The Doll - Bolesaw Prus [26]
There was no question of Mr Łęcki paying return visits. People explained this as due to his eccentricity and grief over the death of Victor Emmanuel.
Meanwhile Mr Łęcki walked in Aleje Ujazdowskie every day and played whist at the club in the evenings. His expression was always so tranquil, his attitude so haughty, that the admirers of his daughter lost their heads entirely. The most sensible of them waited, but the boldest began once more to bestow upon her their veiled glances, their quiet sighs or a trembling pressure of the hand, to which the young lady responded with an icy, often contemptuous indifference.
Izabela was an uncommonly pretty woman. Everything about her was original and perfect. More than average in height, a very shapely figure, copious blonde hair with an ash tint, a straight nose, a somewhat supercilious mouth, pearly teeth, ideal hands and feet. Her eyes were especially impressive, being sometimes dark and dreamy, sometimes full of light and merriment, or sometimes clear blue and as cold as ice.
The play of her features was striking. When she spoke, her lips, brows, nostrils, hands, her whole figure seemed to speak too — and above all her eyes spoke, and seemed to want to pour out her soul into that of her interlocutor. When she listened, she seemed to long to drink up the speaker’s soul. Her eyes knew how to fondle, caress, weep without tears, to burn and freeze. Sometimes one would think she was about to put her arms around someone and lean her head on his shoulder: but when the fortunate man melted in delight, she would suddenly make a gesture which said she was not to be caught, for she would either disappear or thrust him away, or simply tell a footman to turn her admirer out of doors …
Izabela’s soul was a curious phenomenon.
If anyone had asked her point-blank what this world is, and what she herself was, she would certainly have replied that the world is an enchanted garden full of magical castles, and that she herself was a goddess or nymph imprisoned in a body.
From her cradle, Izabela had lived in a beautiful world that was not only superhuman but even supernatural. For she slept in feathers, dressed in silks and satins, sat on carved and polished ebony or rosewood, drank from crystal, ate from silver and porcelain as costly as gold.
The seasons of the year did not exist for her, only an everlasting spring full of soft light, living flowers and perfumes. The times of day did not exist for her either, since for whole months at a time she would go to bed at eight in the morning and dine at two at night. There was no difference in geographical location, since in Paris, Vienna, Rome, Berlin or London she would find the same people, the same manners, the same objects and even the same food — soups from Pacific seaweed, oysters from the North Sea, fish from the Atlantic or Mediterranean, animals from every country, fruits from all parts of the globe. For her, even the force of gravity did not exist, since her chairs were placed for her, plates were handed, she herself was driven in carriages through the streets, conducted inside, helped upstairs.
A veil shielded her from the wind, a carriage from the rain, furs from the cold, a parasol and gloves from the sun. And thus she lived from day to day, month to month, year to year, above other people and even above the laws of nature. Twice in her life she experienced a terrible storm, once in the Alps, later in the Mediterranean. The bravest shrank in terror, but Izabela smiled as she listened to the thunder of the battering waves and the shuddering of the boat, never even considering the danger. Nature was staging a splendid spectacle for her, with thunderbolts, waves and chaos, just as on another occasion it had shown her the moon over the Lake of Geneva, or had drawn aside clouds veiling the sun over a Rhine waterfall. For mechanics in the theatre did the same every day, and even nervous ladies were not alarmed.
This world of everlasting spring, where silks rustled, only sculptured trees grew and where