The Doll (11 page)

Izabela, frustrated, lets the fashion magazine fall and reclines on the
chaise-longue.
Her hands, clasped as if in prayer, rest on the arm and she looks at the sky dreamily. The Easter collection, the new toilette, the clouds — all blend together in her mind's eye against a background of remorse for the dinner-service and a slight feeling of shame at having sold it.

‘Oh, never mind …' she tells herself, and again she wishes the clouds would part, even if only for a while. But the clouds thicken and within her heart remorse, shame and uneasiness increase. Her gaze falls on the little table by the
chaise-longue,
and on a prayer-book bound in ivory. Izabela picks it up and slowly, page by page, seeks the ‘Acte de resignation' and when she has found it, she begins to read: ‘
Que votre nom soit béni à jamais, bien qui avez voulu m'éprouver par cette peine
.' As she reads, the grey sky lightens and at the last words ‘
et d'attendre en paix votre divin secours
…' the clouds break asunder, a fragment of bright blue appears. Izabela's boudoir fills with light and her soul with tranquillity. Now she is certain that her prayers have been heard, that she will have the most splendid toilette and smartest church for the Easter collection.

At this moment the boudoir door softly opens: Flora appears, tall, in black, timid, holding a letter between two fingers and saying softly: ‘From Countess Karolowa.'

‘Ah, about the collection,' Izabela replies with a charming smile. ‘You haven't been to see me all day, Flora.'

‘I didn't want to interrupt.'

‘My boredom?' Izabela asks. ‘Who knows if it mightn't be more amusing to bore ourselves together?'

‘The letter …' says the woman in black timidly, holding it out to Izabela.

‘I know what it says,' Izabela interrupts. ‘Sit here with me for a while and, if it is not too much trouble, read me the letter.'

Flora shyly sits down, carefully takes a paper-knife from the bureau and slits the envelope very carefully. She replaces the paper-knife then puts down the envelope, unfolds the letter and reads a letter in French in a quiet and melodious voice:

Flora finished the letter but dared not raise her eyes. Finally she plucked up courage and looked: Izabela was seated on the
chaise-longue
, pale, her fists clenched.

‘What have you to say to that, Flora?' she asked presently.

‘I think,' said Flora quietly, ‘that your dear aunt makes her position very clear.'

‘How humiliating!' Izabela whispered angrily, striking her hand on the
chaise-longue
.

‘It is humiliating to offer three thousand roubles when other people offer five. But I see no other cause for humiliation.'

‘How she treats us! We must be ruined already …'

‘Not at all, Bela,' Flora interrupted, with animation. ‘This unkind letter proves we are not ruined. Aunt likes being unkind but also knows how to spare the unfortunate. If you were threatened by ruin, she would be a sensitive and kindly comforter.'

‘I would not thank her for it.'

‘You need have no fear. Tomorrow we shall obtain five thousand roubles with which we can keep going for six months … well, three months. A month or two …'

‘They will auction our house.'

‘That is merely a formality. You may profit by it, since nowadays a house is merely a burden. And you are to inherit a hundred thousand roubles from Aunt Hortensja. Moreover,' Flora added presently, raising her eyebrows, ‘I am not at all sure but that your father may not still have a fortune. Everyone believes he has …'

Izabela leaned forward to seize Flora's hand.

‘Flora,' she said in a low voice, ‘why tell me such things? Do you regard me as a marriageable woman who sees and understands nothing? You think I don't know', she added, still more softly, ‘that for a month now you have been borrowing money for the housekeeping from Mikołaj? …'

‘Perhaps it is your father's wish.'

‘And does he ask you to slip a few roubles into his purse every morning?'

Flora looked her in the eyes and shook her head.

‘You know too much,' she replied, ‘but that is not the whole of the matter. For the last two weeks or so your father has ten roubles and more every day.'

‘So he is contracting debts …'

‘No, your father never contracts debts in town. The moneylenders come to the apartment with the cash, and your father transacts his business with them in his study. You don't know him in this respect.'

‘So where is he getting this money from?'

‘I don't know. All I know is that he has money, and has always had some.'

‘But why is he permitting me to sell the silver?' Izabela asked.

‘Perhaps to vex the family.'

‘And who has bought up his bills of exchange?'

Miss Flora made a gesture of resignation.

‘It was not Krzeszowska,' she said, ‘I know that for certain. It was either Aunt Hortensja, or …'

‘Or …'

‘Your father himself. You know how often your father has done things to vex the rest of the family and laugh at them afterwards…'

‘Why should he want to vex you and me?'

‘He thinks your mind is at rest. A daughter should trust her father implicitly!'

‘Ah, I understand …' said Izabela, pondering.

Her black-robed cousin slowly rose and went out softly.

Izabela began to look around her room again, at the black boughs waving outside the windows, at a few sparrows chirping and perhaps building a nest, at the sky which had become uniformly grey without any bright streaks. The question of the Easter collection and her new toilette haunted her, but both matters seemed so trivial to her now, almost laughable, that while thinking of them she imperceptibly shrugged.

She was tormented by other questions: should she not hand the dinner-service over to her aunt? And where was her father getting that money? If he had had it before, why did he allow debts to be contracted from Mikołaj? And if he had none, where was he able to obtain it? If she let her aunt have the dinner-service and silver, she might lose the last opportunity of disposing of them at a profit; but if she sold them for five thousand, these heirlooms might in reality be acquired by the wrong sort of people, just as the Countess said.

Suddenly she broke off: her quick ear had caught a sound in the other rooms. It was a man's footsteps, level, measured. The carpet in the drawing room stifled them, but in the dining room they again grew louder, and softer again in her bedroom, as if someone were tip-toeing.

‘Come in, papa,' Izabela said, hearing a tap on her door.

Tomasz came in. She rose from the
chaise-longue,
but her father made her sit down again. He embraced her, kissed her forehead, then seated himself beside her, glancing at the large looking-glass on one wall. There he observed his own handsome features, his grey moustache, irreproachable black waistcoat and smooth trousers which looked as if they had just come from the tailor, and saw that all was well.

‘I hear', he told his daughter with a smile, ‘that you have been receiving correspondence that has upset you.'

‘Oh papa, if you only knew the tone aunt uses …'

‘Probably the tone of a woman with disordered nerves. You should not be vexed with her.'

‘If it were only that … But I am afraid she may be right, and that our silver may find its way to the table of some banker or other.'

She leaned her head on her father's shoulder. Tomasz glanced involuntarily at the mirror and admitted to himself that they formed a remarkably fine couple. The uneasiness on his daughter's face made a particularly striking contrast with his own tranquillity. He smiled.

‘Bankers' tables!' he echoed. ‘Our ancestral silver has already graced the table of Tartars, Cossacks and rebellious peasantry — far from disgracing us, this has only brought us honour. He who fights must risk losing.'

‘They were lost in wars …' Izabela interposed.

‘And is there no war on today? It is the weapons that have changed, that's all. Instead of an axe or scythe or scimitar, they fight with roubles. Joanna understood this very well when she sold her family estate — not merely a dinner-service — and demolished the ruins of her castle to build granaries.'

‘So we have lost…' Izabela whispered.

‘No, my child,' said Tomasz, straightening his back. ‘We are just beginning to win, and that no doubt is what my sister and her coterie are afraid of. They are so fast asleep that they take fright at every sign of vitality, every bold step I take,' he added as if to himself.

‘You, papa?'

‘Yes. They thought I would beg them for help. Joanna would be glad to make me her plenipotentiary. But I declined a pension with thanks, and have drawn closer to the bourgeoisie. I have gained their respect, and this is beginning to alarm our little world. They expected me to go under, but now they see I may go forward to the top.'

‘You, papa?'

‘Yes, I. Hitherto I said nothing, for I lacked suitable partners. But today I met a man who understands my ideas, and I shall begin to act.'

‘Who can he be?' Izabela looked at her father in surprise.

‘A certain Wokulski, a tradesman, a man of iron. With his help I plan to organize our bourgeoisie and form a company for trading with the East. In this way I will support our industry …'

‘You, papa?'

‘And then we shall see who will get to the top, albeit, perhaps, through elections to the city council …'

Izabela listened to this with wide-open eyes.

‘Is not this man of whom you speak, papa,' she whispered, ‘is he not a speculator, an adventurer?'

‘So you do not know him?' Tomasz inquired. ‘He is one of our tradesmen.'

‘Yes, I know his shop, it is very elegant,' said Izabela, thoughtfully. ‘There's an old clerk who looks eccentric but is really very civil … Ah, I believe I met the proprietor too. He looks like a boor …'

‘Wokulski a boor?' asked Tomasz in surprise. ‘I agree he is somewhat stiff in his manners, but he is most civil.'

Izabela shook her head.

‘He's a disagreeable man,' she replied animatedly. ‘Now I remember him. When I was in his shop on Tuesday I asked him the price of a fan. You should have seen how he looked at me! He didn't answer, but beckoned with that huge red hand of his to a clerk (quite an elegant young man), and muttered in a voice in which I could hear his anger: “Mr Morawski … or Mraczewski” (I don't recall) “this lady wants to know the price of this fan.” Oh, you have picked on a very disappointing partner, papa,' Izabela smiled.

‘He's a man of extraordinary energy, a man of iron,' replied Tomasz. ‘Such men behave like that. You will make their acquaintance, for I plan to hold a few evening parties here, at home. They're all originals, but he is more so than the rest.'

‘You intend to receive these men, papa?'

‘I must have talks with some of them. And as for our own people,' he added, looking his daughter in the eye, ‘I promise you that when they learn who has been here, not one of them will be absent from my drawing-room.'

At this moment Flora entered to announce dinner. Tomasz gave his hand to his daughter and the three went into the dining-room; the tureen and Mikołaj were already there, the latter in a frock coat and large white tie.

‘I can't help smiling at Bela,' said Tomasz to Flora, who was serving soup from the tureen, ‘just think, Flora — Wokulski makes the impression of a boor on her! Do you know him?'

‘Everyone knows Wokulski nowadays,' Flora replied, handing Mikołaj a plate for his master. ‘He is not elegant, I agree — but he's a striking man.'

‘Like a tree-trunk with red hands,' Izabela interposed with a smile.

‘He reminds me of Trosti, that Colonel of the Rifles, in Paris,' said Tomasz.

‘And he makes me think of the statue of the victorious gladiator,' said Flora in a melodious tone. ‘Do you remember, Bela—the one with the uplifted sword that we saw in Florence. A stern face, even fierce — but handsome.'

‘And his red hands?' Izabela asked.

‘He got them frozen in Siberia,' Flora said significantly.

‘
Repenting the enthusiasm of his youth
,' said Tomasz. ‘We can forgive him that.'