The Doll (99 page)

‘
Tempora mutantur et nos mutamur in illis
,' the doctor replied, calmly. ‘I've wasted ten years studying hair, I spent a thousand roubles publishing a brochure a hundred pages long and … not even a dog remembers it, or me. I will try to devote the next ten years to financial operations, and am convinced in advance that people will love and admire me. Providing I open a drawing-room, and keep a carriage.'

For a moment they were silent, and did not look at one another. Szuman was moody and Rzecki almost ashamed. Finally he remarked: ‘I would like to talk to you about Staś.'

The doctor impatiently pushed the papers aside: ‘What can I do to help him?' he muttered, ‘he's an incurable dreamer who will never regain his senses. He is moving disastrously towards material and spiritual ruin, like all of you, and your entire system.'

‘What system?'

‘Your Polish system.'

‘And what would you replace it with, doctor?'

‘Our Jewish one …'

Rzecki almost jumped off his chair: ‘Only a month ago, you were calling the Jews “kikes”.'

‘So they are. But they have a great system; it will triumph, whereas yours is leading to bankruptcy.'

‘And where is this new system to be found?'

‘In the minds that have emerged from the Jewish masses, and which have ascended to the peaks of civilisation. Take Heine, Borne, Lassal, Marx, Rothschild, Bleichroder, and you'll discover the new ways of the world. It's the Jews who have established them: despised, persecuted, but patient and full of genius.'

Rzecki rubbed his eyes; he felt he was dreaming, though awake. After a moment he said: ‘Forgive me, doctor, but … are you making fun of me? Six months ago I heard something entirely different from you …'

‘Six months ago,' replied Szuman, irritated, ‘you heard me protest against the old order, but today you are hearing a new programme. A man isn't an oyster which grows so close to its rock that one needs a knife to pull it off. A man looks around him, he thinks, makes judgements and consequently rejects his former illusions, when he realises that they are illusions. But neither you nor Wokulski can grasp this. You're all going bankrupt, all of you … Fortunately your places will be taken by new powers.'

‘I fail to understand you.'

‘You will in a moment,' the doctor declared, growing more excited. ‘Take the Łęcki family — what have they done? They squandered a fortune; it was squandered by the grandfather, father and the son, who was left with thirty thousand saved by Wokulski — and a beautiful daughter, to serve as security. But what have the Szlangbaums been doing in the meanwhile? Making money. The grandfather made money, so did the father, so is the son today, although until recently he was but a modest clerk, but within a year he'll give our commerce a shake-up. And they know this, for old Szlangbaum wrote a charade last January: “The first in German stands for serpent, the second a plant: together — they climb,” and he told me the answer was “Szlangbaum”. A poor charade, but a good piece of work,' the doctor added, smiling.

Rzecki looked away. Szuman went on: ‘Take the Prince, what's he doing? He sighs over “this unhappy country”, and that's all. Or Baron Krzeszowski. He thinks of acquiring money from his wife. Or Baron Dalski. He is withering away for fear his wife deceives him. Mr Maruszewicz hunts for loans, and when he can't get them, he sneers; while Mr Starski sits by his dying grandmama, to get her to sign a will drawn up in his favour.'

‘Other gentlemen, both high and low, who have a premonition that all Wokulski's business is going to pass into Szlangbaum's hands are already paying calls on the latter. They don't know, poor devils, that he will lower their incomes by at least five per cent … The cleverest of them, Ochocki, on the other hand, dreams of flying machines instead of exploiting the electric lamp he has invented. Bah! It seems to me he has been asking Wokulski's advice about them for some days past. Birds of a feather: dreamers both …'

‘Surely you don't reproach Staś for anything, doctor?' Rzecki interrupted impatiently.

‘No, except that he has never cultivated his profession, but has always chased after illusions. As a clerk, he wanted to be a scholar, but once he started studying, he decided he wanted to be a hero. He made a fortune, not because he was a tradesman, but because he was insane about Miss Łęcka; and now that he's gaining her — though that is still very uncertain — he's already begin to take council with Ochocki. … Upon my word, I don't understand it; what can a financier have to talk about with a man like Ochocki? … Lunatics!'

Rzecki pinched himself so as not to quarrel with the doctor: ‘Pray notice,' he remarked after a moment, ‘I came to see you, not only about Wokulski, but about a woman … A woman, Mr Szuman, against whom even you won't find anything to say.'

‘Your women are worth precisely as much as your men. In ten years, Wokulski might be a millionaire and a power to be reckoned with in this country, but because he has involved his destiny with Miss Łęcka, he's selling a profitable store, abandoning a trading company no worse than the store, and will proceed to squander his fortune. Or Ochocki … Anyone else, in his shoes, would be working on electric lighting, since his invention has succeeded. Meanwhile, he gads around Warsaw with that pretty Mrs Wąsowska, to whom a good dancer means more than the greatest inventor. A Jew would act differently. If he were an electrical engineer, he'd find himself a woman who would either sit in his workshop with him, or who could sell electricity. If he were a financier like Wokulski, he wouldn't fall blindly in love, but would choose a rich wife. Or he might marry a poor and pretty one, but then her charms would have to pay interest. She would open a drawing-room for him, attract visitors, smile at the rich, flirt with the richest — in a word, would support the interests of the firm in all ways, instead of wrecking it.'

‘Here too, you were of a different mind six months ago,' Rzecki interposed.

‘Not six months but ten years ago. Bah! I took poison after my fiancée died, but that is just another argument against your system. Today it almost sickens me to think I might have died, God knows why, or have married a woman who would have squandered my money.'

Rzecki rose: ‘So now your ideal is Szlangbaum?' he said.

‘He's not my ideal, but at least he's an active man.'

‘Who has acquired the store accounts …'

‘He has the right to them. After all, he will be its owner in July.'

‘Meanwhile he's demoralising his colleagues, his future clerks.'

‘He'll dismiss them.'

‘And this “ideal” of yours, when he asked Staś for a position, was he thinking even then of taking over our store?'

‘He's not taking it over, he's buying it!' the doctor cried. ‘Perhaps you'd sooner the store went to rack and ruin without finding a buyer? … And which of you is the smarter? — you, who after decades of work, have nothing — or he, who in the course of a year will have conquered such a fortress without, mind you, doing anyone an injustice, and paying Wokulski cash into the bargain?'

‘Maybe you're right, though it doesn't look that way to me,' muttered Rzecki, glancing at him.

‘It doesn't look that way to you, because you are one of those people who must grow over with moss, like stones, without moving from where they are. For you the Szlangbaums must always be clerks, the Wokulskis masters, and the Łęckis “Your Excellency”. No, sir! Society is like boiling water; what was below yesterday will come to the top tomorrow.'

‘And fall back into the dregs again the next day,' Rzecki concluded. ‘Goodnight to you, doctor.'

Szuman shook him by the hand: ‘Are you angry?'

‘No. But I don't believe in worshipping money.'

‘It's a transitory phase.'

‘Who would swear to you that the dreams of Wokulskis or Ochockis aren't transitory? A flying machine seems absurd, but only on the surface; I know something of it's worth, as Staś has been explaining it to me for years. But if, for instance, a man like Ochocki were to succeed in making one, then just think which would be more valuable to the world: Szlangbaum's ingenuity, or the dreams of Wokulski and Ochocki?'

‘Fiddle-de-dee,' the doctor interrupted, ‘I shan't be here to see it.'

‘If you were, you would surely have to change your plans a third time.'

The doctor grew embarrassed: ‘Well, that's as may be,' he said. ‘What business did you have with me?'

‘It concerned poor Mrs Stawska … She has really fallen in love with Wokulski.'

‘Ach … You might at least not bother me with such matters,' the doctor rebuffed him. ‘When some are growing in wealth and power and others going bankrupt, he pesters me with the romance of some Mrs Stawska or other. You shouldn't have played at Cupid.'

Rzecki left the doctor, so troubled that he did not even notice the brutality of the latter's final words. Not until he reached the street did he realise it, and he felt cross with Szuman. ‘There's Jewish friendship for you,' he muttered.

Lent was not as boring as society had feared. First, Providence sent a flood of the Vistula, which gave rise to a public concert and several private musical evenings with recitations. Then a certain gentleman from Cracow, the hope of the aristocratic party, appeared in a series of lectures at the Agricultural Exhibition, attended by the best company. Next, Szegedyn was flooded, which again brought forth small collections but enormous traffic in the drawing-rooms. Amateur theatricals were held in the house of a countess, at which two plays were performed in French, and one in English.

Izabela took an active part in all these philanthropic activities. She attended concerts, busied herself with presenting a bouquet to the scholar from Cracow, appeared in
tableaux vivants
as the Angel of Mercy, and played in Musset's
On ne badine pas avec l'amour
. Messrs Niwiński, Malborg, Rydzewski and Pieczarkowski quite showered her with bouquets, while Mr Szatalski confided to several ladies that he would very likely have to do away with himself that same year.

When news of the intended suicide spread, Mr Szatalski became the hero of parties, and Izabela acquired the nickname ‘the cruel'. When the gentlemen disappeared to play whist, ladies of a certain age found their greatest pleasure in bringing together Izabela and Szatalski by means of ingenious manoeuvres. They gazed with indescribable sympathy through their lorgnettes at the sufferings of the young man; it was almost as good as a concert. They grew angry with Izabela only when they saw that she appreciated her own privileged situation and seemed to say with each movement and glance: ‘Look, he loves me — he's unhappy on my account.'

Wokulski sometimes found himself at these gatherings, he saw the ladies' lorgnettes directed at Szatalski and Izabela, he even heard the remarks which buzzed around his ears like wasps, but he understood nothing at all. No one bothered about him, since they knew he was a serious suitor.

‘Unhappy love causes a great deal more interest,' Miss Rzezuchowska once whispered to Mrs Wąsowska.

‘Who knows where unhappy even tragic love really is, here?' Mrs Wąsowska replied, looking at Wokulski.

Fifteen minutes later, Miss Rzezuchowska asked to have Wokulski introduced to her, and during the next quarter of an hour informed him (lowering her eyes as she did so) that in her opinion, the most beautiful role a woman can play is to cherish wounded hearts that are suffering in silence.

One day at the end of March, Wokulski called on Izabela, and found her in high spirits: ‘Excellent news,' she exclaimed, greeting him with unusual cordiality, ‘did you know that the famous violinist Molinari is here?'

‘Molinari?' Wokulski echoed, ‘ah yes, I saw him in Paris.'

‘You speak so coldly of him?' Izabela was surprised, ‘can it be you didn't care for his playing?'

‘I confess, madam, that I didn't even notice how he played.'

‘That is impossible … You can't have heard him. Mr Szatalski says (though he always exaggerates) that after hearing Molinari, he could die without regrets. Mrs Wywrotnicka is delighted with him, and Mrs Rzezuchowska plans on giving a party for him.'

‘He strikes me as a rather second-rate violinist.'

‘Come, sir … Mr Rydzewski and Mr Pieczarkowski were able to see his album, composed entirely of press-cuttings. Mr Pieczarkowski says that Molinari's admirers presented it to him. All the European critics call him a genius.'

Wokulski shook his head: ‘I saw him in a concert-hall where the most expensive seat cost two francs.'

‘That's impossible, it can't have been him … He got a decoration from the Holy Father, another from the Shah of Iran, he has a title … Second-rate violinists do not acquire such honours.'

Wokulski gazed in amazement at Izabela's flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. These were such powerful arguments that he doubted his own memory, and replied: ‘Possibly … possibly.'

But his indifference towards art affected Izabela in a disagreeable manner. She turned sulky and talked rather coolly to Wokulski for the rest of the visit.

‘I'm a fool,' he thought on leaving. ‘I always have to come out with something that displeases her. If she's so fond of music, she may regard my opinion of Molinari as sacrilege.' And all next day he bitterly reproached himself for his ignorance of art, his naiveté, lack of delicate feeling and even for lack of respect to Izabela. ‘It's certain,' he told himself, ‘that this violinist who has made such an impression on her is better than I care to own. A person must be stuck up to utter such decisive judgements as I did, the more so as I can't have known anything of his playing.'

Shame overwhelmed him. On the third day he received a brief note from Izabela. ‘Sir,' she wrote, ‘you must arrange for me to meet Molinari, it is essential, essential … I have promised my aunt to persuade him to play at her house for the Orphanage benefit; you will understand how much this means to me.'