The Doll - Bolesaw Prus [85]
I am ashamed to admit I was rather reluctant to move into the new store. That was not all: I certainly prefer to serve in a huge store, on the Parisian model, rather than in a booth like our previous shop. What I regretted was my room, where I had lived twenty-five years. As our old lease was good until July, I stayed in my little room to mid-May, looking at its walls, the grating which reminded me of agreeable times in Zamość, and at the old furniture. ‘How can I move all these things, how shall I get away, merciful Heaven?’ thought I.
But one day about the middle of May (rumours of peace were circulating just then), Staś came to me just before the store closed, and said: ‘You, know, old man, it’s time to move to your new abode.’ I felt my blood turn to water. Then he went on: ‘Come along, I’ll show you the new apartment I have rented for you in this very house.’
‘How so?’ I asked, ‘I must first discuss the rent with the landlord.’
‘It’s already paid,’ he replied. So he took my arm and led me through the back door of the shop into the hall.
‘But,’ said I, ‘this is rented…’
Instead of replying, he opened a door on the far side of the hall…I go in…my goodness!…a drawing-room!…Furniture covered in tapestry, albums on the tables, flower-pots in the window…a book-case by the wall…‘Here,’ said Staś, showing me richly bound books, ‘three histories of Napoleon I, the lives of Garibaldi and Kossuth, the history of Hungary…’
I was delighted with the books but I must admit that the drawing-room made a disagreeable impression. Staś noticed this and suddenly, with a smile, opened another door.
My goodness me!…this second room was my room, the room where I had lived twenty-five years. Barred windows, the green curtain, my black table…and by the wall opposite, was my iron bed, my rifle and the box containing my guitar. ‘How is this?’ I asked Staś, ‘so they have moved me already?’
‘Yes,’ Staś replies, ‘every single thing, even Ir’s sheet…’
It may seem comical, but I had tears in my eyes…I looked at his stern face and unhappy eyes, and could hardly believe that this man could be so thoughtful and have such delicacy of feeling. For I had never breathed a word to him…He himself had guessed that I might pine for my former abode, and had himself supervised the moving of my bits and pieces. Happy will be the woman he marries (I even have a suitable party in mind for him): but he won’t marry, for sure. Some kind of wild dreams possess him, but they are not, alas, concerned with marriage…Goodness knows how many respectable people come into our shop, purportedly to buy something but in reality matchmaking for Staś—yet nothing comes of it. There is Mrs Sperling, who has a hundred thousand roubles in cash and a distillery. What hasn’t she bought in our store, all in order to inquire: ‘Well, isn’t Mr Wokulski getting married, then?’ ‘No, madam.’ ‘That’s a shame,’ said Mrs Sperling with a sigh, ‘a fine store, a big fortune, but it will all go to rack and ruin for want of a lady in the house. Now, if Mr Wokulski were to choose a respectable and well-to-do lady, his credit would even go up.’ ‘Madam, you never said a truer word,’ I said. ‘Adieu, Mr Rzecki,’ said she (putting twenty or fifty roubles on the cash desk), ‘but pray do not mention to Mr Wokulski that I said anything about marriage, he may think the old girl is after him…’ ‘On the contrary, I will not omit to mention it…’
And I thought to myself that if I were Wokulski, I’d marry this rich widow in a moment. That figure of hers, my goodness!
Or there is Schmetterling, the saddler. How often, when paying his bills, has he not said: ‘Why, sir, couldn’t such a man as Wokulski, sir, get married? A fine fellow, sir, spirited, sir, shoulders like a bull. May the devil take me if I wouldn’t let him have my own daughter and ten thousand a year dowry, sir…Hm?’
Or Councillor Wroński. Not wealthy, quiet, yet he buys a pair of gloves every week, and each time he says: ‘Good God, how can Poland help going to the dogs when a man like Wokulski doesn’t marry?