The Doll - Bolesaw Prus [163]
Ignacy was reminded of Hungary, of the infantry, of August Katz and, feeling tears coming into his eyes, so that at any moment he would burst into sobs, he seized his antiquated top-hat from the table and throwing down a rouble, rushed from the restaurant. Not until the fresh air in the street enveloped him did he lean against a lamp-post and ask: ‘For goodness sake, am I tipsy? Impossible! Seven beers…’
He went home, trying to walk as straight as possible, and only now did he discover that Warsaw pavements are unusually uneven; for at every few yards he had to step aside into the gutter, or towards the house walls. Then (to convince himself that his intellectual capacities were unimpaired) he began counting the stars in the sky: ‘One…two…three…seven…seven what? Ah seven tankards of beer…Can I possibly?…What did Staś send me to the theatre for?’
He found his way home and reached for the bell. But after ringing for the door-keeper seven times, he felt the urge to lean against the corner between gate and wall, and tried to count—not because he had to, but just for his own benefit—how many minutes would pass before the door-keeper opened. With this in mind, he brought out his watch which had a second hand, and realised it was half-past one o’clock.
‘Confounded door-keeper,’ he muttered, ‘I have to get up at six, yet here he is keeping me out in the street at half-past one…’ Fortunately the door-man opened the gate at once, Ignacy passed through with a perfectly steady tread (it was more than steady, it was very steady) and crossed the entire yard, aware that his top-hat was a little crooked, though only a little.
Having found the door of his dwelling with no difficulty whatsoever, he tried several times to insert the key in the lock. He could feel the key-hole, he clutched the key as firmly as he could, but even so he could not get in: ‘Can I possibly…?’
At this moment the door opened, and at the same time his one-eyed poodle Ir barked several times: ‘Yap…yap…yap!’ ‘Shut up, confounded thing,’ Ignacy muttered and he undressed and went to bed without even lighting the lamp.
He had awful dreams. He dreamed, or had the illusion, that he was still in the theatre and could see Wokulski with his wide-open eyes, staring at a certain box. In this box the Countess, Mr Łęcki and Izabela were sitting. It seemed to Rzecki that Wokulski was looking at Izabela in that same manner as before: ‘It can’t be,’ he muttered, ‘Staś isn’t so stupid…’
Meanwhile (in his dream) Izabela rose from her seat and went out of the box, with Wokulski following her, still gazing like someone mesmerised. Izabela left the theatre, crossed Theatre Square and ran lightly up the Town Hall tower, with Wokulski following, still gazing like someone mesmerised. Then Izabela rose into the air like a bird and flew over the theatre, while Wokulski tried to fly after her but instead fell ten storeys to the ground.
‘Goodness! Goodness me!’ Rzecki exclaimed, starting up in bed.
‘Yap, yap…’ Ir barked in his sleep.
‘Well, obviously I am quite drunk,’ Ignacy muttered, lying down again and impatiently pulling up the quilt, under which he lay shivering. He kept his eyes open several minutes and again fancied he was in the theatre, just after the third act, when the pie-maker Pifke was to hand the album of Warsaw and its beauties to Rossi.
Ignacy watched closely (Pifke was his deputy, after all) and saw with the utmost horror that instead of the costly album, the infamous Pifke was handing the Italian some sort of a parcel done up in brown paper and carelessly tied with string.
And Ignacy saw something worse. For the Italian smiled ironically, untied the string, unwrapped the paper and in full view of Izabela, Wokulski, the Countess and a thousand other spectators—revealed a pair of yellow nankeen pantaloons with an apron attached in front and little straps on the bottom. Just