The Doll (27 page)

Only on one point do the old and the new gentlemen agree, and here Zięba is even a help—in teasing our seventh clerk, Szlangbaum. This Szlangbaum (I have known him for years) is of the Hebraic persuasion, but an honest fellow for all that. Small, dark, bent, unshaven—in a word, you would not give tuppence for him when he sits at the cash desk. But as soon as a customer comes in (Szlangbaum works in the department of Russian textiles), good gracious, how he twirls like a top! Now he is at the highest shelf on the right, now at the lowest on the left. When he begins hurling rolls of cloth about, he resembles a steam-engine rather than a man; when he begins unfolding and measuring, I think he has three pairs of hands. Also he is a born salesman, and when he starts recommending goods, making suggestions, guessing taste, all in an exceedingly grave tone, then I give my word that not even Mraczewski comes anywhere near him. It is too bad, though, that he is so small and plain; we shall have to get him a stupid but handsome young man as assistant with the ladies. For although it is true that ladies linger longer with a handsome clerk, yet they also complain and bargain less. (Heaven protect us from lady customers! Perhaps I lost my taste for marriage by seeing ladies in the shop all the time. The Creator, when He formed that miracle of Nature known as Woman, cannot have realised the misfortune He would bring down upon tradesmen.)

Thus, though Szlangbaum is a decent citizen in the fullest sense, yet no one likes him since he has the misfortune to be a Hebrew…In general, I have noticed over the last year or two that dislike of the Hebrews is increasing; even people who, a few years ago, called them Poles of the Mosaic persuasion, now call them Jews. And those who recently admired their hard work, their persistence and their talents, today only see their exploitation and deceit.

When I hear such things, I sometimes think a spiritual twilight is falling on mankind, like night. By day all is nice, cheerful and good; at night, all is dark and dangerous. I think this, but can say nothing; for what does the opinion of an old clerk matter in the face of well-known journalists who can prove that Jews use Christian blood on their matzos, and should have their rights restricted. The bullets overhead, Katz, whistled a very different tune…

This state of affairs affects Szlangbaum in a peculiar manner. Only a year ago, he called himself Szlangowski, he celebrated Easter and Christmas, and I am sure the most pious Catholic did not eat as much sausage-meat as he. I remember he was once asked in a café: ‘Don't you care for ice-cream, Mr Szlangowski?'

And he replied: ‘I prefer sausages, but without garlic. I can't abide garlic.'

He came back from Siberia with Staś and Dr Szuman, and at once found work in a Christian shop, though Jews offered him better pay. From that time on he has always worked for Christians, and not until this year was he sacked. Early in May he came to ask a favour of Staś.

‘Staś,' he said humbly, ‘I will drown in Nalewki Street unless you help me.'

‘Why didn't you come to me before?' Staś asked.

‘I did not dare. I was afraid they might say of me that a Jew will creep in anywhere. And I would not have come today but for my children.' Staś shrugged and at once took Szlangbaum on at wages of fifteen hundred roubles a year.

The new clerk set to work at once, but half an hour later Lisiecki muttered to Klein: ‘What in the world stinks so of garlic, Mr Klein?' Then, fifteen minutes after that, I don't know why he added: ‘How these swines of Jews creep into the Krakowskie Przedmieście! Why don't they stay in
Nalewki or Świętojerska
?'

Szlangbaum was silent, though his red eyelids quivered. Fortunately Wokulski overheard both taunts. He rose from his desk and said in a tone which, I must say, I didn't like: ‘Mr…Mr Lisiecki! Mr Henryk Szlangbaum was my colleague at a time when things were going very badly. So why not allow him to be my colleague today, when things are somewhat better?' Lisiecki was embarrassed, realising that his job hung on a thread. He bowed, muttered something, then Wokulski went over to Szlangbaum and embraced him; ‘My dear Henryk, do not take these little things too much to heart, for we here appreciate each other as colleagues. I assure you that if you ever quit this store it will be with me.'

Szlangbaum's situation at once improved; today the others would sooner taunt (even insult) me than him. But has he found a defence against insinuations, looks and glances?…And all this is poisoning the poor fellow's existence, so he sometimes tells me with a sigh: ‘If I weren't afraid my children would become Jewish, I'd go and settle down in Nalewki once and for all.'

‘Then why, Henryk,' I asked him, ‘don't you get christened and have it over with?'

‘I'd have done so years ago, but not now. Today, I understand that as a Jew I am only despised by Christians, but as a convert I'd be despised by Christians and Jews alike. After all, I must live somewhere. Anyway,' he added, more quietly, ‘I have five children and a rich father, whose heir I am…'

This is strange. Szlangbaum's father is an usurer, but his son, so as not to take a penny-piece from him, stays poor and works as a clerk.

Sometimes I talk frankly about him to Lisiecki: ‘Why do you persecute him?' I ask. ‘He conducts his house in a Christian manner and even has a Christmas tree for his children.'

‘Because he thinks', said Lisiecki, ‘that it is more profitable to eat matzo with sausage than by itself.'

‘He was in Siberia, exposed to danger…'

‘Yes, but for profit…And it was for profit that he called himself first Szlangowski, and now Szlangbaum, because his old man has asthma.'

‘You mocked him for dressing up in peacock feathers, so he went back to using his old name.'

‘For which he'll get a hundred thousand roubles when his father dies,' Lisiecki replied.

Then it was my turn to shrug and fall silent. It was wrong to call himself Szlangbaum, but Szlangowski was just as bad: wrong to be a Jew, wrong to be a convert…Night is falling: a night in which everything looks grey and uncertain…

Moreover, Staś suffers for this. Not only did he take Szlangbaum into the shop, but he also supplies goods to Jewish merchants and has let several Jews into his firm. Our own people protest and threaten, but Staś is not to be frightened: he is determined and will not yield, even if they boiled him in oil. How will this all end, for goodness sake?

But in straying thus from my subject I have forgotten several very important details. I have in mind Mraczewski, who has for some time either been thwarting my plans or deliberately leading me into error. The lad was dismissed from our shop because he was rather insulting about Socialists in the presence of Wokulski. Later, however, Staś allowed himself to be persuaded and immediately after Easter he sent Mraczewski to Moscow and even raised his wages. For more than one evening I have pondered over the meaning of this journey, or rather exile. But when, three weeks ago, Mraczewski came thence to collect goods, I comprehended Staś's plan at once.

Physically, the young man had changed little: always talkative and handsome, but perhaps somewhat paler. He said he liked Moscow, particularly the local women, who had more experience and spirit, and fewer prejudices than ours. I too, when young, used to think that women had fewer prejudices than today.

All this is merely an introduction. For Mraczewski brought with him three very dubious individuals, whom he called ‘
prikashchiki
', and a whole package of pamphlets. The ‘prikashchiki' were supposed to see about something or other in the shop, but they did so in such a manner that none of us caught sight of them. They wandered about the town for days at a time, and I would take my oath they were preparing the way for a revolution in our country. Seeing that I had my eye on them, they always feigned drunkenness whenever they came near the shop, and talked to me about nothing but women, claiming—despite Mraczewski—that Polish women were ‘stunning'—only very like Jewesses. I pretended to believe everything they said, and discovered by means of skilful questioning that the districts they knew best were those around the
Citadel prison
. It was there that they conducted most business. And that my guesses were well founded was shown by the fact that these ‘prikashchiki' even attracted the attention of the police. Within ten days at most, they have been taken three times to police-stations. Clearly, they must have important contacts, for they were freed.

When I communicated my suspicions of these ‘prikashchiki' to Staś, he merely smiled and replied: ‘This is only the beginning!…' From this, I conclude that Staś must have gone far in his relations with the nihilists.

But, pray picture my amazement when, having invited Klein and Mraczewski to my room for tea, I discovered that Mraczewski is a worse Socialist than Klein…This Mraczewski who lost his position in our shop for insulting Socialists! I was struck dumb with amazement for the entire evening; only Klein was quietly gratified, while Mraczewski talked. I have never heard anything like it in all my life! This young man proved to me, by quoting very clever people, that all capitalists are criminals, that the earth ought to belong to those who cultivate it, that factories, coal-mines and machines ought to be the property of everyone, that there is no God or Soul which priests invented to trick people into paying tithes. He added that when they start the revolution (he and the three ‘prikashchiki'), then we shall all work only eight hours a day, and enjoy ourselves for the rest of the time, even though everyone will have a pension when old, and a free funeral. Finally he said that paradise will not come to this world until everything is held in common: the earth, buildings, machines and even wives.

As I am a bachelor (people even call me an old one) and am writing this journal honestly, I must confess that this communality of wives rather pleased me. I must even say that I gained some sympathy for Socialism and the Socialists. But why do they have to have a revolution, when people might have wives in common without it? This was what I thought, but Mraczewski himself cured me and at the same time thwarted my plans very badly.

In passing, I must say I sincerely wish Staś would marry. If he had a wife, he would not consult so often with Collins and Mrs Meliton, and if children came along he might break off his dubious contacts. For how can a man like him, with his military nature, be in contact with people who will certainly never go openly into battle against the armed enemy? Neither Hungarian nor any other infantry would fire at a disarmed opponent. But times are changing. So I very much want Staś to marry and I think I have found him a partner.

Sometimes our emporium (as was our shop) is visited by a lady of extraordinary charm. Dark-haired, with grey eyes, wonderfully beautiful features, imposing stature and tiny hands and feet—perfection itself! I once saw her getting out of a droshky, and must say that what I caught sight of made me quite feverish…Oh, honest Staś would find great comfort in her, for she is well proportioned, her lips like ripe berries…and her bosom! When she comes in, dressed up to the nines, I think an angel has entered, its wings folded over its bosom…

I believe she is a widow, for I never see her with a husband, only with her little daughter Helena, who is pretty as a picture too. If Staś marries her, he would have to break once and for all with the Nihilists, because any time left over from looking after his wife, would be spent caressing her child. But such a wife would not leave him much free time.

I had already formulated my plan and was wondering how to make the lady's acquaintance and introduce Staś to her, when suddenly the devil brought Mraczewski back from Moscow. Pray imagine my vexation when, on the day after his arrival, the young scamp came into the shop with my widow! And how he fussed around her, how he rolled his eyes, how he strove to guess her every thought…Fortunately I am not a stout man, for this impudent flirtation would surely have brought on an apoplectic stroke.

When he came in again a few hours later, I asked him with the most indifferent expression in the world who the lady had been. ‘You like her?' he said, ‘champagne…not a woman,' he added, winking shamelessly, ‘but she's not for you, she's wild about me…Oh, my dear sir, what temperament, what a figure! If you knew what she looks like in a peignoir.'

‘I thought as much, Mr Mraczewski,' I replied, sternly.

‘But what have I said?' he protested, rubbing his hands in a manner that struck me as lustful, ‘I'm saying nothing! The greatest virtue a man can have, Mr Rzecki, is discretion, particularly in the more confidential relationships…'

I interrupted him, feeling I would despise him if he went on. What times these are, what people! For had I the good fortune to attract the attentions of such a lady, I would not even dare to think of such things, let alone shout them at the top of my voice in a store the size of ours. But when in addition, Mraczewski unfolded to me his theory of the communality of wives, I at once thought: ‘Staś a nihilist, and Mraczewski a nihilist too…So let the first marry and the second will then introduce communality…But it would be a shame for Mraczewski to get a woman like that.'

At the end of May Wokulski decided to have our shop blessed. On this occasion I noticed once again how times are changing. In my young days too, merchants used to have their shops blessed, making sure that the ceremony was carried out by an elderly and pious priest, that there was genuine holy water, a new censer and an organist fluent in Latin. After the ceremony, during which almost every cupboard and object was sprinkled and prayed over, a horseshoe would be nailed over the threshold of the shop to attract customers. Only then did they think of something to eat and drink—usually a glass of vodka, sausages and beer. But nowadays (what would the contemporaries of old Mincel have had to say?) the first question is how many cooks and footmen will be required, how many bottles of champagne, how much wine and what sort of a dinner will be served? For the dinner was the main attraction of the ceremony, since the guests were not concerned with who is to perform the blessing, but what would be served at the dinner.