The Doll (5 page)

After such soliloquies, he would replace the toys hastily and walk about the deserted store, irritable, followed by his shabby dog.

‘Trade is vanity … politics too … that journey to Turkey as well … Life is mere vanity and folly, of which we've forgotten the start and don't know the end. Where does the truth lie?'

Because he would sometimes make such remarks aloud and in public, Ignacy was regarded as highly eccentric, and solemn matrons with eligible daughters sometimes declared: ‘This is what being a bachelor does to a man!'

Ignacy very rarely left his home, and even then only for short periods, and would usually wander around those streets in which his colleagues and fellow clerks lived. Then his dark-green coat or his tobacco-coloured topcoat, his ash-coloured trousers with the black stripe and his faded top-hat — but most of all his timid manner — attracted general attention. Ignacy knew this and it discouraged him more and more from taking strolls. He preferred to spend holidays lying on the bed and staring for hours at a time at the barred window, behind which could be seen the grey wall of the neighbouring house, adorned by a solitary window, also barred, in which a pot of butter sometimes stood, or the remains of a hare.

But the less he went out, the more frequently he would dream about a long voyage into the countryside or even abroad. More and more often in these dreams he came across green fields and shady woods, through which he wandered, remembering his youth. Gradually a profound yearning awoke within him for these landscapes, and he decided to go off for the whole summer as soon as Wokulski came back.

‘At least once before I die, for a few months,' he would tell his colleagues who, for some reason, smiled at these plans.

Voluntarily cut off from nature and humanity, absorbed in the shallow and restricted whirlpool of the shop and its business, he increasingly felt the need to share his thoughts. But because he mistrusted some people and others would not listen to him and because Wokulski was away, Rzecki talked to himself and — with the utmost secrecy — kept his journal.

… I have been noticing for some years, with regret, that there are far fewer good clerks and sensible politicians in the world than there used to be, for everyone imitates the latest fashions. A humble clerk will equip himself every quarter with new-fangled trousers, a more original hat, and will fasten his tie differently. In the same way, politicians today change their beliefs every quarter: once they all believed in Bismarck, yesterday it was Gambetta and today it's Beaconsfield, who until recently was a Hebrew.

Evidently they forget that one cannot wear fashionable collars in a shop, but just sell them — otherwise there would be no merchandise for the customers. And politicians should not place their hopes in successful individuals, but in great dynasties. Metternich was once as celebrated as Bismarck, Palmerston more so than Beaconsfield — yet who recalls them today? And the Bonaparte family under Napoleon I made Europe tremble, so did Napoleon III, who today, though some say he's bankrupt, holds sway over the destiny of France through his faithful servants MacMahon and Ducrot.

You'll see what the young Napoleon IV, now quietly studying the art of war in England, will achieve! But enough of that … In this journal of mine, I want to talk about myself, not of the Bonapartes, so that people may learn how good clerks are created, not to mention sensible (if not learned) politicians. No academies are required for this purpose, merely a good example, both at home and in the shop.

My father was a soldier when young, and in his old age he was a doorman at the Commission of Internal Affairs. He carried himself as erect as a gold block, had small whiskers and a pointed moustache; he wore a black kerchief around his neck and a silver ring in his ear.

We lived in the Old Town with my aunt, who ironed and mended linen for officials. We had two little rooms on the fourth floor, where there was little luxury but much happiness, at least for me. The most impressive object in our little room was the table at which my father would gum envelopes when he came back from work; in aunt's room, most of the space was taken up by a wash-tub. I remember how I'd fly kites in the street on fine days, or blow soap-bubbles in the apartment when it rained.

The walls of my aunt's room were entirely hung with portraits of saints; but although there were a great many, they did not equal the number of Napoleons adorning my father's room. There was one portrait of Napoleon in Egypt, another at Wagram, a third before Austerlitz, a fourth in Moscow, the fifth on his coronation day, the sixth an apotheosis. But when my aunt, who resented so many secular pictures, hung up a brass crucifix on his wall, my father — not to offend Napoleon — bought himself a bronze bust and placed it over the bed.

‘You'll see, you unbeliever,' my aunt sometimes lamented, ‘you'll roast in Hell for these notions …'

‘The Emperor won't let them do me an injustice,' my father replied.

Often my father's old comrades came to see us: Mr Domański, who was also a doorman at the Treasury, and Mr Raczek who had a vegetable stand on the Dunaj. They were simple people (Mr Domański was even fond of absinthe), but thoughtful politicians. All of them, not excluding my aunt, held as firmly as possible to the belief that though Napoleon I had died in captivity, the Bonaparte family would rise again. After the first Napoleon, a second would be found, and even if he came to a bad end, another would come along, until the world had been put to rights.

‘We must always be ready for the first summons!' said my father.

‘For no one knows the day, nor yet the hour,' Mr Domański would add.

And Mr Raczek, pipe in mouth, signified his approval by spitting as far as my aunt's door.

‘Spit in my wash-tub, and I'll give you what for!' my aunt cried.

‘I daresay, but I won't take it,' Mr Raczek muttered, spitting in the direction of the fireplace.

‘Oh, what ruffians these Grenadiers are …' my aunt said crossly.

‘You always fancied Hussars, I know, I know …'

Later on, Mr Raczek married my aunt.

Wishing me to be quite ready when the hour of justice struck, my father himself worked on my education. He taught me reading, writing, gumming envelopes and — most important — drill. He started me drilling very early, when my shirt was dangling out of my knickerbockers. I remember how my father would shout: ‘Right turn!' or ‘By the left — quick march!' and would tug me in the proper direction by the tail of that garment.

They were very strict lessons.

Sometimes at night my father would awaken me with the cry ‘To arms!' and would drill me then and there despite the cries and sobs of my aunt. He would end by saying: ‘Ignacy, be prepared, my child, for we do not know the day nor yet the hour … Remember that God sent the Bonapartes to put the world to rights and as long as there is no order and no justice in the world, then the Emperor's last testament will not have been carried out.'

I cannot say that my father's unshakeable trust in the Bonapartes and in justice was shared by his two comrades. Sometimes when Mr Raczek's leg hurt him, he would curse and groan and say: ‘Eh, old man, you know we've been waiting too long for a new Napoleon. I'm turning grey and I'm not the man I was, and there's still no sight nor sound of him. Soon they'll turn us all into beggars at the church door, and I daresay Napoleon will join us for vespers.'

‘He'll find young men.'

‘What kind of young men, eh? The best of them are in their graves and the youngest are — worth nothing. Some have never even heard of Napoleon.'

‘My boy has, and will remember,' said my father, winking in my direction.

Mr Domański was still more dispirited.

‘The world is going to the dogs,' he declared, shaking his head. ‘Food's getting more expensive, a man's wages are gobbled up in rent and even absinthe isn't what it was. In the old days a glass would set a man right, but now you need a whole tumblerful and yet you're still as empty as if you'd been drinking water. Even Napoleon himself wouldn't live to see justice done!'

To this my father would reply: ‘Justice will be done even if Napoleon doesn't come. But a Napoleon will be found all the same.'

‘I don't believe you,' muttered Mr Raczek.

‘And what if he is found, what then?' my father asked.

‘We shall not live to see that day.'

‘I will,' said my father, ‘and Ignacy will live still longer.'

Even then my father's phrases engraved themselves deep in my mind, but later events gave them a miraculous and almost prophetic character.

Mr Raczek visited him every day, and once — looking at his skinny hands and sunken cheeks — whispered: ‘Well, old fellow, now surely we shan't live to see Napoleon?'

To this my father calmly replied: ‘I'm not going to die until I hear.'

Mr Raczek nodded, and my aunt wiped away her tears and thought my father was rambling. How could they think otherwise if death was already at the door and my father was still awaiting Napoleon?

He was already very sick, had been given the last Sacraments, when Mr Raczek ran in a few days later, strangely agitated, and stopped in the centre of the room to cry: ‘Do you know, old fellow, that
a Napoleon has turned up?'

‘Where is he?' my aunt cried.

‘He's already in France.'

My father rose, then fell back on his pillows again. Only he stretched out his hand to me and looked at me in a way I will never forget, and whispered: ‘Remember! Remember everything …'

With that, he died.

In later life I confirmed how prophetic my father's views had been. We all saw how the second Napoleon's star rose over Italy and Hungary; and although it sank at Sedan, I do not believe it has been extinguished for ever. What is Bismarck to me, or Gambetta or Beaconsfield, for that matter? Injustice will rule the world until a new Napoleon comes.

A few months after my father's death, Mr Raczek and Mr Domański and my aunt Susanna took council together: what was to be done with me? Mr Domański wanted me to go into his office and slowly rise to a copyist; my aunt advised a trade, and Mr Raczek was all for the vegetable trade. But when they asked me what I wanted to do, I replied: ‘Go into a shop.'

‘Who knows if that wouldn't be for the best?' Mr Raczek commented. ‘And which shop would you like to work in?'

‘The one in Podwal Street, that has a sabre over the door and a Cossack in the window.'

‘I know,' said my aunt. ‘He means Mincel's.'

‘We could try,' said Mr Domański. ‘We all know Mincel.'

Mr Raczek spat into the fireplace in token of agreement.

‘Good gracious,' my aunt cried, ‘that booby will start spitting at me next, now that my brother is gone … Oh, what an unhappy orphan I am!'

‘Big deal!' Mr Raczek exclaimed. ‘Get married, my lady, then you won't be one …'

‘Where shall I find anyone foolish enough to have me?'

‘Hm. I might take you myself, as I've no one to rub me with alcohol,' Mr Raczek muttered, leaning heavily over to knock out his pipe.

My aunt burst into tears, then Mr Domański spoke up: ‘Why make such a to-do? You've no one to care for you, and he has no housekeeper; get married and look after Ignacy, and you'll have a child ready-made. And a cheap one, too, for Mincel will give him food and lodging; you need only give him clothes.'

‘Eh?' asked Mr Raczek, looking at my aunt.

‘Well, get the lad apprenticed first, then … maybe I'll risk it,' replied my aunt. ‘I've always had the feeling I'd end my days badly …'

‘Let's be off to Mincel's' said Mr Raczek, getting up. ‘But mind you don't let me down, now,' he added, shaking his fist at my aunt.

He and Mr Domański went off and returned an hour and a half later, both very red in the face. Mr Raczek was breathing heavily, and Mr Domański had some difficulty in keeping steady on his feet, probably because our stairs were awkward.

‘Well?' asked my aunt.

‘
The new Napoleon has been thrown into prison
!' answered Mr Domański.

‘Not prison, the fortress, ow … ow …' added Mr Raczek and threw his cap on the table.

‘Yes, but what about the boy?' asked my aunt.

‘He's to go to Mincel's tomorrow with his clothes and his linen,' said Mr Domański.

‘Not in the fortress, ow … ow … but in Ham-ham … or is it Cham … I don't even know.'

‘Why, you're drunk, you fools!' cried my aunt, seizing Mr Raczek by the arm.

‘Listen here, no familiarities,' cried Mr Raczek, ‘familiarities after the wedding, not now … He's to go to Mincel's tomorrow with his clothes and his linen … Oh dear, poor Napoleon!'

My aunt pushed Mr Raczek out of the house, then Mr Domański, and threw his cap after him.

‘Be off, you tipsy boobies!'

‘Long live Napoleon!' cried Mr Raczek, and Mr Domański began singing:

‘Passer-by, when your eyes this way you incline,

Come closer and ponder this inscription …

Come closer and ponder this inscription …'

His voice died away slowly as if he were descending into a well, then silence fell, but that voice reached our ears again from the street. After a while there was an uproar down below, and when I looked out I saw a policeman taking Mr Raczek to the police-station.

Such were the incidents preceding my taking up the trade of shop-keeper.

I had known Mincel's shop for a long time, for my father used to send me there to buy paper, and aunt for soap. I would always hurry there with joyful curiosity to look at the toys in the window. As I recall, there was a large mechanical Cossack in one window, which jumped and waved its arms by itself, and in the doorway were a drum, a sabre and a wooden horse with a real tail.