The Doll - Bolesaw Prus [345]
So what can be disagreeable in the fact that not being in millions of places, but in one particular place, and not thinking millions of things, only one particular thing—that I should stop being in this one place and thinking of one thing? Really, the fear of death is the most absurd illusion humanity has been subjected to for many centuries. Savages fear thunder, the noise of firearms, even mirrors: and we, allegedly civilised, fear death…
He rose, looked out of the window and smiled to see people hurrying somewhere, bowing to one another, assisting ladies. He watched their violent gestures, great interests, the unconscious gallantry of the men, the mechanical coquetry of the women, the indifferent expressions of the cab-drivers, the misery of their horses, and he could not resist the comment that all this life, full of agitation and torment, is but a capital folly.
He sat thus all day. Next day, Rzecki came and reminded him it was April 1st, and Łęcki must be paid two thousand five hundred roubles interest. ‘That’s so,’ Wokulski replied, ‘take it to him.’
‘I thought you would go yourself.’
‘I don’t feel like it.’
Rzecki fidgeted around the room, snorted, finally said: ‘Mrs Stawska is down in the dumps, somehow. Perhaps you’ll pay her a visit?’
‘True, I haven’t been to see her for a long time. I’ll go this evening.’
On gaining this response, Rzecki couldn’t contain himself. He said goodbye very affectionately to Wokulski, rushed to the store for some money, then got into a droshky and told the driver to go to Mrs Misiewicz’s address.
‘I have dropped by for only a moment,’ he exclaimed joyfully, ‘as I have important business to transact. I may tell you, madam, that Staś will be here later today. I think (though this is in the utmost secrecy) that Wokulski has finally broken with the Łęckis.’
‘Can it be?’ cried Mrs Misiewicz, clasping her hands.
‘I am almost certain, but…Good-day to you…Staś will be here this evening.’
In fact, Wokulski came that evening and, which is more important, began calling every evening. He came rather late, when little Helena was already in bed, and Mrs Misiewicz had gone to her room, and he would spend a few hours with Mrs Stawska. As a rule, he was silent and listened to her accounts of Mrs Miller’s shop, or incidents in the streets. He rarely spoke, and when he did, it was in aphorisms which didn’t have much relevance to what was said to him. Once, for no reason, he remarked: ‘A man is like a moth: he hurls himself blindly into the flame, although it hurts and will consume him. He does this,’ he added, after reflecting, ‘until he recovers his senses. And this is how he differs from a moth.’
‘He’s referring to Miss Łęcka,’ Mrs Stawska thought, and her heart beat faster.
On another occasion he told her a strange anecdote: ‘I heard of two friends, one of whom lived in Odessa, the other in Tobolsk; they hadn’t met for several years, and longed to see one another. Finally, the man in Tobolsk, unable to bear it any longer, decided to surprise his friend and he went to Odessa without advising him. But he didn’t find him at home, because the man in Odessa, who also longed to see his friend, had left for Tobolsk. Business matters prevented them from meeting during the return trip. They didn’t meet for some years, and do you know what happened?’
Mrs Stawska gazed at him.
‘The two of them met in Moscow on the same day, in the same hotel, in adjacent rooms. Destiny sometimes plays jokes on people.’
‘This does not happen very often in life,’ Mrs Stawska murmured.
‘Who knows? Who knows?’ Wokulski responded. He kissed her hand and left, thoughtful.
‘It will not be thus with us!…’ she thought, deeply moved.
During the evenings