The Doll (6 page)

The interior of the shop looked like a large cellar; I could never see the far end of it because of the gloom. All I know is that pepper, coffee and herbs were sold on the left, at a counter behind which huge cupboards rose from floor to ceiling. But paper, ink, plates and glasses were sold at the counter to the right, where there were glass cupboards, and for soap and washing-powder one went into the depths of the shop, where barrels and piles of wooden boxes were visible.

Even the rafters were loaded. Suspended there were long rows of bladders full of mustard seeds or paint, a huge lamp with a shade, which burned all day long in winter, a net full of corks, and finally a stuffed crocodile, nearly six feet long.

The owner of the shop was Jan Mincel, an old man with a red face and a tuft of grey hair on his chin. At all hours of the day he would sit by the window, in a leather armchair, dressed in a blue fustian robe, a white apron and a white nightcap. In front of him on a table lay a great ledger, in which he kept the accounts, and just above his head was a bunch of canes, intended mainly for sale. The old man took money, gave change, wrote in his ledger and sometimes dozed off, but despite all these tasks, he watched with unbelievable vigilance over the flow of business throughout the entire shop. From time to time, he tugged at the string of the mechanical Cossack for the diversion of passers-by in the street, and also — which pleased us least — he punished us with one of the canes for various offences.

I say ‘us' because there were three candidates for corporal punishment: myself, and the old man's two nephews, Franz and Jan.

I became aware of my master's watchfulness and his skill in using the cane on the third day of work at the shop.

Franz was measuring out ten groszy-worth of raisins for a woman. Seeing that one raisin had fallen on the counter (the old man had his eyes closed at this moment), I stealthily picked it up and ate it. I was about to extricate a pit which had got between two teeth when I felt something like the heavy touch of burning iron on my back.

‘You rascal!' old Mincel roared, and before I realised what was happening, he had slashed me several times from top to toe with his cane.

I coiled up with the pain, but from that time on I never dared taste anything in the shop. Almonds, raisins, even bread-rolls tasted like dust and ashes to me.

After settling matters with me in this way, the old man hung the cane up, entered the sale of raisins in his ledger and, with the most benevolent look in the world, began to tug at the Cossack by its string. Looking at his half-smiling face and blinking eyes, I could hardly believe that this jovial old gentleman had such power in his arm. And it was not until this moment that I noticed how the Cossack, seen from within the shop, looked less comical than from the street.

Our shop dealt in groceries, haberdashery and soap. The groceries were sold by Franz Mincel, a young man a little over thirty, with red hair and a sleepy face. It was he who most frequently got trouncings from his uncle, for he smoked a pipe, came to work late, disappeared from home at night and, above all, was careless about weighing out goods. However, Jan Mincel — the younger, who was in charge of the haberdashery and, apart from his clumsiness, was distinguished by the mildness of his nature, was beaten for sneaking out coloured paper and writing letters on it to young ladies.

Only August Katz, who sold the soap, never suffered any disciplinary admonition. This underfed weakling of a man was marked by his extraordinary punctuality. He came to work first, cut up the soap and weighed the soap-powder like a machine; he ate whatever was set before him, almost ashamed to betray any physical needs. At ten in the evening he disappeared.

I passed eight years in these surroundings, and each day was as similar to the next as drops of autumn rain. I rose at five, washed and swept the shop. At six I opened the main door and the window, and opened the shutters. At this moment August Katz would appear from somewhere outside, take off his top-coat, put on his apron and take his place in silence between a barrel of grey soap and a column consisting of bricks of yellow soap. Then old Mincel used to hurry in through the yard, muttering: ‘
Morgen
!' straighten his night-cap, take the ledger out of a drawer, sit down in his armchair and give the mechanical Cossack several tugs. Jan Mincel did not appear until afterwards, then, having kissed his uncle's hand, he would take his place at his counter, where he caught flies in summer and in winter drew figures with his finger.

They usually had to bring Franz into the shop. He came in with his eyes sleepy, yawning, kissed his uncle's hand indifferently and scratched his head all day long in a manner which might have indicated great weariness or great grief. Hardly a morning passed without his uncle, eyeing his tactics, grimacing with derision, asking him: ‘Well … where did you go, you rascal?'

Meanwhile noises began in the street, and more and more passers-by moved along beyond the shop-window. Now a servant girl, then a woodcutter, then a gentleman in a cap, or a tailor's apprentice, or perhaps a lady wearing a cloak — they passed to and fro like figures in a moving panorama. Carriages, droshkies, carts drove down the street — to and fro … more and more people, more carts and carriages, until finally one great flood of traffic was flowing along, from which someone would pop into our shop from time to time on an errand: ‘A twist of pepper …' ‘A pound of coffee, please …' ‘Rice …' ‘A half-pound of soap …' ‘A groszy's worth of bay leaves …'

Gradually the shop filled up, mainly with servant girls and poorly dressed women. Then Franz Mincel scowled the most, as he opened or shut drawers, wrapped up groceries in twists of grey paper, ran up his ladder, wrapped things, all with the dismal look of a man forbidden to yawn. Finally, so many customers collected that both Jan Mincel and I often had to help Franz out.

The old man kept writing and giving change, sometimes touching his white night-cap, the blue tassel of which hung down over one eye. Sometimes he tugged at the Cossack, and sometimes seized a cane with the speed of lightning and used it upon one of his nephews. I could rarely understand what was amiss: for his nephews were reluctant to explain the causes of his irascibility.

About eight o'clock the number of customers decreased. Then a fat servant girl would appear out of the depths of the shop with a basket containing rolls and mugs (Franz always turned his back to her), then the mother of our master, a thin old lady in a yellow dress, with a great cap on her head and a jug of coffee in her hand. Putting this vessel on the table, the old lady would squeak:

‘
Gut Morgen, meine Kinder! Der Kaffee ist schon fertig …
'

And she would pour the coffee into the white mugs.

Old Mincel would go up and kiss her hand, with: ‘
Gut Morgen, meine Mutter!
'

For this, he obtained a mug of coffee and three rolls.

Then Franz Mincel went up, followed by Jan Mincel, August Katz and at the end me. Each kissed the old lady's dry hand, which was etched with blue veins, and said: ‘
Gut Morgen, Grossmutter!
'

And each obtained his mug and three rolls.

When we had hastily drunk the coffee, the servant girl carried away the empty basket and the mugs, the old lady her jug, and both disappeared.

The traffic was still passing by outside the window, and a crowd of people moved to and fro; from this, every now and then someone would break away to enter the shop.

‘Soap-powder, please …' ‘Ten groszy's worth of almonds …' ‘Licorice for a grosz …' ‘Grey soap …'

About midday the business at the grocery counter dropped off, but more and more customers now appeared on the right-hand side of the store, which was Jan's province. They asked for plates, glasses, irons, coffee-mills, dolls and sometimes large greenish-blue or poppy-red umbrellas. These customers, both ladies and gentlemen, were well dressed, sat down on the chairs provided, and asked to be shown a quantity of objects, as they bargained and demanded more.

I recall that when I was tired of going to and fro and of wrapping up groceries on the left-hand side of the shop, what bothered me most on the right-hand side was the thought: what does this customer really want? And does he intend to buy anything? In the end, however, a great deal was sold: the daily income from haberdashery was several times greater than that from groceries and soap.

Old Mincel was in his shop Sundays too. In the morning he said his prayers, and about midday would tell me to come to him for a sort of lesson.

‘
Sag mir
— tell me:
was ist das?
What is this?
Das ist
Schublade
— this is a drawer. Look and see what is in the drawer.
Es ist Zimt
— it is cinnamon. What is cinnamon needed for? For soup, for dessert. What is cinnamon? It is bark from a certain tree. Where does the cinnamon tree grow? In India. Look at the globe — India is over here. Give me 10 groszy worth of cinnamon …
O, du Spitzub
! If I discipline you ten times, you will know how much cinnamon to sell for 10 groszy …'

We would go through each drawer in the shop and he would tell me the story of every article. When he was not tired, he would dictate problems to me and told me to add up the ledger or copy letters.

Mincel was a very orderly old man, who could not endure dust, and would wipe it off even the tiniest object. But he never needed to dust the canes, thanks to his Sunday lessons in accounting, geography and shop-keeping.

Within a few years we had become so used to each other that old Mincel could not do without me, and I even began to regard his canes as quite natural in family relationships. I remember I could not get over my remorse at smashing an expensive samovar, but instead of seizing a cane, old Mincel merely exclaimed: ‘What have you done, Ignacy? What have you done?'

I would sooner have felt his cane rather than hear that quavering voice again, or see his fearful look.

Weekdays, we ate our dinners in the shop, first the two young Mincels and August Katz, then my master and I. On holidays we all gathered upstairs and sat down at the same table. Every Christmas Eve Mincel would give us gifts, and his mother used to set up a Christmas tree for us (and her son) in the utmost secrecy. On the first day of each month we were all paid our wages (I got ten zloty). On this occasion, Katz, the two nephews, the servant girl and I had to declare how much he or she had saved. Not saving, or rather not putting away even a few groszy every day was as terrible a crime as stealing in the eyes of Mincel. During my time, several clerks and a number of apprentices came and went in the store, all of whom were dismissed by my master only because they saved nothing. The day on which this came to light was their last with us. Promises, vows, kissing of hands and even falling on one's knees were of no avail. The old man did not stir from his armchair, did not look at the supplicant, only showed him the door with the single word: ‘
Fort! … Fort
!' The principle of saving had already grown into a mania with him.

This good man had one fault — he hated Napoleon. He himself never mentioned Napoleon, but at the sound of that name he was seized with a kind of fury: his face grew livid, he spat and shrieked, ‘The rogue!
Spitzbub
! Bandit!'

On hearing such shameful words for the first time, I almost swooned away. I felt like saying something very bold to the old man, then taking refuge with Mr Raczek, who was already married to my aunt. Suddenly I saw Jan Mincel put one hand over his mouth, mutter something and grimace to Katz. I pricked up my ears and this is what Jan was saying: ‘The old man is raving! Napoleon was a good fellow, even if only because he got rid of those dogs of Krauts! Isn't that so, Katz?'

And August Katz winked and went on cutting up soap.

I was astounded, but at that moment took a great liking to Jan Mincel and August Katz. Later I realised that there were two great factions in the little shop, one of which consisted of old Mincel and his mother who loved the Germans very much, while the other consisted of the young Mincels and Katz, who hated them. As I recall, I was the only neutral person.

In 1846 we heard that Louis Napoleon had escaped from captivity. This year was important to me, because I was promoted and my master, old Jan Mincel, passed away in a somewhat peculiar manner.

The business in our shop decreased that year, on account of the general uneasiness prevailing and also because my master reviled Louis Napoleon too often and too loudly. People began taking a dislike to us, and one day someone — perhaps Katz — even smashed the glass in the shop-window.

But this incident, instead of entirely alienating the public, attracted them to the shop, and for a week we had as big a turn-out as ever; it reached such a point that our neighbours envied us. But a week later, this artificial business boom again decreased and it was empty in the shop.

During my master's absence one evening, in itself an unusual event, a second stone was thrown through the glass. The Mincels in alarm took refuge upstairs and tried to find their uncle. Katz ran into the street to see who was responsible for this outrage, whereupon two policemen appeared dragging along — guess whom? None other than my master, and they charged him with breaking the glass this time and probably the previous time, too.

The old man denied it in vain: not only had he been caught in the act, but a stone was found on his person … So the poor wretch was taken off to the police station.

After a great deal of explaining and talk, the matter was smoothed over naturally enough; but from this time on, the old man lost his spirit entirely and grew thin. One day, he sat in his armchair by the window, and he never rose from it again. He passed away with his chin resting on the ledger, still holding the string that moved the mechanical Cossack.

For some years, his nephews kept the shop going in Podwal Street, and not until 1850 did they split up so that Franz stayed behind with the grocery store, while Jan took the haberdashery and soap and moved to Krakowskie Przedmieście, to the shop we now occupy. A few years after this, Jan married the beautiful Małgorzata Pfeifer and when she (God rest her soul!) became a widow, she bestowed her hand in marriage upon Staś Wokulski, and in this way, he inherited the business, which had been carried on by two generations of Mincels.