The Doll - Bolesaw Prus [60]
‘Suppose she said she didn’t love me? All these ceremonies have one good aspect: they give us time and the opportunity to become acquainted. But it is bad not to speak English… Today I’d have known what she thinks of me; for I am certain she was speaking of me to her aunt. I must learn it…
‘Or take such a trivial thing as a carriage… If I had one, I could have sent her home with her aunt in it, and another bond would have formed between us. It would cost a thousand roubles a year, but that can’t be helped. I must be prepared for all eventualities… A carriage, English lessons…more than two hundred roubles for one Easter offering! And I am doing all this, I who despise it. However, what am I to spend my money on, if not to ensure my own happiness? What do theories of economics mean to me when my heart aches?’
His thoughts were interrupted by a sorrowful melody. It came from a musical box, and was followed by the singing of stuffed birds; when they fell silent the whispering of the fountain and the sighs of the pious could be heard.
Crouched and kneeling figures were visible in the nave, near the confessional, in the doors of chapels. Some crawled along the floor to the Crucifix and kissed it, then placed small coins extricated from handkerchiefs in the tray.
A white Christ figure, surrounded by flowers, lay in the depths of a chapel, under a flood of light. It seemed to Wokulski that its face had come alive under the influence of the flickering rays, taking on an expression of severity, or mercy and forgiveness. When a musical box played tunes from Lucia di Lammermoor, or when the clatter of money and exclamations in French came from the centre of the church, the features of the Christ darkened. But when a poor man approached the Crucifix and told the Crucified One of his sufferings, then Christ opened His dead lips and, against the tinkling of the fountain, repeated blessings and promises: ‘Blessed are the meek… Blessed are they who mourn…’
A young, painted girl went up to the tray. She placed a silver coin in it, but did not venture to touch the Cross. Those kneeling near looked askance at her velvet coat and gaudy hat. But when the Christ whispered: ‘Let him who is without sin cast a stone at her…’ she sank to the floor and kissed His feet as Mary Magdalene once did.
‘Blessed are they who seek justice…Blessed are they who mourn…’
Deeply touched, Wokulski watched the crowd in the gloom of the church who had been waiting with such patient faith for eighteen centuries for the heavenly promises to be fulfilled.
‘When will that be?’ he thought.
‘The Son of Man will send His angels and they will bear away all suffering and those who commit injustices, as if gathering weeds, and will consume them with fire…’
Wokulski looked around the church mechanically. By the table, the Countess was taking a nap, and Izabela yawning; at a further table three unknown young ladies were laughing at the stories of an elegant young man.
‘It is another world…another world,’ Wokulski thought. ‘What fatality is driving me in their direction?’
At this moment, a young woman, very neatly dressed and accompanied by a little girl, stopped then knelt down by the confessional. Wokulski looked at her and noticed she was unusually beautiful. The expression of her face was what struck him most, it was as if she had come to the grave not to pray, but to question and lament. She crossed herself, then saw the tray for offerings and brought out a small purse.
‘Helusia,’ she said to the little girl in an undertone, ‘go and put this on the tray, and kiss the Lord Jesus.’
‘Where am I to kiss Him, mama?’
‘On His hands and feet.’
‘Not on His mouth?’
‘No, that is not allowed.’
‘Well, fancy…’ and she ran to the tray, then crouched over the cross.
‘Mama,’ she cried, coming back,