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.