The Doll

by Bolesław Prus

  ‘No need,’ the Jew put in.

  ‘Then we will draw up a nice little document, authorising Mr S. Szlangbaum to draw ninety thousand on Mr S. Wokulski, and this will ensure him the newly acquired apartment house. If, however, Mr Szlangbaum has not repaid the money by 1 January, 1879…’

  ‘And I won’t!’

  ‘Then, Mr Łęcki’s apartment house, purchased by him, will become the property of Mr S. Wokulski.’

  ‘It could do so now…I won’t even look at it,’ the Jew replied with a gesture.

  ‘Excellent,’ the lawyer exclaimed, ‘we’ll have the document by tomorrow and the house within a week or ten days. I hope to goodness you don’t lose a few thousand on it, my dear Stanisław.’

  ‘I shall profit,’ Wokulski replied, and bade goodbye to the lawyer and Szlangbaum.

  ‘But…but…’ the lawyer exclaimed, as he accompanied Wokulski out, ‘our Counts are forming a partnership, except that they are decreasing their contributions and demanding a very detailed account of the transaction.’

  ‘They are quite right.’

  ‘Count Liciński is proving particularly shrewd. I can’t think what has come over him…’

  ‘He is providing money, so he is cautious. As long as he was only giving his word, he could afford to be rash.’

  ‘Not at all,’ the lawyer interposed, ‘there’s more to it than that,

  and I am investigating. Someone is interfering…’

  ‘Not with you, but with me,’ Wokulski smiled, ‘yet I don’t care, and would not mind at all if these gentlemen didn’t join our partnership.’

  He bade farewell to the lawyer once more and hurried to the store. There he found several important matters which detained him longer than he expected. He was not in the Łazienki park until one-thirty.

  The harsh chill of the park excited rather than calmed him. He hurried so that sometimes he wondered whether he was attracting the attention of passers-by. Then he slowed down and felt that his chest would burst with impatience: ‘Surely I won’t meet them now,’ he repeated desperately.

  Just by the lake, he caught sight of Izabela’s ash-coloured wrap against a background of green shrubs. She was standing on the bank with the Countess and her father, throwing crumbs to the swans, one of which had even waddled out of the water and stood at Izabela’s feet.

  Tomasz was first to notice him: ‘What a fortunate coincidence,’ he exclaimed to Wokulski, ‘you in the Łazienki at this time of day!’

  Wokulski bowed to the ladies, noticing the blush on Izabela’s face with a sensation of delighted surprise: ‘I come here whenever I am overworked…which is quite often.’

  ‘Take care of yourself, Mr Wokulski,’ Tomasz warned, shaking a finger at him gravely, ‘and apropos,’ he added in an undertone, ‘just think—Baroness Krzeszowska wants to give me seventy thousand for my house. I shall certainly get a hundred thousand, perhaps a hundred and ten thousand. Thank goodness for auction sales.’

  ‘I see you so rarely, Mr Wokulski,’ the Countess interposed, ‘that I must get down to business immediately.’

  ‘I am at your service, madam.’

  ‘My dear sir,’ she exclaimed, pressing her hands together with mock humility, ‘I entreat you for a roll of calico for my orphans. Just see how I have learned to beg for charity.’

  ‘Will you deign to accept two rolls?’

  ‘Only if one is of thick linen…’

  ‘Aunt, you are going too far,’ Izabela interrupted with a smile, ‘if you do not want to lose your entire fortune,’ she added to Wokulski, ‘you had better run away. I’ll take you in the direction of the Orangery, and the others can rest here awhile…’

  ‘Bela, aren’t you afraid?…’ her aunt exclaimed.

  ‘Surely you don’t suppose, aunt, that anything bad can happen to me in the company of Mr Wokulski?’

  The blood ran to Wokulski’s head; an imperceptible smile flitted across the Countess’s lips.

  It was one of those moments when Nature puts a brake on her immense powers, and suspends her eternal labours to emphasise the happiness of small and insignificant beings. The breeze was scarcely blowing, and then only to cool the fledgelings in their nests and help insects winging their way to nuptial festivities. The leaves on the trees stirred so gently that it was as if they were moved not by a material breath, but by the shifting sun-beams. Here and there, in the moisture-drenched undergrowth, colourful dew drops shimmered like the particles of a rainbow from Heaven. Thus everything was appropriate: the sun and trees, the light and shade, the swans on the lake, the swarms of mosquitoes hovering over the swans, even the glittering waves on the blue water. At this moment it seemed to Wokulski that time itself had quit the earth, leaving behind only a few white streaks in the sky—and that from now on nothing would change: everything would remain the same forever and ever—he and Izabela would walk forever through radiant meadows, both surrounded by green clouds of trees, in which the curious eyes of a bird would glitter here and there, like a couple of black diamonds—that he would be filled with immeasurable silence, and she always so dreamy and blushing, that those two white butterflies, kissing in the air, would be before them forever, as now.

  They were half-way to the Orangery when Izabela, evidently embarrassed by the tranquillity in Nature and between them, began to say: ‘A beautiful day, is it not? It’s so hot in town, but here it is delightfully cool. I love the Łazienki at this time of day; there are hardly any people, so everyone can find a corner entirely for himself. Do you like solitude?’

  ‘I have grown used to it.’

  ‘Have you seen Rossi?’ she added, blushing still more, ‘have you?’ she insisted, looking into his eyes in surprise.

  ‘No, but I’m going to.’

  ‘My aunt and I have already been to two performances.’

  ‘I shall go to them all…’

  ‘Oh, that is splendid! You’ll see what a great artist he is. He plays Romeo particularly well—although he is no longer in his first youth. Aunt and I know him personally, we met in Paris…He’s a most charming man, but a great tragedian primarily. He mingles very faithful realism in his acting with the most poetic idealism.’

  ‘He must be very great,’ Wokulski said, ‘if he arouses so much admiration and sympathy in you.’

  ‘Yes, you are right. I know I shall never do anything extraordinary, but at least I know how to appreciate unusual people. In every walk of life…even on the stage…Just think, though, that Warsaw doesn’t appreciate him as it should.’

  ‘Is that possible? After all, he’s a foreigner…’

  ‘You are malicious,’ she replied, with a smile, ‘but I put it down to Warsaw, not to Rossi. Really, I am ashamed of our city. If I were the public (of the male sex), I’d overwhelm him with bouquets, and my hands would be quite swollen from applauding. Here, though, the applause is rather sparing, and no one thinks of bouquets. We are still barbarians, really…’

  ‘Applause and bouquets are such small things that…at Rossi’s next performance he may well have too many, rather than not enough,’ said Wokulski.

  ‘Are you sure?’ she asked, looking eloquently into his eyes.

  ‘Quite sure…I guarantee it…’

  ‘I shall be so pleased if your prophecy comes true; but now perhaps we ought to go back to the others?’

  ‘Anyone who pleases you deserves the highest thanks…’

  ‘Oh come,’ she interrupted, smiling, ‘you have just paid yourself a compliment…’

  They turned back from the Orangery.

  ‘I can just picture Rossi’s surprise,’ Izabela went on, ‘if he has an ovation. He’s already dubious and almost regrets coming to Warsaw. Artists, even the greatest, are peculiar people; they cannot live without fame and tributes, just as we cannot do without food and air. Work, no matter how productive, or tranquillity or sacrifice—are not for them. They simply must be in the forefront, hold everyone’s gaze, dominate the hearts of thousands…Rossi himself
says he would rather die a year sooner, on the stage before a full and crowded house, than a year later, with only a few people. How strange that is!’

  ‘He is right—if a full theatre is his greatest happiness.’

  ‘You think there are kinds of happiness, for which it is worth paying by a shorter life?’ Izabela asked.

  ‘Yes, and unhappinesses that it is worth avoiding in a like manner,’ Wokulski replied.

  Izabela pondered, and from that time both walked on in silence.

  Meanwhile, the Countess was seated by the lake, still feeding the swans and talking to Tomasz: ‘Haven’t you noticed,’ she said, ‘that this Wokulski is somehow interested in Bela.’

  ‘Oh, I think not.’

  ‘Very much so, indeed; tradesmen nowadays know how to make daring plans.’

  ‘It is a great distance from making a plan to carrying it out,’ Tomasz replied rather irritably, ‘though even if it were so, it has nothing to do with me. I don’t control Mr Wokulski’s thoughts, and am easy as regards Bela…’

  ‘I have nothing against it,’ the Countess added, ‘and whatever happens, I accept God’s will, if the poor benefit. They continually do…My orphanage will soon be the first in the town, simply because that man has a weakness for Bela.’

  ‘For goodness sake! They’re coming back…’ Tomasz interrupted.

  Izabela and Wokulski had just appeared at the end of the path.

  Tomasz eyed them attentively and only now did he notice that these two people looked well together, both in height and movement. He, a head taller and powerfully built, stepped like an ex-military man; she, somewhat slighter, but more graceful, moved as if gliding. Even Wokulski’s white top-hat and light overcoat matched Izabela’s ash-coloured wrap.

  ‘Where did he get that white top-hat?’ Tomasz wondered resentfully. Then a strange notion occurred to him: that Wokulski was a parvenu who ought to pay him at least fifty per cent on the capital lent him, in return for the right to wear a white top-hat. But in the end he only shrugged.

  ‘How beautiful those paths are, aunt,’ Izabela exclaimed as she drew nearer, ‘we have never been in that direction. The Łazienki park is only pleasant when one can walk a long way, and fast.’

  ‘In that case, please ask Mr Wokulski to keep you company more often,’ the Countess replied in a tone of peculiar sweetness. Wokulski bowed, Izabela frowned imperceptibly and Tomasz said: ‘Perhaps we should go home…’

  ‘I think so,’ said the Countess, ‘are you staying here, Mr Wokulski?’

  ‘Yes. May I see you to your carriage?’

  ‘Please do. Bela, your hand.’

  The Countess and Izabela went in front, Tomasz and Wokulski following. Tomasz felt so much resentment, spleen and gall at the sight of that white top-hat that he forced himself to smile in order not to be disagreeable. Finally, wishing to divert Wokulski in some way or other, he began talking about his house again, from which he hoped to gain forty or fifty thousand roubles clear profit. These figures reacted unfavourably on Wokulski, as he had told himself he was not in a position to add anything over thirty thousand.

  Not until the carriage came up and Tomasz, after handing in the ladies, cried: ‘Drive on!’ did Wokulski’s feeling of distaste disappear and yearning for Izabela awaken.

  ‘It was so brief,’ he thought, looking with a sigh at the Łazienki alley along which the green water-cart of a park-keeper was now rolling, sprinkling the gravel.

  He went in the direction of the Orangery again, along the same path as before, gazing at Izabela’s footsteps in the fine sand. But something was different. The wind now blew stronger, it ruffled the water of the lake, had scattered the butterflies and the birds and was also driving up more clouds, which kept eclipsing the sunshine: ‘How boring it is here,’ he thought, and went back to the main alley.

  He got into his carriage and, with his eyes closed, relished its slight rocking motion. It made him think of a bird on a branch, which the wind blows to left then right, up then down, but he suddenly smiled to think that this slight rocking motion was costing him about a thousand a year. ‘I’m a fool, a fool,’ he repeated, ‘why am I pushing my way in among people who either fail to understand the sacrifices I am making, or who laugh at my clumsy efforts? Why do I have to keep this carriage? Couldn’t I use a droshky, or that rattling omnibus with its canvas curtains?’

  When he stopped in front of his house, he recalled the promise he had given Izabela concerning Rossi’s ovation. ‘He will get his ovation, mark my words! There’s a performance tomorrow…’

  Towards evening, he sent his servant to the shop for Oberman. The grey-haired cashier hurried over at once, asking himself in alarm whether Wokulski had changed his mind and was going to order him to repay the lost money…

  However, Wokulski greeted him very affably and even took him into the study, where they talked for nearly half an hour. What about? The question very much intrigued the footman. ‘About the lost money, surely?’…Worried, he put his ear and eye to the key-hole in turn, saw and heard a great deal, but could make nothing of it all. He saw Wokulski give Oberman a whole bundle of five-rouble notes and heard such phrases as: ‘In the Grand Theatre…the balcony and gallery…a bouquet by the doorman…a bouquet across the orchestra…’

  ‘What the devil is the old man up to now? Dealing in theatre tickets, or what?’

  Hearing the sound of farewells in the study, the servant took refuge in the vestibule in order to catch Oberman there. When the cashier emerged he exclaimed: ‘Well, is it over with the money, then? I took a lot of my breath to make the old man have mercy on you, Oberman, but finally I forced him to say “We’ll see, we’ll do what we can…” And now I see you’ve done well for yourself, Mr Oberman. Is the old man in a good temper, then?’

  ‘Like always,’ the cashier replied.

  ‘You had a nice talk with him, didn’t you? It must have been about more than the money…I daresay it was about the theatre, for the old man likes the theatre.…’

  But Oberman glared at him wolfishly and went out without answering. At first the servant gasped in astonishment, but then he cooled down and shook his fist: ‘You wait,’ he muttered, ‘I’ll pay you back…A great gentleman, just look at him…Steals four hundred roubles but he won’t even talk to a fellow…’

  XVIII

  Surprises, Delusions and Observations of the Old Clerk

  ANOTHER period of uneasiness and surprises had come upon Ignacy Rzecki. This same Wokulski, who had rushed off to Bulgaria a year ago and had amused himself like a lord a few weeks back at horse-races and duels, had today developed an extraordinary fondness for theatrical performances. It would not have been so bad if they’d been in Polish—but in Italian! And Wokulski did not understand a word of Italian.

  This new mania had already lasted almost a week, much to the surprise and chagrin of other people as well as Ignacy. Once, for instance, old Szlangbaum had been looking for Wokulski for half a day, obviously in connection with some important business. He tried the shop, but Wokulski had just left, after ordering a large vase of Saxon porcelain to be delivered to the actor Rossi. He hurried to Wokulski’s apartment—Wokulski had just left, and gone to Bardet’s flower-shop. With a grimace, the old Jew took a droshky in an attempt to catch up with him; but as he offered the driver one złoty and eight groszy for the drive, instead of forty groszy, Wokulski had already left the flower-shop by the time they finished arguing.

  ‘D’you know where he went?’ Szlangbaum asked the gardener, who was sowing destruction among his finest blooms with a crooked knife.

  ‘How should I know? To the theatre, I daresay,’ the gardener replied, looking as if he would like to cut Szlangbaum’s throat with that crooked knife.

  The very same notion had occurred to the Jew, who retreated as hastily as possible from the Orangery and jumped into the droshky like a stone from a sling. But the driver (who had obviously come to an agreement with the cannibal gardener) declared he would not go
any further unless the merchant paid him forty groszy for the drive and repaid the two groszy deducted the first time.

  Szlangbaum felt palpitations around his heart, and at first wanted either to get out or to call the police. Recalling, however, that malice, injustice and greed were now prevailing towards Jews in the Christian world, he agreed to all the conditions of the outrageous driver and drove to the theatre, groaning.

  There—he did not know whom to address, then nobody would speak to him, but he finally ascertained that Mr Wokulski had been there, but at that moment left for Aleje Ujazdowskie. The wheels of his carriage could still be heard in the gate…

  Szlangbaum gave up in despair. He went back on foot to Wokulski’s store, taking the opportunity for the hundredth time of cursing his son for calling himself ‘Henryk’, wearing a frock-coat and eating non-kosher food, then he finally went to expatiate on his woes to Ignacy:

  ‘Now!’ he said in a lamenting voice, ‘whatever is Mr Wokulski up to, for goodness sake? I had a transaction he could have made three hundred roubles on within five days…I’d have made a hundred myself…But no! He goes riding around the town, and I had to spend two złoty and twenty groszy on droshkies. O my! What brigands those droshky-men are!’

  Rzecki of course authorised Szlangbaum to transact the business and not only refunded the money he had spent on the droshky, but even had him driven to Elektoralna Street at his own expense, which so touched the old Jew that as he went out he lifted the parental curse from his son and invited him for the Sabbath supper.

  ‘All the same,’ said Rzecki to himself, ‘this theatre business is going too far, mainly because Staś is neglecting his work…’

  Then again, the widely respected lawyer and right-hand man of the Prince, the legal adviser of the entire aristocracy, called at the store to invite Wokulski to his office for an evening meeting. Ignacy did not know where to seat this eminent person, nor how to appreciate the honour paid his Staś by the lawyer. But Staś was not only unmoved by the grand invitation for the evening, but simply refused it, which somewhat upset the lawyer, who left at once and said goodbye to them very coolly.