The Doll

by Bolesław Prus

  Mrs Mincel kissed his sweaty face as if they were still on their honeymoon, but he pushed her aside mildly and wiped his face with his cravat: ‘Devil take these women!’ he said, ‘they can’t resist making people unhappy. Go on with your match-making, do! Hopfer, Wokulski, anyone — but remember I’m not going to pay for it!’

  From that time on, whenever Jan Mincel went out of an evening for beer or to the club, Mrs Mincel would invite Wokulski and me in. Staś would drink his tea quickly, without even looking at her: then, with his hands in his pockets, would think about his balloons and sit like a block of stone, while our hostess urged him to fall in love: ‘Is it possible, Mr Wokulski, that you’ve never been in love?’ said she, ‘as far as I know, you are twenty-eight years old, almost as old as I am …and I’ve long since regarded myself as an old woman, while you’re still an innocent …’

  Wokulski crossed one leg over the other, but still said nothing.

  ‘Kasia is a delicious morsel,’ said our hostess, ‘fine eyes — though she seems to have a cast in one of ’em; a reasonable enough figure, although she must have one shoulder higher than the other (but that only adds to her charms). Her nose isn’t quite to my liking, I admit, and her mouth is a little too big, but what a good girl she is! If she only had a little more sense …Well, but women don’t acquire sense, Mr Wokulski, until they are thirty. When I was Kasia’s age, I was as silly as a canary-bird …I fell in love with my present husband!’

  On the third visit, Mrs Mincel welcomed us wearing a peignoir (it was a very fine peignoir, embroidered with lace), but I wasn’t even invited the fourth time. I have

  ‘Work on him, my dear,’ her husband would encourage her, ‘for it is a shame about the girl and Wokulski too. It is awful to think that such a decent fellow, who has been a clerk so long, and who might inherit Hopfer’s business, should want to waste himself at the university. Tfu!’

  Confirmed in her good intentions, Mrs Mincel not only invited Wokulski to tea in the evenings (he usually didn’t go), but sometimes popped anxiously into my room herself, inquiring whether Staś was sick and wondering why he had not yet fallen in love — he, almost older than she was (I think she was a little older than he was). At the same time, she began having hysterical fits, would scold her husband who left home for whole days at a time, and protest to me I was a scoundrel who didn’t understand life, and took in doubtful persons as lodgers …

  In a word, as such scenes began to occur in the house Jan Mincel grew thin, despite the fact that he drank more and more beer, while I thought I would either resign from my job with Mincel, or give Staś notice to leave.

  How in the world did Mrs Mincel learn of my troubles? I have no idea. Suffice it to say that she popped into my room one evening, told me I was her enemy and must be a great scoundrel, since I was giving notice to quit a man as energetic as Wokulski …Then she added that her husband was a wretch, that all men were wretches and finally had hysterics on my sofa.

  Scenes like this went on for several days, and I don’t know what the outcome would have been, had it not been that one of the most extraordinary incidents I ever saw took place.

  Once Machalski invited Wokulski and me to his place for the evening. We went there after nine, and in his favourite cellar, by the light of three tallow candles I saw several dozen people, including Mr Leon. I am sure I shall never forget that crowd of predominantly young faces against the background of the black walls of the cellar, looking out from behind barrels or half lost in the gloom.

  As the hospitable Machalski greeted us on the stairs with huge glasses of wine (and very good wine too) and took me into his especial care, I must at once admit that my head began spinning and a few minutes later I was quite tipsy. So I sat down at a distance from the proceedings, in a deep alcove, and dozed, half-awake, half-asleep, as I watched the feasters.

  I am not quite sure what happened down there, for the most fantastic notions whirled through my head. I dreamed that Mr Leon was speaking, as usual about the power of faith, lack of spirit and the need for sacrifice, which all those present loudly encored. The unanimous voices died down, however, when Leon started declaring that it was time to put these words into action. I must have been quite tipsy, for Leon seemed to be suggesting that one of us should jump from the Nowy Zjazd bridge down to the pavement below, and on this, everyone fell silent to a man, while several concealed themselves behind barrels.

  ‘So no one can make up his mind to try?’ Leon cried, wringing his hands. Silence. The cellar grew emptier.

  ‘Nobody? Nobody?’

  ‘I will,’ said a voice I hardly recognised. I looked around. By a flickering tallow candle stood Wokulski. But Machalski’s wine had been so strong that at this moment I passed out.

  After the banquet in the wine-cellar, Staś did not show himself at my dwelling for several days. Finally he entered — wearing someone else’s clothes, thinner, but with his head high. Then for the first time I heard a sort of harsh note in his voice, which still makes a very disagreeable impression on me to this day.

  From that time on, he entirely changed his way of life. He threw the balloon and propeller into a corner, where they soon began collecting spider-webs; he gave the demijohn to the caretaker for a water-jug, and never even glanced at his books. So that treasury of human wisdom lay about on shelves or the table, closed or open, while he …

  Sometimes he would not be at home for several days together, not even for the night: then again he would drop in of an evening and throw himself on his bed, fully dressed. Sometimes, several gentlemen unknown to me would come instead of him, and spend the night on the sofa or in Staś’s bed, without even thanking me or telling me their names or profession. Then again sometimes Staś would reappear and sit in the room for a few days, doing nothing, irritable, always on the alert, like a lover come to a tryst with a married lady and afraid of meeting her husband.

  I do not suppose that this married lady was Małgosia Mincel, for she now looked as if a gadfly had bitten her. Mornings, the woman rushed around three or so churches, evidently wishing to pester merciful Heaven from several vantage points. Immediately after dinner she went to meetings of ladies who deserted their husbands and children to busy themselves with gossip in the expectation of great events. In the evenings, gentlemen would call on her: but they used to pack her off into the kitchen without even speaking to her.

  It is hardly surprising that with such chaos at home I too began to grow confused. Warsaw seemed more crowded, everyone bemused. Every hour I expected some indefinable surprise, but nevertheless we were all in a good temper and our heads full of plans.

  Jan Mincel, meanwhile, worried by his spouse at home, went out for beer early in the morning and did not come home till late. He even thought up a saying: ‘What does it matter? Death only stings once …’ which he used to repeat till his dying day.

  Finally, Staś Wokulski entirely disappeared from my sight. Not until two years later did he write to me from Irkutsk, asking me to send his books.

  In autumn 1870 (I had just come home from Jan Mincel’s, he was ill in bed) I had just sat down to my evening tea in my room, when suddenly someone knocked: ‘Herein!’ said I.

  The door squeaked …I looked up, and there on the threshold was a bearded figure in a sealskin overcoat, fur outwards: ‘Well,’ said I, ‘may the devil take me if it isn’t Wokulski …’

  ‘In person,’ said the individual in sealskin.

  ‘For goodness sake,’ said I, ‘you’re joking to be sure … Or are you lost? Where in the world do you come from? Are you his spirit?’

  ‘No, I’m alive,’ said he, ‘and hungry into the bargain.’

  So he took off his cap, got out of his fur-coat, sat down by the candle. He really was Wokulski. He’d grown a beard like a brigand, had a countenance like Longinus (who put a spear into Christ our Lord), but of course it really was Wokulski.

  ‘So you’re back,’ said I, ‘have you just arrived?’

  ‘Yes, and
back for good.’

  ‘What was that country like?’

  ‘Not bad.’

  ‘Hm …And the people?’

  ‘Not bad.’

  ‘Hm …And what did you live on?’

  ‘I gave lessons,’ said he, ‘and I’ve brought six hundred roubles back with me.’

  ‘Well, well…And what do you plan on doing now?’

  ‘Well, I shan’t go back to Hopfer’s,’ he replied, thumping the table-top, ‘you probably don’t know I’m a scholar now. I’ve even acquired several diplomas from scientific societies in St Petersburg.’

  ‘So a waiter from Hopfer’s has become a scholar! Staś Wokulski has diplomas from scientific societies in St Petersburg …Unheard of,’ thought I.

  What more is there to say? The lad found himself a place somewhere in the Old Town and lived on his savings for six months, buying plenty of books but little to eat. When his money was spent, he began looking for work, and a strange thing happened. Tradesmen wouldn’t employ him because he was a scholar, but scholars wouldn’t either, because he was an ex-waiter. So he was stuck, like Twardowski, half-way between Heaven and earth. He might have blown his brains out on the Nowy Zjazd, had I not helped him out from time to time.

  It is painful to think how hard life was. He grew thin, gloomy, morose …But he did not complain. Only once, when he was told there was no work for the likes of him, he whispered: ‘I’ve been cheated …’

  Just then Jan Mincel died. His widow buried him in a Christian manner, remained shut up in her room for a week, then summoned me in for a talk. I thought we should discuss the shop, the more so as I noticed a bottle of good wine on the table. But Mrs Mincel did not mention the fate of the shop. She burst into tears at the sight of me, as if I reminded her of her late husband, already buried a week, and poured me a generous glass of the wine, saying in a tearful voice: ‘When my poor dear angel passed away, I thought only I was unhappy …’

  ‘Angel?’ I asked suddenly, ‘Jan Mincel, perhaps? Excuse me, madam — although I was a true friend of your late husband, I wouldn’t think of referring to a person who weighed two hundred pounds as an angel …’

  ‘He weighed three hundred when he was alive,’ the inconsolable widow interposed. Then she again veiled her face with a handkerchief and sobbed: ‘Oh, will you never learn to be tactful,

  Mr Rzecki? What a blow it was! It’s quite true that my late lamented was never an angel, to be precise, particularly of late, but I have always been terribly unfortunate …Oh, lamentable, irreplaceable …’

  ‘Of course, for the last six months …’

  ‘Six months, what are you saying?’ she cried, ‘poor Jan was sick three years and for eight or more he … Alas, Mr Rzecki, what a source of misery that hateful beer is in marriage! It is eight years, sir, since I had a proper husband …But what a man he was, Mr Rzecki! Only now do I feel the whole weight of my misfortune …’

  ‘Worse things can happen,’ I ventured to interpose. ‘Oh yes,’ the poor widow sighed, ‘you are perfectly right, worse things can happen. For example, there’s Wokulski, who is supposed to be back now …Is it true he still has not found a post?’

  ‘Nothing at all.’

  ‘Where does he eat? And live?’

  ‘Where does he eat? I don’t even know that he does. And for where he lives — nowhere.’

  ‘Terrible,’ Mrs Mincel burst into tears. ‘It seems to me,’ she added after a moment, ‘that I should be carrying out the last wish of the late lamented if I ask you to …’

  ‘At your service, madam …’

  ‘To give him lodgings in your apartment, and I’ll send you down two dinners and two breakfasts …’

  ‘Wokulski would not accept that,’ I remarked. On this, Mrs Mincel burst into tears again. From despair at her husband’s death, she was transformed into such a ferocious rage that she called me a scoundrel three times, a man ignorant of life, a monster …Finally she told me to be off, and she would manage the shop herself. Then she apologised and vowed on all that was holy that I must not be vexed by words dictated by her sorrow.

  From that day on I often met our lady proprietor. Then, six months later, Staś told me …he was going to marry Mrs Mincel.

  I stared at him …He shrugged: ‘I know,’ he said, ‘that I’m a swine. But …even so, less than many of those who enjoy public esteem here.’

  After a riotous wedding which many of Wokulski’s friends attended (I don’t know where they came from, but how the wretches ate …and drank the health of the happy couple — from tankards!), Staś moved upstairs to his wife’s apartments. To the best of my recollection, all his possessions consisted of four parcels of books and scientific instruments, and as for furniture — a bubble-pipe and hat-box.

  The clerks laughed (in corners, of course) at their new boss: I, however, was sorry he had broken with his heroic past and poverty so abruptly. For human nature is odd: the less we tend to martyrdom ourselves, the more we require it of our neighbours.

  ‘He’s sold himself to that old woman,’ his acquaintances said, ‘that would-be Brutus! …He studied, got into trouble and now — flop!’

  Two of his severest critics had been fervent suitors of Mrs Mincel.

  But Staś very quickly shut people’s mouths, for he set to work at once. About a week after the wedding he came into the store at eight in the morning, sat down at the desk in the late Mr Mincel’s chair and served customers, made out bills, gave change, as if he were only a paid clerk.

  He did even more, for in his second year he started trading with Moscow merchants, which proved very advantageous for business. I may say that our turnover tripled under his rule.

  I sighed with relief when I saw Wokulski did not intend to eat his bread free; even the clerks stopped laughing at him, realising that Staś worked harder in the shop than they did, and that he also had more than a few duties to carry out upstairs. We at least rested during holidays: whereas he, poor devil, had to take his wife by the arm and march about the town — mornings to church, afternoons paying calls and evenings to the theatre.

  Her new husband put new life into Małgosia. She bought herself a piano and began taking music lessons from an aged teacher so as (she said) ‘not to make Staś jealous’. She spent the hours free from piano lessons at conferences with tailors, modistes, hairdressers and dentists, making herself prettier every day. And how affectionate she was towards her husband! Sometimes she would sit for hours at a time in the shop, merely to gaze upon Staś. When she noticed that some of the customers were pretty, she removed Staś from the front of the shop to behind a cupboard, and told him to set his office up there, within which he sat like a caged animal and did the shop’s accounts.

  One day I heard a terrible crash inside this structure. I rushed in, followed by the clerks. What a sight met our eyes! Małgosia was lying on the floor, soaked in ink, the chair broken, having brought the desk down on top of her, Staś was furious and embarrassed …We lifted up the weeping lady, and from her incoherent mumblings learned that she herself had been the author of all this mess, by unexpectedly sitting down on her husband’s lap. The fragile chair had collapsed under their combined weight, and her ladyship, in trying to avoid the catastrophe, had grabbed hold of the desk and brought the whole thing down on herself.

  Staś accepted these noisy proofs of connubial tenderness with the utmost tranquillity, seeking consolation by burying himself in bills and commercial correspondence. But instead of cooling off, her ladyship became more and more fervent: when her husband, tired of sitting still, or in order to transact business, would sometimes go out into the town, she would hasten after him …to watch lest he go to a rendezvous!

  Staś would sometimes disappear for a week at a time, especially in winter, to stay with a forester he knew, where he would hunt and wander about in the forests. But on the third day his wife would set off after her beloved truant, walk about in the thickets behind him and fetch him back to Warsaw as a result.

&nb
sp; Wokulski kept silent for the first two years of this rigorous life. During the third year he began coming to my room every evening, and talking about politics. Sometimes, as we were chatting about old times, he would look around the room, suddenly break off the topic to begin another: ‘Listen to me, Ignacy …’

  At that moment, as if deliberately, the maid would rush downstairs, crying: ‘The missus wants you! The missus is poorly!’

  And he, poor devil, would shrug and go to her ladyship, without even beginning what it was he wanted to tell me.

  After three years of such a life which, however, was irreproachable, I saw that this man of iron was beginning to wilt in the silken embraces of her ladyship. He grew pale and wan, stooping, threw aside his learned books and took to reading the newspaper, spending all his spare time talking to me about politics. Sometimes he left the shop before eight, and took his wife to the theatre or to pay a call, then finally started giving evening parties, where ladies old as sin, gentlemen in retirement and whist-players would gather.

  Staś did not play; he only walked about between the card-tables and watched.

  ‘Staś,’ I sometimes said, ‘take care! You’re forty-three …At that age Bismarck had barely started his career.’

  This, or similar remarks, roused him momentarily. Then he would throw himself into a chair and brood, with his head resting on his hand. Thereupon Małgosia would hurry in, crying: ‘Staś, ducky! You’re brooding again, we can’t have that …And the gentlemen have drunk their wine …’ So Staś rose, brought another bottle from the sideboard, poured wine into eight glasses and walked around the tables watching the gentlemen playing whist.

  In this manner the lion was slowly but surely being transformed into a tame bull. When I saw him in his Turkish dressing-gown, slippers embroidered with beads and a silk night-cap, I could not believe that this was the same Wokulski who, fourteen years earlier in Machalski’s cellar, had exclaimed: ‘I will!’