I—Izabela, then—Wąsowska.’

  ‘How delightfully they embrace!…How they smile! It is all meant to tease us. Mischievous creatures?!’

  ‘Underneath they may hate one another.’

  ‘Well, not just now at least,’ Mr Niwiński concluded.

  Ochocki approached the ladies as they strolled. ‘Are you in the conspiracy against me too, cousin?’ Izabela inquired.

  ‘A conspiracy? Never. I can be at only open war with a woman.’

  ‘At open war with a woman! Whatever does this mean? Wars are carried out with a view to concluding an advantageous peace.’

  ‘That isn’t my system.’

  ‘Really?’ said Izabela with a smile. ‘So let us make a wager that you will lay down your arms, for I consider the war has started.’

  ‘You will lose it, cousin, even over the points on which you expect the greatest victory,’ Ochocki replied solemnly.

  Izabela turned sulky.

  ‘Bela,’ the Countess whispered to her, coming up at this moment, ‘we are leaving.’

  ‘And has Molinari promised?’ Izabela asked in the same tone.

  ‘I haven’t mentioned it,’ the Countess replied haughtily.

  ‘Why not, aunt?’

  ‘He has made a bad impression.’

  If Izabela had been informed that Wokulski had died on Molinari’s account, the great violinist would have lost nothing in her eyes. But to hear that he had made a bad impression affected her disagreeably. She bade goodbye to the musician coolly, almost haughtily.

  Although their acquaintance had lasted only a few hours, Molinari greatly interested Izabela. When, on returning home late that night, she gazed at her Apollo, the marble god seemed to her to have something of the violinist’s attitude and features. She blushed to recollect how very often the statue changed its features; for a short while it had even resembled Wokulski. However, she grew calmer at the thought that today’s change was the last, that her predilections hitherto had been based on errors and that if Apollo symbolised anyone, that person could only be Molinari.

  She could not fall asleep, the most contradictory feelings were at war in her heart: anger, fear, curiosity and a sort of tenderness. Sometimes even amazement arose, when she recalled the violinist’s boldness. His first words had been that she was the most beautiful woman he knew: going in to supper, he had clasped her arm passionately, and declared he loved her. And at supper, despite the presence of Szatalski and Miss Rzezuchowska, he had sought her hand under the table so insistently that…what could she do?

  She had never before encountered such violent feelings. Surely he must have fallen in love with her at first sight, madly, eternally. Had he not whispered to her in the end (which obliged her to leave the table) that he would not hesitate to give his life for a few days spent with her. ‘What did he not risk by saying such a thing?’ Izabela thought. It did not occur to her that at most he had risked her quitting his society before supper was over.

  ‘What feelings…what passion…’ she repeated inwardly.

  For two days, Izabela did not go out, nor did she see callers. On the third day, Apollo, though still resembling Molinari, sometimes recalled Starski. That afternoon she received Messrs Rydzewski and Pieczarkowski, who declared that Molinari was already leaving Warsaw, that he had offended society, that his album of press-cuttings was a fraud, because unfavourable notices had been left out of it. Finally they added that only in Warsaw would such a second-rate violinist and common individual receive such an ovation.

  Izabela was indignant, and reminded Mr Pieczarkowski that he and none other had praised the musician. Mr Pieczarkowski, in surprise, appealed to Mr Rydzewski, who was present and to Szatalski (who wasn’t) to bear witness that he had mistrusted Molinari from the start.

  For the next two days, Izabela regarded the great musician as the victim of jealousy. She kept telling herself that he alone deserved her sympathy and that she would never forget him. Meanwhile, Szatalski sent her a bouquet of violets, and Izabela noticed, not without some misgivings, that Apollo was beginning to look like Szatalski, and that Molinari was rapidly being erased from her memory.

  Almost a week after the concert, when she was sitting in her boudoir in the dark, a long-forgotten vision appeared before her eyes. She seemed to be travelling in a carriage with her father down from a mountain into a valley full of clouds of smoke and steam. A huge hand emerged from the clouds, holding a card, at which Tomasz gazed with agitated curiosity. ‘With whom is Papa playing?’ she thought. At this moment, the wind blew and from the clouds appeared Wokulski’s face, also huge.

  ‘I had this same vision a year ago,’ said Izabela to herself. ‘What can it mean?’

  Only now did she realise that Wokulski hadn’t been to see them for a week.

  After the Rzezuchowskis’ party, Wokulski had gone home in an unusual state of mind. The attack of frenzy passed, and yielded to apathetic tranquillity. Wokulski did not sleep all night, but this did not strike him as disagreeable. He lay still, without thinking of anything, merely listening curiously for the hours. One…Two…Three…

  Next day he rose late, and kept listening to the clock as he drank tea, until afternoon. Eleven…Twelve…One…How boring! He wanted something to read, but did not feel like going to the library for a book; so he lay down on the chaise-longue, and began thinking about Darwin’s theory: what is natural selection? The result of a struggle for existence, in which beings that don’t possess certain attributes perish, and talented ones survive. What is the most important attribute? Sexual attraction? No, the horror of death. If horror of death didn’t put a brake on man, this wisest of animals would not drag the chain of life. There are traces in ancient Indian poetry that once a human race existed, with less horror of death than we have. And that race perished, and its descendants are either slaves or ascetics.

  What is horror of death? A natural instinct based on illusion. There are people with a horror of mice, which are very innocent creatures, and even of strawberries, which are very delicious (when did I last eat strawberries?…Yes, at Zasławek, last September…What a charming place Zasławek is; I wonder if the Duchess is still alive, and whether she has a horror of death?).

  For what, after all, is the horror of death? An illusion! To die means not to be anywhere, not to feel anything, and not to think of anything. How very many places I am not in, today; not in America, Paris, the moon, I’m not even in my store, and nothing troubles me. And how many things have I not thought of, and am not thinking of? I am thinking of one thing only, not millions of other things, I don’t know of them, even, and nothing concerns me.

  So what can be disagreeable in the fact that not being in millions of places, but in one par
ticular place, and not thinking millions of things, only one particular thing—that I should stop being in this one place and thinking of one thing? Really, the fear of death is the most absurd illusion humanity has been subjected to for many centuries. Savages fear thunder, the noise of firearms, even mirrors: and we, allegedly civilised, fear death…

  He rose, looked out of the window and smiled to see people hurrying somewhere, bowing to one another, assisting ladies. He watched their violent gestures, great interests, the unconscious gallantry of the men, the mechanical coquetry of the women, the indifferent expressions of the cab-drivers, the misery of their horses, and he could not resist the comment that all this life, full of agitation and torment, is but a capital folly.

  He sat thus all day. Next day, Rzecki came and reminded him it was April 1st, and Łęcki must be paid two thousand five hundred roubles interest. ‘That’s so,’ Wokulski replied, ‘take it to him.’

  ‘I thought you would go yourself.’

  ‘I don’t feel like it.’

  Rzecki fidgeted around the room, snorted, finally said: ‘Mrs Stawska is down in the dumps, somehow. Perhaps you’ll pay her a visit?’

  ‘True, I haven’t been to see her for a long time. I’ll go this evening.’

  On gaining this response, Rzecki couldn’t contain himself. He said goodbye very affectionately to Wokulski, rushed to the store for some money, then got into a droshky and told the driver to go to Mrs Misiewicz’s address.

  ‘I have dropped by for only a moment,’ he exclaimed joyfully, ‘as I have important business to transact. I may tell you, madam, that Staś will be here later today. I think (though this is in the utmost secrecy) that Wokulski has finally broken with the Łęckis.’

  ‘Can it be?’ cried Mrs Misiewicz, clasping her hands.

  ‘I am almost certain, but…Good-day to you…Staś will be here this evening.’

  In fact, Wokulski came that evening and, which is more important, began calling every evening. He came rather late, when little Helena was already in bed, and Mrs Misiewicz had gone to her room, and he would spend a few hours with Mrs Stawska. As a rule, he was silent and listened to her accounts of Mrs Miller’s shop, or incidents in the streets. He rarely spoke, and when he did, it was in aphorisms which didn’t have much relevance to what was said to him. Once, for no reason, he remarked: ‘A man is like a moth: he hurls himself blindly into the flame, although it hurts and will consume him. He does this,’ he added, after reflecting, ‘until he recovers his senses. And this is how he differs from a moth.’