The Doll (9 page)

Izabela's soul was a curious phenomenon.

If anyone had asked her point-blank what this world is, and what she herself was, she would certainly have replied that the world is an enchanted garden full of magical castles, and that she herself was a goddess or nymph imprisoned in a body.

From her cradle, Izabela had lived in a beautiful world that was not only superhuman but even supernatural. For she slept in feathers, dressed in silks and satins, sat on carved and polished ebony or rosewood, drank from crystal, ate from silver and porcelain as costly as gold.

The seasons of the year did not exist for her, only an everlasting spring full of soft light, living flowers and perfumes. The times of day did not exist for her either, since for whole months at a time she would go to bed at eight in the morning and dine at two at night. There was no difference in geographical location, since in Paris, Vienna, Rome, Berlin or London she would find the same people, the same manners, the same objects and even the same food — soups from Pacific seaweed, oysters from the North Sea, fish from the Atlantic or Mediterranean, animals from every country, fruits from all parts of the globe. For her, even the force of gravity did not exist, since her chairs were placed for her, plates were handed, she herself was driven in carriages through the streets, conducted inside, helped upstairs.

A veil shielded her from the wind, a carriage from the rain, furs from the cold, a parasol and gloves from the sun. And thus she lived from day to day, month to month, year to year, above other people and even above the laws of nature. Twice in her life she experienced a terrible storm, once in the Alps, later in the Mediterranean. The bravest shrank in terror, but Izabela smiled as she listened to the thunder of the battering waves and the shuddering of the boat, never even considering the danger. Nature was staging a splendid spectacle for her, with thunderbolts, waves and chaos, just as on another occasion it had shown her the moon over the Lake of Geneva, or had drawn aside clouds veiling the sun over a Rhine waterfall. For mechanics in the theatre did the same every day, and even nervous ladies were not alarmed.

This world of everlasting spring, where silks rustled, only sculptured trees grew and where clay was covered with artistic paintings — this world had its own population. Its proper inhabitants were princesses and princes, dukes and duchesses and very old and wealthy aristocrats of both sexes. It also included wealthy women and married men who played hosts, matrons who watched over elegant manners and behaviour, and elderly gentlemen who took their place at the top table, spoke kindly to young people, blessed them and played cards. There were also bishops, the likenesses of God in this world, high officials whose presence protected this world from disturbances and earthquakes, and finally there were children, little angels sent from Heaven so that their elders could arrange Kinderbale.

Amidst the permanent population of this enchanted world an ordinary mortal would sometimes appear, who had succeeded in reaching the heights of Olympus on the wings of fame. He might be an engineer who had linked two oceans or drilled through mountains, or a captain who had lost his entire company in a battle with savages and, although gravely wounded, had himself been spared by the love of a Negro princess. He might be a traveller who was said to have discovered a new part of the globe, had been shipwrecked on a desert island and even tasted human flesh.

There were also eminent painters and in particular there were inspired poets who wrote charming verses in the albums of the princesses, poets who might fall hopelessly in love and render the charms of their cruel goddess immortal, first in the newspapers then in slim volumes printed on vellum.

All these people, among whom there carefully moved a crowd of uniformed footmen, female companions, poor cousins and relatives seeking promotion — all these people were on a permanent holiday.

From midday they visited one another and returned visits, or drove to the shops. In the evenings, they amused themselves before, at and after dinner. Then they drove to a concert or the theatre, there to see another artificial world, in which heroes rarely ate or worked, but frequently talked to themselves, where the infidelity of a woman caused tremendous catastrophes and where a lover, slain by the husband in Act Five, would rise from the dead next day to perpetrate the same mistakes and talk to himself without being heard by the person standing next to him. On leaving the theatre, they gathered in drawing-rooms again, and servants carried cold or warm drinks about, artistes sang, young married ladies listened to the wounded captain talk about his Negro princess, unmarried young ladies talked to the poets about affinities of the soul, elderly gentlemen gave the engineers their views on engineering and middle-aged ladies fought one another with hints and glances for the sake of the traveller who had eaten human flesh. Then they sat down to supper, at which mouths ate, stomachs digested and little shoes under the table talked about the feelings of frozen hearts and the dreams of unfeeling heads. Then they would separate, to regain their strength for the dream of life in real sleep.

Outside this enchanted world was yet another world — the ordinary one.

Izabela knew of its existence, and even liked gazing at it from the window of her carriage or boudoir. Framed thus, and at a distance, that world seemed picturesque, even charming. She saw farm labourers slowly ploughing the earth, great wagons drawn by broken-down nags, hawkers of fruit and vegetables, an old man breaking stones at the roadside, messengers hurrying by, pretty and impudent flower-girls, a family consisting of father, stout mother and four little children holding hands in pairs, a dandy of the lower world travelling in a droshky and behaving quite absurdly — and sometimes a funeral. And she told herself that this world, though inferior, was charming; it was even more charming than paintings of low life, for it moved and changed.

And Izabela also knew that just as flowers bloomed in hot-houses and vines in vineyards, so things necessary to her grew in that inferior world. It was from that world that loyal Mikołaj and the maid Anna came, it was there that people made carved chairs, porcelain, crystal and curtains, it was there that polishers, upholsterers, gardeners and the girls who made her dresses were born. Once in a modiste's, she had asked to be shown the tailoring shop and it was so interesting to see a dozen girls cutting, tacking and fitting garments on busts. She was certain this gave them great pleasure, for the girls who took her measurements were always smiling and so anxious that the dress be well cut. And Izabela knew that in that inferior world there existed some people who happened to be unhappy. So she gave instructions that any poor person she met should be given a few złoty. Once, meeting a poor woman with a child as pale as wax at her breast, Izabela gave her a bracelet of her own, while she always bestowed sweets on beggar-children and kissed them piously. For it seemed to her that Christ might be hidden in one of these poor people, or perhaps in each one of them, and they had crossed her path so she might have the opportunity of doing a good deed.

On the whole she felt benevolent towards the people of this inferior world. The words of the Bible came to her mind: ‘thou shalt labour in the sweat of thy brow,' and obviously they had committed some grave sin, since they were condemned to labour. Angels such as she could not but pity their fate. Such as she, whose greatest labour was that of touching an electric bell or giving an order.

Once only did that inferior world make a powerful impression upon her.

She visited an iron foundry in France one day. While travelling down from the mountains into a region of woods and fields under a sapphire sky, she saw an abyss of black smoke and white steam, and heard the dull rattling, creak and hiss of machinery. Then she saw the foundries, like the towers of medieval castles breathing flame, powerful wheels that revolved as fast as lightning, great scaffolds that moved on rails, streams of molten iron glowing white, and half-naked labourers like bronze statues with sombre expressions. Over it all was a blood-red glow, the sound of rumbling wheels, bellows panting, the thundering of hammers and impatient breathing of furnaces, and underfoot the terrified earth trembled.

Then it seemed to Izabela that she had descended from the heights of Olympus into the hopeless chasms of Vulcan, where the Cyclops were forging thunderbolts that might shatter Olympus itself. She recalled legends of rebellious giants, of the end of this splendid world of hers, and for the first time she the goddess, before whom senators and marshals bowed their heads, was afraid.

‘These are terrible people, papa,' she whispered to her father.

He did not say a word, but pressed her arm more closely.

‘Surely they won't harm a woman?'

‘No, not even they,' Tomasz replied.

Then Izabela was ashamed to think she was only concerned about herself, and she hastily added: ‘If they won't harm a woman, they won't harm you either …'

Mr Łęcki smiled and shook his head. At the time much was being said of the coming end of the old world, and Mr Łęcki felt this particularly, for he was experiencing great difficulty in extracting funds from his agents.

This visit to the iron foundry was an important epoch in Izabela's life. Piously she read the poem by a distant cousin of hers, Zygmunt, and thought that she had this day found an appropriate illustration to his ‘
Un-Divine Comedy
'. From this time on, she often dreamed at twilight that the bastions of the Holy Trinity Fortress stood on that sunlit mountain from which her carriage had driven down to the iron foundry, and that the rebel democrats had their encampment in the valley below, veiled in smoke and steam, ready to set out to storm and overthrow her beautiful world.

Only now did she realise how much she loved her spiritual homeland, where crystal chandeliers replaced the sun, carpets the earth, statues and columns the trees. This other homeland included the aristocracy of all nations, the elegance of every age and the finest blessings of civilisation.

And was all this to collapse and perish, perhaps be scattered to the winds? … These elegant young men who sang with such feeling, danced delightfully, would fight a duel for a smile or jump headlong into a lake for a flower? And all these charming girls who gave her thousands of caresses, or confided so many little secrets in her or who wrote such very long letters in which sensitive feelings were mingled with very dubious spelling — were they all to perish too?

And the servants who behaved as though they had sworn undying love, loyalty and obedience to their masters? And the modistes who always greeted her with smiles and could remember the smallest details of her toilettes, who knew all about her triumphs in society? And the noble horses, whose flight a swallow might envy, and the clever dogs, just as attached as people, and the gardens where human hands had raised hills, poured streams, fashioned trees? … Was all this to vanish?

These thoughts gave Izabela's face another expression — one of tranquil sorrow, which made her still more lovely. People said she had quite grown up now.

Understanding quite well that the great world is a superior world, Izabela slowly learned that people could only attain these heights and remain there with the help of two wings — those of birth and wealth. And birth and wealth were associated with certain chosen families, like the flower and fruit of the orange tree. It was also very likely that the good God, seeing two souls with celebrated names linked in the bonds of holy matrimony, would increase their income and also send them a little angel to look after, who would in due course carry on the eminence of the family by his virtues, good manners and beauty. Hence the duty of making sensible marriages, of which old ladies and gentlemen were the best informed. A proper choice of name and fortune meant everything. For love — not the wild love poets dream of, but genuine Christian love — appears only after the Sacrament, and it is quite enough if the wife knows how to behave prettily at home, and if the husband accompanies her ceremonially into society.

Thus it had been in the past and it had been good, according to all the matrons. But today this principle had been forgotten, and things were bad: misalliances were increasing, and the great families were in decline.

‘And there is no happiness in marriage,' Izabela added quietly, for young ladies had imparted not a few of their domestic secrets to her.

As a result of these tales, she had acquired a great horror of marriage, and a slight contempt for men.

For a husband in his dressing-gown, yawning in his wife's presence, kissing her with a mouth still tainted with cigar smoke, often exclaiming ‘Oh, let me be …' or even ‘You're a fool!', who makes a scene at home over a new hat but will spend his money away from home on carriages for an actress — this is not at all an attractive creature. What was worse, every one of these men before his marriage had been a warm admirer of his lady, had wasted away if unable to see her, had blushed when they met and more than one had even threatened to shoot himself for love of her.

So, at the age of eighteen, Izabela knew how to tyrannise men with her coldness. When Victor Emmanuel kissed her hand one day, she told her father she wished to leave Rome at once. In Paris, a wealthy French duke had proposed marriage; she replied that she was Polish, and would not marry a foreigner. She rejected a Podolian magnate with the remark that she would only yield her hand to a man she loved, and that he had not yet appeared, while she rejected the proposals of an American millionaire with a burst of laughter.

Within a few years, this behaviour had created a desert around Izabela. She was admired and adored, but from a distance; no one wanted to risk a mocking refusal.

When her first distaste had passed, Izabela realized that marriage must be accepted as it is. She was already determined to marry, but on condition that she liked her future husband, that he had a good name and appropriate fortune. And she often met handsome men, wealthy and titled; unfortunately none of them combined the three conditions, so — more years passed.