The Doll - Bolesaw Prus [114]
‘I am sorry for you,’ said the lawyer, shaking his hand.
‘How so?’
‘Because, my dear sir, a man who wants to win must conquer and suppress his antagonist, not feed him from his own granary. You are making a mistake which is more likely to remove you from your aim, than bring you near it.’
‘You are wrong…’
‘A romantic, a romantic!’ the lawyer repeated, with a smile.
Wokulski hurried from the lawyer’s house and took a droshky, telling the driver to go Elektoralna. He was vexed that the lawyer had discovered his secret and had criticised his manner of proceeding. Naturally a man who wants to conquer must suppress his antagonist, but in this case the prize was—Izabela…
He got out in front of a modest little shop, over which was a black sign with a yellowish inscription: ‘S. SZLANGBAUM: Promissory Notes & Lottery.’ The shop was open: an elderly Jew with bald head and grey beard, apparently glued to the Courier, was sitting behind the tin-covered counter, separated from the public by wire-netting.
‘Good day, Mr Szlangbaum,’ Wokulski cried.
The Jew looked up, and brought his spectacles down from his forehead to his nose: ‘Ah, it is you, my good sir,’ he replied, shaking Wokulski by the hand, ‘what does this mean, are you in need of money too?’
‘No,’ Wokulski replied, throwing himself into a cane chair by the counter. But because he was ashamed to explain immediately why he had come, he asked: ‘What’s the news, Mr Szlangbaum?’
‘Things are bad,’ the old man replied, ‘they are starting to persecute the Jews. Perhaps it is as well. When they kick and spit on us, and torture us, then perhaps the young Jews like my Henryk who dress up in frock-coats and do not observe their religion will begin to understand.’
‘Who is persecuting you?’ Wokulski countered.
‘You want proof?’ the Jew asked, ‘you have it here, in the Courier. I sent them a charade the other day…Can you play charades? I sent this one: my first is a Company in short, my second a bag, my whole is terrible in battle. Do you see it? My first is ‘Co’, my second ‘sack’, and my whole is ‘Cossack’. Do you know what they replied? Just a moment…’
He picked up the Courier, and read: “‘Answers from the Editor. Mr W: The Orgelbrand encyclopedia says…” Not that…“Mr Motyk: A frock-coat is worn…” No, not that. Here it is. “Mr S. Szlangbaum: Your political charade is not grammatical.” I ask you, my dear sir: what is political about it? If I’d written a charade on Disraeli or Bismarck, that would be political, but one about Cossacks is surely not political, but military…’
‘But where does the persecution of the Jews come into this?’ Wokulski asked.
‘Let me explain. You yourself had to protect my Henryk from persecution: I know all about it, though he did not say a word to me. As to the charade—when I took my charade to Mr Szymanowski six months ago, he said: “Mr Szlangbaum, we are not going to print your charades, though I suggest you would be better off writing charades than charging interest.”
‘So I said: “Mr Editor, if you will pay as much for charades as I get from charging interest, then I shall write them.”
‘But Mr Szymanowski said: “Mr Szlangbaum, we have no money to pay for your charades.” That is what Mr Szymanowski himself said, d’you hear? And today they say in the Courier that it is political and ungrammatical! Six months ago they spoke differently. But what they say in the papers about the Jews, nowadays…’
Wokulski listened to the tale of the persecution of the Jews, gazing at the wall, on which a lottery list was hanging, drumming his fingers on the counter. But he was thinking of something else, and was hesitant.
‘So you still busy yourself writing charades, Mr Szlangbaum?’ he inquired.
‘Not only me,’ the old Jew replied, ‘I’ve a grandson, nine years old, and pray listen to what he wrote to me the other week. “Dear Grandad,” little Michael wrote, “I made up this charade: my first is part of the body, my second you put on, and my whole is a garment.” And he wrote, “Dear Grandad, if you guess it, please send me six roubles for