The Doll - Bolesaw Prus [343]
‘Will you tell her that?’ asked Mrs Wąsowska indignantly.
‘Never! After all, I am his friend, and that alone places me under an obligation not to warn him. But I’m a man too, and God knows I feel it, when this sort of conflict arises between a man and a woman.’
‘The man will lose it.’
‘No, madam. The woman will lose, and completely. After all, that is why women everywhere are slaves—they attach themselves to those who despise them.’
‘Don’t commit sacrilege.’
As Molinari had started talking to Mrs Wywrotnicka, Mrs Wąsowska approached Izabela, took her arm and they began promenading about the drawing-room. ‘So you’ve become reconciled to the impertinent?’ Mrs Wąsowska inquired.
‘He apologised,’ Izabela replied.
‘So quickly? And did he mend his ways?’
‘It is my business to see that he need not.’
‘Wokulski was here,’ said Mrs Wąsowska, ‘and left rather suddenly.’
‘Long ago?’
‘When you were sitting down to supper: he was standing right by the door.’
Izabela frowned. ‘My dear Kazia,’ she said, ‘I know what you mean. Let me tell you once and for all, that I have no intention of renouncing my likings and pleasures for Wokulski’s sake. Marriage isn’t a prison, and I am less suited than anyone to being a prisoner.’
‘You are right. Though is it proper to hurt such feelings for a whim?’
Izabela grew embarrassed: ‘What am I supposed to do?’
‘That depends on you. You are not engaged to him, yet.’
‘Quite so. I understand now,’ and Izabela smiled.
Mr Malborg and Mr Niwiński were standing by a window and watching both ladies through their eye-glasses. ‘Beautiful creatures,’ sighed Mr Malborg.
‘Each in a different style,’ Mr Niwiński added.
‘Which do you prefer?’
‘Both.’
‘I—Izabela, then—Wąsowska.’
‘How delightfully they embrace!…How they smile! It is all meant to tease us. Mischievous creatures?!’
‘Underneath they may hate one another.’
‘Well, not just now at least,’ Mr Niwiński concluded.
Ochocki approached the ladies as they strolled. ‘Are you in the conspiracy against me too, cousin?’ Izabela inquired.
‘A conspiracy? Never. I can be at only open war with a woman.’
‘At open war with a woman! Whatever does this mean? Wars are carried out with a view to concluding an advantageous peace.’
‘That isn’t my system.’
‘Really?’ said Izabela with a smile. ‘So let us make a wager that you will lay down your arms, for I consider the war has started.’
‘You will lose it, cousin, even over the points on which you expect the greatest victory,’ Ochocki replied solemnly.
Izabela turned sulky.
‘Bela,’ the Countess whispered to her, coming up at this moment, ‘we are leaving.’
‘And has Molinari promised?’ Izabela asked in the same tone.
‘I haven’t mentioned it,’ the Countess replied haughtily.
‘Why not, aunt?’
‘He has made a bad impression.’
If Izabela had been informed that Wokulski had died on Molinari’s account, the great violinist would have lost nothing in her eyes. But to hear that he had made a bad impression affected her disagreeably. She bade goodbye to the musician coolly, almost haughtily.
Although their acquaintance had lasted only a few hours, Molinari greatly interested Izabela. When, on returning home late that night, she gazed at her Apollo, the marble god seemed to her to have something of the violinist’s attitude and features. She blushed to recollect how very often the statue changed its features; for a short while it had even resembled Wokulski. However, she grew calmer at the thought that today’s change was the last, that her predilections hitherto had been based on errors and that if Apollo symbolised anyone, that person could only be Molinari.
She could not fall asleep, the most contradictory feelings were at war in her heart: anger, fear, curiosity and a sort of tenderness. Sometimes even amazement arose, when she recalled the violinist’s boldness. His first words had been that she was the most beautiful woman he knew: going in to supper, he had clasped her arm passionately, and declared he loved