The Doll - Bolesaw Prus [358]
He shut his eyes, clenched his teeth, gripped the edge of the seat with both hands; sweat burst out on his forehead and streamed down his face, and the train shuddered and rushed along…Finally a whistle was heard, then another, and the train stopped in a station. ‘I’m saved,’ Wokulski thought.
At the same moment Mr Łęcki woke up. ‘What station is this?’ he asked Wokulski.
‘Skierniewice,’ Izabela replied.
The conductor opened the door. Wokulski leaped up. He knocked against Tomasz, staggered against the opposite seat, tripped on the step and rushed into the buffet. ‘Vodka!’ he exclaimed.
Surprised, the waitress handed him a glass. He lifted it to his lips, but felt a pressure in his throat and nausea, so put down the glass untouched.
Starski was talking to Izabela in their compartment: ‘Well, I must say, cousin,’ he said, ‘that one doesn’t jump out of a compartment quite so hastily, in front of ladies.’
‘Perhaps he’s ill?’ Izabela replied, feeling some uneasiness.
‘Not an illness, surely, that won’t brook delay…Would you like me to order something?’
‘Soda water…’
Starski went into the buffet: Izabela looked out of the window. Her ill-defined uneasiness was increasing. ‘There’s something the matter,’ she thought, ‘how strange he looked…’
Wokulski went from the buffet to the end of the platform. He took several deep breaths, drank some water from a barrel by which a poor woman and some Jews were waiting. Slowly he came to, and on seeing the chief conductor, said: ‘My good man, find a piece of paper…’
‘What’s the matter, sir?’
‘Nothing. Get a piece of paper from your office, and say at my compartment that there’s a telegram for Wokulski.’
‘For you, sir?’
‘Yes.’
The conductor was extremely surprised, but went to the telegraph office. A few minutes later he emerged and, approaching the compartment in which Mr Łęcki and his daughter were seated, cried: ‘Telegram for Mr Wokulski!’
‘What’s this? Show me!’ exclaimed Tomasz, anxiously.
But at this moment Wokulski stopped by the conductor, took the paper, calmly opened it and pretended to read it, although it was quite dark at that spot. ‘What kind of telegram is it?’ Tomasz asked him.
‘From Warsaw,’ Wokulski replied, ‘I must go back.’
‘Go back?’ Izabela cried, ‘is it some misfortune?’
‘No, madam. My partner has sent for me.’
‘Profit—or loss?’ Tomasz whispered, leaning out of the window.
‘Huge profits,’ Wokulski replied in the same manner.
‘In that case—go back,’ Tomasz advised.
‘But why wait here?’ Izabela cried. ‘You must wait for a train, and you’d do better to travel on with us until we meet it. We can have a few more hours together.’
‘Bela’s advice is excellent,’ Mr. Tomasz interposed.
‘No, sir,’ Wokulski replied, ‘I prefer travelling back on an engine rather than waste a few hours.’
Izabela gazed at him, wide-eyed. At this moment she saw something entirely novel about him, and he interested her. ‘What a profound character,’ she thought.
In the course of a few moments Wokulski had, for no reason, grown powerful in her eyes, while Starski seemed small and ludicrous. ‘Why is he staying? Where did that telegram come from?’ she wondered, and the ill-defined uneasiness gave place to terror.
Wokulski went back to the buffet for a porter to get his things out, and met Starski.
‘What’s wrong?’ Starski exclaimed, staring at him in the light from the waiting-room. Wokulski seized his arm and dragged him along the platform. ‘Don’t be angry at what I say, Mr Starski,’ he said in a dull voice. ‘You are mistaken about yourself…There’s as much of the devil in you, as there is poison in a match-head…And you have none of the qualities of champagne…Your attributes are closer to those of overripe cheese which stimulates poor digestions which a plain flavour might cause to vomit…Excuse me.’
Starski listened, dumbfounded. He didn’t understand a word, yet he seemed to understand something. He began supposing