The Doll (10 page)

Suddenly rumour had it that Mr Łęcki's affairs were in a deplorable state, and Izabela found herself with only two suitors remaining from a whole battalion: these were a certain Baron and a certain marshal, both of them wealthy but old.

Now Izabela saw the ground was slipping away from beneath her feet, so she decided to lower her standards. But since the Baron and the marshal, in spite of their fortunes, aroused an unconquerable aversion in her, she postponed her final choice from one day to the next. Meanwhile, Mr Łęcki had quit society. The marshal could not wait for a reply and left for his country estate, while the heartbroken Baron went abroad — and Miss Izabela remained entirely alone. Of course, she knew that either of them would return if she summoned him, but which was she to choose, how could she stifle her aversion? What concerned her most of all, though, was whether it was possible to make such a sacrifice as this without any assurance that one day she might again acquire a fortune and would again be free to make her own choice. This time she would make her choice fully realising how difficult it was for her to live outside drawing-room society …

One thing greatly facilitated her marriage for rank. The fact was that Izabela had never been in love. This was due to her cold nature, and her belief that marriage survives with no poetic adjuncts, and finally an ideal love, the most extraordinary ever heard of.

Once in an art gallery, she had seen a statue of Apollo, which made such a strong impression upon her that she bought a fine copy, and had it placed in her boudoir. She would gaze at it for hours, would think of him … and who can tell how many kisses had warmed the hands and feet of the marble god? And a miracle came to pass: caressed by a loving woman, the clay had come to life. When one night she went to sleep weeping, the immortal stepped down from his pedestal and came to her in a laurel wreath, gleaming with a mystic glow.

He sat on the edge of her bed, gazed at her with eyes from which eternity looked out, then took her in his powerful embrace and brushed away her tears and cooled her fever with kisses from his pallid lips.

Henceforward he visited her more and more often, and as she swooned in his embraces, the god of light would whisper to her secrets of heaven and earth which had never before been uttered by a human tongue. And for love of her he wrought a still greater miracle, for his heavenly likeness was revealed to her in the features of men who at any time had made an impression on her.

Once he resembled a general (somewhat younger), who had won a battle and gazed upon the deaths of thousands of warriors. On another occasion he reminded her of the features of a celebrated tenor, to whom women threw flowers and whose carriage had been unharnessed by a crowd. Then he was a witty and handsome prince of the blood, a member of one of the oldest ruling families; or he was a brave fireman who won the Legion d'honneur for saving three persons from the fifth floor; or he was a great painter who had startled the world with the scope of his imagination; and sometimes he was a Venetian gondolier, or a circus acrobat of great charm and strength.

For a while, each of these men had captured Izabela's secret thoughts, to each of them she had devoted the most silent of sighs, knowing that for one reason or another she could not love him — and each had appeared to her in the shape of the god, in dreams that were half-real. From these visions, Izabela's eyes took on a new expression — a supernatural brooding. Sometimes her eyes would gaze far above other people, and beyond this world; and when the golden and ash-coloured hair on her temples was disordered, as if dishevelled by a mysterious breath, then the observers seemed to behold an angel or saint.

A year earlier, at one such moment, Wokulski had seen Izabela. From that time onward his heart had known no peace.

Almost simultaneously, Tomasz had broken with society and joined the merchants' club as a sign of his revolutionary sympathies. He used to play whist there with persons he had formerly despised, such as tanners, brush-makers and distillers, telling all and sundry that the aristocracy had no right to wall themselves up in exclusive society, but should lead the way for the enlightened bourgeois and, through them, for the whole nation. In return, the tanners, brushmakers and distillers all agreed that Mr Łęcki was the one aristocrat who was carrying out his duties towards the country, and doing so in a conscientious manner. They might have added daily, from nine in the evening till midnight.

While Mr Łęcki thus shouldered the burden of his position, Izabela passed her time in the solitude and silence of her fine apartment. Sometimes Mikołaj would be dozing in an armchair, Flora fast asleep with her ears plugged with cotton-wool, yet sleep would not come to Izabela's boudoir, it was driven away by memories. And she would rise from her bed to pace for hours, wearing only a light robe, through the drawing-room where the carpet deadened her steps and the only light was that of two dim street-lamps.

As she paced about the great room, her mournful thoughts gathered about her, and she saw a procession of all the people who had ever been there. Here the old Countess was nodding her head; two duchesses were inquiring from a prelate whether or not a child might be christened with rose water? A swarm of young men cast longing glances upon her or attempted to arouse her interest by feigned coldness; a garland of young ladies caressed her with their gaze, admiring or envying. The room seemed full of lights, rustling silks, conversations, and the greater part, like butterflies around a flower, framed Izabela's beauty. Wherever she was, everything else paled; other women were her background, and men her slaves.

Yet all this had passed … and today it was cold, dark, empty in the drawing-room … There was only herself and that invisible spider of sorrow, which always spins its grey web in those places where we have been happy and from which happiness has fled. Has fled! … Izabela pressed her hands together to stifle the tears of which she was ashamed even in solitude and at night.

They had all deserted her, except Countess Karolowa who, whenever she was in a bad temper, would come and spread her skirts over the sofa to sigh and preach: ‘Yes, Bela dear — you must admit you have made some quite unforgivable blunders. I'm not referring to Victor Emmanuel, for that was but the fleeting caprice of a king — a rather liberal king, too, and anyhow he was terribly in debt. For relationships such as that one needs — I won't say “tact”, but experience,' the Countess went on, modestly casting down her eyes. ‘But to let slip — or, if you prefer it, reject — the Duke of St Auguste — my dear! A young man, wealthy, very well thought of, and with such a promising career before him … Only now he's leading a deputation to the Holy Father and will certainly obtain a special benediction for the whole family … and Prince Chambord calls him
cher cousin
… Oh, my dear!'

‘I think it is too late to regret anything now, aunt,' Izabela put in.

‘Do you suppose I want to upset you, poor child? As it is, misfortunes lie in store for you which only profound faith can alleviate. You probably know that your father has lost everything, even what was left of your dowry?'

‘What can I do?'

‘But only you can help him, and so you should,' said the Countess emphatically. ‘Admittedly the marshal is not an Adonis, but … if one's duties were easy to carry out, there would be no need for self-sacrifice. Anyhow, my dear, who can stop us from having some ideal in the depths of our hearts, the thought of which can sweeten the most difficult times? Finally, I can assure you that the position of a pretty woman with an old husband is by no means the worst imaginable. Everyone takes an interest in her, they all talk about her, pay tribute to her devotion and yet again an old husband is less demanding than one of middle age.'

‘But, aunt…'

‘No exaltation, Bela, if you please! You are not sixteen any longer and must take life seriously. You cannot, after all, sacrifice your father's very existence, not to mention that of Flora and your servants for a mere whim! Finally, do remember how much good you — with your noble heart — might do in controlling a large fortune.'

‘But, aunt — the marshal is hideous. It isn't a wife he needs, but a nursemaid to wipe his mouth for him …'

‘I don't insist on the marshal, but the Baron …'

‘The Baron is still older, he paints his face and there are revolting marks on his hands.'

The Countess rose from the sofa.

‘I don't insist, my dear, I am no match-maker; leave that to Mrs Meliton. I merely wish to point out that disaster is hanging over your father's head.'

‘We still have the house.'

‘Which they will sell by midsummer so that even your share will decrease.'

‘How so? … A house that cost a hundred thousand to be sold for sixty thousand?'

‘It's not worth more, your father spent too much on it. I know this from the builder who surveyed it for the Baroness Krzeszowska.'

‘But we still have the dinner-service and silver,' Izabela exclaimed, wringing her hands.

The Countess kissed her several times.

‘My dear, dear child,' she said with a sob, ‘to think I must hurt you so … Listen to me! Your father still has debts in the form of bills of exchange — several thousand roubles. But these debts — mind this — these bills have been bought up by someone — a few days ago, at the end of March. We think it may have been Krzeszowska…'

‘How vile!' Izabela whispered. ‘But less of this … My dinner-service and the silver will cover these few thousand roubles.'

‘They are worth far more, but who will buy such costly things nowadays?'

‘In any case, I will try,' said the feverish Izabela. ‘I'll ask Mrs Meliton to handle it for me …'

‘Just think, though — is it not a pity to dispose of such fine heirlooms?'

Izabela laughed.

‘Ah, aunt — so I am to hesitate between selling myself and the dinner-service? For I should never permit our furniture to be taken away … Ah, that Krzeszowska … buying up father's bills of exchange … how monstrous!'

‘Well, perhaps it was not she.'

‘So some other enemy has turned up, worse than Krzeszowska?'

‘Perhaps it was Aunt Honorata,' the Countess soothed her. ‘I don't know. Perhaps she wants to help Tomasz by threatening him. But goodbye, dear child, adieu …'

At this point the conversation ceased; it had been in Polish, copiously ornamented with French, which made it resemble a face disfigured by a rash.

I
T IS
the beginning of April, one of those months which bridge winter and spring. The snow has already gone, but green leaves have not yet appeared; the trees are black, the grass-plots grey and the sky grey as marble cut across with silver and gilt veins.

It is about five in the afternoon. Izabela is in her boudoir, reading Zola's latest novel,
A Page of Love.
She reads inattentively, every now and then raising her eyes to gaze out of the window, half-consciously thinking that the branches of the trees are black and the sky grey. Then she reads on, or looks round the boudoir and half-consciously thinks that her furniture, covered with that sky-blue material, and her blue gown have a sort of greyish tinge, and that the loops of the white curtains are like great icicles. Then she forgets what she was thinking and wonders: ‘What was I thinking of? … Ah, the Easter collection …' Then suddenly she feels like taking a carriage drive, and at the same time regrets that the sky is so grey, that its gilded veins are so narrow … She is tormented by almost imperceptible uneasiness and expectancy, but is not sure what it is she is waiting for: whether for the clouds to part, or for the footman to come in with a letter inviting her to take part in the Easter collection. It is very soon now, but she has not yet been invited to take part.

She goes on with the novel, that chapter when Mr Rambaud repairs little Joanne's broken doll one starry night, when Helene melts into futile tears and Father Jouve advises her to marry. Izabela shares Helene's grief and who knows whether, if stars instead of clouds had been in the sky, she too might have burst into tears at this moment? After all, it is but a few days to the Easter collection, and they still have not invited her to take part. She knew she would be invited, but why the delay.

‘Those women who seem to seek God so feverishly, are sometimes unhappy beings whose hearts are shattered by passion. They attend church to adore a man there,' says Father Jouve.

‘The good priest wanted so much to calm poor Helene,' thought Izabela, and suddenly threw the book aside. Father Jouve has reminded her that for two months she has been embroidering a sash for a church bell, and has not yet finished it. She rises and draws a small table with embroidery frame and box of silks to the window, unwinds the sash and begins feverishly to embroider it with roses and crosses. Calmed by her work, she feels more courageous. No one who serves the Church as she does will be forgotten at the Easter collection. She chooses silks, threads, needles, and continues to sew. Her eye goes from pattern to material, her hands rise and fall, but in her thoughts the question of her dress for the collection and her toilette for Easter begins to arise. This question soon fills her attention entirely, she blinds her eyes and stops her hand. Her dress, hat, cloak and parasol must all be new, but there is so little time left, they are not even ordered, let alone chosen!

Here she recalls that her dinner-service and the silver are already at the jewellers, already a buyer may be considering them and today or tomorrow they will be sold. Izabela feels a constriction of the heart for her dinner-service and the silver, but gains some relief at the thought of the Easter collection and her new toilette. She will wear a very splendid one, no doubt, but what is it to be?

She pushes the embroidery frame aside and takes
Le Moniteur de la Mode
from a little table on which lie Shakespeare, Dante, an album of European celebrities and several journals, and begins to look through it attentively. Here is a dinner gown: here spring outfits for young girls, unmarried ladies, wives and their mothers; here there are afternoon gowns, dinner dresses, walking-out dresses; half a dozen new hat designs, a dozen different materials and dozens of different colours … Which is she to choose? It is impossible to make her choice without the advice of Flora and the modiste …