The Doll - Bolesaw Prus [280]
As Wokulski was in a hurry, he bade goodbye to the priest and walked towards the ruins with Węgiełek. When they reached the settlement boundary, Wokulski asked the young man: ‘Can you write well, my good man?’
‘Indeed I can, sir. They’ve sometimes given me copying from the magistrate’s court, though I haven’t a light hand. And those verses the agent at Otrocz used to write to the forester’s daughter were all my own work. He only bought the paper, and he still hasn’t paid me forty groszy for my writing. And he also wanted curlicues …’
‘Could you write on stone?’
‘Concave, not convex? Why not? I’d undertake to write on iron, or even glass, and in any kind of letters you like — script, printed, Gothic, Hebrew … For it was I, without boasting, who painted all the shop boards in town.’
‘And that Cracovian, hanging above the inn?’
‘Of course.’
‘And where did you see such a Cracovian?’
‘Mr Zwolski has a carter who’s from those parts, so I took a look at him.’
‘And did you see that he had two left feet?’
‘I beg pardon, sir, it’s not feet people from the provinces take notice of but the bottle. When they see the bottle and the glass, then they’ll reach Szmul’s place and no mistake.’
Wokulski liked the enterprising lad more and more: ‘Aren’t you married yet?’ he asked.
‘No. I won’t marry them that wear kerchiefs, and the ones that wear hats don’t fancy me.’
‘What do you do when there are no shop signs to paint?’
‘Well, sir — a little bit of this, and a little bit of that, and sometimes nothing. Before, I went in for carpentry, and had more work than I could handle. In a few years I’d saved a thousand roubles. Then my place burned down, and I still haven’t got over it. All the wood, the workshop, everything was reduced to ashes, and I can tell you, sir, that the hardest of my files melted just like pitch. When I looked at the heap of ashes, I was really angry, but today I’m sorry about it.’
‘Did you rebuild? Do you have a workshop now?’
‘Ah, sir … I’ve built a shed in the garden, so my mother has a place to cook, but the workshop … For that, sir, I’d need five hundred roubles cash, honest to God I would … Look how many years my late father had to slave before he could set up house and collect tools.’
They approached the ruins. Wokulski was meditating. ‘Listen,’ he said suddenly, ‘I like you, Węgiełek. I’ll be in this neighbourhood,’ he added with a sigh, ‘for another week or so. If you make a good job of the engraving, I’ll take you to Warsaw for a time. There I’ll see how good you are, and maybe something can be done about the workshop.’
The young fellow turned his head to left and right, eyeing Wokulski. Suddenly it occurred to him that this must be a very wealthy gentleman, perhaps even one of those gentlemen God sometimes sends to look after poor people, and he took off his cap.
‘What is it? Put your cap on,’ said Wokulski.
‘My apologies, sir. Maybe I said something I shouldn’t have said. People say that in the olden days … But now, sir, there are no such gentlemen. My late father said that he himself knew of a gentleman who took an orphan from Zasław, and made a great lady of her, and left so much money to the people that they built a new bell-tower.’
Wokulski smiled as he saw the lad’s embarrassed expression, and he thought with a strange feeling that with his own annual income he might make a hundred more such as he happy: ‘Money really is a great power, only one must know how to use it.’
They were already at the castle hill when Felicja’s voice called; ‘Mr Wokulski, here we are!’
Wokulski looked up and saw a cheerful fire among the oak trees, around which the company from Zasławek were sitting. A footman and chambermaid had set up the samovar a few paces away.
‘Wait, I’ll join you,’ cried Izabela, rising from the carpet. Starski leaped to help: ‘I’ll come with you,’ he said.
‘No, thank you, I’ll go down myself,’ replied