The Spinoza of Market Street (8 page)

After Dr. Chwaschinski's death the gentry began to try to please Dr. Yaretzky. The mayor pledged a truce with him, the apothecary invited him to a party. The ladies praised his gifts as an
accoucheur
.

Mrs. Woychehovska, a stout person who, morning and evening walked to church wearing a black shawl over her head and carrying a gold-embossed prayer book, was a gentile marriage broker in the town. Mrs. Woychehovska kept a roster of eligible bachelors and maidens. She frequented the better homes. She boasted that her matches were arranged in dreams by an angel who appeared revealing who was destined for whom. To date, not one of her couples had ever quarreled, separated or proved childless.

Mrs. Woychehovska came to Dr. Yaretzky proposing a highly advantageous match. The young lady came from one of the noblest families in Poland. Her widowed mother owned an estate just outside town. Although Helena was no longer in the first flush of youth, she was single; not from lack of suitors, but from overdiscrimination, Mrs. Woychehovska assured Dr. Yaretzky. She had picked and chosen for so long, that she had been left a maiden. Helena was an accomplished pianist, could converse in French and read poetry. She was known for her love of animals, she kept an aquarium of goldfish in her blue room, and had raised a pair of parrots on the farm. A donkey purchased from a licorice-selling Turk was in her stable. Mrs. Woychehovska swore to Dr. Yaretzky that in her dream she had seen him kneeling alongside Helena before the altar in church. Over their heads hung a halo emanating rays of light--a sure omen that they'd been destined for each other. Dr. Yaretzky heard her out, patiently.

"Who sent you?" he asked her after she'd finished, "the mother or the daughter?"

"For the love of Jesus, neither of them even suspects."

"Why bring Jesus into this?" Dr. Yaretzky said. "Jesus was nothing but a lousy Jew . . ."

Mrs. Woychehovska's face immediately flooded with tears. "Kind sir, what are you saying? May God forgive you! . . ."

"There is no God!"

"Then what is there?"

"Worms. . . ."

"Poor soul, I pity you! And may God pity you! He is merciful. He has compassion even for those who profane Him. . . ."

Mrs. Woychehovska left and crossed Dr. Yaretzky's name off her list. Soon afterwards she suffered an attack of hiccups and it was some time before the spasms subsided.

II

HELENA SEEKS REVENGE

Mrs. Woychehovska repeated the incident to her crony, a Mrs. Markewich who told it secretly to her in-law, a Mrs. Krul. Mrs. Krul's servant girl repeated it to a milkmaid who worked at the estate, and she in turn told it to Helena as her mistress was feeding bread and sugar to her pet donkey. Helena, normally pale, turned white as the lumps of sugar when she learned of the incident. She ran to her mother screaming: "Mama, I'll never forgive you for this, not even on my deathbed!"

The widow denied any knowledge of the affair, but Helena was unconvinced. She flew to her blue room and ordered the chamber maid to remove the aquarium. She wanted to be alone, without the presence of even the goldfish. Bolting the door, closing the shutters, she began to pace up and down. Helena had suffered much. The day her father hanged himself from an apple tree in the orchard was the most terrible day of her life, but even that had been easier to bear than this. Dr. Yaretzky, that barbarian, that anti-Christ, that worm, had slapped her face, sullied her soul. If her servant knew, it must be common gossip by now. True, her mother swore she had not sent the matchmaker, but who would believe it? She, Helena, had been disgraced. The entire neighborhood was probably laughing at her.

But what could she do about it? Should she vanish so completely no one would ever hear of her again? Should she drown herself in the pond? Should she revenge herself upon that charlatan, Yaretzky?--But how? Were she a man, she would challenge him to a duel, but what could a mere female do? Fury raged in Helena's heart. Her honor had been the only thing left of her pride. Now, that too had been taken away. She'd been debased. There was nothing to do but die.

She stopped eating. She no longer fed the parrots and the donkey. She neglected to change the water in the fish tank. Naturally slim, she grew emaciated: a tall pale girl with a white face, a high forehead, and faded hair, once the color of gold, now like straw. White hairs became evident. Her skin grew transparent, networks of bluish veins covered her temples. Malnutrition and vexation sapped her strength, and she spent her days on the divan. Even Slowacki's divine poetry ceased to interest her.

When her mother realized that her only daughter was declining, she decided to act. But Helena refused to visit an aunt in Pietrkow Province. Nor would she consult doctors in Lublin or vacation at the Nalenchow spa. Every night she tossed sleepless in bed, seeking ways to revenge herself on Yaretzky. The hot blood of her father, the squire, and other noble ancestors tormented her. She fancied herself an avenging knight, stripping Yaretzky and lashing him in the market-square. After the scourging, she bound him to the tail of a pack horse and had him dragged off to the turnpike. And then, after all this torture, she gouged bits of flesh from his body and poured acid into the wounds. And while she was at it, she had that accursed matchmaker, that Woychehovska slut hanged.

But what good were fantasies? They merely fatigued the mind and intensified one's helplessness.

III

HELENA ATTENDS A BALL

Who can understand the feminine soul? Even an angelic woman shelters within herself devils, imps, and goblins. The evil ones act perversely, mock human feelings, profane holiness. For example, in Shebreshin during a funeral oration over a deceased landlord, a Squire Woyski, his widow suddenly burst out laughing. She stood over the coffin and laughed so intemperately that all the mourners and even the deceased's relatives began to laugh with her. Another time in Zamosc the wife of a brewer went to a barber-surgeon to have a tooth pulled, and when the man put his finger in her mouth to test the tooth, the woman bit it. Afterwards she began to wail and suffered an epileptic fit. Such things happen frequently. It is all part of the perversity so characteristic of the female's nature.

It happened this way. The Post Natchalnik, a Russian married to a Pole, the daughter of a squire near Hrubyeshov, gave a ball to celebrate his wife's birthday. He invited the entire officialdom, as well as the better Polish townspeople and the neighboring gentry, Helena and her mother included. In the past, Helena had always found some excuse to avoid these social functions. Years passed without a single formal appearance on her part. But this time she decided to go. Her mother was overjoyed. She summoned Aaron-Leib, the most successful ladies' tailor in town, and gave him a bolt of silk from which to fashion a ball gown for her daughter. The material had been lying around for years. Aaron-Leib took Helena's measurements and complimented her on her slenderness. Most of the ladies were squat and chunky and the clothes looked baggy on them. This was the first time Helena had permitted a man to touch her. In the past, it had been almost impossible to take her measurements, but this time she cooperated. She was even amiable to this Jew, Aaron-Leib, and asked about his family. Before he left, she gave him a coin for his youngest daughter. Aaron-Leib thanked God for having left him off so easily. Helena's reputation was that of an eccentric.

Customarily Helena accepted an invitation only after having made a full inquiry into the lists of guests. She kept a mental dossier on everybody. This one didn't please her, the other was beneath her station, a third had done a disservice to her father, or grandfather--she found fault with everyone. Quite often, if the hostess wanted Helena to attend, she was forced to scratch some prospective guests off her list, but, if on the other hand, she refused to give in, Helena grew enraged and severed all relations with the person. This time, however, Helena made no stipulations. She seemed to have forgotten her previous misanthropy; her feminine vanity had awakened. She insisted on several fittings of her gown, she ordered dancing slippers from Lublin, and each day she tried on a new item of jewelry to see what would be most appropriate. She grew sprightlier, more talkative, her appetite sharpened, she slept more easily. Her mother was delighted. How long, after all, should a girl sulk and isolate herself? Perhaps God had heeded the widow's supplications and turned her daughter's heart towards conventional behavior. The widow's hopes for the ball were high. Besides the married men, several eligible bachelors were to attend. Two orchestras had been engaged, one military, the other civilian.

Helena, when younger, had been considered an excellent dancer, but she hadn't danced in years, and new dances were in vogue. She asked her mother to hire the town dancemaster, Professor Rayanc. He came and gave Helena lessons. The servants stared as Mistress Helena whirled around the salon with the lanky Professor, who it was said, was ill with consumption and wore a wig to cover his bald head. He was astonished at how quickly Helena learned the new steps. His black eyes filled with tears of admiration, and he suffered a coughing spell, spitting blood into a silken handkerchief. The widow offered him a glass of cherry brandy and a bit of pastry. He licked his fingers and raised the glass: "To your health, esteemed Ladies! May you soon dance at Lady Helena's wedding!"

And he artfully twirled the button on his highly lacquered shoe to make sure the toast would become a reality.

The gown turned out more beautiful than expected. It fit Helena as if she'd been made for it. The flower on the shoulder strap and the gold tasseled bow about the waist lent the gown a chic and elegance rare even in the large cities.

The day of the ball was sunny and the evening mild. Britzskas, carriages and phaetons pulled up before the officer's club where the balls were held. Horses and vehicles filled the parade ground where the soldiers drilled. Liveried footmen mingled with common coachmen. Ladies in sweeping gowns splendid with tucks and ribbons, escorted by gentlemen in dress-uniforms and civilian evening attire with rows of medals on their chests, tried to outshine each other. An old Polish nobleman with mustachios extending to his shoulders accompanied his small round wife, who carried a fringed umbrella even though the sky was clear. Regimental caps and swords hung in the hall. Many young people of the town had assembled around the club to watch the guests and listen to the dance music. The horses behaved as always--.chewing their oats and swishing their tails. Occasionally one would whinny but the others disregarded him. What did a horse's whinny mean? Nothing--even to horses.

Helena and her mother arrived late, after the music had started. When the coachman opened the carriage door and Helena stepped down she was greeted by the admiring shrieks of the girls and whistles of the young hoodlums. She was like a portrait come alive.

IV

A KISS ON THE HAND

Helena and her mother were welcomed by the Post Natchalnik and his wife. Other guests came to greet them. The men kissed their hands, the ladies paid them compliments. Helena felt as if she were floating. She spoke, not knowing what she said, or why. Her eyes searched, not knowing for whom. Suddenly she spied Dr. Yaretzky. He was surrounded by young, attractive ladies--the wives and daughters of the gentry and the authorities. He might have been the only man in the ballroom who wore no medals. The days when Yaretzky had been branded gypsy, Jew-barber and Devil were long past. The town's ladies, particularly the young and prominent ones, adored him. They repeated his piquant witticisms, they lauded his medical ability. They even forgave him his bachelorhood and his living with the deaf-mute servant girl. He was bold with the ladies, having delivered the children of some and seen others undressed in his office.

When Helena saw him, she was stunned momentarily. She had almost forgotten about him--or had she made herself forget? He seemed so dashing now in his dress coat and highly polished shoes. The black eyes seemed wise and humorous. A young woman tried coquettishly to place a flower in his lapel where apparently there was no buttonhole. The women laughed and clapped their hands, as Dr. Yaretzky undoubtedly offered a
riposte
, one of his impertinent sallies, which no other man present would have dared utter in mixed company. "Do I still hate him?" Helena asked herself, and even as she asked it, she knew the answer. Her antagonism had mysteriously dissolved--and been replaced by a curiosity as strong as her enmity--perhaps even stronger. She realized something else: she had not forgotten about Dr. Yaretzky at all but had thought of him constantly, possessed as if in a dream, when one thinks with every tissue of the brain without being aware of it. "Will someone introduce us?" she wondered. "I must speak with him, dance with him."

She was jealous of the fawning women who flirted with him so casually. As if he'd been reading her mind, the Natchalnik said: "Is the esteemed Lady Helena acquainted with our Doctor Yaretzky? One moment, if you please. . . ."

He trotted over to Yaretzky, whispered something in his ear, took him by the arm and good-naturedly led him over to Helena.

The other ladies protested, half jestingly, that he was appropriating their cavalier. A few of them even trailed along, not sure of how to react. The balmy evening, the scintillating music, the fragrance of the flowers and perfumes and the drinks the ladies had had, all contributed to an atmosphere of frivolity; Yaretzky bowed to Helena, his smoldering eyes seemed to imply: "Yes, it's about time we two got together. I've anticipated this meeting!" and he offered his hand.

And then there occurred one of those mysteries, one of those imponderables, which confound human reason. Helena lifted Dr. Yaretzky's hand to her mouth--and kissed it. It happened so quickly, that she did not realize what she had done until afterwards. She laughed strangely. Her mother choked off a scream. The ladies were struck dumb. The Natchalnik looked paralyzed--his mouth remained open. Only two young officers began to hoot and clap their palms along their striped trousers. Dr. Yaretzky himself turned pale, but quickly recovered and said: "If Mohammed does not come to the mountain, the mountain comes to Mohammed. . . . Since I neglected to kiss Lady Helena's hand, the Lady kissed mine," and he took Helena's hand and kissed it three times, twice on the glove and once on the exposed wrist. Only now did the ladies begin to titter, prattle. In a second, the story had spread through the ballroom. The guests found it incredible. Everyone was overcome with curiosity and a sense of scandal. The town would have something to gossip about for months to come. Even the lackeys, coachmen and servant girls outside quickly learned of the incident. Their eyes widened. Was she insane? Was she madly infatuated with him? Had someone bewitched her? The musicians came to life, as if revived by the indiscretion and both orchestras began to play with renewed vigor. The violins sang, the bass fiddles buzzed, the cellos shrieked, the trumpets wailed, the drums throbbed. The dancers' feet grew light, reacting with satisfaction to the spectacle of another's downfall. A debauched mood infected everyone. Couples previously inhibited now danced into the corridors or the courtyard and openly embraced. If Helena could kiss Dr. Yaretzky's hand before everyone, what need was there for decorum?