Marynia had such peace "as God gave," but really deep. A great aid to
finding it was that voice from beyond the grave,--the little book,
yellowed by years, in which she read "that a woman should not marry
to be happy, but to fulfil the duties which God imposes on her then."
Marynia, who looked frequently into this little book, had read more
than once those lines before that; but real meaning they had taken on
for her only of late, in that spiritual process through which she had
passed after her return from Italy. It ended in this way, that she was
not only reconciled with fate, but at present she did not admit even
the thought that she was unhappy. She repeated to herself that it was a
happiness different, it is true, from what she had imagined, but none
the less real. It is certain that, if God had given her the power of
arranging people's hearts, she would have wished "Stas" to show her,
not more honor, but more of that tenderness of which he was capable,
and which he had shown in her time to Litka; that his feeling for
her might be less sober, and have in it a certain kernel of poetry
which her own love had. But, on the other hand, she cherished always
somewhere, in some little corner of her heart,--first, the hope that
that might come to pass; and, second, she thought in her soul that,
even if it did not, then, as matters stood, she ought to thank God for
having given her a brave and honest man, whom she could not only love,
but esteem. More than once she stopped to compare him with others, and
could not find any one to sustain the comparison. Bigiel was worthy,
but he had not that dash; Osnovski, with all his goodness, lacked
practical knowledge of life and work; Mashko was a person a hundred
times lower in everything; Pan Ignas seemed to her rather a genial
child than a man,--in a word, from every comparison "Stas" came out
always victorious, and the one result was that she felt for him an
increasing trust as to vital questions, and loved him more and more. At
the same time, while denying herself, subjecting to him her own _I_,
bringing in sacrifice her imaginings and her selfishness, she had the
feeling that she was developing more and more in a spiritual sense,
that she was perfecting herself, that she was becoming better, that she
was not descending to any level, but rising to some height, whence the
soul would be nearer to God; and all at once she saw that in such a
feeling lies the whole world of happiness. Pan Stanislav at that time
was away from home often, therefore she was alone frequently; and, more
than once, she reasoned with the great simplicity of an honest woman:
"People should strive to be better and better; but if I am not worse
than I was, it is well. Were it otherwise, maybe I should be spoiled."
She did not come, however, to the thought that there was more wisdom
in this than in all the ideas and talks of Pani Osnovski. It seemed to
her natural, too, that she had less charm at that time for "Stas" than
formerly. Looking into her mirror, she said to herself: "Well, the eyes
do not change, but what a figure! what a face! If I were Stas, I would
run out of the house!" And she thought an untruth, for she would not
have run out; but it seemed to her that in this way she was increasing
"Stas's" merit. She got comfort, too, from Pani Bigiel, who said that
afterward she would be fairer than ever, "just like some young girl."
And, at times, joy and thankfulness rose in her heart, because all is
so wisely arranged; and if, at first, one is a little uglier and must
suffer a little, not only does all return, but, as a reward, there
is a beloved "bobo" which attaches one to life, and creates a new
bond between wife and husband. In this way, she had times, not only
of peace, but simply of joyfulness, and sometimes she said to Pani
Bigiel,--
"Dost thou know what I think?--it is possible to be happy always, only
we must fear God."
"What has one to do with the other?" asked Pani Bigiel, who from her
husband had gained a love of clear thinking.
"This," answered Marynia,--"that we should rest with what He gives us,
and not importune Him, because He hasn't given that which seems to us
better."
Then she added joyously, "We mustn't tease for happiness." And both
began to laugh.
Frequently, too, in the tenderness almost exaggerated which Pan
Stanislav showed his wife, it was clearly evident that he was thinking
chiefly of the child; but Marynia did not take that ill of him now. In
truth, she never had; but at present she was willing to count it a
merit in him, for she thought it the duty of both to care above all for
the child, as for their future mutual love. Yielding up daily in this
way something of her own care for self, she gained more and more peace,
more and more calmness; these feelings were reflected in her eyes,
which were more beautiful than ever. Her main anxiety now was that it
should be a daughter. She was ready even in this to yield to the will
of God, but she feared "Stas" a little; and one day she asked him in
jest,--
"Stas, and thou wilt not kill me if it is a son?"
"No," answered he, laughing and kissing her hand; "but I should prefer
a daughter."
"But I have heard from Pani Bigiel that men always prefer sons."
"But I am such a man that I prefer a daughter."
Not always, however, were her thoughts so joyous. At times it came to
her head that she might die, for she knew that death happens in such
cases; and she prayed earnestly that it should not happen, for first
she feared it, second, she would be sorry to go away, even to heaven,
when she had such a prospect of loving, and finally she imagined to
herself that "Stas" would mourn for her immensely. And at that thought
she grew as tender over him as if he had been at that moment a man more
deserving of pity than all other unfortunates living. Never had she
spoken to him of this, though it seemed to her that sometimes he had
feared it.
But she deceived herself thoroughly. The doctor, who came to Marynia
weekly, assured both her and her husband after each visit that all was
and would be most regular; hence Pan Stanislav had no fear for his
wife's future. The cause of his alarm was something quite different,
which happily for herself Marynia had not suspected, and which Pan
Stanislav himself had not dared even to name in his own mind. For some
time something had begun to go wrong in his life calculations, of which
he had been so proud, and which had given him such internal security.
A little while before he had considered that his theories of life were
like a house built of firm timbers, resting on solid foundations. In
his soul he was proud of that house, and in secret exalted himself
above those who had not the skill to build anything like it. Speaking
briefly, he thought himself a better life architect than others. He
judged that the labor was finished from foundation to summit, only go
in, live, and rest there. He forgot that a human soul, like a bird when
it has soared to a given height, not only is not free to rest, but
must work its wings hard to support itself, otherwise the very first
temptation will bring it to the earth again.
The worse and vainer the temptation, the more was he enraged at himself
because he gave way to it. A mean desire, a low object,--he had not
even anything to explain to himself; and still the walls of his
house had begun to crack. Pan Stanislav was a religious man now, and
that from conviction; he was too sincere with himself to enter into
a compromise with his own principles, and say to himself that such
things happen even to the firmest of believers. No! He was by nature
a man rather unsparing, and logic said to him "either, or;" hence he
felt that speaking thus it spoke justly. Hitherto he had not given
way to temptation; but still he was angry because he was tempted, for
temptation brought him to doubt his own character. Considering himself
as better than others, he stood suddenly in face of the question, was
he not worse than others, for not only had temptation attacked him, but
he felt that in a given case he might yield to it.
More than once, while looking at Pani Osnovski, he repeated to himself
the opinion of Confucius: "An ordinary woman has as much reason as
a hen; an extraordinary woman as much as two hens." In view of Pani
Mashko, it occurred to him that there are women with reference to whom
this Chinese truth, which makes one indignant, is flattery. Had it been
at least possible to say of Pani Mashko that she was honestly stupid,
it would become a certain individual trait of hers; but she was not.
A few, or a few tens of formulas had made of her a polite nonentity.
Just as two or three hundred phrases make up the whole language of
the inhabitants of New Guinea, and satisfy all their wants, so those
formulas satisfied Pani Mashko as to social relations, thoughts, and
life. For that matter, she was as completely passive within that shade
of automatic dignity which narrowness of mind produces, and a blind
faith that if proper formalities are observed, there can be no error.
Pan Stanislav knew her as such, and as such ridiculed her more than
once while she was unmarried. He called her a puppet, a manikin; he
felt enraged at her because of that doctor who had perished for her
in some place where pepper grows; he disregarded her and did not like
her. But even then, as often as he saw her, whether at the Bigiels',
or when on Mashko's business he went to Pani Kraslavski, he always
returned under the physical impression which she made on him, of
which he gave himself an account. That quenched face, that passive,
vegetable calm of expression, that coldness of bearing, that frequent
reddening of the eyes, that slender form, had in them something which
affected him unusually. He explained that to himself then by some law
of natural selection; and when he had outlined the thing technically,
he stopped there, for the impression which Marynia had made on him was
still greater, hence he had followed it. At present, however, Marynia
was his, and he had grown used to her beauty, which, moreover, had
disappeared for a period. It so happened that because of Mashko's
frequent journeys, he saw Pani Mashko almost daily, in consequence
of which former impressions not only revived, but, in the conditions
in which Pan Stanislav found himself with reference to Marynia, they
revived with unexpected vigor. And it happened finally that he who
would not consent to be in leading strings for the ten times more
beautiful and charming Pani Osnovski; he, who had resisted her Roman
fantasies; he, who had looked on himself as a man of principles,
stronger in character and firmer in mind than most people,--saw now
that if Pani Mashko wished to push that edifice with her foot, all its
bindings might be loosened, and the ceiling tumble on his head. Of a
certainty, he would not cease to love his wife, for he was sincerely
and profoundly attached to her; but he felt that he might be in a
condition to betray her,--and then not only her, but himself, his
principles, his conceptions of what an honest and a moral man should
be. With a certain terror as well as anger, he found in himself not
merely the human beast, but a weak beast. He was alarmed by this, he
rebelled against this weakness; but still he could not overcome it.
It was a simple thing in view of this, not to see Pani Mashko, or to
see her as seldom as possible; meanwhile he was finding reasons to
see her the oftenest possible. At first he wanted to lull himself
with these reasons; but, in view of his innate consistency, that was
impossible, and it ended with this, that he merely invented them.
Straightway, he deceived with them his wife, and whomever he wished.
When in company with Pani Mashko, he could not refrain from looking
at her, from embracing with his glance her face and whole person. A
sickly curiosity seized him as to how she would bear herself in case
he appeared before her with what was happening within him. What would
she say then? And he took pleasure in spite of himself in supposing
that she would bear herself with perfect passiveness. He despised her
beforehand for this; but she became the more desired by him thereby. In
himself he discovered whole mountains of depravity, which he referred
to long stay in foreign countries; and, having considered himself up
to that time a fresh and healthy nature, he began to grow alarmed. Had
he not been deceived in himself, and was not that wonderful impression
produced on him by a being so little attractive the appearance of some
neurosis consuming him without his knowledge? It had not occurred to
him that there might exist even such conditions in which the soul of a
man simply despises a woman, but the human beast longs for her.
In her, instinct had taken the place of mental keenness; besides, she
was not so naïve as not to know what his glance meant as it slipped
over her form, or what his eyes said when talking, especially when they
were alone, and he looked into her face with a certain persistence.
At first she felt a kind of satisfaction for her self-love, which it
is difficult for even an honest woman to resist when she sees the
impression produced by her; when she feels herself distinguished,
desired beyond others,--in a word, victorious. Besides, she was ready
not to recognize and not to see the danger, just as a partridge does
not wish to see it, when it hides its head in the snow, on feeling the
hawk circling above it. For Pani Mashko appearances were this snow;
and Pan Stanislav felt that. He knew also from his experience as a
single man that there are women for whom it is a question above all of
preserving certain, frequently even strange, appearances. He remembered
some who burst out in indignation when he said to them in Polish that
which they heard in French with a smile; he had met even those who were
unapproachably firm at home and in the city, and so free in summer
residences, at watering, or bathing places, and others who endured an
attempt, but could not endure words, and others for whom the decisive
thing was light or darkness. In all places where virtue did not come
from the soul, and from principles ingrafted like vaccination into the
blood, resistance or fall depended on accident or surroundings, or
external, frequently favoring circumstances, personal ideas of polite
appearances. He judged that it might be thus with Pani Mashko; and
if hitherto he had not entered the road of testing and trying, it was
simply because he was battling with himself, because he did not wish
to give way, and, despising her in the bottom of his soul, he wished
to escape the position of despising himself. Attachment to Marynia
restrained him too, and sympathy, as it were, mingled with respect for
her condition and gratitude to her, and the hope of fatherhood, which
moved him, and a remembrance of the shortness of the time which they
had lived together, and honesty, and a religious feeling. These were
chains, as it were, at which the human beast was still tugging.
They did not hold, however, with equal strength always. Once, and,
namely, that evening on which Pan Ignas had met them, he had almost
betrayed himself. At the thought that Mashko was returning and that
Pani Mashko was hastening home, therefore, a low, purely physical
jealousy seized him; and he said with a certain anger, repressed, but
visible,--
"True! I understand your haste! Ulysses is coming, and Penelope must be
at home, but--"
Here he felt a desire to curse.
"But what?" inquired Pani Mashko.
Pan Stanislav answered without any hesitation,--
"Just to-day I wished to detain you longer."
"It is not proper," answered she briefly, with a voice as thin as
though strained through a sieve.
And in that, "It is not proper," was her whole soul.
He returned, cursing earnestly her and himself. When he reached home he
found in the clear, peaceful room Marynia and Pan Ignas, she proving to
the poet that when they marry, people should not look for some imagined
happiness, but the duties which God imposes at that time.