Marta. Eliza Orzeszkowa

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СКАЧАТЬ Warsaw very early in the morning, and they have ordered me to return before nightfall. I have to go because they will need me this evening.”

      With those words the young servant bent down, took the woman’s pale hand and would have raised it to her lips. But the woman suddenly rose and threw both her arms around the girl’s neck. They wept. The child also burst into tears and seized the servant’s linen coat.

      “Do not go, Zofia!” she wailed. “Do not go! It is so horrible here! It is so dreary!”

      The girl kissed her former employer’s hands and pressed the child to her bosom.

      “I must go. I must!” she repeated, sobbing. “My mother is poor and I have little sisters. I have to work for them . . .”

      The woman in mourning raised her white face and held her thin figure erect.

      “Zofia, I will also work,” she said in a more assured voice than before. “I have a child and I should work for her.”

      “May God not abandon you, and may He bless you, my dear, kind lady!” the servant girl cried, once again kissing the hands of the mother and the tearful face of the child. She ran out of the room without looking back.

      After the girl’s departure, a deep silence filled the room. It was interrupted only by the crackling of the fire and the dull, indistinct street noise that reached the attic. The woman in mourning sat on the couch. The child cried at first, then nestled quietly on the mother’s bosom and fell asleep. The woman rested her head on her hand; her arm embraced the tiny figure sleeping on her knees and her eyes stared unswervingly at the flickering firelight.

      Now that her faithful, devoted servant was gone, she would not see again the face of the last human being who had been a witness to her past—the last support that had remained for her after the disappearance of everything that had helped and sustained her. Now she was alone, subject to the power of fate and the hardships of a lonely destiny, dependent on the strength of her own hands and brain. Her only companion was this small, weak being who found rest on no bosom but hers, demanded kisses from her lips, and expected nourishment from her hand. Her house, which her loving husband had once provided for her and which she had now been forced to abandon, was welcoming new residents within its walls. The kind, beloved man who had surrounded her with love and prosperity was resting in his grave.

      Everything had passed: love, prosperity, peace, the joy of life. The only traces of this unhappy woman’s past, now vanishing like a dream, were her painful memories and this pale, thin child who now opened her eyes after a short sleep, threw her arms around the woman’s neck and, touching her face with her little lips, whispered:

      “Mama! Give me something to eat!”

      Her request did not yet arouse fear or sadness in the mother’s heart. The widow reached into her pocket and took out a purse containing several banknotes—the only fortune left to her and her daughter. She threw a shawl around her shoulders, told the child to wait calmly for her return, and left the room.

      Halfway down the stairs she met the concierge, who was carrying a bundle of wood to one of the apartments on the second floor.

      “Dear sir,” the widow said politely and timidly, “could you bring some milk and rolls for my child from a nearby shop?”

      The concierge listened without stopping, then turned his head and replied with barely concealed unwillingness:

      “And who has the time now to go for milk and rolls? It’s not my job here to bring food to the tenants.”

      He vanished behind the curve of the wall. The widow made her way down the stairs.

      “He did not want to help me,” she thought, “because he thinks I am poor. He was carrying a heavy load of wood to those he expected to pay him for it.”

      She went to the courtyard and glanced around.

      “And why is madame looking around?” someone said in a hoarse, unpleasant voice very near her.

      The widow saw a woman standing before a low door near the gate. She could not recognize her in the darkness. A short skirt, a large linen cap, and a thick scarf thrown askew on her back, together with the sound of her voice and the tone of her speech, showed that she was a woman from the countryside. The widow guessed that she was the concierge’s wife.

      “My good lady,” she said, “will I find anyone here who would bring me milk and rolls?”

      The 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 СКАЧАТЬ