The Doll (47 page)

‘I shall be so pleased if your prophecy comes true; but now perhaps we ought to go back to the others?'

‘Anyone who pleases you deserves the highest thanks…'

‘Oh come,' she interrupted, smiling, ‘you have just paid yourself a compliment…'

They turned back from the Orangery.

‘I can just picture Rossi's surprise,' Izabela went on, ‘if he has an ovation. He's already dubious and almost regrets coming to Warsaw. Artists, even the greatest, are peculiar people; they cannot live without fame and tributes, just as we cannot do without food and air. Work, no matter how productive, or tranquillity or sacrifice—are not for them. They simply must be in the forefront, hold everyone's gaze, dominate the hearts of thousands…Rossi himself says he would rather die a year sooner, on the stage before a full and crowded house, than a year later, with only a few people. How strange that is!'

‘He is right—if a full theatre is his greatest happiness.'

‘You think there are kinds of happiness, for which it is worth paying by a shorter life?' Izabela asked.

‘Yes, and unhappinesses that it is worth avoiding in a like manner,' Wokulski replied.

Izabela pondered, and from that time both walked on in silence.

Meanwhile, the Countess was seated by the lake, still feeding the swans and talking to Tomasz: ‘Haven't you noticed,' she said, ‘that this Wokulski is somehow interested in Bela.'

‘Oh, I think not.'

‘Very much so, indeed; tradesmen nowadays know how to make daring plans.'

‘It is a great distance from making a plan to carrying it out,' Tomasz replied rather irritably, ‘though even if it were so, it has nothing to do with me. I don't control Mr Wokulski's thoughts, and am easy as regards Bela…'

‘I have nothing against it,' the Countess added, ‘and whatever happens, I accept God's will, if the poor benefit. They continually do…My orphanage will soon be the first in the town, simply because that man has a weakness for Bela.'

‘For goodness sake! They're coming back…' Tomasz interrupted.

Izabela and Wokulski had just appeared at the end of the path.

Tomasz eyed them attentively and only now did he notice that these two people looked well together, both in height and movement. He, a head taller and powerfully built, stepped like an ex-military man; she, somewhat slighter, but more graceful, moved as if gliding. Even Wokulski's white top-hat and light overcoat matched Izabela's ash-coloured wrap.

‘Where did he get that white top-hat?' Tomasz wondered resentfully. Then a strange notion occurred to him: that Wokulski was a parvenu who ought to pay him at least fifty per cent on the capital lent him, in return for the right to wear a white top-hat. But in the end he only shrugged.

‘How beautiful those paths are, aunt,' Izabela exclaimed as she drew nearer, ‘we have never been in that direction. The Łazienki park is only pleasant when one can walk a long way, and fast.'

‘In that case, please ask Mr Wokulski to keep you company more often,' the Countess replied in a tone of peculiar sweetness. Wokulski bowed, Izabela frowned imperceptibly and Tomasz said: ‘Perhaps we should go home…'

‘I think so,' said the Countess, ‘are you staying here, Mr Wokulski?'

‘Yes. May I see you to your carriage?'

‘Please do. Bela, your hand.'

The Countess and Izabela went in front, Tomasz and Wokulski following. Tomasz felt so much resentment, spleen and gall at the sight of that white top-hat that he forced himself to smile in order not to be disagreeable. Finally, wishing to divert Wokulski in some way or other, he began talking about his house again, from which he hoped to gain forty or fifty thousand roubles clear profit. These figures reacted unfavourably on Wokulski, as he had told himself he was not in a position to add anything over thirty thousand.

Not until the carriage came up and Tomasz, after handing in the ladies, cried: ‘Drive on!' did Wokulski's feeling of distaste disappear and yearning for Izabela awaken.

‘It was so brief,' he thought, looking with a sigh at the Łazienki alley along which the green water-cart of a park-keeper was now rolling, sprinkling the gravel.

He went in the direction of the Orangery again, along the same path as before, gazing at Izabela's footsteps in the fine sand. But something was different. The wind now blew stronger, it ruffled the water of the lake, had scattered the butterflies and the birds and was also driving up more clouds, which kept eclipsing the sunshine: ‘How boring it is here,' he thought, and went back to the main alley.

He got into his carriage and, with his eyes closed, relished its slight rocking motion. It made him think of a bird on a branch, which the wind blows to left then right, up then down, but he suddenly smiled to think that this slight rocking motion was costing him about a thousand a year. ‘I'm a fool, a fool,' he repeated, ‘why am I pushing my way in among people who either fail to understand the sacrifices I am making, or who laugh at my clumsy efforts? Why do I have to keep this carriage? Couldn't I use a droshky, or that rattling omnibus with its canvas curtains?'

When he stopped in front of his house, he recalled the promise he had given Izabela concerning Rossi's ovation. ‘He will get his ovation, mark my words! There's a performance tomorrow…'

Towards evening, he sent his servant to the shop for Oberman. The grey-haired cashier hurried over at once, asking himself in alarm whether Wokulski had changed his mind and was going to order him to repay the lost money…

However, Wokulski greeted him very affably and even took him into the study, where they talked for nearly half an hour. What about? The question very much intrigued the footman. ‘About the lost money, surely?'…Worried, he put his ear and eye to the key-hole in turn, saw and heard a great deal, but could make nothing of it all. He saw Wokulski give Oberman a whole bundle of five-rouble notes and heard such phrases as: ‘In the Grand Theatre…the balcony and gallery…a bouquet by the doorman…a bouquet across the orchestra…'

‘What the devil is the old man up to now? Dealing in theatre tickets, or what?'

Hearing the sound of farewells in the study, the servant took refuge in the vestibule in order to catch Oberman there. When the cashier emerged he exclaimed: ‘Well, is it over with the money, then? I took a lot of my breath to make the old man have mercy on you, Oberman, but finally I forced him to say “We'll see, we'll do what we can…” And now I see you've done well for yourself, Mr Oberman. Is the old man in a good temper, then?'

‘Like always,' the cashier replied.

‘You had a nice talk with him, didn't you? It must have been about more than the money…I daresay it was about the theatre, for the old man likes the theatre.…'

But Oberman glared at him wolfishly and went out without answering. At first the servant gasped in astonishment, but then he cooled down and shook his fist: ‘You wait,' he muttered, ‘I'll pay you back…A great gentleman, just look at him…Steals four hundred roubles but he won't even talk to a fellow…'

A
NOTHER
period of uneasiness and surprises had come upon Ignacy Rzecki. This same Wokulski, who had rushed off to Bulgaria a year ago and had amused himself like a lord a few weeks back at horse-races and duels, had today developed an extraordinary fondness for theatrical performances. It would not have been so bad if they'd been in Polish—but in Italian! And Wokulski did not understand a word of Italian.

This new mania had already lasted almost a week, much to the surprise and chagrin of other people as well as Ignacy. Once, for instance, old Szlangbaum had been looking for Wokulski for half a day, obviously in connection with some important business. He tried the shop, but Wokulski had just left, after ordering a large vase of Saxon porcelain to be delivered to the actor Rossi. He hurried to Wokulski's apartment—Wokulski had just left, and gone to Bardet's flower-shop. With a grimace, the old Jew took a droshky in an attempt to catch up with him; but as he offered the driver one złoty and eight groszy for the drive, instead of forty groszy, Wokulski had already left the flower-shop by the time they finished arguing.

‘D'you know where he went?' Szlangbaum asked the gardener, who was sowing destruction among his finest blooms with a crooked knife.

‘How should I know? To the theatre, I daresay,' the gardener replied, looking as if he would like to cut Szlangbaum's throat with that crooked knife.

The very same notion had occurred to the Jew, who retreated as hastily as possible from the Orangery and jumped into the droshky like a stone from a sling. But the driver (who had obviously come to an agreement with the cannibal gardener) declared he would not go any further unless the merchant paid him forty groszy for the drive and repaid the two groszy deducted the first time.

Szlangbaum felt palpitations around his heart, and at first wanted either to get out or to call the police. Recalling, however, that malice, injustice and greed were now prevailing towards Jews in the Christian world, he agreed to all the conditions of the outrageous driver and drove to the theatre, groaning.

There—he did not know whom to address, then nobody would speak to him, but he finally ascertained that Mr Wokulski had been there, but at that moment left for Aleje Ujazdowskie. The wheels of his carriage could still be heard in the gate…

Szlangbaum gave up in despair. He went back on foot to Wokulski's store, taking the opportunity for the hundredth time of cursing his son for calling himself ‘Henryk', wearing a frock-coat and eating non-kosher food, then he finally went to expatiate on his woes to Ignacy:

‘Now!' he said in a lamenting voice, ‘whatever is Mr Wokulski up to, for goodness sake? I had a transaction he could have made three hundred roubles on within five days…I'd have made a hundred myself…But no! He goes riding around the town, and I had to spend two złoty and twenty groszy on droshkies. O my! What brigands those droshky-men are!'

Rzecki of course authorised Szlangbaum to transact the business and not only refunded the money he had spent on the droshky, but even had him driven to Elektoralna Street at his own expense, which so touched the old Jew that as he went out he lifted the parental curse from his son and invited him for the Sabbath supper.

‘All the same,' said Rzecki to himself, ‘this theatre business is going too far, mainly because Staś is neglecting his work…'

Then again, the widely respected lawyer and right-hand man of the Prince, the legal adviser of the entire aristocracy, called at the store to invite Wokulski to his office for an evening meeting. Ignacy did not know where to seat this eminent person, nor how to appreciate the honour paid his Staś by the lawyer. But Staś was not only unmoved by the grand invitation for the evening, but simply refused it, which somewhat upset the lawyer, who left at once and said goodbye to them very coolly.

‘Why didn't you accept?' the despondent Rzecki asked.

‘Because I have to go to the theatre tonight,' Wokulski replied.

But genuine alarm seized Rzecki when on that same day the cashier Oberman came to him before seven and asked him to do the day's figures: ‘Later on…after eight o'clock,' Ignacy replied, ‘there isn't time now.'

‘But I shan't have time after eight,' Oberman replied.

‘How so? What do you mean?'

‘Just that I have to go with the master to the theatre at seven-thirty,' Oberman muttered, shrugging imperceptibly.

At the same moment in came Zięba, smiling, to say goodnight.

‘Are you going already, Mr Zięba? At six-fifteen?' asked Ignacy in amazement, his eyes opening very wide.

‘I'm taking the bouquets for Rossi,' the polite Zięba whispered, with a still more agreeable smile.

Rzecki clutched his head with both hands: ‘They've gone mad over this theatre!' he cried, ‘perhaps they'll even try to get me involved too…Not likely, though…'

Feeling that Wokulski might well try and persuade him to go as well, he rehearsed a speech in which he declared he would not go to the Italians and even made Staś think twice about it, in more or less these words: ‘For goodness sake, give over, please! What's all this nonsense?' and so on.

But instead of trying to persuade him, Wokulski came into the store around six, found Rzecki at the accounts and said: ‘My dear fellow, Rossi is playing Macbeth tonight, be so kind as to sit in the front row of the stalls (here's your ticket) and hand him this album after the third act…'

And without more ado or even explaining, he handed Ignacy an album containing views of Warsaw and local young ladies, which must have cost fifty roubles!

Ignacy felt deeply hurt. He rose, frowned and had opened his mouth to protest, when Wokulski abruptly left the shop without so much as another look at him. So of course Ignacy had to go to the theatre, to avoid hurting Staś's feelings.

In the theatre a whole series of surprises lay in wait for Ignacy. First of all, he went in by the gallery stairs, his usual entry in the good old days. An attendant had to remind him he had a ticket for the front row of the stalls and in doing so cast a look at him as if to say that Mr Rzecki's dark-green frock-coat, the album under his arm and even his countenance à la Napoleon III appeared highly suspect to the lower hierarchy of the theatre authorities. Embarrassed, Ignacy went down to the front vestibule, clutching the album under his arm and bowing to all the ladies he had the honour of passing. This politeness, to which the good people of Warsaw were not at all accustomed, created quite a stir in the vestibule. People began asking who he was; and although no one recognised him, everyone at once noticed that his top-hat was ten years old, his tie five, while his dark-green frock-coat and striped trousers dated from an even earlier epoch. On the whole they took him for a foreigner; but when he asked an attendant the way to the stalls, people burst out laughing: ‘He must be a squireen up from Wolyn,' the dandies said, ‘but what is that under his arm? His supper, I daresay—or a pneumatic cushion.'