The Doll - Bolesaw Prus [261]
‘Just the two of you?’ inquired Felicja, blushing.
‘Would you like to ride with Julian?’
‘Oh, I say! Please don’t dispose of my person for me,’ Ochocki protested.
‘Fela will remain with me,’ the Duchess interposed.
Blood and tears flowed into the eyes of Felicja. She glanced at Wokulski, first with anger then with contempt, and finally ran out of the room on the pretext of getting a handkerchief. When she returned, she looked like Mary, Queen of Scots in the act of forgiving her executioners, and her nose was red.
Punctually at two, a couple of fine mounts were brought around. Wokulski already waited at one, and a few minutes later Mrs Wąsowska appeared. She had on a close-fitting riding-habit, as shapely as Juno, with her chestnut hair done in a bun. She placed one foot in the groom’s hand and sprang nimbly into the saddle. The riding-crop quivered in her hand.
Meanwhile, Wokulski was coolly adjusting the reins. ‘Hurry, sir, hurry!’ she cried, drawing the reins on her horse so that it performed a circle and rose on its haunches: ‘Once outside the gates, we will gallop … Avanti Savoia!’
Wokulski finally mounted, Mrs Wąsowska impatiently cut her horse with the crop and they rode out of the yard. The road followed a linden alley a mile long. Flat fields lay on both sides, here and there were haystacks big as huts. The sky was clear, the sun cheerful, from afar could be heard the clatter of a threshing machine. They cantered for several minutes. Then Mrs Wąsowska put the handle of her crop to her lips, leaned forward and flew off at a gallop. The veil of her hat fluttered behind her like ash-coloured wings: ‘Avanti! Avanti! …’
They galloped several minutes. Suddenly the lady brought her horse to a halt: she was flushed and breathless. ‘Enough,’ she said, ‘let’s ride more slowly now.’ She rose in her saddle and gazed attentively towards blue woods visible in the east. The alley came to an end: they rode on across fields where pear trees and hay-ricks stood green. ‘Tell me, sir,’ she said, ‘is it a great pleasure to make a fortune?’
‘No,’ said Wokulski, after a moment’s reflection.
‘But spending it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know? Yet people say great things of your fortune. They say you have sixty thousand a year.’
‘I have a good deal more today, but I spend very little.’
‘How much?’
‘Some ten thousand.’
‘That’s a shame. I decided to spend a great deal of money last year. My plenipotentiary and accountant assure me I spent twenty-seven thousand … I overdid things, but I didn’t dispel my ennui. Today I thought I would ask you the effect of spending sixty thousand a year. But you don’t spend so much … That’s a pity. Do you know what? Spend sixty thousand — or no, a hundred thousand a year — then tell me whether it has any effect, and what kind. Will you?’
‘I can tell you in advance that it won’t.’
‘No? Then — what is money for? If a hundred thousand a year doesn’t bring happiness, what does?’
‘You could have it on a thousand a year. Everyone carries happiness within himself.’
‘Or can get it for himself?’
‘No, madam.’
‘Do you say that, you unusual man?’
‘Even if I were unusual, it’s from suffering, not happiness. And still less through spending money.’
A dust-cloud appeared near the wood, Mrs Wąsowska watched it a moment, then suddenly cut at her horse and turned to the right, into the fields and off the road: ‘Avanti! Avanti! …’ They rode ten minutes, then Wokulski drew rein. He had stopped on a hill, above a meadow as beautiful as a dream. What was there in it that was beautiful? The greenness of the grass, the curving flow of the stream, or the trees leaning over it, or the clear sky? Wokulski did not know.
But Mrs Wąsowska was not interested. She was riding headlong uphill, as if seeking to impress her companion by her courage. When Wokulski rode slowly after her, she turned her horse and impatiently