The Doll - Bolesaw Prus [132]
This ‘someone’ was a bold parvenu, who had pursued her for a year, staring at her in theatres and at concerts. He was a cynical brute who had made a fortune in dubious speculation in order to purchase a reputation for himself in society, and buy her, Miss Izabela Łęcka, from her father.
Of this period, she only recalled his coarse looks, red hands and brusque manners, which had seemed insufferable in comparison with the civility of other tradespeople, and simply laughable against that background of fans, travelling-bags, parasols, canes and haberdashery. He was a cunning, insolent tradesman who posed as a fallen minister in that shop of his. He was hateful, unspeakably hateful, for he had presumed to help them by buying the dinner-service and providing her father with money at cards.
Thinking of this today, Izabela plucked nervously at her dress. Sometimes she would throw herself upon the sofa and beat it with her fists, murmuring: ‘Scoundrel! Scoundrel!’
It filled her with despair to confront the poverty into which her house was now plunged. And to make matters worse, someone had torn the veil from her most intimate secrets, and had dared tend the wounds she would sooner have kept hidden from God Himself. She could have forgiven anything but this blow to her pride.
Now came a change of scene. A different man appeared, and told her frankly, without a shade of ambiguity, that he had bought the dinner-service to make money. In other words, he felt he had no right to support Izabela Łęcka, and if he did, it was not to seek fame or gratitude, or even to dare to think of the matter.
The same man had driven Mraczewski from his shop because he had ventured to speak maliciously of her. In vain had Izabela’s enemies (Baron and Baroness Krzeszowski) set themselves up behind this young man; in vain had her aunt, the Countess, spoken for him—she, who rarely even said ‘Thank you’ and still more rarely asked for anything! Wokulski had not yielded…But one little word from her, Izabela, had vanquished this inflexible man: not only did he yield, but he even gave Mraczewski a better post. Such submission is made not to a woman if she is not honoured…
All the same, it was a pity that at almost the same time a conceited parvenu had revealed himself in her admirer, when he tossed down that roll of imperials at the collection. How very mercantile that was! He did not understand English, either; he had no conception of a language that was fashionable!
Now—the third phase. She had seen Wokulski in her aunt’s drawing-room on the first day of Easter, and noticed that he stood a whole head and shoulders above the rest of the company. The most aristocratic persons had sought his acquaintance, while he, that brutal parvenu, had actually avoided them. He had moved clumsily yet boldly, as if the drawing-room were his unquestioned property, and listened gloomily to compliments bestowed upon him. Then the Duchess, that most respectable of matrons, had summoned him to her and, after a few minutes of conversation, had burst into floods of tears…Could that have been the same parvenu, with the red hands?
Only now had Izabela noticed that Wokulski’s face was unusual. He had clear and decisive features, hair that seemed to stand angrily on end, a small moustache and beard, the figure of a statue, a clear and penetrating look…Had this man possessed a large estate, instead of a shop, then he would have been very handsome: had he been born a prince, he would have been tremendously handsome. As it was, he reminded her of Trosti, of the colonel in the Rifle Brigade and—truly!—of her statue of the victorious gladiator.
By this time, almost everyone had drawn away from Izabela.
Admittedly, elderly gentlemen still heaped compliments upon her for her beauty and elegance, but