The Doll - Bolesaw Prus [123]
‘I had a horse running, and even won a prize.’
Szuman struck the back of his head with one hand, suddenly raised first one, then the other, of Wokulski’s eyelids and began examining his pupils carefully.
‘Do you think I have gone mad?’ Wokulski asked him.
‘Not yet. Is this supposed to be a joke,’ he added after a moment, ‘or are you serious?’
‘Very serious. I want no reconciliation and ask that strict conditions be observed.’
The doctor returned to his desk, sat down, leaned his chin on one hand and, after some consideration, said: ‘A woman, eh? Even turkeys will only fight for…’
‘Szuman, mind what you say,’ Wokulski interrupted in a stifled voice, straightening his back.
The doctor again eyed him searchingly: ‘So this is how things are?’ he muttered, ‘very well…I’ll be your second. If you are so anxious to smash open your skull, you may as well do so in my presence: perhaps I may even be able to help, somehow…’
‘I’ll send Rzecki to see you at once,’ Wokulski declared, shaking him by the hand.
From the doctor’s house he went back to his shop, spoke briefly to Ignacy, returned to his apartment and went to bed before ten o’clock. As before, he slept like a log. Strong emotions were essential to his leonine nature; only when experiencing them did his spirit, torn apart by passion, regain its equilibrium.
Next day, at about five, Rzecki and Szuman called on the ‘English’ Count, who was Krzeszowski’s second. On the way, both Wokulski’s friends remained silent: only once did Ignacy remark: ‘Well, and what have you to say to all this, doctor?’
‘Only what I have already said,’ Szuman replied, ‘we’re approaching the fifth act. Either this is the end of a gallant man, or the start of a whole series of follies…’
‘And of the worst sort, for they will be political,’ Mr Rzecki interposed. The doctor shrugged and looked the other way: Ignacy with his everlasting politics struck him as insufferable just then.
The ‘English’ Count was awaiting them with another gentleman who kept looking out of the window at the clouds, and moving his Adam’s apple every few minutes as if he were gulping something down with difficulty. He looked only semi-conscious: but in fact he was an unusual man, a lion-hunter and profound scholar of Egyptian antiquities.
In the middle of the ‘English’ Count’s study was a table covered with a green cloth and surrounded by four high chairs: on the table lay four sheets of paper, four pencils, two pens and an ink-well of such dimensions that it might have been meant for a hip-bath. When all had sat down, the Count began: ‘Gentlemen, Baron Krzeszowski admits he may have pushed Mr Wokulski, for he is absent-minded. Dear me, yes…In consequence, at our insistence…’ Here the Count glanced at his companion who had just gulped with a ceremonious air, ‘at our insistence,’ the Count went on, ‘the Baron is prepared to apologise, even in writing, to Mr Wokulski, whom we all respect—dear me, yes. What have you to say to this?’
‘We are not authorised to take any steps for reconciliation,’ replied Rzecki, in whom the former Hungarian officer had come to life again. The learned Egyptologist opened his eyes wide and gulped twice. Amazement flashed across the Count’s face; however, he controlled himself and replied in a tone of dry politeness: ‘In that case may we know the conditions?’
‘You gentlemen may state them,’ Rzecki replied.
‘Oh no, not at all,’ said the Count.
Rzecki coughed: ‘In that case, I venture to suggest…the opponents to stand at twenty-five paces, take five paces…’
‘Dear me, yes…’
‘Pistols to be loaded…First blood…’
‘Dear me, yes…’
‘The time, if convenient, tomorrow morning…’
‘Dear me, yes…’
Rzecki bowed without getting up. The Count took out a sheet of paper, and amidst a general silence, prepared a document which Szuman at once copied. Both documents were witnessed, and within forty-five minutes the matter was done. Wokulski’s second bade farewell to their host and his companion, who again lost himself gazing at the clouds.
In the street, Rzecki said to Szuman: