Marta. Eliza Orzeszkowa

      “Never!” cried Marta, clasping her hands. “I will never part with my child! I will not give her to strangers! She is all I have left on earth.”

      The cry burst passionately from her, but she quickly understood its irrelevance and uselessness. She mastered herself and began calmly:

      “Since I cannot hope for a permanent position, please provide me with work as a private tutor . . .”

      “Giving lessons in French?” the proprietress interjected.

      “Yes, madame, and in other subjects as well—for example, geography, history, history of Polish literature . . . I studied all that once and afterward I read—not a great deal, to be sure, but I always read. I would work and I would fill in what is lacking in my information—”

      “It would be of no use,” Żmińska interrupted.

      “What do you mean, madame?”

      “Neither I nor any other owner of an information agency could in good conscience promise you lessons in the subjects you have mentioned.”

      Marta stared at the woman with wide-open eyes. Żmińska added after a brief pause:

      “Because these courses are taught almost exclusively by men.”

      “Men?” Marta stammered. “Why exclusively by men?”

      Żmińska raised her eyes and fixed the young woman with a look that said again:

      “Where have you come from?”

      Then she said:

      “Because men are men.”

      Marta had come from the realm of blissful feminine obliviousness. For a moment she reflected on what the owner of the agency had said. For the first time in her life, complicated, enigmatic social issues forced themselves on her consciousness, though their aspect was blurred and indistinct. She saw, dimly, their interconnected contours and reacted instinctively with a troubled feeling, but they did not teach her anything.

      “Madame,” she said after a moment, “I think I understand why men are more often in demand for teaching positions. They are more highly educated, more thoroughly educated, than women . . . yes. But this consideration only holds if teaching takes on wider dimensions, when the knowledge of a teacher must be both broad and concrete to fulfill the needs of a pupil’s maturing mind. I, madame—I do not lay claim to such pretensions. I would like to teach introductions to history, geography, the history of our literature—”

      “Usually men teach these introductions,” Żmińska interrupted.

      “Certainly, when they are giving private lessons to boys,” Marta interposed.

      “And girls as well,” the owner of the agency concluded.

      Marta thought again. After a moment she said:

      “Then what is left for women in the field of teaching?”

      “Languages. Accomplishments . . .”

      Marta’s eyes shone with hope. Żmińska’s last word reminded her of one more tool that she had not thought about.

      “Accomplishments,” she repeated quickly. “Not only music, then. I studied drawing. My drawings were even praised sometimes.”

      Żmińska’s face again took on an expression of interest.

      “Undoubtedly,” she said, “a knowledge of drawing might be useful you, but less than skill in music.”

      “Why, madame?”

      “Because a drawing is silent and music can be heard. Anyway,” Żmińska added, “bring me some examples of your drawing. If you are very clever at it, if you know how to draw something that indicates that you have a great talent, a highly developed talent, I will be able to find you one or two lessons.”

      “I am not very clever at drawing,” Marta replied. “I do not think I have great talent, and I would not say that it is highly developed. I know just enough about drawing to teach the basic rules.”

      “Then I cannot promise you drawing lessons for beginners,” Żmińska replied, calmly folding her hands on her chest.

      Marta clasped her hands more tightly as an unpleasant feeling came over her.

      “Why not, madame?” the young woman whispered.

      “Because men give those lessons.”

      Marta lowered her head to her chest and sat lost in thought for about two minutes.

      “Forgive me, madame,” she said at last, raising her face with an apprehensive expression, “forgive me, madame, for taking up your time. I am an inexperienced woman. Until now perhaps I have paid too little attention to human relations and matters that did not concern me personally. I do not understand everything you have told me. My common sense, and I believe I have it, refuses to accept all those impossibilities that you have pointed out to me because I do not see their causes. Work, as much work as possible, is more than a matter of life and death for me because it is a matter of life and of raising my child. I am confused . . . I want to think justly about these matters, to understand them, but . . . I cannot . . . I do not understand.”