The Doll (42 page)

‘But it is precisely what they call ‘madness' that makes me carry out these otherwise imaginary duties. Were it not for this, I'd be wrapped up in my books like a worm, and several hundred people would have less income. So what do they expect of me?'

Walking in the open air calmed him; he reached Aleje Jerozolimskie and turned towards the Vistula. The brisk east wind enveloped him and aroused certain indefinable feelings reminiscent of childhood. Walking along Nowy Świat he felt he was a child again, and could feel the surging pulse of youthful blood. He smiled to see a sand-carter and his load weighing down a wretched nag and its long cart, while a spectre begging seemed to him a very pleasant old lady. He enjoyed the whistle of a factory, and would have liked to talk to a crowd of delightful little boys who were throwing stones at passing Jews from a roadside hill.

He stubbornly pushed away any thoughts of the letter and tomorrow's visit to the Łęckis; he wanted to stay level-headed, yet his passion overwhelmed him: ‘Why have they invited me?' he wondered, feeling a slight inward uneasiness. ‘Izabela wants to get to know me better…But surely what they are doing is making it clear that I may marry her! They would be blind or idiots if they hadn't noticed what my feelings are towards her.'

He began to shiver so that his teeth chattered: but then common sense stirred within him: ‘Just a moment, pray! It's a long way from one dinner-party and one visit to a close acquaintance. After all, less than one close acquaintance in a thousand leads to a proposal of marriage: and less than one proposal in ten is accepted, and of these only half end in marriage. A man would therefore have to be an out-and-out lunatic to think, even during close acquaintance with a woman, of marriage, when there is only one chance in twenty thousand of it coming off. Is that clear, or not?'

Wokulski had to admit it was. If every acquaintance led to marriage, then every woman would have some dozen husbands, every man some dozen wives, priests would not be able to handle the ceremonies, and the whole world would become a lunatic asylum. Whereas he, Wokulski, was still not even a close friend of Miss Łęcka, but was only on the threshold of making her acquaintance.

‘So what have I gained,' he wondered, ‘from the risks I took in Bulgaria, at the races here or in the duel?'

You have acquired a better opportunity,' common sense told him. ‘A year ago you had perhaps one-hundred-millionth or one-twenty-millionth chance that she would marry you, and within a year you may have a one-twenty-thousandth chance…'

‘Within a year?' Wokulski echoed, and again a sort of severe chill struck him. He cast it aside, however, and asked: ‘Suppose Izabela falls in love with me—or has already done so?'

‘First, you must find out whether Izabela is capable of loving anyone…'

‘Is she not a woman?'

‘There are women with moral defects who are incapable of loving anyone or anything except their own fleeting caprices, just as there are such men; it is a defect like deafness, blindness or paralysis, only less obvious.'

‘Let us suppose…'

‘Very well,' the voice went on, reminding Wokulski of the sarcastic advice Dr Szuman had given him, ‘if this woman is capable of loving anyone, the second question arises—will she fall in love with you?'

‘I'm not repulsive, after all…'

‘On the contrary, you may be, just as the most superb of lions is repulsive to a cow, or an eagle to a goose. You see, I am even complimenting you by comparing you to a lion or eagle, which—despite all their good qualities—nevertheless arouse horror in the females of other species. So you should avoid females of a species different from yourself.'

Wokulski came to and looked around. He was now not far from the Vistula, near some wooden barns, and passing carts were bespattering him with black dust. He turned back quickly towards town, and began considering: ‘There are two men in me,' he thought, ‘one quite sensible, the other a lunatic. But I am not concerned with that any longer…What shall I do, though, if the sensible man wins? What a terrible thing it would be to possess a great fund of emotion, yet be unable to lay it at the feet of a female of another species: a cow, a goose, or something even worse! How humiliating it would be to smile at the triumph of a bull or goose, yet at the same time to have to weep because one's own heart is torn to shreds, shamefully trampled underfoot…Would life be worth living under such conditions?'

Wokulski felt a longing for death at the mere thought—but a death so oblivious that even his ashes would not remain on this earth. Gradually he calmed down, however, and on returning home began to consider quite coolly whether to wear a frock-coat or a tail-coat for the next day's dinner-party. Would some unforeseen obstacle occur to prevent him yet again from drawing closer to Izabela? Then he completed his accounts of the latest commercial transaction, sent a few telegrams to Moscow and St Petersburg, and wrote a letter to old Szlangbaum, suggesting he should use his name for acquiring the Łęcki property.

‘The lawyer was right,' he thought, ‘it would be better to buy the house in someone else's name. Otherwise they may suspect me of wanting to take advantage of them or—still worse—think I mean to do them a favour.'

However, a storm was brewing within him behind the façade of these trivial duties. Common sense shouted aloud that tomorrow's dinner-party meant nothing, and prophesied nothing. Yet hope whispered softly, very softly, that—perhaps he was loved, or might be…But so softly, that Wokulski had to listen to its whisper with the utmost attention.

The next day, so significant to Wokulski, was not marked by anything unusual either in Warsaw or in Nature. Here and there in the streets, dust was stirred up by door-keepers' brooms; droshkies rushed wildly along or stopped for no particular reason, and an endless stream of passers-by moved this way and that, merely to get in the way of the traffic. Sometimes ragged people shuffled along under walls, stooping, hands hidden in their sleeves as if it was not June, but January. Sometimes a peasant cart rolled by in the street, loaded with rubbish, driven by a bold-faced old lady in a blue coat and red kerchief.

The throngs passed between two long walls of variegated coloured houses, over which loomed the high façades of churches. Two monuments stood at either end of the street, watching over the city like sentries. At one end was King Zygmunt, standing on what looked like an enormous candle, inclined towards the Bernadine church as if he wanted to communicate something to the passers-by. At the other end, Copernicus, holding a motionless globe in one hand, turned his back on the sun which rose every day behind the Karas Palace, ascended over the Society of Friends of Art and went down behind the Zamoyski Palace, as much as to contradict the saying: ‘He stopped the sun—and made the earth rotate.'

Wokulski, who was looking in that direction from his balcony, sighed involuntarily, remembering that the astronomer's only friends had been porters and sawyers, not distinguished (as we know) by any precise knowledge of Copernicus's services to mankind. ‘Much good it did him,' he thought, ‘to be called the “pride of the nation” in a few books…I can understand working for happiness, but working for a fiction calling itself society, or fame—no, I wouldn't undertake that. Let society think of itself, as for fame…What prevents me from thinking I may be famous on Syrius, say? Yet Copernicus is in no better position today regarding the earth, and is about as much concerned with statues in Warsaw as I am with pyramids on Vega. I'd gladly give three centuries of fame for a brief period of happiness, and am surprised I was ever so stupid as to think otherwise…'

As if in response to this, he noticed Ochocki on the opposite side of the street, head bowed, hands in pockets, walking slowly along. This plain coincidence startled Wokulski. For a moment he even believed in premonitions, and thought in joyful amazement: ‘Does not this mean that he will have the fame of Copernicus—and I happiness? Go, build your flying-machines, but let me have your cousin! Yet—what superstition is this?' he reflected after a moment, ‘I—and superstition!'

All the same he was much pleased by the notion that Ochocki might have immortal fame while he himself possessed the living Izabela. He felt encouraged. He could not help laughing at himself, but felt calmer and encouraged nevertheless.

‘Let us suppose,' he thought, ‘that despite all my efforts—she rejects me. Well, then? Upon my word, I'll take a mistress at once, and sit with her in a box next to the Łęckis. The worthy Mrs Meliton and perhaps…Maruszewicz—will find me a woman with looks like hers: even that can be found for a few thousand roubles. I'll dress her up in lace from head to foot, I'll lavish jewels upon her—then we'll see whether Izabela doesn't pale beside her. Let her marry the marshal or Baron if need be…'

But the thought of Izabela's marriage overcame him with rage and despair. At this moment he would gladly have packed the earth with dynamite and blown it sky-high.

But he came to his senses yet again: ‘Well, what should I do if it pleased her to marry? Or even if it pleased her to take lovers—my clerk, some officer or other, a waggoner or footman…What could I do about it?'

Respect for the personality and individuality of other people was so great in him, that even his madness yielded before it. ‘What should I do? What?' he repeated, clutching his fevered brow with both hands.

He called at the store for an hour, did some business, then went home: at four o'clock the valet produced linen from a wardrobe, and a barber came to shave and trim his hair for him. ‘Well, what's the news, Mr Fitulski?' he asked the barber.

‘Nothing, and it will get worse. The Berlin congress is thinking of suppressing Europe, Bismarck hopes to suppress the congress, and the Jews hope to skin us alive…' said the young artist, who was handsome as a seraphim and as neat as if he had just stepped out of a fashion-plate.

He tied a towel around Wokulski's neck, and as he soaped his chin with lightning rapidity, went on: ‘The town, sir, is pretty quiet just now. I was at a party in Saska Kepa last night, but oh my! what common young people they were, sir. They got to fighting while we were dancing, and just think…Head a trifle higher,
s'il vous plaît
…'

Wokulski raised his head and noticed that his barber had gold links in his very grubby cuffs.

‘Fighting, sir, while we were dancing,' the dandy went on, flashing a razor before Wokulski's eyes, ‘and just think, one of them struck a lady as he was trying to kick someone else—just to show off! There was a hullaballoo, a duel…I was naturally chosen as second, but I really was in a fix today, only having the one pistol, when half an hour ago up comes the offender and said it would be stupid to fight, and that he might yield for once, seeing as how…Head a trifle to the right,
s'il vous plaît
…Well, and would you believe it, sir, I was so vexed I took him by the scruff of the neck, put my knee to his posterior and—off with him through the door. A genuine gent wouldn't fight such a booby, sir, now would he? Face to the left,
s'il vous plaît
…'

He finished the shave, washed Wokulski's face and, wrapping him up in a cloth like a criminal's shroud, went on: ‘Fancy that now, but I never yet saw a trace of a lady in your house, sir, though I come at all times of day…' He took out a brush and comb, and began combing his hair for him: ‘All times of day, sir, and I've an eye for such things, sir, I do assure you. But never a sight of a skirt, not to mention bloomers or a scrap of ribbon. Yet there was a time when I saw a pair of stays—in a Canon's house, it was! True, he found them in the street and was going to post them (anonymously) to the newspaper. But, my dear sir, at the officer's quarters, especially them hussars…(Head a fraction lower,
s'il vous plaît
…) Oodles of them! At one officer's I met four young ladies, laughing their heads off, too. From then on I always bow to him in the street, mark my words, though he dropped me and still owes five roubles. But if I can afford six roubles a seat at the Rubinstein concert, then I'm not going to begrudge five roubles to such a virtuoso, now am I? Should I darken the hair a trifle,
je suppose que oui?
'

‘No, thanks,' Wokulski replied.

‘I thought not,' the barber sighed, ‘there isn't a scrap of affectation about you, sir—but that's bad! I know several ballet girls who'd be delighted to enter relations with you, sir. It would be worthwhile, upon my word! Splendidly built, muscles like iron, bosoms like spring mattresses, ever so graceful and not at all stuck-up, particularly when they're still young. For the older a woman is, the more expensive she'll be, no doubt that's why no one wants an old thing of sixty, she'll be too expensive. She'd make Rothschild go bankrupt! But you can give a beginner three thousand roubles a year, some little presents, and she'll be faithful to you…Ah, the ladies, God bless 'em…They gave me the sciatica, but I can't be cross with 'em…'

He finished his task, bowed according to the rules of etiquette and left, smiling; from his splendid appearance and the bag in which he carried his brushes and razors, you'd have taken him for an official from the Ministry.

After he had gone, Wokulski did not even think twice of the young and undemanding ballet girls. He was preoccupied by a very profound question, which could be paraphrased in two words: to wit, frock-coat or tail-coat? ‘If I wear a tail-coat I'll look like a snob conforming to the conventions, which in the end do not bother me. But if I wear the frock-coat, I may offend the Łęckis. Besides, suppose someone else is present? Well, there's no help for it—as I have my own carriage and race-horse, I must wear the tail-coat.'

Meditating thus, he could not help smiling at the depths of naivety into which his acquaintance with Izabela had thrust him: ‘Would old Hopfer or any of my university and Siberian friends ever imagine me worrying about such matters?' he thought.