The Doll

  ‘Well, good-day, Mr Maruszewicz. All I ask is that you don’t hit on the idea of signing my name, for if you do…’

  Maruszewicz left in a huff.

  ‘It was for you, my dearest, that one prisoner has been spared. It’s a terrible thing to imprison anyone, even a criminal and fraud,’ Wokulski thought. For a while, a struggle went on within him. First he reproached himself because, having been in a position to rid the world of a scoundrel, he had failed to do so; then again he wondered what would happen to him, if he himself were imprisoned, torn away from Izabela for months, perhaps years: ‘How dreadful never to see her again! Who knows that mercy isn’t the best justice?…How sentimental I’m becoming!’

  XXXIV

  Tempus Fugit, Aeternitas Manet

  ALTHOUGH the business with Maruszewicz had been settled in private, news of it spread. Wokulski told Rzecki, and asked him to cancel the Baron’s supposed debt from the ledgers. Maruszewicz told the Baron, adding that the Baron ought not to be angry with him, since the debt had been cancelled and he, Maruszewicz, intended to turn over a new leaf. ‘I feel,’ he said with a sigh, ‘that I’d be another man, if only I had three thousand a year. Vile world, in which men such as I have to be wasted…’

  ‘Come now, calm yourself,’ the Baron pacified him, ‘I like you, but everyone knows very well that you’re a scoundrel.’

  ‘Have you looked into my heart, Baron? Do you know what feelings are there? Oh, if only there were some tribunal that could read a man’s soul, you’d all see which of us is the better: I—or those who judge and condemn me.’

  As a result, both Rzecki and the Baron, as well as the Prince and several counts, learned of Maruszewicz’s ‘latest prank’. All admitted that Wokulski had behaved nobly, though not like a man. ‘It was a very beautiful deed,’ said the Prince, ‘but not in Wokulski’s style. He looked to me like one of those men who constitute a force in society for creating good and punishing scoundrels. Any priest would have behaved the way Wokulski did with Maruszewicz…I’m afraid the man is losing his energy.’

  As a matter of fact, Wokulski was not losing his energy, though he had changed in many respects. He did not, for instance, work at the store, even felt a dislike of it, because the name of a haberdashery tradesman lowered him in Izabela’s eyes. On the other hand, he began working more earnestly with the company for trade with the Empire, because it was bringing in enormous profits, and this increased the fortune he hoped to offer Izabela.

  Ever since the time when he had proposed and been accepted, he had been dominated by a strange wistfulness and sympathy. It seemed to him that he couldn’t have done anyone any harm, and even that he couldn’t have protected himself from injustice, providing it didn’t affect Izabela. He felt an ungovernable need to do good to others. In addition to a bequest for Rzecki, he intended to give his former clerks Lisiecki and Klein four thousand roubles apiece, as compensation for the harm he had done them by selling the store to Szlangbaum. He also set aside some twelve thousand roubles as bonuses for the employees, janitors, labourers and drivers. He not only saw to it that Węgiełek had a riotous wedding, but added several hundred roubles to the sum promised the young couple. Because a daughter was born at this time to the carrier Wysocki, he stood as her godfather; and when the crafty father gave the child the name Izabela, Wokulski put away five hundred roubles for a dowry.

  This name was very dear to him. Sometimes, when he was sitting alone, he took paper and pencil, and would write endlessly: ‘Izabela…Iza…Bela…’ and then burn it, lest the name of his beloved fall into someone else’s hands. He meant to buy a small estate outside Warsaw, to build a villa and call it ‘Izabelino’. He remembered how, during his travels in the Urals, a certain scholar who had discovered a new mineral sought his advice: how to name it? And he reproached himself that, though he had then not yet made Izabela’s acquaintance, still it had not occurred to him to call it ‘izabelite’. Finally, reading in the newspapers of the discovery of a new planetoid, the naming of which was also the cause of some concern to its discoverer, he wanted to put up a huge prize for the astronomer who would discover a new heavenly body and call it: Izabela.

  His overwhelming attachment to one woman did not, however, exclude thoughts of another. Sometimes he recalled Mrs Stawska who, as he knew, had been prepared to sacrifice everything for his sake, and he felt a sort of pang of conscience. ‘Well, what could I do?’ he said. ‘Is it my fault I love one, while the other…If only she could forget me, and be happy.’ In any case, he decided to ensure her future, and find out about her husband: ‘Let her not have to worry about tomorrow, at least. Let her have a dowry for the child.’

  Every few days he saw Izabela in society, surrounded by young, middle-aged and old men. But he was no longer irritated by the men flirting, nor by her glances and smiles. ‘It’s her nature,’ he thought, ‘she can’t look or smile differently. She’s like a flower, or the sun, which involuntarily makes everyone happy, is beautiful in everyone’s eyes.’

  One day he received a telegram from Zasławek, summoning him to the Duchess’s funeral. ‘She’s dead, then…’ he murmured, ‘what a pity about that fine woman…Why wasn’t I present when she died?’

  He was sorry, grew sad—but didn’t go to the funeral of the old lady who had shown him so much kindness. He dared not part from Izabela even for a few days.

  He knew very well, now, that he didn’t belong to himself, that all his thoughts, feelings and longings, all his plans and hopes were anchored in this one woman. If she were to die, he would not need to do away with himself; his soul would fly after her of its own accord, like a bird that rests only a moment on a branch. Besides, he did not even speak to her of love, any more than we speak of the weight of our bodies, or of the air that surrounds and fills a man. If, during the course of a day, he happened to think of anything except her, then he would shake his head in amazement, like a man who has miraculously discovered himself to be in some unknown region. This wasn’t love, it was ecstasy.

  One day in May, Mr Łęcki summoned him. ‘Imagine,’ he said to Wokulski, ‘we have to go to Cracow. Hortensja is poorly, she wants to see Bela (I’ve an idea it’s to do with her will), and she would certainly be pleased to make your acquaintance. Can you accompany us?’

  ‘At any time,’ Wokulski replied. ‘When is it to be?’

  ‘We ought to leave today, but tomorrow will do.’

  Wokulski promised to be ready on the morrow. When he said goodbye to Mr Tomasz and looked in on Izabela, he learned that Starski was in Warsaw…

  ‘Poor fellow,’ she said, laughing, ‘the Duchess only left him two thousand a year, and ten thousand in cash. I advised him to make a good he prefers to go to Vienna, and thence very likely to Monte Carlo…I told him to travel with us. It will be gayer, don’t you think?’

  ‘Of course,’ Wokulski replied, ‘especially as we shall have a private compartment.’

  ‘Until tomorrow, then!’

  Wokulski settled his most urgent business, reserved a drawing-room compartment to Cracow, and at about eight in the evening, having sent on his things, called at the Łęckis. The three of them had tea together, and set off for the railroad station just before ten.

  ‘Where can Mr Starski be?’ Wokulski inquired.

  ‘Goodness knows,’ Izabela replied, ‘perhaps he won’t come at all.…He’s so changeable.’

  They got into the carriage, but Starski was still not there. Izabela bit her lip, glancing out of the window now and then. Finally, when the second bell had rung, Starski appeared on the platform. ‘Here we are!’ cried Izabela. But as the young man didn’t hear her, Wokulski hurried out and brought him into the compartment. ‘I thought you were never coming!’ said Izabela.

  ‘I very nearly didn’t,’ Starski replied, greeting Tomasz, ‘I was at Krzeszowski’s, and just think, ma cousine, that we played cards from noon to nine.’

  ‘You lost, of course.’

  ‘Of course…Good luck desert
s such as I,’ he added, glancing at her. Izabela blushed slightly.

  The train started to move. Starski sat down at Izabela’s left, and began talking to her, half in Polish, half in English, gradually more and more in English. Wokulski sat to the right of Izabela, but as he didn’t want to interrupt the conversation he rose and sat down by Tomasz.

  Mr Łęcki, rather poorly, put on a plaid overcoat and pulled a blanket over his knees. He ordered all the windows to be shut, and the lamps, which bothered him, shaded. He promised himself he would go to sleep, and even felt sleep coming upon him. In the meanwhile, he entered into conversation with Wokulski, and began expatiating on his sister Hortensja who had been so attached to him when young, on the court of Napoleon III who had spoken to him several times, on the politeness and the love affairs of Victor Emmanuel, and innumerable other topics.

  Wokulski listened attentively as far as Pruszków. After Pruszków, the weary and monotonous voice of Tomasz began to tire him. On the other hand, Izabela’s conversation in English with Starski kept coming to his ears with increasing clarity. He even caught a few sentences which interested him and he asked himself if he should not warn them that he understood English?

  He was just about to rise from his seat, when he happened to glance at the window at the opposite side of the carriage and in it saw, as if in a mirror, the faint reflection of Izabela and Starski. They were sitting very close together, both were flushed, although they were talking in a light manner, as though of insignificant things. But Wokulski noticed that the indifferent tone did not correspond to the content of their talk: he even sensed that they wanted to deceive someone by this light tone. And at this moment, for the first time since he’d known Izabela, the terrible word ‘Cheat!…Cheat!…’ flew through his mind. He leaned back against the wall of the compartment, looked in the glass—and listened. It seemed to him that each word Starski and Izabela uttered was falling like drops of leaden rain upon his face, head and chest. He had no thought of warning them that he could understand what they were saying, just listened—and listened.

  The train was passing through Radziwiłlów, and the first phrase which caught Wokulski’s attention was: ‘You may reproach him with anything,’ Izabela was saying, in English, ‘he’s not young or distinguished; he’s far too sentimental, and sometimes a bore—but avaricious? Suffice it to say that even papa calls him over-generous.’

  ‘And that business with Mr K.?’ Starski interposed.

  ‘About the race-horse? One can see you’re just up from the provinces. The Baron called on us lately, and said that if ever the person we are referring to behaved like a gentleman, it was in this matter.’

  ‘No gentleman would let a forger go, if he hadn’t had some dealings with him behind the scenes,’ Starski replied with a smile.

  ‘How often has the Baron forgiven him?’

  ‘Just so—the Baron has all sorts of little sins which Mr M. knows of. You don’t protect your protégé very well, ma cousine,’ said Starski, mockingly.

  Wokulski leaned hard against the wall so as not to jump up and strike Starski. But he controlled himself. ‘Everyone has the right to judge others,’ he thought. ‘Besides, let’s see what comes next.’

  For some moments he heard only the rattle of the wheels, and noticed that the carriage was swaying. ‘I never felt a carriage sway so before,’ he told himself.

  ‘And that medallion?’ Starski mocked, ‘was that your only premarital gift? Not a very generous fiancé; he loves you like a troubadour, but…’

  ‘I assure you,’ Izabela interrupted, ‘that he’d give me his entire fortune.’

  ‘Take it, cousin, and lend me a hundred thousand…By the way, have you found this miraculous piece of tin?’

  ‘No, I haven’t, and I’m so vexed. God, if he were to find out…’

  ‘That you lost his metal—or that we looked for it together?’ Starski whispered, pressing close to her arm.

  A mist veiled Wokulski’s eyes. ‘Am I losing consciousness?’ he thought, grasping the strap by the window. It seemed to him the carriage was beginning to rock and that it would be derailed at any moment.

  ‘You’re insolent, you know!’ said Izabela in a stifled voice.

  ‘That is precisely my strength,’ Starski replied.

  ‘For heaven’s sake…He may notice…I hate you!’

  ‘You’ll be crazy about me, for no one could hate me. Women love devils.’

  Izabela moved closer to her father. Wokulski stared into the opposite window, and listened.

  ‘I must tell you,’ she said, vexed, ‘that you won’t cross the threshold of our house. If you dare…I’ll tell him everything.’

  Starski laughed: ‘I won’t come, cousin, until you send for me, but I am sure that will happen very soon. In a week, this adoring husband will bore you and you’ll want more amusing society. You’ll remember your scoundrel of a cousin, who has never been serious in his life, always witty, always ready to adore you, never jealous, who can yield place to others, respect your whims…’

  ‘Taking your reward in other ways,’ Izabela interrupted.

  ‘Just so! If I didn’t you’d have no cause to forgive me, and could fear my reproaches.’

  Without changing position he encircled her with his right arm, and pressed her hand with his left, under her cloak. ‘Yes, little cousin,’ he said, ‘a woman like you isn’t going to be satisfied with the daily bread of respect, or the cake of adoration…You need champagne, someone must bewilder you with cynicism…’

  ‘It’s easy to be a cynic.’

  ‘But not everyone dares to be. Ask this gentleman whether it ever occurred to him that his tender prayers are worth less than my sacrilege?’

  Wokulski was no longer listening to the conversation; his attention had been absorbed by another fact—the change which had suddenly started to occur within himself. If yesterday he had been told that he would be the speechless auditor of any such conversation, he wouldn’t have believed it; he’d have thought that each word would kill him or drive him to frenzy. But now that it had happened, he was forced to admit that there’s something worse than betrayal, disillusion and humiliation.

  But—what was it? Yes: travelling by train! How the carriage was shuddering…how it was rushing along! The shuddering of the train made itself felt in his legs, lungs, heart, brain; everything inside him was shuddering, every bone, every fibre of nerve…

  And this rushing onwards through limitless fields, under the enormous vault of sky! And he had to travel on, God only knows how much further…Five, perhaps even ten minutes…

  What was Starski, or even Izabela? One was as bad as the other…But this railroad, this railroad…and this shuddering. He felt he would burst into tears, begin screaming, smash the window and jump out…Or worse: he felt he was going to implore Starski to save him…From what? There was a moment when he wanted to hide himself under the seat, beg the others to sit on it, and travel like that to the next station…

  He shut his eyes, clenched his teeth, gripped the edge of the seat with both hands; sweat burst out on his forehead and streamed down his face, and the train shuddered and rushed along…Finally a whistle was heard, then another, and the train stopped in a station. ‘I’m saved,’ Wokulski thought.

  At the same moment Mr Łęcki woke up. ‘What station is this?’ he asked Wokulski.

  ‘Skierniewice,’ Izabela replied.

  The conductor opened the door. Wokulski leaped up. He knocked against Tomasz, staggered against the opposite seat, tripped on the step and rushed into the buffet. ‘Vodka!’ he exclaimed.

  Surprised, the waitress handed him a glass. He lifted it to his lips, but felt a pressure in his throat and nausea, so put down the glass untouched.

  Starski was talking to Izabela in their compartment: ‘Well, I must say, cousin,’ he said, ‘that one doesn’t jump out of a compartment quite so hastily, in front of ladies.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s ill?’ Izabela replied, feeling some uneasi
ness.

  ‘Not an illness, surely, that won’t brook delay…Would you like me to order something?’

  ‘Soda water…’

  Starski went into the buffet: Izabela looked out of the window. Her ill-defined uneasiness was increasing. ‘There’s something the matter,’ she thought, ‘how strange he looked…’

  Wokulski went from the buffet to the end of the platform. He took several deep breaths, drank some water from a barrel by which a poor woman and some Jews were waiting. Slowly he came to, and on seeing the chief conductor, said: ‘My good man, find a piece of paper…’

  ‘What’s the matter, sir?’

  ‘Nothing. Get a piece of paper from your office, and say at my compartment that there’s a telegram for Wokulski.’

  ‘For you, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The conductor was extremely surprised, but went to the telegraph office. A few minutes later he emerged and, approaching the compartment in which Mr Łęcki and his daughter were seated, cried: ‘Telegram for Mr Wokulski!’

  ‘What’s this? Show me!’ exclaimed Tomasz, anxiously.

  But at this moment Wokulski stopped by the conductor, took the paper, calmly opened it and pretended to read it, although it was quite dark at that spot. ‘What kind of telegram is it?’ Tomasz asked him.

  ‘From Warsaw,’ Wokulski replied, ‘I must go back.’

  ‘Go back?’ Izabela cried, ‘is it some misfortune?’

  ‘No, madam. My partner has sent for me.’

  ‘Profit—or loss?’ Tomasz whispered, leaning out of the window.

  ‘Huge profits,’ Wokulski replied in the same manner.

  ‘In that case—go back,’ Tomasz advised.

  ‘But why wait here?’ Izabela cried. ‘You must wait for a train, and you’d do better to travel on with us until we meet it. We can have a few more hours together.’

  ‘Bela’s advice is excellent,’ Mr. Tomasz interposed.

  ‘No, sir,’ Wokulski replied, ‘I prefer travelling back on an engine rather than waste a few hours.’