The Doll

‘At Stepek’s café, I believe…I should like to put away the things, but I don’t see either my master’s study, nor a room for me.’

  ‘Wait a moment,’ cried the Baroness feverishly, ‘Marysia will move out of the kitchen, and you can…’

  ‘Me in the kitchen, madam?’ asked the gentleman named Leon, ‘surely madam is joking? According to my agreement with His Excellency, I am to have my own room.’

  The Baroness became embarrassed. ‘What am I saying?’ she exclaimed, ‘will you, Leon, move into the third floor for the time being, into the apartment that used to be the students.’

  ‘Now I understand you,’ Leon replied, ‘if there are several rooms, I might even live with the chef.’

  ‘What chef?’

  ‘Surely Your Excellencies can’t do without a chef? Take the things upstairs,’ he turned to the porters.

  ‘What are you doing?’ the Baroness shrieked, seeing them collecting all the trunks and bags.

  ‘They’re taking my things. Carry on!’ Leon commanded.

  ‘And His Excellency’s?’

  ‘Oh, here you are,’ the servant replied, handing Marysia the valise and umbrella.

  ‘But the bed-linen? His clothes? His things?’ the Baroness cried, wringing her hands.

  ‘Pray don’t create a scene in front of the servants, madam,’ said Leon threateningly, ‘His Excellency should have all those things at home.’

  ‘That’s so, that’s so,’ whispered the Baroness, mortified.

  Once installed upstairs, whither they still had to bring a bed, table, some chairs and a wash-basin with a jug of water, Mr Leon put on his tail-coat, white tie, a clean shirt (a trifle too small for him), went back to the Baroness and sat himself down gravely in the hall. ‘Within a half hour,’ he told Marysia, looking at his gold watch, ‘His Excellency should be here, for he has a nap every day between four and five o’clock. Well, now, miss—are you bored here?’ he added, ‘if so, I’ll liven you up…’

  ‘Marysia, come here!’ called the Baroness, from her room.

  ‘Why are you rushing off, miss?’ Leon inquired, ‘will the old girl’s business vanish, then? Let her wait a bit.’

  ‘I dare not, she’s terrible when she’s angry,’ whispered Marysia, breaking away from him.

  ‘That’s because you spoiled her. They’ll bang nails into your head if you let them. You’ll find things easier with the Baron, he’s a connoisseur. But you’ll have to dress different, not like a school ma’am. We don’t like nuns.’

  ‘Marysia! Marysia!’

  ‘Well, run along, but take it easy,’ Leon advised.

  Despite Leon’s prediction, the Baron arrived at his wife’s apartment nearer five than four. He wore a new frock-coat and fresh hat and carried a cane with a silver horse-shoe in his hand. His expression was calm, but his faithful servant saw powerful emotion underneath. While still in the hall, the Baron’s eye-glasses fell off twice and his left cheek twitched a great deal more than it had done before the duel, or when he’d been struck with a billiard cue: ‘Announce me to Her Excellency,’ he said in a somewhat stifled voice. Leon opened the drawing-room door and almost threateningly cried: ‘His Excellency!’

  And when the Baron had gone in, he shut the door, sent away Marysia, who had hurried out of the kitchen—and began eaves-dropping.

  The Baroness, seated on the sofa with a book, rose on seeing her husband. When the Baron made a deep bow, she wanted to curtsy back, but sank on the sofa instead. ‘My husband…’ she whispered, covering her face. ‘Oh! What have you been doing?’

  ‘I am very sorry,’ said the Baron, bowing a second time, ‘to pay my respects to you in such circumstances.’

  ‘I am ready to forgive all, if…’

  ‘That is very gratifying to us both,’ the Baron interrupted, ‘for I too am ready to overlook everything concerning myself. Unfortunately, you have deigned to take advantage of my good name which, although not marked in the history of the world by anything remarkable, yet deserves to be spared that.’

  ‘Your name?’ the Baroness repeated.

  ‘Yes, madam,’ replied the Baron, bowing for the third time, his hat still in his hand. ‘Forgive me for mentioning this painful matter, but…for some time past, my name has been figuring in all the law courts. At this moment, you apparently have, on hand, three court cases: two with tenants, and one with your former lawyer, who is an out-and-out scoundrel and no mistake.’

  ‘But, husband mine!’ cried the Baroness, jumping up, ‘recollect that you at this moment have eleven court cases on hand, respecting debts of thirty thousand roubles.’

  ‘Pardon me! I have seventeen court cases respecting thirty-nine thousand roubles of debts, if my memory serves. But they are cases over debts. Not a single one have I brought against a respectable woman for stealing a doll…My sins do not include writing a single anonymous letter to blacken an innocent woman, nor has a single one of my creditors been obliged to run away from Warsaw, pursued by scandal, as has happened to a certain Mrs Stawska, thanks to the interference of Baroness Krzeszowska.’

  ‘Stawska was your mistress.’

  ‘Pardon me! I don’t deny I sought her favours, but I declare on my honour that she is the noblest woman I ever met in my life. Pray do not be vexed by this superlative applied to another person, and pray deign to believe me when I say that Mrs Stawska left even my…my attempts unanswered. And because, madam, I have the honour of knowing the average woman…so my evidence means something.’

  ‘What, therefore, is it that you want, my husband?’ asked the Baroness, now in a firm voice.

  ‘I want…to defend the name we both bear. I want…to enjoin respect for Baroness Krzeszowska in this house. I want to terminate the court cases, and give you protection. To do so, I am obliged to ask you for hospitality. But when I settle my accounts…’

  ‘You will leave me?’

  ‘Undoubtedly.’

  ‘And your debts?’

  The Baron rose. ‘My debts are of no interest to you, madam,’ he said, in a tone of profound conviction. ‘If Mr Wokulski, an ordinary gentleman, can make several millions in the course of a few years, then a man with my name can pay off forty thousand in debts, and I too will demonstrate that I know how to work.’

  ‘You are ill, husband mine,’ replied the Baroness. ‘You know very well that I come from a family which made its own fortune, and I can tell you that you will never be able to work, not even to support yourself…Not even to feed the poorest of men.’

  ‘So you reject the protection I am offering you, madam, thanks to the persuasion of the Prince and concern for the honour of my name?’

  ‘Not at all! Pray begin to look after me at last, for hitherto…’

  ‘As far as I am concerned,’ the Baron interrupted, with another bow, ‘I shall try to forget the past.’

  ‘You forgot it long ago…You haven’t even visited our daughter’s grave…’

  Thus the Baron installed himself in his wife’s abode. He broke off all the law-suits against the tenants, and told the Baroness’s former lawyer that he would have him horse-whipped if he ever spoke disrespectfully of his client, wrote a letter of apology to Mrs Stawska and sent her (to Częstochowa) an enormous bouquet. Finally, he engaged a chef and paid visits with his spouse to various persons in society, having first of all told Maruszewicz, who spread it around town, that if any lady did not return the call, the Baron would require satisfaction from her husband.

  Drawing-room society was much upset by the Baron’s wild claims; however, everyone returned calls on the Baron and Baroness, and almost everyone entered into closer social relations with them. In return, the Baroness—and this was a sign of the utmost delicacy of feeling on her part—paid off her husband’s debts without a word to anyone. She was haughty to some of the creditors, she wept with others, and deducted various amounts from nearly everyone on account of money-lender’s interest. She grew agitated—but she paid.

  She had several pounds of her
husband’s promissory notes in a separate drawer of her writing desk when the following incident occurred. Wokulski’s store was to be taken over in July by Henryk Szlangbaum; and since the new owner did not want to take over the debts or claims of the previous owner, Mr Rzecki was obliged to settle accounts urgently. Among others, he sent a bill for several hundred roubles to Baron Krzeszowski, with the request for an early reply. The note, like all communications of this sort, fell into the hands of the Baroness who, instead of paying, sent Rzecki an insolent letter in which she did not hesitate to refer to swindles, the dishonest purchase of her mare, and so forth.

  Within twenty-four hours of sending this letter, Rzecki appeared at the Baron’s house, stating that he wished to see him. The Baron received him very cordially, although he did not conceal his surprise on seeing that the former second of his opponent was very irritated.

  ‘I am visiting you because I have a claim to make,’ the old clerk began. ‘The day before yesterday I ventured to send you a bill…’

  ‘Yes, of course…I owe you gentlemen something…How much is it?’

  ‘Two hundred and thirty-six roubles, thirty kopeks.’

  ‘I will endeavour to satisfy you tomorrow.’

  ‘That is not all,’ Rzecki interrupted, ‘for yesterday I received this letter from your worthy spouse.’

  The Baron read the piece of paper Rzecki handed him, pondered and replied: ‘I am very sorry the Baroness used such uncivil language, but…as for that mare, she’s right. Mr Wokulski (though I don’t hold it against him) let me have the mare for six hundred, but took a receipt for eight hundred.’

  Rzecki went livid with rage: ‘Baron, I regret this incident, but…One of us has been the victim of a trick…A nasty trick, sir! And here’s the proof.’

  He produced two sheets of paper from his pocket and gave one to Krzeszowski. The Baron glanced at it, and exclaimed: ‘So it was that scoundrel Maruszewicz! Upon my word, he gave me only six hundred roubles, and talked about the business-like attitude of Wokulski into the bargain…’

  ‘And this?’ asked Rzecki, handing him another sheet.

  The Baron looked over the document from top to bottom. His lips whitened. ‘Now I understand it all,’ he said, ‘this receipt is forged, forged by Maruszewicz. I never borrowed any money from Wokulski.’

  ‘Yet the Baroness has called us swindlers.’

  The Baron rose. ‘Forgive me, sir,’ he said, ‘in my wife’s name I solemnly beg your pardon, and apart from any satisfaction you gentlemen may require, I will do all I can to redress the wrong done to Mr Wokulski…Yes, sir. I will pay visits to all my friends and tell them that Mr Wokulski is a gentleman, that he paid eight hundred for the mare, and that we have both been the victims of the intrigues of that scoundrel Maruszewicz. The Krzeszowskis, sir…Mr—?’

  ‘Rzecki.’

  ‘My dear Mr Rzecki, the Krzeszowskis never blackened anyone’s reputation. They may have erred, but in good faith, Mr—?’

  ‘Rzecki.’

  ‘My dear Mr Rzecki…’

  On this, the conversation ended; for the old clerk, despite the Baron’s insistence, did not want and indeed refused to listen to any excuses, or even to see the Baroness. After showing Rzecki to the door, the Baron, unable to restrain himself, exclaimed to Leon: ‘Those tradesmen are honest folk, all the same…’

  ‘They have the cash, Your Excellency, and the credit,’ Leon replied.

  ‘You fool!…Don’t we have honour, because we’ve no credit?’

  ‘We do, Your Excellency, but of a different sort.’

  ‘Not a tradesman’s sort, I hope.’

  And he ordered his going-out clothes.

  Rzecki went straight to Wokulski from the Baron and told him of Maruszewicz’s machinations, of the Baron’s contrition and finally handed him the forged papers, advising him to start a lawsuit. Wokulski listened gravely, even nodded his head, but was looking goodness knows where and thinking goodness knows what. The old clerk, noticing there was nothing to detain him, said goodbye to his Staś and remarked as he left: ‘I see you are infernally busy, so you’ll do best if you put the matter in the hands of your lawyer at once.’

  ‘Very well…very well…’ Wokulski replied, not realising what Ignacy had said. At this precise moment, he was thinking of the castle ruins at Zasław, where he had seen tears in Izabela’s eyes for the first time: ‘How noble she is!…What delicacy of feeling! It will be long before I can get to know all the treasures of that beautiful soul.’

  He called on Mr Łęcki twice a day, or at least went into society where he was likely to find Izabela, to gaze at her and exchange a few words. At present this sufficed him, but he dared not think of the future. ‘It seems to me I’ll die at her feet,’ he told himself, ‘well, and what of it? I’ll die gazing at her, and will perhaps be able to see her for all eternity. Who knows whether the life to come doesn’t close in a man’s last feeling?’ And he recited Mickiewicz:

  And after many days or many years,

  When I am summoned to abandon my tomb,

  You will remember your sleeping friend

  And journey down from heaven to revive him.

  Once more will I be drawn to your white breast,

  Once more will your dear arm encircle me;

  I will awake—as from a moment’s sleep,

  Kissing your cheeks, gazing into your eyes.

  A few days later, Baron Krzeszowski called on him. ‘I’ve been here twice,’ he cried, fidgeting with his eye-glasses which were apparently his only care in life.

  ‘Have you?’ asked Wokulski. Suddenly he recollected Rzecki’s tale, and that he’d found two of the Baron’s visiting cards on the table only the day before.

  ‘Can you guess why I’m here, sir?’ said the Baron. ‘Mr Wokulski, am I to apologise to you for an involuntary injustice?’

  ‘Say no more, Baron,’ Wokulski interrupted, embracing him, ‘it’s nothing. In any case, even if I made two hundred roubles by bargaining over your mare, would I need to hide the fact?’

  ‘That’s so!’ replied the Baron, clutching his forehead, ‘fancy my not thinking of that earlier…Apropos profit, couldn’t you show me some way to get rich fast? I urgently need a hundred thousand roubles within a year.’

  Wokulski smiled.

  ‘You smile, cousin (I suppose I may begin to call you that?)—you smile, yet you yourself have made millions in the course of two years, and honestly too.’

  ‘Not quite so much,’ Wokulski added, ‘but in any case, that fortune was not worked for—it was won. I won a dozen or more times by doubling my stakes each time like a card-player, and my only virtue was that I played with unmarked cards.’

  ‘Luck again!’ cried the Baron, plucking off his eye-glasses. ‘I, cousin, don’t have a pennyworth of luck. I gambled away half my fortune, ladies of easy virtue devoured the other half—there’s nothing left but to put a bullet through my brains. No, I definitely have no luck! Look, now…I thought Maruszewicz would seduce the Baroness. Then I might have had some peace and quiet at home. How tolerant she would be towards my own little misdemeanours! But what happened? The Baroness wouldn’t dream of deceiving me, while a prison cell awaits that fool. Pray ensure that he’s locked up, for his rascally ways are beginning to bore even me. So,’ he concluded, ‘we’re in agreement. I’d only add that I have visited all my acquaintances whom those incautious remarks of mine about the mare may have reached, and have explained the matter in the utmost detail…Let Maruszewicz go to prison; it’s the most appropriate place for him, and his absence will mean a few thousand roubles a year to me…I also visited Mr Tomasz and Miss Izabela, and explained our misunderstanding to them. It’s dreadful, the way that scoundrel could squeeze money out of me! Although I haven’t had a penny for a year, he was always borrowing from me. A scoundrel with genius! I feel that if they don’t put him to hard labour, I’ll never rid myself of him. Au revoir, cousin!’

  Less than ten minutes had elapsed after the Ba
ron’s departure when the servant announced to Wokulski some gentleman who wished urgently to see him, but refused to give his name. ‘Can it be Maruszewicz?’ Wokulski thought.

  In fact Maruszewicz entered, pale, with glittering eyes. ‘Sir!’ he said in a gloomy voice, closing the study door, ‘you see before you a man who has made up his mind…’

  ‘What have you decided?’

  ‘To end it all. This is a difficult moment, but there’s no help for it. My honour…’ he paused, then went on indignantly, ‘I could kill you first, of course, as you are the cause of my misfortunes.’

  ‘Well, don’t stand on ceremony,’ said Wokulski.

  ‘You joke, but I really do have a gun, and am prepared…’

  ‘Show your preparedness, then.’

  ‘Sir! This is not the way to speak to a man on the brink of the grave. If I came here, it was only to prove to you that despite the error of my ways, I have a noble heart.’

  ‘And why are you standing on the brink of the grave, pray?’

  ‘To preserve my honour, which you wish to strip me of?’

  ‘Come, preserve that valuable treasure,’ replied Wokulski, and he produced the fatal documents from his desk. ‘Are these the papers you’re worried about?’

  ‘How can you ask? You are making mock of my despair.’

  ‘Look here, Mr Maruszewicz,’ said Wokulski, glancing over the papers, ‘I might at this moment tell you a few home truths, or leave you in uncertainty for a while. But as we are both grown men…’

  He ripped up the papers and handed the pieces to Maruszewicz: ‘Keep these as a souvenir.’

  Maruszewicz fell on his knees before him. ‘Sir!’ he cried, ‘you have saved my life…My gratitude…’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Wokulski interrupted, ‘I was perfectly at rest regarding your life, just as I am certain that sooner or later you’ll end up in prison. The point is that I don’t want to facilitate that journey for you.’

  ‘Sir, you are merciless,’ Maruszewicz replied, mechanically dusting down his trousers. ‘A single cordial word, a single affectionate handclasp might have set me on a new path. But you can’t bring yourself to do it.’