One day he made a glass harmonica and played so loudly upon it that the owner of the house called next day to inquire with the utmost civility whether he would mind leaving the apartment at the end of the quarter.
‘Have you another tenant?’ asked Wokulski.
‘The fact is … It’s like this … I very nearly have,’ replied the landlord, embarrassed.
‘In that case, I’ll move.’
The landlord was somewhat surprised by Wokulski’s readiness, but bade him goodbye much gratified. Wokulski laughed. ‘Obviously he regards me as an eccentric,’ he thought, ‘or a bankrupt. So much the better! Quite honestly, I can live very well in two rooms, instead of eight.’
But a moment came when, without knowing why, he regretted his haste in yielding the apartment. Then he recalled Węgiełek and the Baron. ‘The Baron,’ he thought, ‘has separated from his wife because she flirted with another man: Węgiełek took a dislike to his just because he saw one of her former lovers with his own eyes. So what should I do?’
Once again he set about his experiments, seeing with pleasure that he hadn’t lost much of his skill.
These occupations filled his time up very well indeed. Sometimes he didn’t think of Izabela for several hours at a time, and then he felt that his weary brain was really relaxing. His fear of other people and the streets died away, and he began going into town more often.
One day he went as far as the Lazienki park: he did even more, for he looked into the alley along which he had once walked with Izabela. Then the swans, alarmed by someone, spread their wings and flew to the shore, striking the water. This commonplace sight made a terrible impression on Wokulski: he recalled Izabela’s departure from Zasławek … He fled the park like a madman, hurried into a droshky and drove home with his eyes closed.
That day he did not occupy himself with anything and in the night he had a strange dream. He dreamed that Izabela was standing before him, with tears in her eyes, asking why he had abandoned her … After all, that journey to Skierniewice, the conversation with Starski and the flirtation had only been a dream. He had only dreamed it.
Wokulski hurriedly sat up in bed and lit the lamp. ‘Which was the dream?’ he asked himself. ‘The journey to Skierniewice, or her grief and reproaches?’
He could not sleep until dawn — questions and doubts of the utmost significance were tormenting him. ‘Could people sitting in a badly lit compartment be reflected in the window?’ he thought, ‘and was what I saw merely a hallucination? Do I know enough English to be sure I didn’t misunderstand the meaning of some phrases? What must she think of me, to insult her so terribly for no reason? After all, cousins who have known each other since child-hood can carry on even quite outspoken conversations without betraying anyone else’s confidence … What have I done, wretched man that I am, if I was mistaken, influenced by unjustified jealousy! Moreover, that Starski is in love with the Baroness, Izabela knew it, and surely she wouldn’t degrade herself by flirting with someone else’s lover …’
Then he remembered his present life, so empty, so terribly empty! He stopped his experiments, broke with people and no longer had anything before him. What next? Read fantastic books? Carry out pointless experiments? Travel? Marry Stawska? But whatever of these he chose, wherever he went, he would never rid himself of his grief, nor of his feelings of loneliness!
‘But what of the Baron?’ he said to himself. ‘He married his Ewelina — and look what came of it! Today he’s thinking of establishing a workshop, he who probably doesn’t even know the meaning of technology.’
The daylight and a shower gave Wokulski’s thoughts yet another turn: ‘I have thirty or forty thousand roubles a year: I spend two or three thousand on myself; what shall I do with the rest, and with the fortune which only overwhelms me? With this money I could ensure the existence of a thousand families: but what of it, if some will be as unhappy as Węgiełek, and others repay me as the railroad man Wysocki did?’
Again he recalled Geist and his mysterious workshop in which the embryo of a new civilisation was developing. There the investment of work and a fortune would be rewarded a million times over. There was both a colossal goal and a way to occupy one’s time, and the prospect of such glory and power as had never been seen on earth. Armoured ships which could rise in the air! … Could there be anything more immense in its consequences? …
‘But what if, as is very probable, not I, but some other some other discovers that metal? …’ he asked himself.
‘And what of it?’ he replied. ‘At worst, I would belong to the few who pushed the discovery forward. Such a cause is indeed worth the sacrifice of a useless fortune and an aimless life. Is it then better to run to waste here within these four walls or stupefy oneself at cards than to reach there for unprecedented glory? …’
Gradually, an intention began to take shape with increasing clarity in Wokulski’s soul, but the more precisely he grasped it, and the more merit he discovered in it, the more he felt that he lacked the energy, even the incentive, to execute it.
His will was totally paralysed: only a powerful shock could awaken it. But no shock came, and the daily course of events plunged Wokulski into deeper and deeper apathy.
‘I am not dying, but rotting away,’ he told himself.
Rzecki, who visited him with increasing infrequency, watched in alarm. ‘You are doing very badly, Staś,’ he would exclaim sometimes, ‘Badly, badly, badly! Better not live at all, than like this …’
One day the servant handed Wokulski a letter addressed in a woman’s hand. He opened it and read: ‘I must see you, and shall expect you today at three — Wąsowska.’
‘What can she want from me?’ he asked in amazement.
But he left home before three. Punctually Wokulski found himself in Mrs Wąsowska’s hall. Without even asking his name, the footman opened the door to the drawing-room, where the pretty widow was walking about rapidly. She wore a dark gown that set off her statuesque figure very well: as always, her auburn hair was knotted in a huge bun, but instead of hairpins, a small dagger with a golden handle was stuck in it.
On seeing her, Wokulski was filled with curious feelings of joy and tenderness: he hastened to her, and feverishly kissed her hand.
‘I ought not to speak to you,’ said Mrs Wąsowska, pulling her hand away.
‘In that case, why have you summoned me?’ he replied in surprise. It seemed to him that cold water had been poured over him.
‘Pray be seated.’
Wokulski sat down in silence. Mrs Wąsowska was still walking to and fro. ‘You are putting up a fine show, no doubt about it,’ she began indignantly, after a moment. ‘You have exposed a woman in society to gossip, her father to illness, the whole family to disagreeable incidents … You shut yourself up at home for months, you disappoint a dozen or more people who trusted you implicitly, and now even the worthy old Prince calls your eccentricities “a contribution to the activities of women”. I congratulate you … If some student or other were to behave thus …’
Suddenly she stopped. Wokulski was terribly changed.
‘Oh, what next, surely you aren’t going to faint?’ she said in alarm. ‘I will give you some water, or wine …’
‘No, thank you,’ he replied. His face rapidly regained its natural colour and tranquil expression. ‘You see, I really am not well.’
Mrs Wąsowska began regarding him attentively. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you have grown somewhat thinner, but with that beard, you are not bad-looking at all … You should not shave it off. You look interesting.’
Wokulski blushed like a little boy. He listened to Mrs Wąsowska, and was surprised to find that he was shy of her, almost ashamed. ‘What’s happening to me?’ he wondered.
‘In any case, you ought to go to the country at once,’ she continued. ‘Who ever heard of anyone staying in town at the beginning of July? Basta, my good man! I’ll take you to my place the day after tomorrow, otherwise the spirit of the late Duchess would
not let me rest. From today, you are to come to lunch and dinner with me: after lunch we will take a drive, and the day after tomorrow — Farewell, Warsaw! Enough of this …’
Wokulski was so taken aback that he was unable to reply. He did not know what to do with his hands, and felt as though his face were on fire.
She rang. The footman came in. ‘Bring some wine,’ said Mrs Wąsowska, ‘you know, the sweet Hungarian … Mr Wokulski, pray light a cigarette.’
Wokulski did so at once, praying inwardly that he would be able to control the trembling of his hands. The footman brought the wine and two glasses. Mrs Wąsowska filled both. ‘Drink this,’ she said.
He swallowed it at one gulp. ‘Ah, I like that! Your health,’ she added, drinking, ‘and now you must drink to mine.’
Wokulski drank off a second glass. ‘And now,’ she said, ‘you must drink to the fulfilment of my plans. But instantly!’
‘I beg your pardon, madam,’ he replied. ‘but I don’t want to get drunk.’
‘So you don’t wish to fulfil my plans?’
‘Of course I do, but I must know what they are, first.’
‘Really?’ exclaimed Mrs Wąsowska, ‘that is something entirely new … Very well, pray drink up.’
She began looking out of the window, tapping one foot on the floor. Wokulski pondered. The silence lasted several minutes, finally the lady interrupted it: ‘Have you heard what the Baron has done? How do you like it?’
‘He has done the right thing,’ Wokulski replied, already quite calm.
Mrs Wąsowska turned to him. ‘What’s that?’ she cried. ‘You defend a man who has covered a woman with shame? A brute, an egoist, who didn’t hesitate to use the most vile means to get his revenge?’
‘What did he do?’
‘So you don’t know? He demanded a separation from his wife, and had a duel with Starski in order to make the scandal still more notorious.’
‘I understand you,’ said Wokulski, after some thought. ‘For he might have shot himself in the head without saying anything, and left his fortune to his wife.’
Mrs Wąsowska burst out in anger. ‘Naturally,’ she cried, ‘any man with a spark of nobility and feeling of honour would have done so. He would sooner kill himself than force a poor woman into the yoke of shame, a poor being it’s so easy to take one’s revenge on when a man has money, position and social prejudices behind him … But I didn’t expect this from you. Ha ha ha! So this is the new man, the hero who suffers in silence … Oh, you men are all the same.’
‘I beg your pardon, but … precisely what do you have against the Baron?’
A flash appeared in Mrs Wąsowska’s eye. ‘Did he love Ewelina or not?’ she inquired.
‘He was insane about her.’
‘No, that isn’t true, he was pretending he loved her, he was lying when he said he adored her. For at the first opportunity, he proved he didn’t even regard her as a person with rights equal to his own, but as a slave girl, who for a momentary weakness, can have a halter put around her neck and be dragged into the market-place, covered with shame … Oh, you men of the world, you’re deceivers! As long as an animal instinct blinds you, you’ll cast yourselves at her feet, you’re ready to commit shameful deeds, to tell lies: it’s “My dearest … My adored one … I’d give my life for you.” But when the poor victim believes your oaths, she starts to grow bored and if frail human nature awakens in her, you trample it underfoot. Oh, how revolting, how shameful! What have you to say to that?’
‘Did not the Baroness flirt with Mr Starski?’ asked Wokulski.
‘Oh! So it’s “flirted”, is it? She did, and she had a faiblesse for him, besides.’
‘A faiblesse? I didn’t know the word. But if she had a faiblesse for Starski, why did she marry the Baron?’
‘Because he went down on his knees and implored her to … He threatened to do away with himself.’
‘Excuse me, but … Did he merely ask her to deign accept his name and fortune, or did he also beg her not to have a faiblesse for other men?’
‘What about you … you men? What don’t you do, both before marriage and after? So is a woman to …?’
‘Madam, they explain to us while we are still children that we are animals, and that the only way to become a man is to love a woman, whose nobility, innocence and loyalty help prevent the world from becoming totally animal. So we believe in this nobility, innocence and the like, we adore her, we fall on our knees to her …’
‘Quite right too, for all of you are worth much less than women.’
‘We admit this in a thousand ways, and we declare that although man creates civilisation, woman ennobles it and gives it ideals. But if women are to imitate us in the animal part of our nature as well, then how are they better than we are, and above all — why should we adore them?’
‘For love.’
‘A fine thing! If Mr Starski wins love with his moustaches and fiery glances, why should another man have to give his name, fortune and liberty for it?’
‘I understand you less and less,’ said Mrs Wąsowska. ‘Do you admit that women are men’s equals, or not?’
‘Generally speaking they are, but not altogether. In intellect and capacity for work, an average woman is lower than a man: but in manners and feelings she should be as much above him as will compensate for these inequalities. At least, so they always said, and we believe it, and despite the many low attributes of women, we place them higher than ourselves. But if the Baroness renounced her virtue, and she did that long ago, as we all know, then one should not be surprised that she has lost her privileges too. Her husband got rid of her as he would a dishonest business partner.’
‘But the Baron is an impotent old man!’
‘Why, then, did she marry him, why did she pay any attention to his amorous paroxysms?’
‘You do not understand, then, that a woman may be forced to sell herself?’ asked Mrs Wąsowska, paling and blushing by turns.
‘Indeed I do, for I too … once sold myself, though not to acquire a fortune, but out of poverty.’
‘And what happened?’
‘In the first place, my wife did not regard me as innocent, and I didn’t promise her love, either. I made a very bad husband, though as a kept man I was the best shop clerk and her most loyal servant. I went with her to church, to concerts, theatres, I entertained her friends and in fact tripled the income of the store.’
‘Did you not have mistresses?’
‘No, madam. I felt my enslavement so bitterly that I simply dared not look at other women. So you must admit, madam, that I have the right to be a stern judge of the Baroness who, when she sold herself, knew that no one was buying … honest labour from her.’
‘Horrible,’ whispered Mrs Wąsowska, staring at the floor.
‘Yes, madam. Trade in human beings is a horrible thing, but the sale of oneself is still more horrible. But only transactions entered into in bad faith are shameful. When such a transaction is exposed, the consequences must be very disagreeable for the unmasked party.’
For a while both sat in silence. Mrs Wąsowska was vexed, Wokulski sulky.
‘No,’ she cried suddenly, ‘I must get a firm opinion from you!’
‘What on?’
‘On various questions, to which I want you to reply clearly and distinctly.’
‘Is this to be an examination?’
‘Something of the sort.’
‘Pray continue, madam.’
One might have thought she was hesitating. However, she forced herself to ask: ‘So you hold the opinion that the Baron had the right to reject and defame a woman?’
‘A woman who had deceived him? Yes, I do.’
‘What do you mean by deception?’
‘Accepting the baron’s adoration despite the faiblesse, as you call it, which she has for Mr Starski.’
Mrs Wąsowska bit her lip: ‘And how many faiblesses did the Baron have?’
‘As many as his desires and opportunit
ies afforded, to be sure,’ Wokulski replied. ‘But the Baron didn’t pose as an innocent, he didn’t profess to be a specialist in the purity of morals, nor was he surrounded by tribute for that … Had the Baron gained someone’s heart by claiming he had never taken mistresses, when in fact he had done, he too would be a deceiver. Admittedly, no one asked him.’
Mrs Wąsowska smiled: ‘Capital, indeed! What woman is going to state or assure you she never had lovers?’
‘So you have had them?’
‘My good man!’ the widow exclaimed, rising hastily. At once she recollected herself, and said boldly: ‘I expect a certain consideration from you in your choice of arguments.’
‘Why so? After all, we both have equal rights, and I will not be in the least offended if you ask me how many mistresses I have had.’
‘I am not interested.’
She started walking about the drawing-room. Anger was seething in Wokulski, but he controlled it.
‘Yes, I admit, sir,’ she said, ‘that I am not without prejudices. But then I am only a woman, I have a smaller brain, as your anthropologists declare: besides, I am chained by social conventions, vices and Heaven knows what beside! If I were a sensible man like you, and believed in progress as you do, I would know how to rid myself of these influences, even if only to admit sooner or later that women must be emancipated!’
‘In respect of these faiblesses, I daresay?’
‘You “daresay” …’ she teased him, ‘that is precisely what I’m talking about.’
‘Aha! So why should we wait for the dubious results of progress? Already today there are many women emancipated in that respect. They have even formed a powerful party, called coquettes. But it’s strange: while they have the respect of men, these women don’t enjoy the benevolence of other women.’
‘It’s impossible to talk to you, Mr Wokulski,’ the widow reproached him.
‘Impossible to talk to me about the emancipation of women?’
Mrs Wąsowska’s eyes gleamed and the blood rose into her face. She sat down violently in an armchair and, striking the table with one hand, exclaimed: ‘Very well! I’ll tolerate your cynicism and will even mention the coquettes. You must know, sir, that one must have a very low character to be able to compare those women who sell themselves for money with honest and noble women who give themselves for love.’