The Doll

by Bolesław Prus

  When Kochanowski wrote: ‘And thou shalt sit upon a fierce lion without fear, and ride on a huge dragon,’ he certainly had a woman in mind! For they are the riders and conquerors of the male sex!

  Then, in the fifth year of marriage, Małgosia suddenly took to cosmetics …At first discreetly, then more energetically, and to all kinds …Hearing of a certain fluid which was said to return freshness and the charms of youth to ladies of a certain age, she anointed herself with it from top to toe one evening, with such effect that the doctors called in that very night to help could do nothing for her. And she died, poor thing, of blood-poisoning, only recovering consciousness sufficiently to call her lawyer and bequeath her entire estate to her dear Staś.

  Staś said nothing after this misfortune either, but grew more mopish than ever. As he had an income of several thousand roubles a year, he stopped concerning himself with trade, broke off with his acquaintances and buried himself in learned books. I sometimes told him: ‘Go out and meet people, enjoy yourself, after all, you’re still young and could marry again …’

  All in vain …

  One day (six months after the death of Małgosia), seeing the lad growing old before my very eyes, I suggested: ‘Staś, be off with you to the theatre. Today Traviata is playing; you saw it with your wife last time …’

  He jumped up from the sofa, where he had been reading, and said: ‘You know, you’re quite right. I’ll see what it’s like this evening …’

  He went to the theatre and …next day I hardly recognised him: my Staś Wokulski had awoken in the old man. He straightened up, his eyes regained their fire, his voice its strength…

  From that time on he went to all the performances, concerts and lectures. Soon afterwards he left for Bulgaria, where he made his huge fortune, and a few months after his return an old gossip (Mrs Meliton) told me Staś was in love …

  I laughed at this chatter, for no one who is in love goes off to a war. Not until now, alas, have I begun to suspect that the old woman was right.

  And yet one never knows with Staś Wokulski. Just supposing …If it were so, how I’d laugh at Dr Szuman, who mocks politics so!

  XXI

  The Journal of the Old Clerk

  THE POLITICAL situation is so uncertain that I should not be surprised if a war broke out in December. People still seem to think that wars can only break out in the spring; evidently they forget that the Franco-Prussian war started in summer. I do not share this prejudice against winter campaigns. In winter, the barns are full and the roads smooth; whereas in spring the peasants have no grain left and the roads are like cake: should a battery pass, you could take a bath there.

  Winter nights, on the other hand, continue ten hours or more, warm clothes are needed, quarters for the troops, typhus …I sometimes thank God he did not make a Moltke of me: he must be worried to death, poor devil. The Austrians, or rather the Hungarians, have marched into Bosnia and Herzegovina for good, but have been received very inhospitably. Even some Hadji Loja or other has turned up, said to be an excellant partisan, who has caused them much trouble. I am sorry for the Hungarian infantry, but even so, today’s Hungarians are worth nothing. When the Huns suppressed them in 1849, they protested that every nation has the right to defend its own freedom. But today? They themselves are pushing their way into Bosnia, uninvited, and they call the Bosnians, who are defending themselves ‘criminals and brigands’.

  Upon my word, I understand politics less and less! And who knows but what Staś Wokulski wasn’t right to lose interest in it (if he has?). But why am I going on about politics, when a great change has come about in my own life? Who would believe that for a week already I have not been concerned with the store? Temporarily, of course, otherwise I would surely go mad with boredom.

  What happened was that Staś wrote to me from Paris (he also asked me to write to him) instructing me to look after the apartment house he bought from the Łeckis. ‘As if I didn’t have enough to do as it is,’ thought I, but what could I do? I left the store in the charge of Lisiecki and Szlangbaum, and set off for Aleje Jerozolimskie to gather information about the house. Before I went, I asked Klein (who lives in the house) to tell me what was going on there. Instead of replying, he made a significant gesture.

  ‘Is there a caretaker in the house?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Klein, with a grimace, ‘he lives on the third floor, front.’

  ‘That’s enough,’ I said, ‘enough, Mr Klein!’ (For I don’t care to hear other people’s opinions without seeing for myself. In any case Klein, a mere lad, might easily grow presumptuous if his elders start asking him for information.)

  Hm, it can’t be helped …So I sent my hat to be cleaned, paid two zloty for it, took a pocket pistol with me just in case, and set off for behind Alexander’s Church.

  There I beheld a yellow house with three storeys, its number coincided …and I even found Staś Wokulski’s name on the plate (old Szlangbaum must have had it put up). I went into the yard: oh my! It stank like a chemical factory. The garbage was piled up to the second floor, while all the gutters were overflowing with soapy water. Only now did I notice that there was a ‘Parisian Laundry’ on the first floor in the yard, with enormous girls like two-humped camels. This encouraged me to go on.

  So I called out: ‘Caretaker!’ For a while no one was to be seen; finally a stout woman appeared, so sooty I could not for the life of me imagine how so much dirt could be found in the vicinity of a laundry, and a Parisian one, too.

  ‘Where’s the caretaker?’ said I, raising my hat.

  ‘What do you want to know for?’ the old woman muttered.

  ‘I’m here on behalf of the landlord.’

  ‘The caretaker is in jail,’ said the old creature.

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Oh, wouldn’t you like to know?’ she cried, ‘because the landlord doesn’t pay his wages, that’s why!’

  A nice thing to hear as introduction! Of course I went from the caretaker to the agent, on the third floor. Already on the stairs I could hear children howling, banging and the voice of a woman exclaiming: ‘You rascal! You idler! Take that! and that!’

  The door was open, in it a female in a less than white wrap was beating three children with a leather strap until it whistled.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said, ‘am I interrupting?’

  Catching sight of me, the children vanished into the depths of the apartment and the female in a wrap, concealing the strap, asked in some confusion: ‘Are you the landlord, sir?’

  ‘No, but I have come on his behalf to see your husband, madam. I am Rzecki.’

  The female looked at me incredulously for a moment, then said: ‘Wicek, run to the warehouse for your father …Sir, pray step into the parlour.’ A ragged lad tore between me and the door, gained the stairs and began sliding down the banisters. Embarrassed, I went into the parlour, the main ornament of which was a sofa with the stuffing coming out.

  ‘This is what it means to be an agent,’ said the female, showing me into an equally shabby chair, ‘my husband works for gentlemen who are said to be rich, but if he didn’t work in the coal warehouse as well, and take in copying for lawyers, we should not have a morsel to eat. And this is our apartment, just look at it,’ she said, ‘for these three black holes we pay a hundred and eighty roubles a year …’

  Suddenly an alarming hissing sound reached us from the kitchen. The female in a wrap rushed out, whispering on the way: ‘Kasia, go in and watch that gentleman!’ And a very wretched little girl in a brown dress and dirty stockings came into the room. She sat down on a chair by the door and watched me with a gaze as suspicious as it was mournful. I would never have believed that people would take me for a thief in my old age …We sat in silence like this for some five minutes, observing one another, when suddenly a shriek was audible, and a banging on the stairs, and at this moment the ragged boy called Wicek ran in from the passage, with someone angrily shouting after him: ‘Oh, you rascal! I’ll give it to
you yet …’

  I divined that Wicek was lively by nature and that the person scolding him was his father. Then the gentleman himself appeared, wearing a stained frock-coat and trousers frayed around the cuffs. He also had a thick grizzled beard and red eyes. He came in, bowed civilly to me and asked: ‘Have I the honour of speaking to Mr Wokulski?’

  ‘No, sir. I am only the friend and manager of Mr Wokulski …’

  ‘Aha,’ he interrupted, shaking me by the hand, ‘I have had the pleasure of noticing you in the store. A fine store, that!’ he sighed, ‘such stores lead to apartment houses, to landed property …that sort of thing.’

  ‘Did you ever own a property?’ I inquired.

  ‘Bah! Why mention it? I expect you will want to see the accounts of the house,’ the agent replied, ‘I’ll be brief: we have two kinds of tenants — some have not paid rent for six months, and the others pay fines to the magistrates, or tax arrears for the landlord. Furthermore, the caretaker gets no wages, the roof leaks, the police keep telling us to remove the garbage, one tenant has started a lawsuit over the cellar rights, and two more are going to court over an incident on account of the attic — as for the ninety roubles I owe to the respected Mr Wokulski …’

  ‘Pray do not worry,’ I interrupted, ‘Staś — that is, Mr Wokulski — will certainly cancel your debt until October, and will then make a new contract with you.’

  The poor former landowner shook me cordially by the hand. An agent like this, who had once owned his own property, seemed a very interesting individual to me; but even more interesting was the house, which produced no income!

  I am bashful by nature: I am shy talking to people I don’t know and afraid of going into other people’s houses (Good Heavens! How long is it since I was in someone else’s house?) But this time the devil got into me, and I asked to meet the tenants of this strange house. Back in 1849 things were sometimes hot, yet a man still got ahead!

  ‘Sir,’ I said to the agent, ‘would you very kindly introduce me to some of the tenants? Staś — that’s to say, Mr Wokulski — asked me to look after his interests till he gets back from Paris …’

  ‘Paris! …’ the agent sighed, ‘I remember Paris in 1859 …I remember how they welcomed the Emperor back from the Italian campaign …’

  ‘Sir!’ I cried, ‘you saw Napoleon’s triumphal return to Paris?’

  He gave me his hand and replied: ‘I saw something better, sir. I was in Italy during the campaign and saw how the Italians welcomed the French on the eve of the battle of Magenta …’

  ‘Magenta? In 1859?’ I asked.

  ‘At Magenta, sir …’

  The former landowner, who could not afford to have the stains cleaned off his frock-coat, and I looked at one another. We gazed into each other’s eyes …Magenta! …1859! Dear me …

  ‘Tell me, sir,’ said I, ‘how the Italians welcomed you on the eve of the battle of Magenta?’

  ‘In 1859, Mr Rzecki — I have the honour of addressing Mr Rzecki?’

  ‘Yes, sir — I am Rzecki, former lieutenant, sir, of the Hungarian infantry, sir …’

  We gazed at one another. Goodness me!

  ‘In 1859,’ the former landowner went on, ‘I was nineteen years younger than I am today, and had some ten thousand roubles a year …Those were the days, Mr Rzecki …It’s true I used to spend the interest and even some of the capital …So when the expropriations came …’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘peasants are human beings too, sir, Mr …’

  ‘Wirski,’ the agent put in.

  ‘Mr Wirski,’ said I, ‘the peasants …’

  ‘It makes no difference to me,’ he interrupted, ‘what the peasants are …Suffice it to say that in 1859 I had some ten thousand a year income (plus loans), and was in Italy. I was curious about the country which was driving out the Huns …And as I had no wife or children, I had no reason to economise either, so I went as a volunteer with the front-line French troops …We reached Magenta, Mr Rzecki, without knowing where we were, nor which of us would see the next day’s sunrise …You know that feeling, sir, when a man uncertain of tomorrow is in the company of men equally uncertain of their tomorrow?’

  ‘Do I! Go on, Mr Wirski …’

  ‘May the devil take me,’ said the former landowner, ‘if such days aren’t the finest in a man’s life …You’re young, cheerful, healthy, you have no wife or children around your neck, you drink and sing and every now and then you look at the dark wall behind which tomorrow is hidden. Ha, you cry, more wine there, for I don’t know what’s behind that wall …Wine, there! Even kisses …! Mr Rzecki,’ the agent muttered, leaning towards me.

  ‘So when you were with the front-line troops at Magenta …?’ I persisted.

  ‘I marched with the cuirassiers,’ said the agent. ‘Do you know the cuirassiers at all, Mr Rzecki? There’s only one sun in the sky, but a squadron of cuirassiers is like a hundred suns …’

  ‘They’re heavy troops,’ I interposed, ‘the infantry can crack them like a nut-cracker cracking nuts …’

  ‘So we were drawing nearer, Mr Rzecki, to some little Italian town, when the local peasants told us the Austrian corps was not far off. We sent them into the town with the order, or rather — request — that when the population caught sight of us, they should make no sign …’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said I, ‘with the enemy in the vicinity.’

  ‘Within a half-hour,’ the agent went on, ‘we were inside the town …A narrow street, crowds on both sides, we could hardly pass through in marching order, women in the windows and on balconies.… And such women, Mr Rzecki! Each one with a bunch of roses in her hand. Those in the street didn’t utter a word, for the Austrians were close by …But the women on the balconies plucked their bouquets to pieces and showered the sweating, dusty cuirassiers with rose-petals thick as snow …Oh, Mr Rzecki, if you’d seen that now: crimson, pink, white — and their hands, those Italian women …The lieutenant blew kisses right and left …Meanwhile, a snowstorm of pink petals scattered over the golden helmets, breastplates and snorting horses …To crown it all, an old Italian with a crooked stick and flowing grey hair stepped up to the lieutenant. He seized the neck of his horse, embraced it, and with a cry of “Evviva l’Italia!” dropped dead on the spot! That was our evening before Magenta.’

  Thus spoke the former landowner, and tears flowed from his eyes down to his stained frock-coat.

  ‘May the devil take me, Mr Wirski,’ I cried, ‘if Staś doesn’t let you have this apartment for nothing!’

  ‘We pay a hundred and eighty roubles a year,’ the agent sobbed. We both dabbed our eyes.

  ‘Sir,’ I said, ‘Magenta was Magenta, but business is business. You may care to introduce me to some of the tenants.’

  ‘Come along,’ said the agent, jumping up from his shabby chair, ‘come along, I’ll show you the oddest of them …’

  He hurried out of the parlour and, sticking his head through the door into what appeared to be the kitchen, cried: ‘Manya, I’m going out. As for Wicek, I’ll attend to you this evening …’

  ‘I’m not the landlord, papa, that you should settle your accounts with me,’ replied a childish voice.

  ‘Forgive him,’ I murmured to the agent.

  ‘I should think so, indeed!’ he replied, ‘he wouldn’t go to sleep if he didn’t have a good hiding first. He’s a good boy,’ he said, ‘a lively boy, but a scamp.’

  We left the apartment and stopped at a door on the staircase. The agent knocked cautiously while the blood ran from my head to my heart, and from my heart down into my boots. It might even have leaked out of my boots and away down the stairs to the gate, had not someone inside replied: ‘Come in …’

  We entered. Three beds. A young man with a black beard in student’s garb was lying on one, with a book in his hand and his feet on the bed-rail. The clothes on the other beds looked as if a hurricane had swept through the room and turned everything upside down. I also saw a trunk, an empty valise and
many books on shelves, on the trunk and on the floor also. Finally there were a few bent chairs and ordinary unpolished tables where, on looking more closely, I observed a painted chess-board and overturned chess-men.

  Then I felt quite faint: for, next to the chess-men I saw two human skulls: in one was tobacco, and the other held sugar.

  ‘What’s this?’ asked the bearded young man without getting up.

  ‘This is Mr Rzecki, the landlord’s plenipotentiary,’ said the agent, indicating me.

  The young man got up on one elbow, eyed me sharply and said: ‘The landlord’s …? At this moment I am landlord here, and do not recollect appointing this gentleman …’

  This reply was so strikingly simple that Wirski and I were dumbfounded. Meanwhile, the young man rose lazily from the bed and began buttoning up his trousers and waistcoat without the slightest haste. Despite the systematic manner with which he followed this occupation, I am certain that at least half the buttons on his garments remained unbuttoned.

  ‘Aaaah!’ he yawned. ‘Pray sit down, gentlemen,’ he said, gesticulating in such a manner that I did not know whether he was asking us to be seated on the valise or on the floor. ‘Warm, Mr Wirski,’ he added, ‘ain’t it? Aaaah!’

  ‘As a matter of fact, your neighbour opposite has been complaining about you young gentlemen,’ the agent replied with a smile.

  ‘What the deuce?’

  ‘That you wander naked about the room …’

  The young man at once flew into a temper: ‘Has the old fool gone off his head? Does he expect us to wear fur coats in a heatwave like this? The impudence of the man, upon my word …’

  ‘Well, please don’t forget he has a grown-up daughter …’

  ‘What’s that to me? I’m not her father. The old booby! Upon my word, he’s lying, we don’t go about naked.’

  ‘I’ve seen you with my own eyes,’ the agent interrupted.

  ‘That’s a lie, upon my word,’ the young man exclaimed, flushing with anger, ‘it’s true that Maleski goes about without his shirt on, and Patkiewicz goes about without underpants, but in a shirt. So Miss Leokadia sees an entire costume …’