The Doll - Bolesaw Prus [157]
They were half-way to the Orangery when Izabela, evidently embarrassed by the tranquillity in Nature and between them, began to say: ‘A beautiful day, is it not? It’s so hot in town, but here it is delightfully cool. I love the Łazienki at this time of day; there are hardly any people, so everyone can find a corner entirely for himself. Do you like solitude?’
‘I have grown used to it.’
‘Have you seen Rossi?’ she added, blushing still more, ‘have you?’ she insisted, looking into his eyes in surprise.
‘No, but I’m going to.’
‘My aunt and I have already been to two performances.’
‘I shall go to them all…’
‘Oh, that is splendid! You’ll see what a great artist he is. He plays Romeo particularly well—although he is no longer in his first youth. Aunt and I know him personally, we met in Paris…He’s a most charming man, but a great tragedian primarily. He mingles very faithful realism in his acting with the most poetic idealism.’
‘He must be very great,’ Wokulski said, ‘if he arouses so much admiration and sympathy in you.’
‘Yes, you are right. I know I shall never do anything extraordinary, but at least I know how to appreciate unusual people. In every walk of life…even on the stage…Just think, though, that Warsaw doesn’t appreciate him as it should.’
‘Is that possible? After all, he’s a foreigner…’
‘You are malicious,’ she replied, with a smile, ‘but I put it down to Warsaw, not to Rossi. Really, I am ashamed of our city. If I were the public (of the male sex), I’d overwhelm him with bouquets, and my hands would be quite swollen from applauding. Here, though, the applause is rather sparing, and no one thinks of bouquets. We are still barbarians, really…’
‘Applause and bouquets are such small things that…at Rossi’s next performance he may well have too many, rather than not enough,’ said Wokulski.
‘Are you sure?’ she asked, looking eloquently into his eyes.
‘Quite sure…I guarantee it…’
‘I shall be so pleased if your prophecy comes true; but now perhaps we ought to go back to the others?’
‘Anyone who pleases you deserves the highest thanks…’
‘Oh come,’ she interrupted, smiling, ‘you have just paid yourself a compliment…’
They turned back from the Orangery.
‘I can just picture Rossi’s surprise,’ Izabela went on, ‘if he has an ovation. He’s already dubious and almost regrets coming to Warsaw. Artists, even the greatest, are peculiar people; they cannot live without fame and tributes, just as we cannot do without food and air. Work, no matter how productive, or tranquillity or sacrifice—are not for them. They simply must be in the forefront, hold everyone’s gaze, dominate the hearts of thousands…Rossi himself says he would rather die a year sooner, on the stage before a full and crowded house, than a year later, with only a few people. How strange that is!’
‘He is right—if a full theatre is his greatest happiness.’
‘You think there are kinds of happiness, for which it is worth paying by a shorter life?’ Izabela asked.
‘Yes, and unhappinesses that it is worth avoiding in a like manner,’ Wokulski replied.
Izabela pondered, and from that time both walked on in silence.
Meanwhile, the Countess was seated by the lake, still feeding the swans and talking to Tomasz: ‘Haven’t you noticed,’ she said, ‘that this Wokulski is somehow interested in Bela.’
‘Oh, I think not.’
‘Very much so, indeed; tradesmen nowadays know how to make daring plans.’
‘It is a great distance from making a plan to carrying it out,’ Tomasz replied rather irritably, ‘though even if it were so, it has nothing to do with me. I don’t control Mr Wokulski’s thoughts, and am easy as regards Bela…’
‘I have nothing against it,’ the Countess added, ‘and whatever happens, I accept God’s will, if the poor benefit. They continually do…My orphanage will soon be the first in the town, simply because that man has