The Doll - Bolesaw Prus [66]
‘Would you care for some wine?’ Izabela inquired, eyeing him with surprise.
‘If you like,’ he replied mechanically.
‘We must become better acquainted, Mr Wokulski,’ said the Prince. ‘You must join our sphere in which, believe me, there are sensible and noble hearts—but a lack of initiative.’
‘I am a nouveau riche, I have no title,’ Wokulski replied, merely for the sake of answering.
‘On the contrary, you have one title at least—work: the second, honesty; the third—talent; the fourth—energy… We need these for the rebirth of our country, so give us them and we will take to you as to a brother…’
The Countess approached. ‘May I, Prince?’ she said, ‘Mr Wokulski…’ She gave him her hand and both went over to the Duchess’s armchair.
‘This, Duchess, is Mr Stanislaw Wokulski,’ said the Countess to an old lady in black, covered with costly lace.
‘Sit down, please,’ said the Duchess, indicating the chair by her. ‘Your first name is Stanisław, then? And which branch of the Wokulskis do you belong to, pray?’
‘A branch…unknown to anyone,’ he replied, ‘and least of all to you, I am sure.’
‘Didn’t your father serve in the army?’
‘My uncle, but not my father.’
‘Do you not recall where he served? Wasn’t his first name Stanislaw?’
‘It was. He was a lieutenant, later a captain in the Seventh Infantry regiment.’
‘The first brigade of the second division,’ the Duchess interrupted. ‘You see, young man, that you are not so unknown to me. Is he still alive?’
‘He died five years ago.’
The Duchess’s hands began trembling. She opened a tiny flask and inhaled it. ‘He died, you say? God rest his soul… Did he not leave behind a souvenir of any kind?’
‘A gold cross.’
‘Yes, a gold cross… Nothing more?’
‘A miniature of himself, taken in 1828, on ivory.’
The Duchess kept sniffing the tiny flask: her hands trembled more and more. ‘A miniature,’ she repeated. ‘Do you happen to know who painted it? Did he not leave anything else?’
‘There was a bundle of letters and another miniature.’
‘What has become of them?’ the Duchess inquired, still more agitated.
‘My uncle sealed them up some days before he died and asked that they should be put into his coffin.’
‘Ah…ah…’ the old lady whispered, and burst into tears.
There was a stir in the drawing-room. Izabela anxiously hastened over, then the Countess. They took the Duchess by the hand and slowly led her into another room. All eyes were upon Wokulski. People began whispering.
Seeing that everyone was looking at him and talking about him, Wokulski grew embarrassed. In order to give the impression that this peculiar popularity did not concern him, he drank two glasses of wine in rapid succession from a table, then realised that one glass of Hungarian wine had been that of the general, and the other, of red wine, the bishop’s.
‘I am doing very nicely indeed,’ he said to himself. ‘They will say I offended the old lady in order to get at her neighbours’ wine.’
He rose, meaning to leave, and grew hot at the thought of proceeding across two drawing-rooms in which a gauntlet of stares and whispers awaited him. But the Prince stopped him.
‘You and the Duchess were no doubt talking about the old days, and that has distressed her. Am I right? To revert to the subject we were discussing when we were interrupted. Do you think it would be a good thing to establish a Polish factory of cheap linen?’
Wokulski shook his head: ‘I doubt if it would succeed,’ he replied. ‘It is difficult to conceive of large factories for people unable to make small improvements in those already in existence… In other words… I am referring to mills,’ Wokulski went on, ‘in a few years we shall even be importing flour, for our millers are reluctant