The Doll

by Bolesław Prus

  Pondering thus, he slowed down and ceased stepping aside for people. And when he thought that the French would now surely begin pointing him out, to his surprise he saw that he attracted less attention. After an hour in the streets he had become an ordinary drop in the ocean of Paris. ‘So much the better,’ he muttered.

  Hitherto, houses had risen to his right and left at every few dozen paces, then a side-street would appear. But now a monotonous wall of houses continued ahead for several hundred yards. Uneasily he quickened his step and, to his great satisfaction, finally gained a side-street: he turned to the right slightly and read: rue St-Fiacre. He smiled, recollecting a novel by Paul de Kock. Then he reached another side-street and read rue du Sentier. ‘Never heard of it,’ he thought. A few dozen yards further on, he saw rue Poissonnière, which reminded him of a criminal case, then a whole series of short streets emerging opposite the Gymnase theatre.

  ‘What’s that?’ he wondered, catching sight of a huge building to his right, unlike anything he had seen before. It was a vast stone block with a semi-circular arched gateway. It was a gate of course, which stood at the intersection of two streets. There was a little booth to one side where omnibuses stopped; a café almost exactly opposite and a pavement separated from the centre of the street by a short iron railing.

  A couple of hundred paces further, another similar gate, and between them a wide street, extending to the right and to the left. The traffic suddenly grew more dense; at least three different types of omnibus and tram ran here.

  Wokulski looked right and saw two rows of street lamps, two lines of kiosks, two lines of trees and two lines of five-storey houses reaching the length of Krakowskie Przedmieście and Nowy Świat avenue together. The end was out of sight; only somewhere in the distance the street rose towards the sky; the roofs descended to the ground, and everything disappeared. ‘I’ll go that way, even if I get lost and am late for the meeting,’ he thought. Then, at a corner, a young woman passed him, her figure and movements making a powerful impression on Wokulski: ‘Can it be?…No…First, she stayed behind in Warsaw and then, I’ve already met another like her…Illusions.’

  But his strength, even his memory were ebbing. Now he had stopped at the junction of two streets planted with trees, with no idea whatsoever of how he had come there. Panic fear, known to people lost in a forest, gripped him; fortunately a one-horse carriage drove by, whose driver grinned at him in a very friendly manner: ‘The Grand Hotel,’ said Wokulski, getting in.

  The driver touched his cap and cried: ‘Gee up, Lisette! I daresay this noble foreign gentleman will treat you to a quart of beer for your trouble…’ Then, turning sideways to Wokulski, he said: ‘Either of two things, citizen—you’ve just arrived, or you’ve lunched well…’

  ‘I arrived today,’ Wokulski replied, soothed by the sight of his round, red, clean-shaven face.

  ‘And you’ve had a drop to drink, that’s clear,’ the driver remarked, ‘do you know the fare?’

  ‘Never mind that…’

  ‘Gee up, Lisette. I like this foreign gentleman and think that only fares like this should turn up at our stand. Are you sure, citizen, that it’s the Grand Hotel you want?’ He turned to Wokulski.

  ‘Quite sure’.

  ‘Gee up, Lisette. This foreign gentleman is beginning to interest me. Are you from Berlin, citizen?’

  ‘No.’

  The driver eyed him a moment, then said, ‘So much the better for you. True, I’ve nothing against the Prussians, although they took Alsace from us and a large piece of Lotharingia too, but I never like having a German at the back of me…Where are you from, citizen?’

  ‘Warsaw.’

  ‘Ah, ça! A fine country, a rich country…Gee up, Lisette! So you’re a Pole. I know the Poles…Here’s Opéra Square, citizen, and there’s the Grand Hotel.’

  Wokulski tossed the driver three francs, hurried through the gate and up to the third floor. Hardly had he stopped at his door when a smiling servant appeared and handed him a note from Suzin with a packet of letters: ‘Many visitors—many lady visitors too,’ said the servant, looking at him cheerfully.

  ‘Where are they all?’

  ‘In the reception room and the waiting room and the dining room. Mr Jumart is growing impatient.’

  ‘And who might Mr Jumart be?’ asked Wokulski.

  ‘Your secretary and Mr Suzin’s…A very efficient man, who could be of great service if he were certain…of a thousand-franc tip,’ said the servant mischievously.

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘In your reception room on the first floor. Mr Jumart is a very talented person, but I too might be of use to your excellencies, although my name is Miller. The truth is I’m an Alsatian, and would pay you ten francs a day, upon my word, instead of taking them from you, if we could finish off the Prussians once and for all.’

  Wokulski went into his room: ‘In the first place,’ Miller persisted, ‘you gentlemen should beware of that Baroness…who is already waiting in the library, though she wasn’t supposed to come until three. I swear she’s a German…Me, I’m an Alsatian, after all.’

  Miller said the last phrase in an undertone and retreated down the corridor. Wokulski opened Suzin’s note and read: ‘Meeting postponed until eight—you have plenty of time, so pray deal with the visitors, especially the women. I am too old to cope with them, God knows.’ Wokulski began glancing through the letters. Most were advertisements from tradesmen, hairdressers, dentists, requests for assistance, offers to reveal various secrets, an appeal from the Salvation Army. Out of all these letters, Wokulski was most struck by this: ‘A young person, elegant and attractive, seeks to visit Paris with you, sharing expenses. Leave reply with the hotel porter.’

  ‘A strange city,’ Wokulski muttered. A second, still more interesting letter was from the Baroness who was waiting in the library for an interview at three o’clock. ‘Half an hour yet…’

  He rang and ordered lunch. A few minutes later he was served with ham, eggs, steak, an unidentifiable fish, several bottles of various beverages, and black coffee. He ate ravenously, drank liberally, finally told Miller to take him to the reception room. The servant walked along the corridor with him, touched a bell, said something into a speaking-tube, then conducted Wokulski to the elevator. A minute later Wokulski was on the first floor and as soon as he emerged from the elevator he was stopped by a distinguished gentleman with a small moustache, in a frock-coat and white tie. ‘Jumart…’ said this gentleman, with a bow.

  They went several yards down a corridor and Jumart opened the door of a splendid drawing-room. Wokulski almost drew back on seeing the gilded furniture, huge mirrors and the walls adorned with bas-reliefs. In the centre was a huge table covered with a costly cloth and heaped with papers. ‘May I announce the visitors?’ Jumart asked. ‘They are not dangerous, I think…But may I venture to draw your attention to the Baroness? She’s in the library.’ He bowed and went solemnly into another drawing-room, which seemed to be a waiting room.

  ‘For goodness sake, have I got myself involved in an imbroglio?’ Wokulski wondered.

  Hardly had he sat down in an armchair and started looking through the papers when a servant in a blue frock-coat with gilt epaulettes entered and handed him a visiting-card on a tray. It was engraved: ‘Colonel…’ and a name which conveyed nothing to Wokulski.

  ‘Ask him in…’

  A moment later there appeared a man of imposing stature with a grey imperial, similar whiskers and a red ribbon in his button-hole. ‘I know your time is precious,’ said the visitor, bowing slightly, ‘my business is brief. Paris is a splendid city in every respect: whether for amusement or for study…but it needs an experienced guide. Since I know all the museums, galleries, theatres, clubs, monuments, government and private institutions, in a word—everything—if you wish, sir…’

  ‘Pray leave your address,’ Wokulski replied.

  ‘I speak four languages, I have a wide acquaintance in the artistic, li
terary, scientific and industrial worlds…’

  ‘I cannot give you an answer just now,’ Wokulski interposed.

  ‘Shall I call again, or await your summons?’ the visitor asked.

  ‘Yes, I’ll reply by letter…’

  ‘Pray bear me in mind,’ said the visitor. He rose, bowed and left.

  The servant brought in another visiting-card and soon another visitor appeared. He was a plump, red-faced man who looked like the proprietor of a textile emporium. He kept bowing as he crossed from the door to the table: ‘What can I do for you?’ Wokulski asked.

  ‘My dear sir, have you not guessed, from the name Escabeau? Hannibale Escabeau?’ the visitor was surprised, ‘the Escabeau rifle fires seventeen rounds a minute: but the one I shall have the honour to show you fires thirty…’

  Wokulski’s expression was so astounded that Hannibale Escabeau, himself, began wondering: ‘Surely I have not made a mistake?’ the visitor asked.

  ‘You have,’ said Wokulski, ‘I’m a haberdashery merchant, and rifles do not concern me at all.’

  ‘But I was told—in confidence…’ said Escabeau significantly, ‘that you gentlemen…’

  ‘You were misinformed…’

  ‘Ah, so? In that case, my apologies…It must be another room,’ said the visitor, bowing as he retired.

  The blue frock-coat and white trousers reappeared with another visitor: this time he was a small, lean, dark man with restless eyes. He almost ran up to the table, dropped into a chair, peered around at the door, then moved closer to Wokulski and began in a low voice: ‘Very likely this will surprise you, sir…But the matter is urgent…too urgent…In the past few days I have made a tremendous discovery in roulette…All it requires is to double the stake six or seven times…’

  ‘Forgive me, sir, but I am not interested,’ Wokulski interrupted.

  ‘You don’t trust me? Naturally…But I have a roulette wheel here, we might try…’

  ‘Excuse me, sir, I haven’t time now.’

  ‘Three minutes, sir…One minute…’

  ‘Not even half a minute.’

  ‘So when am I to come back?’ asked the visitor, with a very desperate look.

  ‘Not soon, at any rate.’

  ‘Sir, at least lend me a hundred francs to make an official test…’

  ‘I can spare you five,’ Wokulski replied, putting a hand into his pocket.

  ‘Oh no, sir—thank you…I am no trickster…But perhaps…Please give me it…I’ll repay you tomorrow. You may change your mind in the meantime.’

  The next visitor, an impressively stout individual, wearing a row of miniature medals, offered Wokulski the diploma of a Doctor of Philosophy, or a title of nobility, and seemed very surprised when his offer was declined. He left without even saying good-bye.

  A short interval followed. Wokulski seemed to catch the rustle of a woman’s gown in the waiting-room. He listened intently. At this moment the footman announced the Baroness.

  Another long pause, then a woman appeared in the drawing-room, so beautiful and distinguished that Wokulski involuntarily rose to his feet. She might have been about forty: of imposing stature, with very regular features and the attitude of a great lady. He showed her a chair in silence. But as she sat down, he noticed she was agitated and clutching at a lace handkerchief. Looking suddenly into his eyes, she asked: ‘Do you recognise me?’

  ‘No, madam.’

  ‘Have you never even seen any of my portraits?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you can never have been to Berlin or Vienna?’

  ‘No, never.’

  The woman sighed deeply. ‘So much the better,’ she said, ‘I’ll be bolder…I am not a Baroness at all…I am someone entirely different. But less of that. I find myself temporarily in an embarrassment. I need twenty thousand francs…But as I don’t want to pawn my jewellery, so…Do you understand me?’

  ‘No, madam.’

  ‘Well…I have an important secret to dispose of…’

  ‘I have no right to acquire secrets,’ Wokulski replied, already embarrassed.

  The woman shifted in her chair: ‘No right, sir? Then why are you here?’ she said, with a slight smile.

  ‘I haven’t the right, all the same…’

  The lady rose. ‘This,’ she said, excitedly, ‘is an address where you can contact me within twenty-four hours, and here is a note which may give you cause to think…Good-bye.’

  She went out with a rustle of her gown. Wokulski glanced at the note and found it contained those details of himself and Suzin which are usually shown in passports. ‘Hm,’ he thought, ‘Miller and she read my passport and made a note of its contents, not without mistakes, either—Wokulsky, indeed! Confound it! Do they take me for a child?’

  As no more visitors appeared, Wokulski summoned Jumart: ‘Your wish, sir?’ asked the elegant secretary.

  ‘I want to talk to you…’

  ‘In confidence? In that case, allow me to take a seat…The performance is over; the costumes have gone back to the wardrobe; the actors have become equals…’

  He said this in a somewhat ironical tone and behaved as befitted a very well-educated man. Wokulski grew increasingly surprised by him: ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘what sort of people were those?’

  ‘Your callers?’ Jumart inquired, ‘people—like any others: guides, inventors, go-betweens…Each works as best he may, and tries to do as best he can from his work. And, since they like making a profit if it’s to be had for more than it’s worth—well, that’s a trait of the French.’

  ‘You aren’t a Frenchman?’

  ‘I?…I was born in Vienna, educated in Switzerland and Germany, I have lived a long time in Italy, England, Norway, America…My surname best defines my nationality: I belong to the herd I happen to be living in—a bull with bulls, a horse with horses. But, since I know the source of my income and what I spend it on, people know me—so nothing concerns me.’

  Wokulski eyed him intently: ‘I do not understand you,’ he said.

  ‘You see, sir,’ said Jumart, drumming on the table, ‘I have observed too much of the world to care about a man’s nationality. Only four kinds of man exist for me—not counting languages. The first are those whose source of income I know, and how they spend it; the second are those whose source of income I know, though I don’t know how they spend it. The third’s expenses are known, while his source of income is unknown, and the fourth kind are those whose sources of income and expenditures I don’t know. I know that Mr Escabeau gets his income from a knitting factory, and he spends it on making some devilish weapons, so I respect him. As for the Baroness—I don’t know where she gets her money, nor how she spends it, so I don’t trust her.’

  ‘I am a tradesman, Mr Jumart,’ Wokulski remarked, disagreeably impressed by the exposition of the above theory.

  ‘I know. And you are also a friend of Mr Suzin, which gives you interest. But my remarks didn’t refer to you, sir; I merely offered them as a lecture which, I trust, may be of some profit to me.’

  ‘You are a philosopher,’ Wokulski muttered.

  ‘Indeed, I am a Doctor of Philosophy of two universities,’ Jumart replied.

  ‘Yet you play the role of…?’

  ‘A servant, you were going to say?’ Jumart interposed, smiling. ‘I work, sir, in order to live and assure myself an income when I grow old. I care nothing for titles; I have had so many already…The world is like an amateur theatre, where it is not done to insist on leading parts but reject minor roles. In any case, all roles are good, providing they are well played and not taken too seriously.’

  Wokulski stirred. Jumart rose, bowed elegantly and said: ‘I recommend my services to you, sir.’ Then he went out of the drawing-room.

  ‘Do I have a fever, or what?’ Wokulski whispered, clutching his head with both hands, ‘I knew Paris was strange, but not quite so strange…’ It was only three-thirty when Wokulski glanced at his watch: ‘Four hours and more till the meet
ing,’ he thought, unnerved by not knowing what to do with the time. He had seen so many new things, talked to so many new people, yet it was only three-thirty! He was seized by an undefinable alarm, and felt the lack of something…‘Shall I have another meal? No…Or read? No…Or talk? I’ve had enough conversation.’

  People disgusted him; perhaps the least detestable were those infected with inventor’s mania and Jumart, with his classification of the human species. He lacked the courage to go back to his hotel room, with its huge mirror; so what else was left him but to inspect the sights of Paris? He asked to be shown the dining-room of the Grand Hotel. Everything in it was splendid and immense, from the walls, ceiling and windows down to the number and dimensions of the tables. But Wokulski hardly looked at it; instead, he fixed his gaze on one of the huge, gilded chandeliers and thought: ‘When she reaches the age of the Baroness…accustomed as she is to spending tens of thousands of roubles a year, who knows she won’t go the same way as the Baroness? After all, that woman was once young too, and some madman like myself may have been insane about her, and she never asked where the money was coming from…Today she knows—from trading in secrets! Accursed sphere, which breeds such beautiful women who are so…’

  He felt oppressed in the dining-room, so he hurried out of the hotel to plunge into the noise of the streets: ‘The first time I went to the left,’ he thought, ‘I’ll go to the right now.’

  Blindly wandering through an immeasurable city was the only thing that possessed a sort of bitter fascination for him: ‘If only I could lose myself in these crowds…’ he thought. So he turned to the right. He crossed a small square and entered a very large one, copiously planted with trees. In its centre was a square building surrounded by columns, like a Greek temple: it had great bronze doors covered with bas-reliefs and another bas-relief on the façade, apparently depicting the Day of Judgement. Wokulski walked around the building and thought of Warsaw. What effort they needed to erect small, transient and trivial buildings there! Here, however, human force erected monsters as if for diversion, and was so little weary of the labour involved that it covered them with ornamentation.