The Doll - Bolesaw Prus [9]
By the window stood the same black table, covered with a cloth once green, but now merely stained. On it were a large black inkwell and a large black sand-box fastened to the same base, with a pair of brass candlesticks for tallow candles which these days no one ever lit, and steel snuffers with which no one ever snuffed. An iron bed with a very thin mattress, a musket on the wall that no one ever fired, beneath the bed, a box containing a guitar and reminiscent of an infant’s coffin, a narrow leather sofa, two chairs also in leather, a large metal wash-basin and a small dark red cupboard — these constituted the furnishings of the room which, because of its length and darkness, looked more like a grave than a dwelling.
In a quarter of a century, neither the room nor the ways of Ignacy Rzecki had changed.
In the mornings he woke at six: for a while he listened to make sure the watch on the chair was still going, and looked at its hands which stood in one straight line. He wanted to get up at leisure, without undue haste: but because his cold feet and somewhat stiff arms were not sufficiently obedient to his bidding, he would jump out of bed, rapidly hop into the centre of the room and, after tossing his nightcap on the bed, run to the big wash-basin by the stove, and wash from tip to toe, neighing and snorting like a thoroughbred remembering a gymkhana.
During the rites of drying himself with a rough towel, he looked down with relish at his skinny calves and hairy chest, muttering: ‘I’m putting on weight, that I am …’
At the same time his old, one-eyed poodle, Ir, would jump off the sofa, shaking himself vigorously, no doubt to rid himself of dreams, and scratch at the door, behind which someone was heard industriously puffing at the samovar. Still hastily dressing, Rzecki let the dog out, said good morning to the servant, got the tea-pot out of the cupboard, misbuttoned his cuffs, ran into the yard to see what the weather was like, burned his tongue with hot tea, combed his hair without looking into the glass, and was ready by half-past six.
Making sure his tie was on, and his watch and wallet in his pocket, Ignacy took the big key from his table and, stooping a little, ceremoniously unlocked the door of the back shop, which was fastened with an iron bar. He and the servant went in, lit a few little gas-jets and, while the servant was sweeping the floor, Ignacy perused his timetable for the day through his eye-glasses:
‘Put 800 roubles into the bank, hm … Three albums and a dozen wallets to be dispatched to Lublin … That’s it! An order to Vienna for 1,200 guldens … Fetch the delivery from the railroad depot … Tell off that saddler for not sending the cases … A mere nothing, to be sure! Write to Staś … Oh, a mere nothing …’
When he had finished, he would light a few more gas-jets and by their glare would survey the merchandise in the showcases and cupboards.
‘Cuff-links, pins, wallets … good! … Gloves, fans, neck-ties, that’s it! … Walking-sticks, umbrellas, travelling bags … And here, albums, handbags … The blue one was sold yesterday, of course … Candlesticks, ink-wells, paper weight … The porcelain … why did they turn that vase around, I wonder? Surely? … No, no damage … Dolls with genuine hair, the puppetshow, the merry-go-round … Must put that merry-go-round in the window tomorrow, the fountain is already out of date … Oh, a mere nothing, to be sure! It’s almost eight o’clock … I’ll wager that Klein will be first, and Mraczewski last. Of course! … He met some governess or other and bought her a handbag on his account, and