Marta. Eliza Orzeszkowa

woman thought for a moment.

      “Which floor do you live on?” she asked. “Somehow I do not know you.”

      “I moved to the attic today.”

      “To the attic! Then why is my ladybird babbling about bringing her something? Can you not go to town yourself?”

      “I would pay someone for the trouble,” whispered the widow, but the concierge’s wife did not hear, or pretended not to. She wrapped her scarf more snugly around her and vanished behind the small door.

      The widow stood motionless for a moment, not knowing what to do or whom to turn to. She sighed and let her hands fall helplessly. After a while, however, she raised her head, approached the gateway, and opened the wicket leading to the street.

      It was not late evening yet, but it was quite dark. The narrow thoroughfare, filled with crowds of people, was poorly lit by a few streetlamps. Wide spaces on the sidewalks lay in total darkness.

      A wave of chilly autumn wind blew into the gateway through the open wicket, flying into the widow’s face and rippling the ends of her black shawl. The rumble of carriages and the clamor of mingled conversations deafened her; the shadows filling the sidewalks frightened her. She took a few steps back in through the gate and stood there for a while with her head down.

      Suddenly she stood up straight and walked forward. Perhaps she remembered her child, who was waiting for the food; perhaps she was conscious that she must now muster her will and courage to obtain what previously had been freely available to her every day and hour. She threw her scarf over her head and walked through the gate. She did not know which direction to take to find a grocer’s shop. She walked a long way, looking carefully at window displays; she passed a few cigar stores, a café, and a fabric store, and then turned back, not daring to go further or ask for information.

      She turned and went in a different direction. After a quarter of an hour she returned, carrying several rolls in a white handkerchief. She brought no milk, for there was none at the store where she found the rolls. She did not want to go on searching; she could not look for a shop any longer. She was worried about her child. She returned quickly, almost running. She was a few steps from the gate when she heard a man’s voice behind her, singing a song:

      “Stop, wait, my dear—from where have you marched on your pretty little feet?”

      She tried to convince herself that he was not singing to her. She walked faster and her hand was on the gate when the singing changed to speaking:

      “Where are you going so quickly? Where to? The evening is so lovely! Perhaps we could go for a stroll!”

      Breathless and shaking with fear and indignation, the young widow darted through the gate and slammed the wicket behind her. A few minutes later Jasia saw her entering the room. She ran toward her and nestled in her embrace.

      “You did not return for so long, Mama!” she cried. Suddenly she went quiet and looked at her mother. “Mama,” she said, “you are crying again, and you look the way you looked when they carried Papa out of our house in the coffin.”

      Indeed the young woman was trembling all over, and large tears were running down her flushed cheeks. She was shaken deeply by her fifteen-minute excursion into town—by her struggle with her own fear, her rapid walk over slippery streets amid crowds and cold winds, and, above all, the insult of being accosted by an unknown man for the first time in her life. But she evidently made up her mind to overcome her feelings, for she quickly calmed down, wiped away her tears, and kissed the child. As she stirred up the fire, she said:

      “I have brought you some rolls, Jasia, and now I will set out the samovar and make some tea.”

      She took the clay pitcher from the cabinet and, ordering the child to be careful of the fire, went down to the well in the courtyard. Soon she returned, breathless and exhausted, with one arm bent from the weight of the pitcher filled with water. But without resting even for a moment, she began to set out the samovar.

      She was doing this for the first time in her life, and with difficulty. In less than an hour, however, the tea was drunk and Jasia was undressed and asleep. Her quiet, even breathing showed that she was sleeping peacefully. The traces of tears shed abundantly all day had vanished from her pale little face.

      But the young mother did not sleep. She sat in front of the fading fire in her mourning dress, still as a statue, her hair falling in loose black braids. She was resting her head on her hand, thinking.

      At first, her white forehead was wrinkled deeply with pain. Her eyes were filled with tears and her chest rose with a heavy sigh. After a while, however, she shook her head as if to push away the sorrows and fears that had overwhelmed her. She rose, stood erect, and said quietly:

      “A new life!”

      Indeed, this woman, young, beautiful, with white hands and a slender waist, was entering a new life. For her this day was the beginning of a future as yet unknown.

      What had her past been like?

      * * *

      Marta Świcka’s past had been short because of her age and simple because it was uneventful.

      Marta was born in a manor house that was neither splendid nor very affluent, but charming and comfortable.

      Her father’s estate a few miles from Warsaw comprised several hundred acres of fertile land, large, flowery meadows, a lovely birch grove that furnished wood for the winter and space for romantic strolls during the summer, a large orchard full of fruit trees, and an attractive house with six front windows looking out on a circular lawn. It had cheerful-looking green blinds and a porch with lavender morning glories and beans with scarlet blossoms entwined around its four columns.

      Nightingales sang over Marta’s cradle, and old lindens waved with dignified gravity. Roses blossomed and ripening wheat formed waves of gold. The lovely face of her mother leaned over her, and her little head, with its black hair, was covered with kisses.

      Marta’s mother was a beautiful, kind woman and her father was a good man with a fine education. She grew up as an only child among loving, doting people.

      The first pain that darkened the cloudless life of the beautiful, cheerful, blooming girl was the loss of her mother. Marta was sixteen years old at that time. She despaired for a while; she yearned for her mother for a long time; but youth placed a healing balm on her heart’s first wound, her face regained its rosy color, and joy, hope, and dreams returned.

      But other calamities soon followed. Marta’s father, partly because of his own imprudence but mainly owing to economic changes that had taken place in the country, found himself in danger of losing his estate. His health weakened; he saw that he was facing both the collapse of his fortune and the rapid approach of death. At that moment, however, Marta’s future seemed to be secure: she loved and was loved.

      Jan Świcki, a young official occupying a high position in a government office in Warsaw, fell in love with the beautiful dark-eyed girl, and awakened in her similar feelings of respect and love. Marta’s wedding took place only a few weeks before her father’s death. The ruined aristocrat, who perhaps once dreamed of a grander future for his only daughter, joyfully placed her hand in that of a man with no fortune but with a capacity for hard work. He died peacefully, believing that at the altar Marta’s future had been thoroughly safeguarded from the unhappiness of a lonely life and the danger of poverty.

      For the second time in her life Marta experienced great pain. But this time it was assuaged not only by her youth but by her affection for her husband and, in time, their child. Her beautiful family estate had been lost forever and passed into the hands of strangers, but her beloved and loving husband created a soft, warm, comfortable nest amid the hubbub of the city. In this home soon sounded the silvery voice of a child.

      Five years passed happily and quickly for the young woman amid the comforts and duties of family life.

      Jan Świcki was a conscientious, capable worker. He received a good salary, sufficient to surround the wife he loved with everything she