‘Well I never,’ he murmured, ‘I believe this is the very house…’
And in fact it was the Łęcki property.
He began to survey it. The house had three floors; it had a few iron balconies and each floor was in a different style. The architecture of the gate was dominated by a single motif, to wit—a fan. The upper part of the gate was in the form of an open fan, which an antediluvian giantess might have used for cooling herself off. On both sides of the gate were sculptured enormous squares, which were also adorned with open fans. But the finest adornment of this gate were two sculptures in the centre of its wings, representing nail-heads so enormous that it looked as if they nailed the gate to the house and the house to Warsaw.
The entrance passage was peculiar in that it had a wretched floor but fine landscapes painted on the walls. There were so many hills, woods, rocks and streams that the tenants of the house need never go away for the summer. The yard inside, surrounded by the three-storey wings, looked like the bottom of a deep well, full of smelly air. In every corner was a door, in one there were even two: a dustbin and waterpump stood under the window of the caretaker’s apartment.
Wokulski glanced up the main staircase, to which a glass door led. The stairs looked very dirty; however, there was a niche at the side, holding a broken-nosed nymph with a jug on her head. As the jug was purple in colour, the nymph’s face yellow, her bosom green and legs blue it was plain to see that she was standing opposite a stained-glass window.
‘Well, well…’ Wokulski murmured in a tone which did not express very much relish.
At this moment a pretty woman with a little girl came out of the right-hand block. ‘Are we going to the park now, mama?’ the child asked.
‘No, dear, we’re going to the store, and to the park after lunch,’ the lady replied in a very agreeable voice. She was a tall brunette with grey eyes and classical features. She and Wokulski glanced at each other, and the lady turned pink.
‘Where have I seen her before?’ Wokulski wondered, going out into the street again. The lady looked around, but turned away again when she saw him. ‘Yes,’ he thought, ‘I saw her in church in April, and later in the store. Rzecki drew my attention to her, and said she has pretty legs. So she has…’
He went back into the gate-way again and began reading the list of tenants: ‘What’s this? Baroness Krzeszowska on the second floor! And Maruszewicz in the left-hand block, on the first floor? A strange coincidence, indeed. Third-floor front—students. Who can that attractive woman be? Right-hand block, first floor—Mrs Jadwiga Misiewicz, retired, and Helena Stawska and daughter. That must be she.’
He went into the yard and looked around. Almost all the windows were open. In the rear block, on the ground floor, was a laundry describing itself as ‘Parisian’, on the third floor could be heard the beating of a shoemaker’s hammer, and below, on a parapet, a couple of pigeons were cooing, while on the second floor of the same block the monotonous sounds of a pianoforte and a shrill soprano singing scales could be heard: ‘Do re me fa…’
High above, on the third floor, Wokulski heard a strong masculine bass voice, which said: ‘There, she’s been taking cascara again…The tape-worm’s coming out…Marysia, come up here!’
At the same time, the head of a woman looked out of a second-floor window, shouting: ‘Marysia, come back at once…Marysia!’
‘That must be Mme Krzeszowska,’ Wokulski thought.
Then he heard an unmistakable sound, and a stream of water poured down from the third floor, hitting the outstretched head of the Baroness and splashing all over the yard. ‘Marysia, come up here!’ the bass voice shouted.
‘You cads!’ Baroness Krzeszowska cried, looking upwards. Another stream of water shot out of the third-floor window and cut off her words in midstream.
Simultaneously a young man with a black beard leaned out and, catching sight of Mme Krzeszowska’s countenance, exclaimed in a bass voice: ‘Oh it’s you, madam—pardon me, I beg…’
He was answered from within Mme Krzeszowska’s apartment by the spasmodic sobbing of a female voice: ‘Oh woe is me! I vow it was that scoundrel himself who set those bandits upon me…He repays me thus for saving him from poverty, for buying that horse of his…’
Meanwhile, down below, the laundry-women ironed linen, the shoemaker was hammering on the third floor, and in the second-floor back, the pianoforte resounded and a shrill scale was heard: ‘Do re mi fa…’
‘A cheerful house, no doubt about it,’ Wokulski thought, shaking off the drops of water which had fallen on his sleeve. He went out into the street, looked once again at the property of which he was to become owner, then turned back to Aleje Jerozolimskie. Here he took a droshky and drove to the lawyer’s.
In the lawyer’s waiting room, he found a couple of shabby Jews and an old woman with a kerchief around her head. Through the open door to the left were visible cupboards full of documents, three clerks writing rapidly and some city visitors, one of whom looked like a criminal, and the other two who looked very bored.
An old usher with grey whiskers and suspicious look took Wokulski’s coat, and asked: ‘Will your business take long, sir?’
‘No, a very short time.’
He showed Wokulski into a room to the right: ‘Whom shall I announce?’ Wokulski gave him his card and was left alone.
The room contained furniture covered in purple tapestry, as in first-class railway carriages, some ornamental cupboards with richly bound books which looked as though no one had ever read them, and a few magazines and albums on the table, which everyone had apparently handled. In one corner was a plaster statue of the goddess Temida, with bronze lips and grubby knees.
‘This way please,’ said a servant. The eminent lawyer’s study contained furniture covered in brown leather, with brown curtains in the windows and brown paper on the walls. He himself was dressed in a brown frock-coat, and was holding a very long pipe in one hand, with an amber stopper and a little feather.
‘I thought I would have the honour of welcoming you here, my dear sir,’ said the lawyer, drawing an armchair towards Wokulski and straightening the carpet, which was slightly crumpled, with one foot. ‘In a word,’ the lawyer went on, ‘we may count on contributions of some three hundred thousand roubles for the partnership. And you may be sure we shall go to the notary public as fast as possible and obtain the cash down to the last penny.’ He said this, laying emphasis on the more important words, pressed Wokulski’s arm, then observed him narrowly.
‘Ah yes—the partnership,’ Wokulski echoed as he sat down, ‘but it is the business of the other gentlemen as to how much cash they can lay hands on…’
‘Well, it is always capital, you know,’ the lawyer interposed.
‘I have capital without the partnership…’
‘Proof of confidence, then…’
‘My own word suffices…’
The lawyer fell silent and hastily began puffing smoke out of his pipe.
‘I have a request to make,’ Wokulski said after a moment. The lawyer fixed him with a look, seeking to divine what it was. His manner of listening would depend on its nature. But he evidently divined nothing dangerous, since his visage took on an expression of grave but cordial benevolence.
‘I wish to buy a house,’ Wokulski went on.
‘So soon?’ the lawyer inquired, raising his brows and lowering his head, ‘I congratulate you, indeed I do…A business house is not called a ‘house’ for nothing. To a tradesman a house is like a stirrup to a rider; it helps to stick firmly to business. Trade which is not based on a real foundation (such as a house provides) is merely street-trading. What house have you in mind, since you have been good enough to confide in me this far?’
‘The Łęcki property is to be auctioned within the next few days…’
‘I know it,’ the lawyer interrupted, ‘the walls are quite solid, the woodwork will have to be altered gradually, the garden is in reserve…Baroness Krzeszowska is prepared to
pay up to sixty thousand for it, no other competition—we shall get it for seventy thousand at most.’
‘For ninety thousand, perhaps even more,’ Wokulski put in.
‘How so?’ the lawyer sat up in his chair, ‘the Baroness will not go beyond sixty thousand, nobody is buying houses these days…A very good stroke of business…’
‘As far as I’m concerned, it would be good business at ninety thousand…’
‘Better at sixty thousand, though…’
‘I do not want to rob my future partner.’
‘Your partner?’ the lawyer exclaimed, ‘but Mr Łęcki is a confirmed bankrupt; you would simply harm him by giving him several thousand roubles. I know the views of the Countess, his sister, on this matter. As soon as Łęcki is without a penny to his name, his charming daughter—whom we all adore—will marry the Baron or the marshal…
Wokulski’s eyes gleamed so strangely that the lawyer stopped short. He eyed him, pondered…Suddenly he clapped one hand to his forehead: ‘My dear sir,’ he said, ‘you are determined to give ninety thousand roubles for that hovel?’
‘Yes,’ Wokulski replied heavily.
‘Sixty thousand from ninety thousand…Miss Łęcka’s dowry,’ the lawyer muttered, ‘aha…’ His face and attitude changed out of all recognition. He puffed a great cloud of smoke out of the big amber pipe, settled back in his chair and, with a gesture in Wokulski’s direction, said: ‘We understand one another, Mr Wokulski. I admit that only five minutes ago I suspected you—goodness knows what of, for your business dealings are always above-board. But now, believe me, you have in me only a well-wisher and—an ally.’
‘I do not understand you now,’ Wokulski whispered, looking away. Brick-red spots appeared on the lawyer’s cheeks. He rang, the servant came in. ‘Let no one in till I call,’ he said.
‘Very good, sir,’ said the gloomy servant.
Again they were left alone.
‘Stanisław…’ the lawyer began, ‘you know, don’t you, what our aristocracy and their hangers-on are? They’re a few thousand people who are sucking our entire country dry, squandering money abroad, bringing back the worst vices imaginable and infecting the middle classes with them, as if they were healthy, and they themselves are inevitably dying out—economically, physiologically and morally. If they could be forced to work, if they could be cross-bred with other levels of society—there would perhaps be some advantage to be gained from them, for after all they are more subtle organisms than the rest of us. You see, my dear sir—cross-breeding, yes…but not throwing away thirty thousand roubles to support the likes of them. As for the cross-breeding—I’ll help you: but as for throwing away thirty thousand roubles—no!’
‘I do not understand you,’ said Wokulski quietly.
‘You understand me, but do not trust me. Mistrust is a great virtue, I would not cure you of it. Let me say this much: Łęcki, the bankrupt, may become the relative even of a tradesman, and still more of a tradesman with genteel connections…But not Łęcki with thirty thousand roubles in his pockets!’
‘My dear sir,’ Wokulski interrupted, ‘will you take part in the auction of this house on my behalf?’
‘I shall, but I’ll only go a few thousand roubles above the amount Mme Krzeszowska will pay. Forgive me, Mr Wokulski, but I am not going to bid against myself.’
‘Suppose a third bidder can be found?’
‘Ha! In that case I will outdo him, in order to humour your whim.’
Wokulski rose. ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘for your few frank words. You are right, but I have right on my side, too. I’ll bring you the cash tomorrow—now, goodbye.’
‘I am sorry for you,’ said the lawyer, shaking his hand.
‘How so?’
‘Because, my dear sir, a man who wants to win must conquer and suppress his antagonist, not feed him from his own granary. You are making a mistake which is more likely to remove you from your aim, than bring you near it.’
‘You are wrong…’
‘A romantic, a romantic!’ the lawyer repeated, with a smile.
Wokulski hurried from the lawyer’s house and took a droshky, telling the driver to go Elektoralna. He was vexed that the lawyer had discovered his secret and had criticised his manner of proceeding. Naturally a man who wants to conquer must suppress his antagonist, but in this case the prize was—Izabela…
He got out in front of a modest little shop, over which was a black sign with a yellowish inscription: ‘S. SZLANGBAUM: Promissory Notes & Lottery.’ The shop was open: an elderly Jew with bald head and grey beard, apparently glued to the Courier, was sitting behind the tin-covered counter, separated from the public by wire-netting.
‘Good day, Mr Szlangbaum,’ Wokulski cried.
The Jew looked up, and brought his spectacles down from his forehead to his nose: ‘Ah, it is you, my good sir,’ he replied, shaking Wokulski by the hand, ‘what does this mean, are you in need of money too?’
‘No,’ Wokulski replied, throwing himself into a cane chair by the counter. But because he was ashamed to explain immediately why he had come, he asked: ‘What’s the news, Mr Szlangbaum?’
‘Things are bad,’ the old man replied, ‘they are starting to persecute the Jews. Perhaps it is as well. When they kick and spit on us, and torture us, then perhaps the young Jews like my Henryk who dress up in frock-coats and do not observe their religion will begin to understand.’
‘Who is persecuting you?’ Wokulski countered.
‘You want proof?’ the Jew asked, ‘you have it here, in the Courier. I sent them a charade the other day…Can you play charades? I sent this one: my first is a Company in short, my second a bag, my whole is terrible in battle. Do you see it? My first is ‘Co’, my second ‘sack’, and my whole is ‘Cossack’. Do you know what they replied? Just a moment…’
He picked up the Courier, and read: “‘Answers from the Editor. Mr W: The Orgelbrand encyclopedia says…” Not that…“Mr Motyk: A frock-coat is worn…” No, not that. Here it is. “Mr S. Szlangbaum: Your political charade is not grammatical.” I ask you, my dear sir: what is political about it? If I’d written a charade on Disraeli or Bismarck, that would be political, but one about Cossacks is surely not political, but military…’
‘But where does the persecution of the Jews come into this?’ Wokulski asked.
‘Let me explain. You yourself had to protect my Henryk from persecution: I know all about it, though he did not say a word to me. As to the charade—when I took my charade to Mr Szymanowski six months ago, he said: “Mr Szlangbaum, we are not going to print your charades, though I suggest you would be better off writing charades than charging interest.”
‘So I said: “Mr Editor, if you will pay as much for charades as I get from charging interest, then I shall write them.”
‘But Mr Szymanowski said: “Mr Szlangbaum, we have no money to pay for your charades.” That is what Mr Szymanowski himself said, d’you hear? And today they say in the Courier that it is political and ungrammatical! Six months ago they spoke differently. But what they say in the papers about the Jews, nowadays…’
Wokulski listened to the tale of the persecution of the Jews, gazing at the wall, on which a lottery list was hanging, drumming his fingers on the counter. But he was thinking of something else, and was hesitant.
‘So you still busy yourself writing charades, Mr Szlangbaum?’ he inquired.
‘Not only me,’ the old Jew replied, ‘I’ve a grandson, nine years old, and pray listen to what he wrote to me the other week. “Dear Grandad,” little Michael wrote, “I made up this charade: my first is part of the body, my second you put on, and my whole is a garment.” And he wrote, “Dear Grandad, if you guess it, please send me six roubles for such a garment.” I burst into tears, Mr Wokulski, when I read it…For the answer is trousers. I wept, Mr Wokulski, that such a clever child must go without trousers through Henryk’s stubbornness. But I wrote back: “My dearest one. I am pleased indeed that you have learned how to wr
ite charades from your old Grandad. But so that you should also learn thrift, I am sending you only four roubles for this corduroy garment. But if you study hard, then, after the vacation, I will buy you this charade: “My first means lips in German, an hour is my second. The whole is bought for a child when he begins the gymnasium.” The answer is: mund-ur; you guessed it at once, Mr Wokulski?’
‘So all your family plays charades?’ Wokulski interrupted.
‘Not only my family,’ Szlangbaum replied, ‘but among us Jews, when young people meet together, they do not waste time as you do with dances, compliments, fine clothes or other nonsense, but they study accounts or learned books, or quiz one another or solve charades and chess problems. Among us, the intellect is always at work, and that is why we Jews have intellect and why—don’t be offended—we are conquering the world. Among you, everything is done by emotional excitement and wars, while we use wisdom and patience.’
The last words struck Wokulski. He, after all, would win Izabela by wisdom and patience…Some comfort entered his heart, so that he ceased hesitating and suddenly said: ‘I have a request to make of you, Mr Szlangbaum.’
‘Your requests are my commands, Mr Wokulski.’
‘I want to buy the Łęcki house.’
‘I know that house. It will go for sixty thousand.’
‘I want it to go for ninety thousand, and need someone to bid up to that sum.’
The Jew opened his eyes wide: ‘How so? You want to pay thirty thousand roubles more?’ he asked.
‘Yes…’
‘Excuse me, but I do not understand you. If you were selling the house, and Łęcki wanted to buy it, then it would be in your interest to send the price up. But if you are buying it, then it is in your interest to lower the price.’
‘It is in my interest to pay more.’
The old man shook his head and after a moment said: ‘If I did not know you, I should think you were doing bad business, but because I know you, I think you are doing—strange business. You are not only immobilising cash and losing some ten per cent interest annually, but on top of that you want to pay thirty thousand roubles extra. Mr Wokulski,’ he added taking him by the hand, ‘do not do such a foolish thing. I, old Szlangbaum, beseech you…’