The Doll

  ‘He’s referring to Miss Łęcka,’ Mrs Stawska thought, and her heart beat faster.

  On another occasion he told her a strange anecdote: ‘I heard of two friends, one of whom lived in Odessa, the other in Tobolsk; they hadn’t met for several years, and longed to see one another. Finally, the man in Tobolsk, unable to bear it any longer, decided to surprise his friend and he went to Odessa without advising him. But he didn’t find him at home, because the man in Odessa, who also longed to see his friend, had left for Tobolsk. Business matters prevented them from meeting during the return trip. They didn’t meet for some years, and do you know what happened?’

  Mrs Stawska gazed at him.

  ‘The two of them met in Moscow on the same day, in the same hotel, in adjacent rooms. Destiny sometimes plays jokes on people.’

  ‘This does not happen very often in life,’ Mrs Stawska murmured.

  ‘Who knows? Who knows?’ Wokulski responded. He kissed her hand and left, thoughtful.

  ‘It will not be thus with us!…’ she thought, deeply moved.

  During the evenings he spent in Mrs Stawska’s home, Wokulski was relatively lively, ate a little, and talked. But for the remainder of the day, he sank into apathy. He hardly ate, but drank a great deal of tea, did not concern himself with business, was not present at the quarterly meeting of the company, read nothing, and didn’t even think. A power he could not name had hurled him outside the sphere of all matters, hopes, desires and his life, like a dead weight, was moving on in the midst of desolation.

  ‘After all, I’m not going to shoot myself,’ he thought. ‘If I’d gone bankrupt, then perhaps…But like this? I’d despise myself if a woman’s skirts were to remove me from this world…I should have stayed in Paris…Who knows but that today I might not possess a weapon which will sooner or later eradicate all monsters with human faces?’

  Rzecki, guessing what was going on, called at various times of day, and tried to draw him into conversation. But neither the weather, nor trade, nor politics concerned Wokulski. Only once did he grow livelier, when Mr Ignacy commented that Mrs Miller was persecuting Mrs Stawska.

  ‘What does she mean by it?’

  ‘Jealousy, perhaps, because you visit Mrs Stawska and pay her a good salary.’

  ‘Mrs Miller can set her mind at rest,’ said Wokulski, ‘when I hand the store over to Mrs Stawska and make her the cashier.’

  ‘Don’t say that, for goodness sake!’ Rzecki exclaimed in alarm, ‘you’d ruin Mrs Stawska if you did.’

  Wokulski began walking about: ‘You’re right. But all the same, if the women are squabbling, they must be separated. Persuade Mrs Stawska to set up a store for herself, and we will provide the capital. I thought of that once before, but now I see it shouldn’t be postponed any longer.’

  Of course Ignacy instantly hastened to his lady friends and told them the great news. ‘I don’t know whether it would be proper to accept such a sacrifice,’ said Mrs Misiewicz, uneasily.

  ‘What sacrifice?’ Rzecki exclaimed. ‘You’ll repay us in a few years, and basta! What do you think?’ he asked Mrs Stawska.

  ‘I’ll do as Mr Wokulski wishes. If he tells me to open a store, I shall; if he tells me to stay with Mrs Miller, I shall.’

  ‘But, Helena,’ her mother reflected, ‘just think what a risk you are running, to speak thus! Thank goodness no one can hear.’

  Mrs Stawska fell silent, greatly to Mrs Misiewicz’s mortification: she was alarmed by the determination of her hitherto mild and submissive daughter.

  One day, as Wokulski was walking in the street, he met Mrs Wąsowska. He bowed, and walked aimlessly on; then a servant caught up with him: ‘Madam wishes…’

  ‘What has been happening to you?’ exclaimed the beautiful widow, as Wokulski approached the carriage, ‘pray get in, let us drive along the Boulevard.’ He obeyed, they drove off.

  ‘What does this mean?’ Mrs Wąsowska continued, ‘you look dreadful, you haven’t been near Bela for ten days…Well, say something!’

  ‘I have nothing to say. I’m not ill, and I don’t think Izabela needs my visits.’

  ‘What if she does?’

  ‘I never had any such illusions; today less than ever.’

  ‘Well, well…My dear man, let’s speak frankly. You are jealous, which always lowers a man in a woman’s estimation. You were vexed by Molinari.’

  ‘You are wrong, madam. I am so little jealous that I am not going to interfere in the least with Izabela choosing between Molinari and myself. I know, after all, that we both have equal rights.’

  ‘My dear man, that is bitter!’ Mrs Wąsowska scolded him. ‘How now, is a poor woman not to speak to other men, should one of you deign to admire her? I didn’t think a man like you would treat a woman in such a harem-like fashion. Besides, what concern is it of yours? Even if Bela flirted with Molinari, what of it? It lasted one evening and ended with such a contemptuous goodbye from Bela that it was quite disagreeable to see.’

  His depression left Wokulski: ‘Madam, don’t let’s pretend we don’t understand one another. You know that a woman is as holy as an altar to a man who loves her. Right or wrong, that’s how it is. Now, if the first adventurer to come along approaches this divinity as if she were a chair, and treats her as though she were, and the altar is delighted by such treatment, then…Do you understand me, madam? We begin suspecting that the altar really is a chair. Have I made myself clear?’

  Mrs Wąsowska fidgeted on the cushions of her carriage: ‘Oh, my dear man, only too clear! But what would you say if Bela’s coquetry were merely an innocent revenge, or rather, a warning?’

  ‘To whom?’

  ‘You. After all, you’re continually preoccupied with Mrs Stawska.’

  ‘I? Who says so?’

  ‘Suppose there are witnesses—Baroness Krzeszowska, Mr Maruszewicz…’

  Wokulski put his hands to his head: ‘And you believe that…?’

  ‘No, because Ochocki assured me there’s nothing in it: but whether anyone could calm Bela in such a fashion, and whether she can put up with it, is another matter.’

  Wokulski took her hand. ‘Dear madam,’ he murmured, ‘I withdraw everything I’ve said on Molinari’s account. I swear to you that I honour Izabela, and that my ill-judged words are my greatest misfortune…Only now do I realise what I permitted myself, by saying that…’

  He was so upset that Mrs Wąsowska couldn’t help being sorry for him. ‘Come, now,’ she said, ‘pray calm yourself, and don’t exaggerate. On my word of honour (though it’s been said that women have no honour), I assure you that what we have been talking about will remain between ourselves. Besides, I’m certain that even Bela would forgive you that outburst. It was unworthy of you, but…a lover can be forgiven such things.’

  Wokulski kissed both her hands, but she tore them away. ‘Pray don’t make up to me, because a man in love is an altar to a woman…And now, be off with you to Bela, and…’

  ‘And what, madam?’

  ‘And admit that I know how to keep my promises.’

  Her voice trembled, but Wokulski did not notice. He jumped out of the carriage, and hastened to the apartment house occupied by Mr Łęcki, where they had just stopped. When Mikołaj opened the door, he asked to be announced to Miss Łęcka. She was alone, and at once asked him in, blushing and embarrassed. ‘You haven’t been to see us for so long,’ she said, ‘were you ill?’

  ‘Worse, madam,’ he replied, without taking a seat, ‘I offended you deeply for no reason.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, I offended you with my suspicions. I…’ he said in a stifled voice, ‘I was at the concert the Rzezuchowskis gave. I left without even bidding you goodnight…I can’t say more…I only feel that you have the right to refuse to receive me, as a man who did not appreciate you…who dared to suspect…’

  Izabela looked deeply into his eyes and, stretching out a hand, said: ‘I forgive you. Pray be seated.’

  ‘Do not be hasty wit
h your forgiveness, it may raise my hopes.’

  She reflected: ‘Goodness, how can I help that? Pray have your hopes, if you are so eager to…’

  ‘Can you say that, Izabela?’

  ‘Evidently it was predestined,’ she replied with a smile.

  He kissed her hand passionately and she did not prevent him. Then he went to the window and took something from around his neck. ‘Pray accept this from me,’ he said, and gave her a golden medallion on a chain. Izabela began examining it with curiosity. ‘A strange gift, is it not?’ said Wokulski, opening the medallion. ‘Do you see this metal, light as a spider-web? Yet it’s a jewel such as no treasury possesses, the seed of a great invention which may change humanity. Who knows that airships may not be born from it? But no matter. In giving it to you, I am placing my future in your hands.’

  ‘So it is a talisman?’

  ‘Very nearly. It’s something which might draw me away from this country, and engulf my fortune and the rest of my life in new work. Perhaps it would be a waste of time, lunacy, but in any case, the thought of it was your only rival. The only one…’ he repeated with emphasis.

  ‘Did you think of leaving us?’

  ‘No longer ago than this morning. That’s why I’m giving you the amulet. Henceforward, madam, I have no other happiness in the world; all that is left to me is you—or death.’

  ‘If that be so, I take you into captivity,’ said Izabela, and she suspended the medallion around her neck. But when she went to thrust it under her bodice, she looked down, and blushed.

  ‘How vile I am,’ thought Wokulski, ‘to think I suspected such a woman…Wretch that I am…’

  When he went home, and dropped in at the store, he was so radiant that Ignacy was not a little alarmed. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ he asked.

  ‘Congratulate me. I am engaged to Miss Łęcka.’

  But instead of congratulating him, Rzecki turned very pale. ‘I had a letter from Mraczewski,’ he said after a moment, ‘Suzin sent him to France in February, as you know.’

  ‘Well?’ Wokulski interrupted.

  ‘So—he writes from Lyons that Ludwik Stawski is alive and living in Algiers, but under the alias of Ernest Walter. Apparently he’s trading in wines. Someone saw him a year ago.’

  ‘We will check this.’ said Wokulski, and he calmly noted the address in his diary.

  Henceforth he spent every afternoon at the Łęckis, and was asked to stay to dinner once in a while. A few days later, Rzecki came to him. ‘Well, old man?’ Wokulski exclaimed, ‘how are things with your Prince Lulu? Are you still angry with Szlangbaum for buying the store?’

  The old clerk shook his head: ‘Mrs Stawska isn’t with Mrs Miller any longer. She’s rather poorly…She talks of leaving Warsaw…Maybe you’ll drop by there?’

  ‘True, I ought to,’ he replied, rubbing his head. ‘Did you mention the store to her?’

  ‘Of course; I even lent her twelve hundred roubles.’

  ‘Out of your own poor savings? Why shouldn’t she borrow from me?’

  Rzecki didn’t answer.

  Towards two o’clock, Wokulski drove to visit Mrs Stawska. She looked very worn; her charming eyes seemed even larger and unhappier than before. ‘What’s this? asked Wokulski, ‘I hear you want to leave Warsaw?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Perhaps my husband will come back,’ she added in a stifled voice.

  ‘Rzecki has told me, and permit me to see what I can do to confirm the news.’

  Mrs Stawska burst into tears. ‘You’re so good to us,’ she whispered, ‘may you be happy…’

  At the same time Mrs Wąsowska was visiting Izabela, and learned from her that she had accepted Wokulski. ‘At last!’ said Mrs Wąsowska, ‘I thought you were never going to make up your mind.’

  ‘So I have given you a pleasant surprise,’ Izabela retorted. ‘In any case, he’s an ideal husband—rich, unusual, and above all, a man with the heart of a dove. Not only is he not jealous, but he even apologised for his suspicions. That finally disarmed me…True love is blindfold…You don’t say anything?’

  ‘I’m thinking…’

  ‘What of?’

  ‘That if he knows you as well as you know him, then neither of you knows the other…’

  ‘Our honeymoon will be all the more agreeable.’

  ‘Let me wish you…’

  XXXIII

  A Couple Reconciled

  IN MID-APRIL, Baroness Krzeszowska suddenly changed her way of life. Hitherto her days had been passed in scolding Marysia, writing letters to the tenants to tell them the stairs were littered with garbage, asking the janitor whether anyone had torn down the ‘To Rent’ notice, if the girls from the Parisian laundry spent the night in the house, or if the police had asked to see her about anything. Nor did she omit to remind him that should anyone apply for the third-floor apartment, he was to study young persons especially, and if they were students, to tell them the apartment was already rented.

  ‘Mind what I tell you, Kasper,’ she concluded, ‘for you will lose your position if any student creeps into my house. I’ve had enough of those nihilists, libertines, atheists who carry human skulls…’

  After every such conference, the janitor would go back to his cubby-hole, throw down his cap and cry: ‘I’ll hang myself, that I will, if I have to stand this woman any longer! On Friday, it’s market day—janitor, go to the drugstore twice a day, attend to the mangle, and God knows what else. She’s already told me I’m to go with her to the cemetery to set a grave in order! Did anyone ever hear of such a thing? I’ll quit on Midsummer day, even if I have to lose twenty roubles…’

  But after mid-April, the Baroness grew milder. Several circumstances contributed. In the first place, she was visited one day by an unknown lawyer with a confidential inquiry whether she knew anything about the Baron’s bank deposit. If there were such a thing in existence—though the lawyer doubted it—then it should be brought to light in order to liberate the Baron from his compromising situation. For his creditors were ready to adopt desperate measures.

  The Baroness solemnly assured the lawyer that her husband the Baron, despite all the depravities and the torments to which he had subjected her, possessed no funds at all. At this point, she had an attack of the spasms, which induced the lawyer to beat a hasty retreat. However, when the high priest of justice had quit her apartment, she returned to her senses very swiftly, and, after calling Marysia, said to her in an unusual calm voice: ‘It will be necessary, Marysia, to put up new curtains, for I have a feeling that our unfortunate master is coming back.’

  A few days later, the Prince in person was at the Baroness’s house. They were closeted together in the most distant room, and held a long conversation, during which the Baroness burst into tears several times and swooned away once. What could they have been talking of? Even Marysia didn’t know. But when the Prince had gone, the Baroness at once ordered Maruszewicz to be summoned, and when he hastened in, she said in a strangely mild voice, interwoven with sighs: ‘I have the idea, Mr Maruszewicz, that my errant husband has finally come to his senses. Pray be kind enough, therefore, to go into town and buy a man’s robe and a pair of slippers. Buy them in your size, for the two of you, poor things, are both equally slender.’

  Mr Maruszewicz’s eyebrows went up, but he took the money and made the purchases. The Baroness thought that the price of forty roubles for a robe, and six roubles for slippers was rather high, but Mr Maruszewicz told her he didn’t know anything about prices, and that he’d bought them in the best stores, so nothing further was said.

  Then, a few days later, two Jews called at Baroness Krzeszowska’s apartment to ask whether the Baron was at home…Instead of falling upon them with a shriek, as she usually did, the Baroness very calmly invited them to leave. Then, calling Kasper, she said: ‘I have the idea, my dear Kasper, that our poor master will be moving in today or tomorrow. You must put a carpet on the stairs to the second floor. But mind, my child, that they don’t steal t
he rods…And it must be beaten every few days.’

  Henceforward she no longer scolded Marysia, wrote no letters, didn’t torment the janitor…All she did was to walk about in the large apartment, arms folded, pale, quiet, agitated. At the sound of a droshky stopping in front of the house, she would rush to the window: at the sound of the door-bell, she would rush to the threshold and eavesdrop through the half-open door to know who was talking to Marysia. After a few days of this kind of life, she grew still paler and more agitated. She ran faster for shorter distances, often sank into a chair with her heart beating, and finally took to her bed.

  ‘Tell them to take up the carpet on the stairs,’ she said to Marysia in a hoarse voice, ‘some scoundrel must have lent your master money again.’

  Hardly had she said this, than there was a brisk ring at the door-bell. The Baroness sent Marysia first and she herself, touched by a premonition, began dressing despite her headache. Everything slithered through her fingers. Meanwhile, Marysia, opening the door on its chain, saw a very distinguished gentleman with a silk umbrella and valise on the landing. Behind the gentleman, who looked rather like a butler despite his carefully trimmed moustache and copious side-whiskers, were porters with trunks and bags.

  ‘What is it?’ the servant girl asked automatically.

  ‘Open the door,’ replied the gentleman with the valise, ‘it’s the Baron’s things, and mine,’ The door opened, the gentleman ordered the porters to put the trunks and bags in the vestibule, and inquired: ‘Where’s His Excellency’s study?’

  At this moment the Baroness hurried in, her robe undone, hair in disorder. ‘What’s this?’ she cried, in an emotional voice. ‘Oh, it’s you, Leon. Where’s your master?’