The Doll - Bolesaw Prus [38]
But was it proper to do so, or even mention it to her father?
‘Wokulski, Wokulski …’ Izabela whispers. Who is this Wokulski who had suddenly appeared on all sides, and in various aspects? What does he have to do with her aunt, with her father?
Now she recalls hearing about this man several times in the past weeks. Some merchant or other had recently donated several thousand roubles to charity, but she was uncertain whether he dealt in ladies’ gown or in furs. Then people talked of a merchant who had made a great fortune in the Bulgarian war, but she had not paid attention to whether he was a shoemaker from whom she purchased her shoes, or her hairdresser. Only now did she realise that this merchant who had donated money to charity and the man who had made the great fortune were one and the same person, none other than this Wokulski who had also lost money at cards to her father, and whom her aunt, the notoriously proud Countess Karolowa, called ‘my good honest Wokulski’.
At this moment she even recalled the face of this man, who had refused to speak to her in his shop and had withdrawn behind a huge Japanese vase to eye her sombrely. How he had looked at her!
One day, she and Flora had gone into a cafe for chocolate, just for a lark. They sat by the window, behind which several ragged children gathered. The children looked in at her, at the chocolate and the cakes with the curiosity and greed of starving animals, and this shop-keeper had looked at her in the same manner.
A slight shudder ran through Izabela. And he was to be her father’s partner? … What for? … How had it crossed her father’s mind to establish a commercial company, think up extensive plans he had never even dreamed of before? He hoped to rise to the forefront of the aristocracy with the help of the bourgeoisie; he hoped to be elected to a town council which never existed and probably never would …
Surely this Wokulski was nothing more than a speculator, perhaps a cheat, who needed an eminent name as shield for his enterprises? Such things happened. How many eminent names of the German and Hungarian aristocracy had been bedraggled in trade operations which Izabela did not understand, and of which her father hardly knew more.
It had grown quite dark; the lamps had been lit in the street, and their light outlined the window frame and folds of the curtain upon the ceiling of Izabela’s boudoir. The shadows looked like a cross against a dark background which was slowly being submerged by a dense cloud.
‘Where have I seen a cross like that, such a cloud and such brightness?’ Izabela asked herself. She began to recall places seen in her life — and to dream.
It seemed to her she was travelling by carriage in some familiar spot. The landscape was like a huge ring of forests and green mountains, and her carriage was on the edge of the ring, descending into it. Would it go down? For it was neither coming nor going, but seemed to be motionless. Yet it was moving: this was evident from the face of the sun reflected in the polished sides of the carriage, trembling slightly as it moved backwards. Moreover, the wheels could be heard … Or was it the rattle of a droshky in the street? … No, it was the roar of machinery somewhere far below, in the depths of that ring of mountains and trees. She could even see, down there, what looked like a lake of black