The Doll

  A week before the meeting that was to decide the fate of the trading company, visits to Wokulski became increasingly frequent. Merchants called, so did aristocrats, lawyers — all urging him not to abandon his position, and not to threaten an institution that was, after all, his own work. Wokulski received his callers with such icy indifference that they didn’t even feel like setting out their arguments: he said he was tired and sick, and must resign. The callers left, without hope: each admitted, however, that Wokulski must be gravely ill. He had lost weight, spoke briefly and brusquely, and fever burned in his eyes.

  ‘He has killed himself with avarice!’ said the merchants.

  A few days before the final date, Wokulski summoned his attorney and asked him to inform the shareholders that in accordance with the agreement he had with them, he was withdrawing his capital and leaving the company. The others might do likewise.

  ‘And the money?’ asked the attorney.

  ‘It’s already in the bank for them: I have accounts with Suzin.’

  The attorney withdrew, upset. On the very same day, the Prince called on Wokulski: ‘I’ve been hearing the most extraordinary things!’ the Prince began, shaking him by the hand. ‘Your attorney is behaving as though you really intended to desert us.’

  ‘Do you think I am joking, Prince?’

  ‘Well, no … I think you have observed something dishonourable in our agreement, and …’

  ‘And am bargaining, so as to force you to sign another, which will lessen your interest and increase my income?’ Wokulski caught him up. ‘No, Prince, I am perfectly serious about resigning.’

  ‘You will disappoint your partners.’

  ‘How so? You gentlemen entered into the company for only a year, and you yourselves asked that the business be conducted so that each partner might withdraw his investment within a month of dissolving the agreement. That was your plain request. I, on the other hand, have infringed it inasmuch as I will repay the money, not within a month, but within an hour of dissolving the company.’

  The Prince sank into an armchair. ‘The company will continue,’ he said quietly, ‘but the Hebrews will enter in your place.’

  ‘That is your own choice.’

  ‘The Jews in our company!’ sighed the Prince. ‘They will speak Hebrew at committee meetings … Our unhappy country! Our unhappy language!’

  ‘No fear of that,’ Wokulski interrupted. ‘The majority of our shareholders are in the habit of speaking French at committee meetings, but nothing has happened to Polish, so surely it won’t be damaged by a few phrases in Yiddish.’

  The Prince blushed: ‘But Hebrews, sir … A foreign race … Now, too, there’s general hostility towards them.’

  ‘Hostility by the crowd proves nothing … But who is preventing you gentlemen from collecting sufficient capital, as the Jews do, and entrusting it, not to Szlangbaum, but to one of the Christian merchants?’

  ‘We don’t know a single one we can trust.’

  ‘But you know Szlangbaum?’

  ‘In any case, we haven’t sufficiently gifted men of our own kind,’ the Prince interrupted. ‘They are clerks, not financiers.’

  ‘And what was I? I was a clerk, too, even a pantry-boy in a restaurant at one time; yet the company brought in the expected profits.’

  ‘You’re an exception.’

  ‘How do you know you wouldn’t find more exceptions in wine-cellars or behind counters? You must search for them.’

  ‘The Jews come to us of their own accord.’

  ‘So that’s it!’ Wokulski exclaimed. ‘The Jews come to you, or you will go to them, but a Christian parvenu cannot even come to you, because of the obstacles he encounters on the way. I know something of this. Your doors are so tightly closed to tradesmen and industrialists that they must either bombard them with hundreds of thousands of roubles in order to open them, or must squeeze through like a bug. Open your doors a little, and perhaps you’ll be able to get along without the Jews.’

  The Prince covered his eyes with both hands: ‘Oh, Mr Wokulski, this … what you say is very right, and very bitter … Very cruel … Less of this, though. I understand your resentment towards us, but surely … There are certain obligations towards the community.’

  ‘No, I don’t regard getting fifteen per cent annually on my capital as the carrying out of an obligation. And I don’t think I’d be any worse citizen if I drew the line at five per cent.’

  ‘But we are spending this money,’ retorted the Prince, who was already offended. ‘People live around us …’

  ‘And I will spend money, too. I shall go to Ostend for the summer, to Paris for the autumn, and to Nice in the winter.’

  ‘I beg your pardon … People live on us not only abroad … How many local craftsmen …’

  ‘Have to wait for what they are owed for a year or longer,’ Wokulski caught him up. ‘Both you and I, Prince, know these patrons of Polish industry, we even have them in our company.’

  The Prince jumped up. ‘Ah, this is unworthy, Mr Wokulski!’ he said breathlessly. ‘It’s true we have great faults, even sins, but we did not commit any of them towards you. You had our cordiality, our respect …’

  ‘Respect!’ cried Wokulski, laughing. ‘Do you suppose, Prince, that I didn’t know what it was based on, and what sort of position it assured me among you all? Mr Stawalski, Mr Niwiński, even … Mr Starski, who never did anything and got his money Heaven knows where, stood ten storeys higher than I in your estimation. What am I saying? Any foreign vagabond could get into your drawing-rooms, which I had to conquer with fifteen per cent interest on the capital entrusted to me. It is these people, not I who had your respect. Bah! They even had far wider-reaching privileges … Although each of these respected men is worth less than the doorman in my store, for he does something, and at least doesn’t infect the community.’

  ‘Mr Wokulski, you do us an injustice. I understand what you mean, and am ashamed, upon my word I am. But after all, we aren’t responsible for the offences of individuals.’

  ‘On the contrary, you are all responsible, for those individuals have grown up among you and what you, Prince, call “offences”, are only the results of your opinions, of your contempt for all work and all obligations.’

  ‘Resentment is speaking through you,’ replied the Prince, making to leave. ‘Justified resentment, but perhaps mistakenly aimed … Goodbye, sir. So you are leaving us as sacrifices to the Hebrews?’

  ‘I hope you will come to a better understanding with them than with us,’ said Wokulski ironically.

  The Prince had tears in his eyes. ‘I thought,’ he said, moved, ‘that you would be a golden bridge between us and those who … are increasingly drawing apart from us.’

  ‘I wanted to be a bridge, but it was sawn away underneath and has collapsed now,’ replied Wokulski, bowing.

  ‘Let us return, then, to the barricades of the Holy Trinity!’

  ‘This is not called for, yet … It’s a partnership with the Jews, that’s all.’

  ‘So that is your view?’ asked the Prince, turning pale. ‘So I … am no longer in the company. Oh, unhappy country …’

  He nodded and went out.

  Finally the meeting to decide the fate of the company for trading with the Empire took place. First, Wokulski’s committee delivered a report for the past year. It appeared that the turnover had increased the capital tenfold or more, bringing not fifteen but eighteen per cent. On hearing this, the shareholders were excited, and the Prince moved they thank the committee and the absent Wokulski by rising to their feet. Then Wokulski’s lawyer took the floor and stated that his client was resigning on account of ill-health, not only from the committee, but also from the company. Everyone had been prepared in advance for this news, but it made a very depressing effect.

  Taking advantage of a pause, the Prince asked for silence and informed those present that he too was resigning from the company as result of Wokulski’s resignation. Having made this state
ment, he at once left the council room; on going out, however, he said to one of his friends: ‘I never had any talent for trade, and Wokulski is the only man to whom I can entrust the honour of my name. Today he is gone, so I have nothing more to do here either.’

  ‘But the dividends?’ his friend whispered.

  The Prince looked at him. ‘What I did was not for dividends, but for this unhappy country,’ he replied. ‘I wanted to inject a little fresh blood into our sphere, and fresher views, but I must admit I lost, and it wasn’t Wokulski’s fault either … This unhappy country!’

  The Prince’s departure, though unexpected, created less of a stir: for those present already knew that the company would continue operations. Now one of the lawyers came forward and, in a trembling voice, read a very beautiful speech, which stated that with Wokulski’s resignation, the company had lost not only its leader, but also five-sixths of its capital. ‘It ought therefore to collapse,’ the speaker continued, ‘and to overwhelm the entire country, ruining thousands of workers, hundreds of families …’

  Here he paused for effect. But those present behaved indifferently, knowing in advance what was to come.

  The lawyer started speaking again, and appealed to those present not to lose heart: ‘For an eminent citizen has been found, a professional man, a friend and partner of Wokulski, who has decided, like Atlas, to support the tottering company. This man, who wishes to wipe away the tears of thousands, to save this country from ruin, to give trade a push in new directions …’

  At this point, all those present turned their heads in the direction of the chair on which Szlangbaum was sitting, sweating and blushing.

  ‘This man,’ the lawyer cried, ‘is Mr …’

  ‘My son, young Henryk!’ said a voice from a corner.

  Because this effect was unexpected, the entire hall shook with laughter. In any case, the committee of the trading company feigned delighted surprise, asked those present whether they wanted to accept Mr Szlangbaum as partner and director, and having obtained unanimous approval, they summoned the new director to the presidential chair. Here some confusion ensued. For Szlangbaum senior took the floor at once, and after uttering several compliments to his son and the committee, tabled a motion that the company would not guarantee its shareholders more than ten per cent dividend per annum. An uproar started, a dozen speakers took the floor at the same time, and after some very animated speeches it was resolved that the company would accept new members proposed by Mr Szlangbaum, and that the management of business was also entrusted to Mr Szlangbaum.

  The final episode was a speech by Dr Szuman, who had been invited to become a member of the committee, but since he was refusing this honourable position, he permitted himself in a sarcastic manner to mock a company formed of aristocrats and Jews. ‘It is like an illegitimate union,’ he said, ‘but sometimes geniuses are born from such unions, so let us hope that our company too will produce some unusual fruit.’

  The committee was alarmed, a handful of those present took offence; but the majority gave the doctor a rousing cheer.

  Wokulski was very accurately informed of the course of the meeting; during the entire week, he was visited and snowed under by letters, signed and anonymous. For himself, he had discovered he was in a new and strange spiritual mood. It seemed to him that all the bonds linking him with other people had burst, that they were now a matter of indifference to him, that he was not concerned with what concerned them. In a word, he was like an actor who, on finishing his role on the stage where he had laughed, been angry, or wept, now takes a seat in the audience to watch his colleagues acting as though they were children at play: ‘Why do they rush about so? How stupid …’ he thought.

  It seemed to him that he was looking into the world from a great distance, and could see his own affairs from a new angle, which he had not observed hitherto.

  For the first few days, shareholders, workers or clients of the company visited him, dissatisfied with the admission of Szlangbaum, or perhaps concerned for their own futures. For the most part, they tried to persuade him to return to the position he had abandoned but could still retake, since the contract with Szlangbaum had not yet been signed. Others presented their positions in such mournful colours, and even wept, that Wokulski was moved. But at the same time, he discovered such indifference within himself, such lack of sympathy for the misfortunes of others, that he surprised himself. ‘Something has died inside me,’ he thought, and sent away his petitioners empty-handed.

  Then came a second wave of visitors, who pretended they wanted to thank him for his services, but who really came to satisfy their curiosity, and see what this once strong man looked like, of whom it was now said he had gone to pieces entirely. These people did not ask him to return to the company, but merely praised his past activities and said that it would be long before another man as active as he had been would turn up.

  A third wave of visitors called on Wokulski, goodness knows why. For they did not even pay him compliments, merely referred more and more often to Szlangbaum, his energy and his talents.

  The carter Wysocki was an exception in the crowds of visitors. He came to bid farewell to his former patron: he even wanted to tell him something, but suddenly burst into tears, kissed him on both hands and hurried from the room.

  Very much the same was repeated in the letters. In some, acquaintances and unknown persons urged him not to withdraw from the business, for his withdrawal would be a disaster for the country. Others praised his past activity or pitied him; still others advised him to join Szlangbaum, as a very talented man who thought only of the community’s welfare. On the other hand, he was mercilessly insulted in some anonymous letters for having ruined the country’s industry a year ago by importing foreign merchandise, and today he was ruining it by selling out to the Jews. The exact price was even mentioned.

  Wokulski pondered quite coolly over these things. It seemed to him he was already a dead man, watching his own funeral. He saw those who pitied him, those who praised him, those who cursed him: he saw his successor, to whom the community’s admiration was starting to turn, and finally he realised that he himself was forgotten and superfluous. He was like a stone dropped into water, at first causing a whirlpool and movement, but later on, smaller and smaller waves flow away. Finally, above the place where he had fallen, a smooth mirror of water was recreated, where waves flowed again, but now originating from other places, caused by other people. ‘Well, what now?’ he said to himself, ‘I have no one, I do nothing … What next?’

  He recalled that Szuman had advised him to seek some other purpose in life. Good advice, but … How to follow it, when he himself felt no desire, had neither strength nor wishes? He was like a dead leaf, which goes wherever the wind tosses it. ‘I once foresaw this state of mind,’ he thought, ‘but now I can see that I had no idea of what it was like.’

  One day he heard a noisy argument in the hall. He glanced out and saw Węgiełek, whom the butler would not admit. ‘Ah, it’s you,’ said Wokulski, ‘come in … What’s your news?’

  At first Węgiełek eyed him uneasily; gradually, however, he became more animated, and took comfort. ‘They said,’ he declared with a smile, ‘that you were on your last legs, sir, but I see they were lying. You have grown thin, that’s true, but you don’t look like a scarecrow.’

  ‘What’s your news?’ Wokulski repeated.

  Węgiełek told him expansively that he had a house, better than the one which had been burned down, and a great deal of work. This was precisely why he had come to Warsaw, in order to buy materials and perhaps to get two assistants. ‘I could start a factory, sir, that I could,’ Węgiełek concluded.

  Wokulski listened to him in silence. Suddenly he inquired: ‘And are you happy with your wife?’

  A shadow flitted across Węgiełek’s face: ‘She’s a good woman, sir … But … I must tell you, honestly … There’s something … It’s true that what the eye don’t see, the heart don’t grieve over; but once i
t sees …’

  He wiped away some tears with his sleeves. ‘What does this mean?’ asked Wokulski, surprised.

  ‘Nothing, sir. I know who it was I married, but I was easy in mind, because the woman was good, quiet, hard-working and as attached to me as a dog. Well, what of that? As long as I was easy in my mind, until I saw her former gentleman friend, or whatever he was …’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In Zasław, sir,’ Węgiełek continued. ‘One Sunday, Maria and I went to the castle; I wanted to show her that stream where the blacksmith perished, and that stone you told me to put the inscription on. I noticed the carriage of Baron Dalski, who married the granddaughter of the late Duchess. She was a good woman, may God rest her soul!’

  ‘Do you know the Baron?’ asked Wokulski.

  ‘I should say so,’ Węgiełek replied. ‘The Baron is now landlord of the Duchess’s estate, until something is done there. And he’s already had me paint rooms and repair windows. I know him! A real gent, and generous too …’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘So, like I was tellin’ you, sir, Maria and me were in the castle, looking at the stream, when all at once the Duchess’s granddaughter comes out of the ruins, with that son-of-a-bitch Starski.’

  Wokulski threw himself into a chair. ‘Who?’ he whispered.

  ‘That there Mr Starski, the Duchess’s grandson, who fawned on her while she was alive, but now wants to challenge her will, for he says his grandma went mad before she died … That’s what sort of a person he is.’

  He paused, then went on: ‘He had the Baroness by the hand, they looked at our stone, and talked and giggled. Then Starski looked around. He saw my wife, and smiled at her a little, and she went as pale as a handkerchief. “What is it, Maria?” say I. But she: “Nothing.” Meanwhile, the Baroness and that scoundrel ran down the castle hill and went into the woods. “What is it?” say I to Maria again, “only tell me the truth, for I noticed you recognised that scoundrel.” And she sat down on the ground, and burst into tears: “May God punish him,” she says, “it was he who first ruined me.”’