The Doll (19 page)

‘Where am I to kiss Him, mama?'

‘On His hands and feet.'

‘Not on His mouth?'

‘No, that is not allowed.'

‘Well, fancy…' and she ran to the tray, then crouched over the cross.

‘Mama,' she cried, coming back, ‘I kissed Him, but the Lord Jesus didn't answer.'

‘Now, be a good girl,' said her mother, ‘kneel down and say your prayers.'

‘Which prayers?'

‘Three Our Fathers, then the Hail Mary…'

‘Oh, what long prayers…and I am only a little girl.'

‘Well, say one…But kneel down…and look over there.'

‘Hail Mary, full of Grace…Mama, what are those birds singing?'

‘They're stuffed birds. Say your prayer.'

‘Stuffed, mama?'

‘Say the first rosary…'

‘I forget where I got to…'

‘Say after mama: “Hail Mary…”'

‘… to our death, amen,' the little girl concluded. ‘What are those stuffed birds made of, mama?'

‘Helusia, shush, or I won't give you a kiss,' her mother whispered distractedly. ‘Here's a prayer-book, look at the pictures of how the Lord Jesus was crucified.'

The little girl sat down with the book on the confessional steps and fell silent.

‘What a pretty child,' Wokulski thought. ‘If she were mine, then surely I'd regain control of my senses which I'm losing from one day to the next. And her mother is a pretty woman, too. Her hair, profile, eyes… She's praying to find happiness again… Beautiful but unhappy…she must be a widow.

‘Ha—if I'd met her a year ago! What kind of order is there in the world? Just a pace away are two unhappy people: one seeking love and a family; the other perhaps struggling with poverty and indifference. Either might find what he or she needs in the other—but they'll never meet. One comes here to beg God's mercy; the other throws away money in order to make social contacts. Who knows but that a few hundred roubles mightn't mean happiness to that woman? Yet she won't get them: nowadays God doesn't hear the prayers of the oppressed…

‘Suppose I were to find out who she is? Perhaps I could help her? Why shouldn't the high-sounding promises of Christ be fulfilled, even by such an unbeliever as I, since the pious are otherwise engaged?'

At this moment Wokulski flushed… An elegant young man had approached the Countess's table and placed something in the tray. Seeing him, Izabela blushed and her eyes took on that strange expression which always made Wokulski wonder.

The elegant young man sat down at the Countess's invitation in the same chair Wokulski had occupied, and a lively conversation ensued. Wokulski could not hear what was said, but he felt the picture of the group burning into his brain. The costly carpet, the silver tray strewn with his handful of imperials, the two candelabra with ten flames, the Countess in deep mourning, the young man gazing at Izabela and she—radiant. Nor did it escape his notice that the Countess's cheeks, the tip of the young man's nose, and Izabela's eyes were all glowing in the light of the flames.

‘Are they in love?' he thought. ‘If so, why don't they marry? Perhaps he has no money… If he hasn't, what does that look of hers mean? She looked at me like that, today. It is true that an eligible young lady must have several or several hundred admirers and attract them all, in order to sell herself to the highest bidder…'

Their companion arrived. The Countess rose, as did Izabela and the handsome young man, and all three went towards the door with a great deal of rustling, stopping at the other tables. Each young man assisting there greeted Izabela cordially, while she bestowed upon them the same, the very same gaze, which had made Wokulski's reason totter. Finally all became silent; the Countess and Izabela had left the church.

Wokulski roused himself and looked around. The pretty woman and the child had gone. ‘A pity,' he whispered, and felt a light pressure upon his heart.

Meanwhile, the young girl in the velvet jacket and gaudy hat was still kneeling on the ground by the Cross. When she turned her gaze upon the illuminated grave, something glistened on her rouged cheeks. She kissed Christ's feet once more, rose wearily and went out.

‘Blessed are they who mourn… May the dead Christ keep his promise to you at least,' Wokulski thought, and followed her out.

He saw the girl giving money to the beggars in the porch. And a cruel pain came upon him when he thought of these two women, one of whom wanted to sell herself for a fortune, while the other was already selling herself from poverty; the latter, covered though she was in shame, might well be the better and the purer before some higher tribunal.

In the street he caught up with her, and asked: ‘Where are you going?'

There were traces of tears on her face. She raised her apathetic gaze to Wokulski, and replied: ‘Your way, if you like.'

‘So? Come then.'

It was not yet five o'clock, broad daylight: some passers-by looked around after them. ‘I must be mad to do anything like this,' Wokulski thought, going in the direction of the store. ‘Never mind the scandal, but what sort of ideas have I got into my head? Evangelism? It's the height of absurdity. However, I don't care. I am only carrying out the will of another…'

He turned into the gate of the block in which his shop was, and went into Rzecki's room, the girl following. Ignacy was in and, seeing the extraordinary pair, raised his hands in amazement.

‘Can you leave us alone for a few minutes?' Wokulski asked him. Ignacy said not a word. He took the key from the back door and left the room.

‘Both of you?' the girl murmured, taking out her hat-pin.

‘One moment,' Wokulski interrupted. ‘You were in church just now, miss, weren't you?'

‘You saw me?'

‘You were praying and crying. May I ask why?'

Surprised, the girl shrugged as she answered, ‘Are you a priest, then, to ask me that?' And looking more attentively at Wokulski, added: ‘Ah—all this fuss! It's silly.'

She moved as if to go, but Wokulski stopped her: ‘Wait. Someone would like to help you, so don't be in a hurry and just answer me openly.'

Again she gazed at him. Suddenly her eyes lit up and a flush came into her face. ‘I know!' she cried, ‘you must be from that old gent! He promised to look after me, several times. Is he very rich? Of course he is, very… He rides in his own carriage and sits in the front row at the theatre.'

‘Listen,' Wokulski interrupted, ‘and answer me; why were you crying in the church?'

‘Well, you see…' the girl began, and told him such a bold tale of some squabble with her landlady that Wokulski turned pale as he listened: ‘The animal…' he whispered.

‘I went to have a look at those graves,' the girl went on, ‘I thought it might keep my mind off things. But not likely—when I remembered the old hag I had to cry out of sheer rage. And I asked the Lord God to afflict the old hag with sickness, or to help me get away from her. And God must have heard me, if that gent wants to look after me…'

Wokulski sat motionless. Finally he asked: ‘How old are you?'

‘I usually say I'm sixteen, but I'm nineteen really.'

‘Do you want to get away from it?'

‘Oh, to Hell even. They've treated me so hatefully…but…'

‘Well?'

‘Nothing will come of it. If I leave today, then they'll take me back after the holidays is over and treat me like they did after New Year, when I was sick for a week…'

‘They won't…'

‘How so? I'm in debt…'

‘Much?'

‘Hm…about fifty roubles. I don't know how it came about, but they make me pay double for everything. There it is though…It's always so with the likes of us. And when they hear that the old gent has money, then they'll say I stole from them and will slander me as they choose.'

Wokulski felt his boldness ebbing away. ‘Tell me, do you want to get work?'

‘Doing what?'

‘You might learn to sew.'

‘That's no use. I worked in a laundry once. But no one can manage on eight roubles a month. Besides, I'm not that worthless yet, so I can do without sewing for anyone.'

Wokulski looked up: ‘Do you want to leave that place?'

‘Yes, I do!'

‘Then make up your mind. Either you go to work, because no one can expect to live for nothing in the world…'

‘That isn't true,' she interrupted. ‘That old gent don't work, but he has money. Sometimes he told me I wouldn't have to worry my head no more…'

‘You won't go to that man, but to the Magdalenes instead. Or—back to where you came from.'

‘The nuns won't take me. I'd have to pay my debts first, and have a recommendation.'

‘If you go there, everything will be arranged.'

‘How?'

‘I'll give you a letter, which you will take with you, and you can stay there. Do you want to—or not?'

‘Ha—give me the letter first. Then I'll see what it is like.'

She sat down and gazed about the room. Wokulski wrote the letter, told her where to go and added: ‘Here's money for the trip, and for moving your things. If you are a good girl, and industrious, they will be good to you; but if you don't take advantage of this opportunity—then do what you want. You may go.'

The girl laughed out loud: ‘The old woman will be mad! I'll show her…Ha ha! But…may be you're only putting me on?'

‘Go,' said Wokulski, indicating the door.

She glanced inquiringly at him once again, and went out with a shrug.

Presently Ignacy appeared: ‘What kind of an acquaintance was that?' he asked sourly.

‘You're right…' said Wokulski thoughtfully. ‘I never yet saw such an animal, though I know many beasts.'

‘Thousands in Warsaw alone,' Rzecki replied.

‘I know. It is no use condemning them, though, for they are continually being reborn and, in consequence, society will sooner or later have to be reconstructed from top to bottom. Or perish.'

‘Hm…' Rzecki whispered, ‘I thought as much.'

Wokulski said goodbye to him. He felt like a man with fever over whom cold water had been thrown.

‘But before society can re-create itself,' he thought, ‘I can see that the sphere of my philanthropy will narrow down very much. My fortune will not suffice to ennoble inhuman instincts. I prefer yawning ladies seeking charity to weeping and praying monsters…'

The picture of Izabela appeared to him, surrounded by an aureole even brighter than before. The blood rose to his head and he blamed himself inwardly for comparing her with such a creature! ‘I'd sooner throw away money on carriages and racehorses than on that sort of wretch!'

On Easter Sunday, Wokulski drove to the Countess's house in a hired carriage. There he found a long line of carriages of all kinds and elegance. There were smart droshkies serving gilded youths, ordinary droshkies hired by the hour by retired persons; old carriages, old horses, old equipment and servants in worn livery; and new little barouches direct from Vienna, whose footmen had flowers in their button-holes and whose drivers laid their whips across their thighs like marshals' batons. There were even fantastic Cossacks dressed in trousers so baggy that their masters might have placed all their hopes within them.

In passing he also noticed that in the crowd of drivers, the servants of great gentlefolk behaved in a very dignified manner, while those of bankers wished to run the whole show (for which they were much abused), but that the droshky-men were the most resolute. However, the drivers of the hired carriages kept close together, despising the rest and being despised by them.

When Wokulski entered the vestibule, a grey-haired doorkeeper with a black ribbon around his neck bowed low and opened the door to the cloakroom, where a gentleman in a black frock-coat relieved him of his overcoat. At the same time, the Countess's butler Józef hurried up: he knew Wokulski well, and he had brought the music-box and singing-birds from the store to the church. ‘Her Excellency expects you,' said Józef.

Wokulski reached into his waistcoat pocket and handed him five roubles, feeling he was behaving like a parvenu. ‘How stupid of me,' he thought. ‘No—not stupid—merely a
nouveau riche
who has to pay everyone at every step he takes in this society. Well, it costs more to convert women who have sinned.'

He went up the marble staircase that was decorated with flowers, Józef in front. On the first landing he had his hat on his head, on the second he took it off, not knowing whether he was behaving properly or not. ‘I might have gone in to join them with my hat on,' he said to himself.

He noticed that although Józef was past middle age, he darted up the stairs like a young goat, and had already disappeared, so that Wokulski was left alone, not knowing which way to go nor to whom he should announce himself. It was only a moment, but anger began boiling up within him.

‘What conventions do they safeguard themselves with, then?' he thought. ‘Oh—if only I could overthrow all this…'

And for ten seconds or so he saw that between himself and this respectable world of elegant conventions a struggle must ensue in which either this world must collapse—or he perish. ‘All right—let me perish…but I'll leave behind a memory of myself…'

‘You will leave behind forgiveness and mercy,' a voice whispered to him.

‘Am I then—so vile?'

‘No, you are noble.'

He pulled himself together—before him stood Mr Tomasz Łęcki. ‘How are you, Stanisław,' he said majestically, ‘I welcome you even more warmly since your arrival is linked with a very agreeable event in our family…'

‘Can Izabela have become engaged?' Wokulski thought, and there was a blackness before his eyes.

‘Imagine, my dear sir, that on the occasion of your visit… Are you listening, Stanisław?… On the occasion of your call I have reached agreement with my sister Joanna… But you turn pale?… Come, you will find many acquaintances here. Pray do not suppose the aristocracy is quite so alarming…'