The Doll (45 page)

Wokulski laughed: ‘I'd be afraid of the anger of Heaven,' he replied, ‘had I done anyone an injustice on a day like this.'

‘A day like what?' Rzecki asked, opening his eyes widely.

‘Never mind—only today do I see how necessary it is to be merciful.'

‘You always were, and too much so,' Ignacy said irritably, ‘and you'll find out that other people will not be the same towards you.'

‘They already are,' Wokulski said, and gave him his hand in farewell.

‘They already are?' Ignacy repeated, mimicking him, ‘they already are? I hope you never have to put their sympathy to the test, that's all.'

‘I have it without that. Goodnight.'

‘Hm! We'll see how it looks if the need arises. Goodnight, goodnight…' said the old clerk, noisily putting his ledgers away.

Wokulski walked home and thought: ‘I really must pay a call on Krzeszowski. I'll go tomorrow…He apologised to Izabela like the decent fellow he is. Tomorrow I'll thank him and—may the devil take me if I don't try to help him. Though it will be difficult to do anything for such an idle and frivolous fellow. Never mind, I can only try…He has apologised to Izabela, I'll free him from his debts.'

Feelings of tranquillity and unshakeable certainty so dominated all others in Wokulski's soul just now that when he got home, instead of dreaming (as usually happened), he set to work. He brought out a thick exercise-book, already nearly full, then a book with Polish—English exercises, and began writing down sentences, pronouncing them in an undertone and trying to imitate his teacher, Mr William Collins, as closely as possible.

But during pauses of several minutes, he thought either of tomorrow's visit to Baron Krzeszowski and how to free him from his debts, or of Oberman, whom he had saved from ruin. ‘If a blessing is of any value,' he told himself, ‘then I cede to her the whole capital of Oberman's, together with added interest…'

Then it occurred to him that this was not a very splendid gift for Izabela—making only one man happy! He could not do it for the whole world: but it would be worth elevating at least a few people in order to celebrate getting to know Izabela better. ‘Krzeszowski will be the second,' he thought, ‘though it is no service to save such fellows. Aha!' He struck his forehead and, putting aside his English exercises, brought out the file of his private correspondence. This was a morocco case, in which incoming letters were filed according to date, with an index in the front.

‘Aha!' he said, ‘the letter of my penitent and her guardian…page 603…'

He found the page and read the two letters attentively: one was elegantly written, the other as if scrawled by a childish hand. The first informed him that Maria So-and-So, formerly a girl of loose conduct, was now learning to sew and make dresses, and was behaving piously, obediently, modestly and nicely. In the second letter, Maria herself…thanked him for his help and asked only to be found some occupation:

‘Dear and Respected Sir,' she wrote, ‘since God has given you so much money, do not spend it on a sinner like me. For now I can earn my own living, if I find something to set my hands to, but there are many people in Warsaw whose need is greater than mine, unhappy and disgraced though I am…'

Wokulski was sorry this request had been unanswered for several days. He replied at once and called the servant. ‘Have this letter delivered in the morning,' he said, ‘at the Magdalenes.'

‘Very good, sir,' the servant replied, trying to stifle a yawn.

‘And bring the carter Wysocki to me, the man in Tamka Street, d'you know him?'

‘Course I do…But have you heard, sir…?'

‘Be sure he comes in the morning, that's all.'

‘Why shouldn't I, sir? But have you heard Oberman lost a lot of money? He was here this evening, he swore he would kill himself or do himself an injury if you didn't forgive him. So I said to him, “Don't be silly,” I said, “don't kill yourself, wait a bit…the old man's got a soft heart.” And he says, “That's what I thought, but even so there will be a row, and even if he cuts my wages, my son is going to be a doctor, and old age is just around the corner…”'

‘Come now, be off to bed with you,' Wokulski interrupted.

‘All right, sir, all right,' the servant replied, crossly, ‘though working for the likes of you is worse than being in prison, that it is…A man can't even go to bed when he chooses…' He took the letter and went out.

Next day, about nine in the morning, the servant awoke Wokulski and told him Wysocki was waiting. ‘Tell him to come in.'

The carter entered next moment. He was respectably dressed, had a ruddy complexion and cheerful look. He approached the bed and kissed Wokulski's hand.

‘Wysocki, I understand there's a room vacant in your house?'

‘Indeed there is, sir, for my uncle has died and those beasts of tenants wouldn't pay the rent so I turned 'em out. The scoundrels could always find money for vodka, but never for the rent…'

‘I'll rent the room from you,' said Wokulski, ‘but you must clean it out first.'

The carter looked at Wokulski in surprise.

‘A young seamstress will be living there,' Wokulski continued, ‘she can board with you, your wife can launder for her…Let her see what more she'll need. I'll give you money for furniture and linen…Then you must watch to see she doesn't bring anyone into the house…'

‘Not likely,' the carter exclaimed excitedly, ‘whenever you need her, sir, I'll bring her…but that anyone from the town—no, that wouldn't do. In such a business you might get into bad company.'

‘You're a fool, Wysocki. I don't mean to see her at all. Let her do as she pleases, provided she is well-behaved, modest and industrious. But don't let anyone visit her. Do you understand? The walls in the room must be painted, wash the floor, buy some cheap furniture—but new and good—you know what I mean.'

‘Of course, sir. I've been carting such furniture all my life.'

‘Very well. And let your wife ascertain what the girl needs in linen and clothes, then let me know.'

‘I understand, sir,' said Wysocki, kissing his hand again.

‘But what about your brother? How is he?'

‘Not doing so badly, sir. He's back in Skierniewice, thanks be to God and to you, sir; he has his plot of land; he's taken on a farmhand, and now he's quite the gentleman. In a few years' time he'll buy more land, because he has a railway-guard and two firemen boarding with him. And the railway has even increased his wages.'

Wokulski said goodbye to the carter and began dressing: ‘I'd like to be able to sleep through the time until I see her again,' Wokulski thought.

He did not feel like going to the shop. He picked up a book and read, deciding to call on Baron Krzeszowski between one and two. At eleven, the door-bell and the sound of a door opening were heard from the vestibule. The servant came in: ‘A lady is waiting…'

‘Ask her in,' said Wokulski.

A woman's dress rustled in the hall. Wokulski, on the threshold, saw his penitent. The extraordinary changes in her astounded him. The girl was dressed in black, had a pale but healthy complexion and a timid expression. Catching sight of Wokulski, she blushed and began trembling.

‘Take a seat please, miss,' he exclaimed, indicating a chair. She sat down on the edge of a velvet chair, still more embarrassed. Her eyelids fluttered rapidly, she gazed at the carpet and drops of tears glittered on her lashes. Two months earlier she had looked very differently.

‘So you have learned sewing, miss?'

‘Yes.'

‘And where do you plan to settle?'

‘Maybe in some shop…or in service in Russia…'

‘Why there?'

‘Because people say it's easier to get work there, and here…who will employ me?' she whispered.

‘But would it not pay you to stay here, if some shop were to buy work from you?'

‘Oh yes…But a girl must have her own sewing-machine, and a place to live, and everything…A girl who hasn't got these things must go into service.'

Even her voice had altered. Wokulski eyed her attentively, and finally said: ‘You will stay in Warsaw for the time being. You will live with the Wysocki family in Tamka. They are very good people. You will have your own room, you can board with them, and the sewing-machine and everything necessary will be provided too. I'll give you a reference to a store and in a few months' time, we'll see whether you can support yourself by this work. Here is Wysocki's address. Please go there at once, buy some furniture with Mrs Wysocka and make sure they have put the room in order. I'll send you the sewing-machine tomorrow…And here is some money for settling in. It's a loan: you can pay me back by instalments when work starts coming in.'

He gave her a few dozen roubles wrapped in a note to Wysocki. When she hesitated to take them, he pressed the twist of paper into her hand and said: ‘Please go to Wysocki at once. He'll bring you a letter for the linen shop in a few days. Please call upon me in case of urgent need. Goodbye now…'

The girl stayed a little longer in the centre of the hall; then she wiped away her tears and went out, filled with a kind of sublime astonishment.

‘We'll see how she gets on in her new surroundings,' Wokulski said to himself, and took to his reading again.

At one o'clock that afternoon, Wokulski set off to call on Baron Krzeszowski, reproaching himself on the way that he had procrastinated so in visiting his former antagonist. ‘Never mind,' he consoled himself, ‘after all, I could not intrude when he was ill. And I sent in a visiting-card.'

As he approached the house in which the Baron was lodging, Wokulski could not help noticing that the walls of the house were as unhealthily greenish as Maruszewicz was unhealthily yellowish, and that the blinds were up in Krzeszowski's apartment. ‘Evidently he has recovered,' he thought, ‘all the same, it won't do to ask about his debts right away. I'll mention them on my second or third visit; then I'll pay off the usurers and the poor Baron will be able to breathe again. I cannot be indifferent towards a man who has apologised to Izabela.'

He went up to the second floor, and rang the bell. Steps were audible inside the apartment, but there was evidently no urgency about opening the door. He rang again. The footsteps and even the moving about of objects went on inside, but still no one came. In his impatience, he pulled the door-bell so hard he nearly wrenched it off. Only then did someone come to the door and start unfastening the chain in a phlegmatic manner, then turned the key and pulled back the bolt, muttering: ‘One of us, obviously…No Jew would ring like that…'

Finally the door opened and the footman Konstanty appeared.

Seeing Wokulski, he blinked, thrust out his lower lip and asked: ‘Well?' Wokulski guessed he was not in the faithful servant's good books, as the latter had been present at the duel.

‘Is the Baron at home?' he asked.

‘The Baron's in bed, poorly and is not receiving anyone because the doctor is with him.'

Wokulski produced his card and two roubles: ‘When will it be possible, more or less, to call?'

‘Not at present, not at all,' Konstanty replied, somewhat more mildly, ‘my master is ill of a bullet wound, and the doctors have told him to go to warm countries, or leave town today or tomorrow.'

‘So it will not be possible to see him before he goes?'

‘Not at all. The doctors have forbidden him to see anyone. He's feverish all the time.'

Two card tables, one with a broken leg and the other with a thickly bescribbled cloth, as well as two candlesticks with the stumps of wax candles, made Wokulski doubt the accuracy of Konstanty's diagnosis. Nevertheless, he added another rouble and left, not at all pleased with his reception: ‘Perhaps the Baron simply didn't want me to call? Then let him pay off the usurers himself, and keep them out by chaining, locking and bolting the door…'

He went home.

The Baron really intended to leave for the countryside and was not well, though he was not so poorly either. The wound in his cheek was very slow in healing: not because it was serious, but because the Baron's health was very much undermined.

During Wokulski's call, the Baron had been wrapped up like an old woman against the cold, but was not in bed, sitting instead in an armchair while with him, was not the doctor, but Count Liciński. He was just complaining to the Count of his state of health: ‘May the devil take this wretched way of life,' he said, ‘my father left me nearly half a million roubles, but four diseases too, each worth a million. How inconvenient it is to be without eye-glasses! And just think, Count—the money has all gone but I still have the diseases. And as I have caught a few more diseases myself, and made new debts—the situation is clear. I'd have to send for the notary and for a coffin if I even scratched myself…'

‘Dear me, yes,' the Count exclaimed, ‘though I don't think you should waste money on notaries in such a situation.'

‘It's the rent collectors who are really the ruin of me…'

The Baron irritably overheard the echoes reaching him from the hall as he talked, but could not make out who it was. Not until he heard the door close, the bolt drawn and the chain put up, did he suddenly bellow: ‘Konstanty!'

In a moment the servant entered, though without undue haste. ‘Who was that? Goldcygier, I daresay…I told you not to have anything to do with that scoundrel, just grab him and throw him downstairs. Just think,' and he turned to Liciński, ‘that damned Jew is pestering me with a forged promissory note for four hundred roubles, and has the impudence to demand payment.'

‘You should start a law-suit against him, dear me, yes…'

‘I don't start law-suits. I am not a public prosecutor, it isn't my duty to chase after forgers. In any case, I don't want to take the initiative in ruining some poor wretch who's killing himself with work running down other people's signatures. So I'm waiting for Goldcygier to start an action, and then will declare that it is not my signature, though without accusing anyone.'