The Doll - Bolesaw Prus [355]
This name was very dear to him. Sometimes, when he was sitting alone, he took paper and pencil, and would write endlessly: ‘Izabela…Iza…Bela…’ and then burn it, lest the name of his beloved fall into someone else’s hands. He meant to buy a small estate outside Warsaw, to build a villa and call it ‘Izabelino’. He remembered how, during his travels in the Urals, a certain scholar who had discovered a new mineral sought his advice: how to name it? And he reproached himself that, though he had then not yet made Izabela’s acquaintance, still it had not occurred to him to call it ‘izabelite’. Finally, reading in the newspapers of the discovery of a new planetoid, the naming of which was also the cause of some concern to its discoverer, he wanted to put up a huge prize for the astronomer who would discover a new heavenly body and call it: Izabela.
His overwhelming attachment to one woman did not, however, exclude thoughts of another. Sometimes he recalled Mrs Stawska who, as he knew, had been prepared to sacrifice everything for his sake, and he felt a sort of pang of conscience. ‘Well, what could I do?’ he said. ‘Is it my fault I love one, while the other…If only she could forget me, and be happy.’ In any case, he decided to ensure her future, and find out about her husband: ‘Let her not have to worry about tomorrow, at least. Let her have a dowry for the child.’
Every few days he saw Izabela in society, surrounded by young, middle-aged and old men. But he was no longer irritated by the men flirting, nor by her glances and smiles. ‘It’s her nature,’ he thought, ‘she can’t look or smile differently. She’s like a flower, or the sun, which involuntarily makes everyone happy, is beautiful in everyone’s eyes.’
One day he received a telegram from Zasławek, summoning him to the Duchess’s funeral. ‘She’s dead, then…’ he murmured, ‘what a pity about that fine woman…Why wasn’t I present when she died?’
He was sorry, grew sad—but didn’t go to the funeral of the old lady who had shown him so much kindness. He dared not part from Izabela even for a few days.
He knew very well, now, that he didn’t belong to himself, that all his thoughts, feelings and longings, all his plans and hopes were anchored in this one woman. If she were to die, he would not need to do away with himself; his soul would fly after her of its own accord, like a bird that rests only a moment on a branch. Besides, he did not even speak to her of love, any more than we speak of the weight of our bodies, or of the air that surrounds and fills a man. If, during the course of a day, he happened to think of anything except her, then he would shake his head in amazement, like a man who has miraculously discovered himself to be in some unknown region. This wasn’t love, it was ecstasy.
One day in May, Mr Łęcki summoned him. ‘Imagine,’ he said to Wokulski, ‘we have to go to Cracow. Hortensja is poorly, she wants to see Bela (I’ve an idea it’s to do with her will), and she would certainly be pleased to make your acquaintance. Can you accompany us?’
‘At any time,’ Wokulski replied. ‘When is it to be?’
‘We ought to leave today, but tomorrow will do.’
Wokulski promised to be ready on the morrow. When he said goodbye to Mr Tomasz and looked in on Izabela, he learned that Starski