The Doll

by Bolesław Prus

  Recommending myself to your kindness, dear Izabela, and our mutual relations to the sure justice of Heaven, I remain, yours truly, though despised, and your humble servant, Krzeszowska.

  As she read, Izabela went as pale as the paper. She rose from the table, crumpled the letter and raised her hand as if to hurl it into someone’s face. Suddenly, seized by fear, she wanted to flee away or to call someone; but at that moment she recollected herself and went to her father.

  Mr Łęcki was lying on the sofa in his slippers and dressing-gown, reading the Courier. He greeted his daughter very affectionately, and when she had sat down, looked at her in an attentive manner and said: ‘Is the light bad in this room, or does it seem to me that my child is out of humour?’

  ‘I am somewhat agitated.’

  ‘So I observe, but it is from the heat. And today you ought,’ he added, threatening her with a smile, ‘today you must look nice, you mischievous thing, for young Kazio, so your aunt told me yesterday, is to visit …’

  Izabela said nothing, her father went on: ‘It’s true that the lad is rather spoiled with everlasting gadding about the world, somewhat in debt too — but he’s young, handsome, healthy and wild about you. Joanna hopes the Duchess will keep him in the country a few weeks, and the rest is up to you. And it might not be a bad thing, you know. A good name … his fortune will somehow be put together from various sources … And in addition he’s a man of the world, well-bred, even a kind of hero, if it’s true that he’s been all around the world.’

  ‘I had a letter from Krzeszowska,’ Izabela interrupted.

  ‘Ah? And what does the silly woman say?’

  ‘She says our house was not bought by Szlangbaum, but by Wokulski, and that with the help of false bidders he gave twenty thousand more than it was worth.’

  Speaking in a stifled voice, she looked in alarm at her father, fearing an outburst. But Tomasz merely sat up on the sofa, cracked his fingers and exclaimed: ‘One moment! One moment! You know, it may be true.’

  ‘How can it be?’ Izabela rose hastily, ‘he dares present us with twenty thousand roubles — and you can speak of it calmly?’

  ‘I speak calmly because, had I delayed the sale, I should not have got ninety but a hundred and twenty thousand …’

  ‘But we could not wait, as the house was up for auction.’

  ‘And because we could not, we have lost and Wokulski will gain, because he can.’

  After this remark, Izabela became somewhat calmer: ‘So you do not consider it charity on his part? For yesterday you spoke of Wokulski as if you felt you had been trapped by him …’

  ‘Ha ha ha!’ Tomasz laughed, ‘that’s capital — simply capital! Yesterday I was somewhat agitated, even very much so, and something … something began to dawn upon me … But today! Ha ha ha! Let Wokulski overpay for the house. He’s a tradesman and ought to know how much and what he is paying for. He loses on one and gains on another. I for one can’t resent the fact that he took part in the auction of my house. Although I’d have the right to suspect some shady business in his putting up Szlangbaum, for instance.’

  Izabela embraced her father cordially: ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you are right, papa. I didn’t realise to the full what it all meant. This putting up of Jews at the sale clearly proves that this man, while playing at friendship, is doing business.’

  ‘Of course!’ Tomasz agreed, ‘surely you have the sense to understand such a simple thing? Perhaps he isn’t a bad man, but he’s a tradesman always, a tradesman …’

  A loud ringing came from the vestibule: ‘That must be he. I’ll go, papa, and leave the two of you together.’

  She left her father’s bedroom, but instead of Wokulski in the vestibule she saw a total of three Jews, loudly arguing with Mikołaj and Flora. She rushed from the vestibule and the phrase: ‘My God! Why doesn’t he come?’ passed through her mind.

  A storm of emotion was boiling in her heart. While agreeing with her father’s views, Izabela had nevertheless guessed it was not true what he said. Wokulski had made no profit from the house, but had lost, merely in order to extricate them from a most fatal situation.

  But while admitting this, she hated him: ‘Scoundrel! Scoundrel!’ she whispered, ‘how dare he?’

  Meanwhile, the Jews in the vestibule had started an angry scene with Flora. They declared they would not go until they got their money, that the young lady had given her word the previous day … And when Mikołaj opened the front door, they began abusing him: ‘This is robbery! This is cheating! You know how to get money and then you say “My dear David …” but when the time comes …’

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ said a new voice at that moment.

  The Jews fell silent: ‘What is the meaning of this? What are you doing here, Mr Spigelman?’

  Izabela recognized Wokulski’s voice.

  ‘Me? Nothing … My respects, honoured sir … We are here on business, to see His Excellency …’ Spigelman explained in a tone completely different from his previous noisy one.

  ‘The gentleman told us to come for our money today …’ put in another Jew, ‘the young lady gave her word yesterday that we should all be paid off today, to the last penny …’

  ‘And so you shall,’ Wokulski interrupted, ‘I am Mr Łęcki’s plenipotentiary and will deal with your accounts in my office at six today.’

  ‘No hurry … Why in such a hurry, honoured sir?’ Spigelman replied.

  ‘Pray come to my office at six, and you, Mikołaj, do not admit anyone on business while your master is ill.’

  ‘Very good, sir! My master is waiting in his bedroom,’ Mikołaj replied.

  But when Wokulski had gone in, he pushed and tumbled the Jews out, with ‘Begone, Yids! Begone!’

  ‘Ah! Ah! Why so angry, sir?’ the Jews muttered, very embarrassed. Tomasz greeted Wokulski with emotion; his hands were trembling slightly, so was his head. ‘Well, look here,’ he said, ‘what these Jews get up to! They besiege our house … they alarm my daughter …’

  ‘I have told them to come to my office at six and, with your permission, will then settle their bills. Is it a large sum?’ Wokulski asked.

  ‘Almost nothing … a matter of some five or six thousand roubles …’

  ‘Five or six thousand?’ Wokulski echoed, ‘do you owe so much to those three?’

  ‘No. I owe them some two thousand, perhaps a trifle more. But I must tell you, Stanisław (for this is the whole point) that last March someone bought my promissory notes. Who was it? That I don’t know: however, I should like to be ready for all eventualities.’

  Wokulski’s face brightened: ‘Pay off your debts,’ he replied, ‘as the creditors apply to you. Today we will dispose of those who have promissory notes dated later. So it amounts to two or three thousand?’

  ‘Yes, yes … but, Stanisław, what confounded bad luck! You are to pay me five thousand for six months … Were you good enough to bring the money?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I am indeed grateful. But what confounded bad luck that just now, when Bela and I and … and you … were to go to Paris, the Jews should seize two thousand from me. Of course Paris is out of the question?’

  ‘How so?’ Wokulski said, ‘I’ll pay what is owing and you need not touch your interest. You may go to Paris without hesitation.’

  ‘Splendid of you,’ Tomasz exclaimed, embracing him, ‘for you see, my dear fellow,’ he added, calming down, ‘I was just wondering whether you couldn’t obtain a loan for me somewhere, for paying off the Jewish debts at — say — seven or perhaps six per cent?’

  Wokulski smiled at the financial naiveté of Tomasz: ‘Of course,’ he said, unable to control his good humour, ‘you will get the loan. We’ll repay some three thousand to the Jews and you’ll pay the interest. How much would you like to pay?’

  ‘Seven per cent — perhaps six …’

  ‘Very well,’ said Wokulski, ‘you will pay a hundred and eight roubles interest and the capital wil
l remain untouched.’

  Tomasz, for the hundredth time at least, began blinking and tears appeared again: ‘Noble soul! Noble!’ he said, embracing Wokulski, ‘God has sent you …’

  ‘Do you think I could do otherwise?’ Wokulski murmured.

  There was a knock. Mikołaj entered and announced the physicians: ‘Ah,’ Tomasz exclaimed, ‘my sister sent them. My God, I have never yet been doctored, but today … Please, Stanisław, go to Bela now. Mikołaj, announce Mr Wokulski to your mistress.’

  ‘This is my reward … my life!’ Wokulski thought, following Mikołaj. In the vestibule he met the doctors, both known to him, and warmly recommended Tomasz to their care.

  Izabela awaited him in the drawing-room. She was a trifle pale, but all the more beautiful. He greeted her and said cheerfully: ‘I was very pleased that you liked the wreath for Rossi …’

  He stopped. He was struck by the peculiar expression on Izabela’s face, as she looked at him with some slight surprise as though she had never seen him before.

  For a moment both were silent, then Izabela flicked a particle of dust from her ash-coloured gown and asked: ‘So it was you who bought our house?’

  Wokulski was so taken aback that for the first few moments he could not utter a word. It was as though his mind had stopped working. He turned pale, then reddened, and finally regained enough sense to reply in a stifled voice: ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘Why did you put up a Jew to outbid?’

  ‘Why?’ Wokulski echoed, gazing at her like a frightened child, ‘why? I am a tradesman, you see … and locking up capital may damage my credit …’

  ‘You have been interesting yourself in our affairs for a long time. It seems to me that in April … you acquired our dinner-service?’ Izabela said in the same tone.

  This tone sobered Wokulski, he looked up and replied drily: ‘Your dinner-service is at your disposal at any time.’

  Now Izabela looked down. Wokulski noticed this and was embarrassed again. ‘Why did you do it?’ she asked quietly, ‘why are you … persecuting us?’

  It looked as though she was going to burst into tears. Wokulski lost all his self-control: ‘I persecute you?’ he exclaimed in an altered voice, ‘could you find a more faithful servant … a more devoted dog … than me? For two years I have thought of only one thing — how to remove every obstacle from your path.’

  At this moment the door-bell rang. Izabela started. Wokulski fell silent.

  Mikołaj opened the drawing-room door and said: ‘Mr Starski.’

  At the same moment a man of medium height appeared on the threshold, graceful and slender, with a small moustache and an almost imperceptible bald spot. His expression was half merry, half mocking, and he at once exclaimed: ‘I am delighted to see you again, cousin!’

  Izabela gave him her hand in silence: a warm flush covered her face and languor glowed in her eyes.

  Wokulski retired to a side table. Izabela introduced the gentlemen: ‘Mr … Mr Wokulski … Mr Starski.’

  Wokulski’s name was uttered in such a manner that Starski, after bowing, sat down a few paces away, turned sideways from him. In reply, Wokulski sat down at the small table by the wall and began looking at an album.

  ‘So you are back from China, cousin?’ Izabela asked.

  ‘From London — and I keep thinking I am still on board ship,’ Starski replied, in quite noticeably halting Polish.

  Izabela began speaking English: ‘I expect you will be staying in this country for some time?’

  ‘That depends,’ Starski replied, also in English, ‘who’s that?’ he added, glancing at Wokulski.

  ‘My father’s agent. What does it depend upon?’

  ‘I think you have no need to ask, cousin,’ said the young man, with a smile, ‘it depends upon the generosity of my grandmother.’

  ‘Very nice! And I was expecting a compliment …’

  ‘Travellers don’t pay compliments, for they know that compliments discredit a man in the eyes of a woman in no matter what latitude.’

  ‘Did you make that discovery in China?’

  ‘In China and Japan, but mainly in Europe.’

  ‘And you expect to apply this principle in Poland, cousin?’

  ‘I’ll try and in your company, if you’ll allow me. For it seems we are to spend the summer together. Is it not so?’

  ‘That is what my aunt and father want, at least. However, it doesn’t amuse me to hear that you intend checking your ethnographical observations …’

  ‘That would be revenge on my part.’

  ‘Ah — it’s to be a battle, then?’ Izabela asked.

  ‘The paying off of old scores often leads to agreement.’

  Wokulski was looking through the album with such attention that the veins stood out on his forehead.

  ‘But revenge doesn’t,’ Izabela replied.

  ‘Not revenge — but the recollection that I am your creditor, cousin.’

  ‘So I am to pay off old scores?’ Izabela smiled, ‘you have not been wasting your time on your travels, cousin.’

  ‘I prefer not to waste time on holidays,’ said Starski, looking significantly into her eyes.

  ‘That depends on the revenge.’ Izabela replied, and she blushed again.

  ‘The master is expecting you,’ said Mikołaj, appearing in the drawing-room door.

  The conversation broke off. Wokulski put down the album, rose, bowed to Izabela and Starski, then slowly followed the butler.

  ‘Doesn’t that man understand English, then? Won’t he mind us not talking to him?’ asked Starski.

  ‘Oh no,’ Izabela replied.

  ‘So much the better: for I had the impression he did not care for our company.’

  ‘And he has left us,’ Izabela concluded carelessly.

  ‘Bring me my hat from the drawing-room,’ said Wokulski to Mikołaj, in the next room. Mikołaj brought the hat and took it to Tomasz’s bedroom. In the vestibule he heard Wokulski whispering ‘My God!’ and clutching his head with both hands.

  When Wokulski entered Tomasz’s room, the doctors had gone. ‘Well now, just think,’ Mr Łęcki exclaimed, ‘what confounded bad luck! The doctors have forbidden me to go to Paris, and I am to go to the country instead, on pain of death. Upon my word, I don’t know where to take refuge from this heat. But it has affected you, you’re changed … This is a hot apartment, is it not?’

  ‘Yes. Allow me,’ Wokulski said, taking a thick packet from his pocket, ‘to hand you the money.’

  ‘Well, really …’

  ‘Here are five thousand roubles interest till mid-January. Please count it. And here is the receipt.’

  Mr Łęcki counted the bundle of new hundred-rouble notes several times, then signed. As he put the pen down he said: ‘Good, that is one thing over. And now for the debts …’

  ‘The amount of two or three thousand, which you owe the Jews, will be paid today …’

  ‘But, my dear Stanisław I don’t want it for nothing … Pray deduct your interest very precisely …’

  ‘A hundred and twenty to a hundred and eighty roubles a year …’

  ‘Yes, yes …’ Tomasz agreed, ‘but supposing I were to need a small sum, then could I send someone to you …?’

  ‘You will receive the other half of the interest in mid-January,’ Wokulski replied.

  ‘I know. But, Stanisław, supposing I were to require a part of my capital? Not for nothing, of course … I would gladly pay interest.’

  ‘Six per cent,’ Wokulski interposed.

  ‘Yes, six or … seven per cent.’

  ‘No, sir. Your capital will bring in thirty-three per cent annually, so I cannot lend it at seven per cent.’

  ‘Very well. In that case, do not dispose of my capital, but … you see, something may occur to …’

  ‘You can withdraw your capital in mid-January, next year …’

  ‘God forbid! I won’t withdraw my capital from you, not even for ten years.’

  ‘But
I have taken your capital for only a year.’

  ‘How is that? Why?’ Tomasz asked, opening his eyes wider and wider.

  ‘Because I can’t tell what will happen a year from today. Such opportunities do not occur every year.’

  ‘By the way,’ said Tomasz, after a moment of disagreeable consideration, ‘what on earth is this they’re saying in town — that you, Mr Wokulski, have bought my house?’

  ‘Yes, sir, it was I who bought your house. But I can sell it back to you on favourable terms within six months.’

  Mr Łęcki felt himself flush. Not wishing, however, to relinquish his game, he asked in a lordly manner: ‘And how much would you ask for selling it back, Mr Wokulski?’

  ‘Nothing. I’ll resell it for ninety thousand or even … less, perhaps.’

  Tomasz withdrew, folded his arms, then sank into his great armchair and again some tears flowed down his face: ‘Really, Stanisław,’ he sobbed slightly, ‘I see that the finest relations can be spoiled by … money. Am I vexed with you for buying the house? Have I complained? Yet you speak to me as though you were offended.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Wokulski interrupted, ‘but as a matter of fact I am somewhat irritable … The heat, no doubt.’

  ‘Of course,’ Tomasz exclaimed, rising and pressing his hand, ‘so — let us forgive one another these sharp words … I am not angry with you, for I know … it is the heat.’

  Wokulski bade him goodbye and stepped into the drawing-room. Starski had already left, Izabela was sitting there alone. Seeing him, she rose. Her face was more serene: ‘Are you leaving?’

  ‘I wanted to say goodbye.’

  ‘And you won’t forget Rossi?’ she said with a faint smile.

  ‘No. I will see that the wreath be given him.’

  ‘Will you not hand it to him yourself? Why not?’

  ‘I am leaving for Paris tonight,’ Wokulski replied.

  He bowed and went out.

  For a moment Izabela stood amazed, then she hurried into her father’s room: ‘What does this mean, papa? Mr Wokulski said goodbye to me very coldly and says that — tonight he is leaving for Paris!’