The Doll - Bolesaw Prus [293]
‘In connection with Ludwik Stawski?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Have they finally found him?’
‘Not yet, but they’re on his track, and expect soon to solve the problem of his whereabouts.’
‘Maybe the poor devil is dead,’ I cried, pressing Wokulski’s hand, ‘please, Staś,’ I added, after cooling off somewhat, ‘do me a favour, visit these ladies and tell them the news yourself.’
‘I’m not an undertaker, to give people this kind of gratification,’ Wokulski said indignantly.
But when I began telling how respectable the ladies were, how often they inquired whether he would visit them one day … and when I also mentioned it would be worth while to take a look at the apartment house, he began to yield. ‘I care little for the house,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders, ‘I’m going to sell it any day now.’
In the end he let himself be persuaded, and we went there around one o’clock that afternoon. In the yard, I noticed the blinds drawn fast in Maruszewicz’s apartment. Obviously he had acquired a new set of furniture.
Staś glanced carelessly around at the windows of the house and listened to my report on the improvements without paying the slightest attention. We had laid a new floor in the gateway, mended roofs, painted walls, and had the stairs washed once a week. In a word, we have made a thoroughly presentable house out of a neglected one. Everything was in order, not excluding the yard and the drains: everything—except the rents.
‘In any case,’ I concluded, ‘your manager Mr Wirski will give you more detailed information. I’ll send the caretaker for him at once.’
‘Oh, never mind the rents and the manager,’ Staś muttered, ‘let’s call on this Mrs Stawska, then get back to the store.’
We entered the first floor of the left wing, where there was a strong smell of boiling cauliflower: Staś frowned and I knocked on the kitchen door. ‘Are the ladies home?’ I asked the plump cook.
‘As if they wasn’t, whenever you come,’ she replied, winking.
‘You see how they welcome us,’ I whispered to Staś in German. He nodded in reply, and thrust out his lower lip.
In the little sitting-room Mrs Stawska’s mother was, as usual, knitting a stocking: she rose from her chair and stared in surprise on seeing Wokulski. Little Helena peeped in from the other room: ‘Mama,’ she whispered so loudly that she must have been audible in the yard, ‘Mr Rzecki and some other gentleman have come.’
At this moment Mrs Stawska joined us. Seeing both ladies, I exclaimed: ‘Our landlord, Mr Wokulski, has come to pay his respects and give you news …’
‘Of Ludwik?’ Mrs Misiewicz caught on, ‘is he alive?’
Mrs Stawska turned pale, then blushed just as quickly. At that moment she was so pretty that even Wokulski gazed at her, if not with admiration, then at least with cordiality. I am certain he would have fallen in love with her on the spot, had it not been for that confounded smell of cauliflower wafting in from the kitchen.
We sat down. Wokulski asked the ladies whether they were content with their apartment, then told them that Ludwik Stawski had been in New York two years earlier and moved to London under an assumed name. He mentioned in passing that Stawski had been ill at that time, and he was expecting definite news within a few weeks. On hearing this Mrs Misiewicz referred several times to her handkerchief for help. Mrs Stawska was calmer, only a few tears trickled down her cheeks. To hide her emotion, she turned with a smile to her little daughter and said in a low voice: ‘Say thank you, Helena, to the gentleman for bringing us news of papa.’
Again her tears sparkled, but she controlled herself. Meanwhile, Helena made a curtsy to Wokulski and then, after gazing at him with wide-open eyes, suddenly put her arms around his neck and kissed him on the mouth. I will never forget the change which Staś’s countenance underwent at this unexpected embrace. To my knowledge, no child had