The Doll - Bolesaw Prus [119]
The morning hours dragged as if harnessed to snails. Wokulski called at the shop for a moment only, could not eat his lunch, then went to Saski park, continually thinking: ‘Will the mare win and Izabela fall in love with me?’ But he mastered his excitement, and did not leave home until five o’clock.
There was already such a throng of carriages and droshkies in Aleje Ujazdowskie that in places they had to crawl: at the toll-gate a real jam occurred, and he had to wait fifteen minutes, devoured by impatience, before his carriage finally turned into the Mokotow race-course.
At the gate Wokulski leaned out and surveyed the track through a cloud of yellowish dust which was settling heavily on his face and clothes. Today the stadium seemed immeasurably large and disagreeable, as if the phantom of uncertainty were looming over it. Far ahead, he saw a long line of people in a semi-circle which was continually increasing as newcomers arrived. Finally he gained his place, and then some ten minutes passed before his servant came back with a ticket.
A throng of non-paying spectators pressed around his carriage, and the uproar of a thousand voices made it seem to Wokulski that they were all talking of nothing but his mare and were mocking this tradesman playing at horse-racing.
At last his carriage was admitted into the ring. Wokulski jumped out and hurried to find his mare, trying to preserve the aspect of an indifferent spectator. After a long search he saw her in the centre of the enclosure, with Messrs Miller and Schultz beside her, as well as a jockey with a large cigar in his mouth, wearing a blue and yellow cap and a greatcoat over his shoulders.
His mare, against the background of this huge place and innumerable crowds, seemed to him so small and pitiful that, in despair, he was ready to toss away everything and go home. But Messrs Miller’s and Schultz’s countenances were illuminated with hope. ‘Here you are, at last,’ the director of the riding-school cried, and with a glance at the jockey, added: ‘May I introduce you—Mr Young, the best jockey in the country—Mr Wokulski.’
The jockey lifted two fingers to his blue and yellow cap, then, removing the cigar from his mouth with his other hand, he spat through his teeth. ‘Just tell us, Mr Young, shall she win?’ the director asked.
‘Ach,’ the jockey replied.
‘The other two horses aren’t bad, but our mare is first-rate.’ said the director.
‘Ach,’ the jockey agreed.
Wokulski took him aside and said: ‘If we win, I’ll owe you fifty roubles over and above the agreement.’
‘Ach,’ the jockey replied, then, after eyeing Wokulski, he added: ‘You’re a real sportsman, but you’re still a bit too excited. Next year you’ll take it easier.’ He spat the distance of a horse and went off toward the grandstand, while Wokulski, saying goodbye to Messrs Miller and Schultz and patting the mare, went back to his carriage.
Now he began looking for Izabela.
He walked down a long line of carriages placed along the track, eyed the horses, servants, peeped under parasols at ladies, but could not find Izabela. ‘Perhaps she isn’t coming,’ he thought, and it seemed to him that the whole place full of people might as well sink into the ground, taking him along with it. Fancy throwing away so much money—if she was not going to be there! Perhaps Mrs Meliton, the old intriguer, had lied to him in a plot with Maruszewicz?
He went up the steps leading to the judges’ stand and looked around in all directions. In vain…When he was coming down, two gentlemen with their backs to him were barring the way: one was tall, with the bearing of a sportsman, and he was saying in a loud voice: ‘I’ve been reading for the past ten years how they accuse us of extravagance so I was ready to mend my ways and sell off my stable. Then I see that a man who made his money yesterday is running a horse in the races today…So I think to myself, aha—that is the sort of bird you are, is it? You preach to us, but when you succeed you behave just as we do…So I refuse to mend my ways, will not sell my stable, will not