The Pole, sublime in suffering, has tired his oppressors’ arms by sheer endurance of beating; and, in the nineteenth century, has reproduced the spectacle presented by the early Christians.  Infuse only ten per cent of English cautiousness into the frank and open Polish nature, and the magnanimous white eagle would at this day be supreme wherever the two-headed eagle has sneaked in.  A little Machiavelism would have hindered Poland from helping to save Austria, who has taken a share of it; from borrowing from Prussia, the usurer who had undermined it; and from breaking up as soon as a division was first made.

At the christening of Poland, no doubt, the Fairy Carabosse, overlooked by the genii who endowed that attractive people with the most brilliant gifts, came in to say: 

“Keep all the gifts that my sisters have bestowed on you; but you shall never know what you wish for!”

If, in its heroic duel with Russia, Poland had won the day, the Poles would now be fighting among themselves, as they formerly fought in their Diets to hinder each other from being chosen King.  When that nation, composed entirely of hot-headed dare-devils, has good sense enough to seek a Louis XI. among her own offspring, to accept his despotism and a dynasty, she will be saved.

What Poland has been politically, almost every Pole is in private life, especially under the stress of disaster.  Thus Wenceslas Steinbock, after worshiping his wife for three years and knowing that he was a god to her, was so much nettled at finding himself barely noticed by Madame Marneffe, that he made it a point of honor to attract her attention.  He compared Valerie with his wife and gave her the palm.  Hortense was beautiful flesh, as Valerie had said to Lisbeth; but Madame Marneffe had spirit in her very shape, and the savor of vice.

Such devotion as Hortense’s is a feeling which a husband takes as his due; the sense of the immense preciousness of such perfect love soon wears off, as a debtor, in the course of time, begins to fancy that the borrowed money is his own.  This noble loyalty becomes the daily bread of the soul, and an infidelity is as tempting as a dainty.  The woman who is scornful, and yet more the woman who is reputed dangerous, excites curiosity, as spices add flavor to good food.  Indeed, the disdain so cleverly acted by Valerie was a novelty to Wenceslas, after three years of too easy enjoyment.  Hortense was a wife; Valerie a mistress.

Many men desire to have two editions of the same work, though it is in fact a proof of inferiority when a man cannot make his mistress of his wife.  Variety in this particular is a sign of weakness.  Constancy will always be the real genius of love, the evidence of immense power—­the power that makes the poet!  A man ought to find every woman in his wife, as the squalid poets of the seventeenth century made their Manons figure as Iris and Chloe.

“Well,” said Lisbeth to the Pole, as she beheld him fascinated, “what do you think of Valerie?”