Marta. Eliza Orzeszkowa

lips, nor did her agitation and painful anxiety awaken any pity.

      “That is sad,” she said. “Do you have only one son, madame?”

      “I do not have him anymore!” the elderly woman said in Polish. But, suddenly recalling her obligation to display her foreign language skills, she added:

       “Il est mourru par désespoir!”

      The elderly lady’s faded eyes did not moisten with tears or shine with the slightest gleam when she uttered the last words. But her pale, narrow lips trembled in the labyrinth of wrinkles that surrounded them and her sunken chest shook under the old-fashioned stole.

      “Do you know music, madame?” the proprietress asked in Polish, as if she were adequately informed as to the elderly lady’s command of French after hearing her few words.

      “I used to play, but . . . a very long time ago . . . I do not know, really, if I could now . . .”

      “Or perhaps German language. . . .”

      The woman shook her head.

      “Then what can you teach, madame?”

      The tone of the question was polite, but so dry and cold that it amounted to dismissal.

      The elderly woman did not understand that, or did not allow herself to understand. She had counted most on her knowledge of French to help her receive a small nest egg that would save her from destitution in the final days of her waning life. Sensing that the ground was giving way under her feet, and that the owner of the agency intended to end the interview without giving her any referrals, she grasped at the only remaining life raft and, squeezing her linen handkerchief still harder in her trembling fingers, quickly began to speak:

       “La géographie, la histoire, les commencements de l’arithmétique . . .”

      All at once she went silent and looked at the opposite wall with flabbergasted eyes, for Ludwika Żmińska had risen from her seat.

      “I am very sorry,” she began slowly, “but at present I do not have a position that would be appropriate for you, madame.”

      She finished and stood with her hands folded over the bodice of her plain gray dress, clearly waiting for the other woman to take her leave. But the elderly lady sat as if riveted to her seat. Her restless hands and eyes seemed frozen. Her pale lips opened wide and quivered nervously.

      “None!” she whispered after a while. “None!” she repeated. She rose stiffly from her chair as if she were being moved by a force other than her own. But she did not leave. Her eyelids swelled and her pale eyes became glassy. She rested her trembling hand on the frame of the chair and said quietly:

      “Perhaps later . . . perhaps sometime . . . there will be a place . . .”

      “No, madame, I cannot promise you anything,” replied the proprietress, always in the same firm, polite tone.

      For a few seconds the room was utterly silent. Suddenly two streams of tears gushed over the old lady’s wrinkled cheeks. She made no sound; she did not say a word. She bowed to the proprietress and hastily left the room. Perhaps she was ashamed of her tears and wanted to hide them as quickly as possible; perhaps she was in a hurry to visit another agency with the hope of finding new employment.

      Now Marta was alone with the woman who was supposed to decide whether her most ardent hopes and desires would meet with fulfillment or failure. She was not afraid, but she was deeply saddened.

      The scenes she had witnessed had made strong impressions, stronger because they were new. She was not accustomed to seeing people looking for work, chasing after a piece of bread. She had never guessed, never been aware that that chase involved so much anxiety, distress, and disappointment. Work had existed in Marta’s imagination, whenever she had thought about it, as something one need not lean out far to obtain. Here, at the first stop on this unknown road, she began to understand much that was daunting and saddening.

      But she did not give way. She assured herself that she was a young, healthy woman, well brought up by excellent parents, and that she, the wife of a sensible man who had made his living working with his mind, could not meet with the same fate as that poor, sad girl she had met on the stairs, and this elderly woman, a hundred times unhappier, who had just rushed out with two streams of tears coursing down her wrinkled face.

      Ludwika Żmińska began with the question she usually asked at the start of her interviews with candidates for teaching positions:

      “Madame, have you ever worked as a teacher?”

      “No, madame. I am a widow. My husband held a post in a government agency. He passed away a few days ago. This is the first time that I have wished to enter the teaching profession.”

      “Ah! So you have a diploma from an institution of higher learning?”

      “No, madame. I was taught at home.”

      The women exchanged these words in French. Marta expressed herself in that language well and easily; her pronunciation was not perfect, but it had no peculiarities that offended the ear.

      “Which subjects are you able and willing to teach?”

      Marta did not respond at once. It was odd: she had come here intending to find work as a teacher, but she was not certain which courses she could actually teach, and wanted to teach. She was not accustomed to evaluate her intellectual assets. She only knew that they were sufficient for a woman in her situation: a gentleman’s daughter and a government official’s wife. However, she did not have long to think. She recalled the subjects she had studied hardest during her childhood, the subjects that formed the foundation of her education and that of her contemporaries.

      “I could give lessons in music and French,” she said.

      “As to the second,” replied the proprietress, “I note that you speak fluently and accurately in French, although that is not all that is required to teach. I am certain, however, that French grammar and spelling and even a little French literature are not foreign to you. But music . . . forgive me, madame, but I must assess the level of your artistic attainment if I am to find the appropriate way to utilize it.”

      Blushes appeared on Marta’s pale cheeks. Having been schooled at home, she had never taken examinations in front of anyone. She had never performed for an audience outside her family circle. Several months after her wedding, she had closed the piano her husband had bought for her, and then opened it only a few times—when only the four walls of her pretty drawing room were listening, and Jasia’s little ears as she jumped on her nanny’s lap in time to her mother’s music.

      However, the woman’s demand had nothing offensive about it. It was based on the simple and generally accepted law that in order to judge the value and properties of anything, one has to see it, consider it, and apply it in a situation for which it is appropriate and useful. Marta understood that, so she rose from her armchair, took off her gloves, and approached the piano. She stood there for a moment with her eyes on the keyboard. She recalled her girlish repertoire and hesitated, unable to choose among the compositions she had played well enough to earn praise from her teachers and hugs from her parents. She sat down, still debating inwardly, when the door opened with a rattle and a woman’s sharp, penetrating voice sounded from the threshold:

       “Eh bien, madame! La comtesse arrive-t-elle à Varsovie?”

      With these words a lively, handsome woman burst rather than walked into the room, a woman of average height with a dark complexion. She wore a somewhat peculiar coat with a scarlet hood that glowed garishly against the deep black of her hair and the olive tone of her skin. Her dark, glittering eyes darted around the room and fixed on the figure of the woman sitting at the grand piano.

      “Ah, vous avez du monde, madame!” she exclaimed. “Continuez, continuez, je puis attendre!”

      She threw herself into an armchair, rested her head on the back of it, and crossed her legs, showing very graceful feet in pretty shoes. Then, folding