The Doll - Bolesaw Prus [305]
Of course, I hastened to Mrs Stawska without waiting for the store to close (this is happening ever more often nowadays), and I even took a droshky. On the way, I was struck by the happiest of thoughts — to inform Wokulski of the matter. So I called on him, uncertain whether he would be home, for he spends more and more time dancing attendance on Miss Łęcka.
Wokulski was in, but somehow absent-minded: his courting is obviously not doing him any good. However, when I told him my tale of Mrs Stawska, the Baroness and the doll, the young fellow livened up, raised his head and his eyes flashed (I have sometimes noticed that the best cure for our own troubles are those of someone else).
He heard me out attentively (his mournful thoughts took flight), and said: ‘The Baroness is a damned nuisance … But Mrs Stawska needn’t worry: her case is as clear as daylight. Is she the only person that human baseness strikes?’
‘It’s all very well for you to talk,’ I replied, ‘for you’re a man and, above all, have plenty of money. She, on the other hand, has lost all her lessons, poor thing, as a result of this incident or rather — she’s declined them herself. So, what is she going to live on?’
‘Oh!’ Wokulski cried, striking his forehead, ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
He walked up and down the room several times (frowning hard), stumbled against a chair, drummed on the window-pane and suddenly halted in front of me. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘go to the ladies, and I’ll be there within the hour. I have an idea we’ll do some good business with Mrs Miller.’
I looked at him with admiration. Mrs Miller recently lost her husband, who had been a haberdashery merchant like us; all her store, property and credit depended on Wokulski. So I almost guessed what Staś was going to do for Mrs Stawska.
I galloped along the street in a droshky, going like three steam-engines, and rushed like a positive sky-rocket to the beautiful, noble, unhappy, abandoned Mrs Stawska. I had my lungs full of cheerful exclamations, and on opening the door felt like shouting with a laugh: ‘Think nothing of it, ladies!’
Then I went in — and all my good humour stayed outside the door.
Just imagine what I found. Marianna in the kitchen with her head wrapped up, and a swollen face — certain proof she had been in a police cell all day. The stove had gone out, the dinner dishes were unwashed, the samovar not ready, while around the poor swollen creature sat the janitor’s wife, two servant girls and the milk-woman, all with funereal expressions.
A chill went down my spine, but I walked into the drawing-room. An almost identical sight met my eyes. In the middle was Mrs Misiewicz in her armchair, also with her head tied up and around her were Mr and Mrs Wirski, also the owner of the Parisian laundry who had quarrelled with the Baroness again, and several other ladies, who were talking in undertones but, for all that, blowing their noses a whole octave higher than usual. To crown it all, I noticed Mrs Stawska by the stove, sitting on a little stool, as pale as a sheet.
In a word — a tomb-like atmosphere, faces pale or greenish, eyes tear-stained and noses red. Only little Helena was surviving somehow. She was sitting at the piano, with her little old doll, hitting the keys with its hands from time to time and saying: ‘Quiet, Zosia, quiet! Don’t play the piano, mama’s head aches.’
Pray add to this the dimmed lamplight which was smoking a little and … the blinds up — and anyone will understand the feelings that seized me. On seeing me, Mrs Misiewicz began pouring out what must have been all that was left of her tears: ‘Ah, so you’ve come, noble Mr Rzecki! Aren’t you ashamed of poor women overcome with disgrace? No, don’t kiss my hand … Our wretched family! Ludwik sentenced, now it’s our turn … We shall have to move to the world’s end. I’ve a sister near Częstochowa, we will go there to end our broken lives …’
I whispered to Wirski tactfully to invite the other guests to leave and drew nearer to Mrs Stawska. ‘I wish I were