The Doll - Bolesaw Prus [13]
But the less he went out, the more frequently he would dream about a long voyage into the countryside or even abroad. More and more often in these dreams he came across green fields and shady woods, through which he wandered, remembering his youth. Gradually a profound yearning awoke within him for these landscapes, and he decided to go off for the whole summer as soon as Wokulski came back.
‘At least once before I die, for a few months,’ he would tell his colleagues who, for some reason, smiled at these plans.
Voluntarily cut off from nature and humanity, absorbed in the shallow and restricted whirlpool of the shop and its business, he increasingly felt the need to share his thoughts. But because he mistrusted some people and others would not listen to him and because Wokulski was away, Rzecki talked to himself and — with the utmost secrecy — kept his journal.
III
The Journal of the Old Clerk
… I have been noticing for some years, with regret, that there are far fewer good clerks and sensible politicians in the world than there used to be, for everyone imitates the latest fashions. A humble clerk will equip himself every quarter with new-fangled trousers, a more original hat, and will fasten his tie differently. In the same way, politicians today change their beliefs every quarter: once they all believed in Bismarck, yesterday it was Gambetta and today it’s Beaconsfield, who until recently was a Hebrew.
Evidently they forget that one cannot wear fashionable collars in a shop, but just sell them — otherwise there would be no merchandise for the customers. And politicians should not place their hopes in successful individuals, but in great dynasties. Metternich was once as celebrated as Bismarck, Palmerston more so than Beaconsfield — yet who recalls them today? And the Bonaparte family under Napoleon I made Europe tremble, so did Napoleon III, who today, though some say he’s bankrupt, holds sway over the destiny of France through his faithful servants MacMahon and Ducrot.
You’ll see what the young Napoleon IV, now quietly studying the art of war in England, will achieve! But enough of that … In this journal of mine, I want to talk about myself, not of the Bonapartes, so that people may learn how good clerks are created, not to mention sensible (if not learned) politicians. No academies are required for this purpose, merely a good example, both at home and in the shop.
My father was a soldier when young, and in his old age he was a doorman at the Commission of Internal Affairs. He carried himself as erect as a gold block, had small whiskers and a pointed moustache; he wore a black kerchief around his neck and a silver ring in his ear.
We lived in the Old Town with my aunt, who ironed and mended linen for officials. We had two little rooms on the fourth floor, where there was little luxury but much happiness, at least for me. The most impressive object in our little room was the table at which my father would gum envelopes when he came back from work; in aunt’s room, most of the space was taken up by a wash-tub. I remember how I’d fly kites in the street on fine days, or blow soap-bubbles in the apartment when it rained.
The walls of my aunt’s room were entirely hung with portraits of saints; but although there were a great many, they did not equal the number of Napoleons adorning my father’s room. There was one portrait of Napoleon in Egypt, another at Wagram, a third before Austerlitz, a fourth in Moscow, the fifth