The Doll - Bolesaw Prus [379]
Wokulski clutched his head. ‘Horrible …’ he whispered.
Szuman looked at him from the corner of his eye.
‘You old romantic! … You old romantic! …’ he said. ‘You clutch your head, because in your sick imagination there continues to linger the chimera of an ideal love, a woman with the soul of an angel … Of those there is barely one in ten, thus you have a nine to one chance that you will come across such a one … Do you wish to know the norm? … Look about you at human relationships. Either the man like a cock bustles around a dozen hens, or the woman like a she-wolf in February entices a whole pack of addle-brained wolves or dogs after her … I tell you, there is nothing more degrading than competing in such a pack, than dependence on a she-wolf … In such situations are fortunes lost, health, heart, energy, and, in the end, one’s reason … Shame upon him who cannot extricate himself from such a swamp!’
Wokulski sat in silence, with wide-open eyes. At last he said in a quiet voice, ‘You are right …’
The doctor caught him by the hand and, tugging it violently, cried: ‘Right? … That from your lips? … Well then, you are saved! … Yes, you’ll make a man yet … Spit on everything that has passed: on your own pain and on the infamy of others … Choose a goal, any goal, and begin a new life. Go on making your fortune, or miraculous discoveries, marry Stawska or set up another partnership, as long as you desire something and do something. Do you understand? And never let yourself be tied to a skirt … do you understand? Men of your energy give orders, they do not take them, they lead, they are not led … Whoever had the choice between you and Starski, and chose Starski, that one proved herself unworthy even of Starski … That is my formula, you understand? … And now fare you well and remain with your own thoughts.’
Wokulski did not detain him.
‘You are angry?’ said Szuman. ‘I am not surprised, I have engendered that deep flush; and that which is left will perish of its own accord. Goodbye.’
After the doctor’s departure Wokulski opened the window and unbuttoned his shirt. He found it stifling hot, and it seemed to him that he would have a stroke. He remembered Zasławek and the deceived baron, for whom he had once played almost such a role as Szuman had played for him today …
He began to dream, and alongside the image of Izabela in Starski’s arms, there now appeared to him a pack of breathless wolves pursuing a she-wolf over the snow … And he was one of them! …
Again pain swept over him, coupled with disgust and self-loathing. ‘How despicable and stupid I am! …’ he cried out, hitting his forehead. ‘To see so much, hear so much, and still sink to such degradation … I … I … vied with Starski and God knows with whom else.’
This time he resolutely recalled the image of Izabela; resolutely, he observed all its statuesque features, the ash-blonde hair, the iridescent eyes changing from blue to black. And it seemed to him that on her face, her neck, her shoulders and breast he saw the stamp, the traces of Starski’s kisses …
‘Szuman was right,’ he thought, ‘I am truly cured …’
But slowly, however, anger died in him, and its place was once again taken by grief and sorrow.
During the next few days, Wokulski read no more. He entered into a lively correspondence with Suzin and thought a great deal. He thought that in his present position, after being shut up in his study for almost two months, he had ceased being a man and was beginning to become something like an oyster which, stuck in the same spot, accepts from the world whatever chance happens to throw its way.
And what had accident given him?
First, he put aside the books, some of which had shown to him that he was Don Quixote, and others had