Complicating the Female Subject: Gender, National Myths, and Genre in Polish Women's Inter-War Drama 9781618115430

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Complicating the Female Subject Gender, National Myths, and Genre in Polish Women’s Inter-War Drama

Polish Studies Series Editor: Halina Filipowicz, University of Wisconsin, Madison Editorial Board: Robert Frost, University of Aberdeen Elwira Grossman, University of Glasgow Irena Grudzinska Gross, Princeton University; Polish Academy of Sciences, Warsaw Beth Holmgren, Duke University Joanna Michlic, University College London Ryszard Nycz, Jagiellonian University, Krakow; Polish Academy of Sciences, Warsaw Neal Pease, University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee Ursula Phillips, University College London Bozena Shallcross, University of Chicago Kris Van Heuckelom, University of Leuven

Complicating the Female Subject Gender, National Myths, and Genre in Polish Women’s Inter-War Drama

JOANNA KOT

Boston 2016

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data: A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN 978-1-61811-542-3 (hardback) ISBN 978-1-61811-543-0 (electronic) ©Academic Studies Press, 2016 Book design by Kryon Publishing, www.kryonpublishing.com Published by Academic Studies Press 28 Montfern Avenue Brighton, MA 02135, USA [email protected] www.academicstudiespress.com

For Christian and Eva

Contents Acknowledgements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .vii Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . viii 1. Women and Drama in Other Western Modernisms . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 2. Inter-War Poland . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 3. Who Were They? A Short Biographical Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . .20 4. What Are They? Plot Summaries of the Plays . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31 5. Theorizing the Subject: Seeing Through an Essentialist Lens . . . . . .39 6. Theorizing the Subject: Possibilities of Change . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .85 7. The Subject Vis-à-Vis Cultural Myths . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 124 8. Dramatic Fissures . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 182 9. Inter-War Critical Reception . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .200 Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .231 Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .243 Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .262

Acknowledgments I would like to start with heartfelt thanks to Halina Filipowicz. Her scholarship is an inspiration to all in Polish literary studies. More personally, over the years, she has read and commented upon some of my work and always encouraged me to do better.  On a more professional note, I am grateful to Katharina Barbe, my Chair at Northern Illinois University. She funded a teaching assistant during difficult financial times at the university, in order to alleviate my heavy teaching load. I would also like to thank the staff at Academic Studies Press—Kira Nemirovsky, Eileen Wolfberg, Faith Wilson Stein, David Michelson, and, earlier, Meghan Vicks—for guiding me and supporting me during the review and editing process. They were always there for me, willing to answer any question. On a more personal level, I am exceedingly grateful to my “writing group” at NIU. Diana, Lucinda, Mary and Nicole, I could not have done this without you. You patiently and repeatedly provided both thoughtful, professional comments and friendly, personal moral support. I will always be indebted to my parents, Eva and Christian, for the loving support they have offered, from my choice of an esoteric profession, through all the years of professional development. Finally, I thank my sons, Daniel and Jacob, for putting up with an atypical mother and for keeping me grounded in life outside academia.

Introduction Zewsząd bije odór nie do wytrzymania. (An unendurable stench reeks from everywhere.) Podniecenie, upojenie wolnością płciową [. . .] zarazem niewybredny stosunek do tematu i dziecięce ubóstwo ducha (Excitement, intoxication with sexual freedom [. . .] at the same time an unrefined approach to the topic and a childish paucity of spirit.) Kobieta-pisarka imponuje szczerością i odwagą, którą dotychczas wykazywali tylko bezimienni autorzy krótkich, a dosadnych aforyzmów, skreślonych na płotach i w pewnych ubikacjach. (The woman-writer impresses with a frankness and daring that up until now has been exhibited only by nameless authors of short, but blunt, aphorisms, sketched on fences and in certain toilets.)1

What had these women written that deserved such censure? Over a decade ago, in an article by Jagoda Hernik-Spalińska, I ran across these insults from inter-war critics in reference to some plays by women writers. I was not only surprised by the vehemence of the criticism, but also intrigued by the list of Polish women playwrights to whom these comments referred and about whom I had never heard even in graduate school. Finding the works turned out to be harder than expected. Besides the plays of Zofia Nałkowska and Maria Jasnorzewska, plays by the other writers seemed inaccessible. Moreover, during my search, I discovered that inter-war critics accepted the existence of a phenomenon that they called “dramat kobiecy” (women’s drama), which generated a flurry of commentary in the press.2 Brief references with a few names thrown in,   1. Hernik-Spalińska 1996, 153 and 157. All translations into English throughout this study are my own, unless otherwise indicated.   2. See, for example, Żeleński 1965–1975 and Irzykowski 1995, 1997.

Introduction  ix

also surface in post-1945 histories of literature and theater, with their authors offering no details.3 Eventually I was able to collect five plays, in addition to those of Nałkowska and Jasnorzewska. Four of them had never been published, existing only as typed manuscripts in theatrical archives.4 The eight plays that I chose to discuss in this study offer a wonderful and interesting cross-section of theatrical texts between 1930 and 1938 that focus on women in a nontraditional way. Inter-war critics repeatedly associated some of them with “women’s drama.” Others lack that direct link, but clearly attempt to offer audiences a new approach to, or idea about, women’s issues. Zofia Nałkowska’s Dom kobiet (House of Women) is, of course, the work of a writer both very well known at the time of the play’s appearance and today.5 She had started writing gynocentric Modernist novels before World War I. After the war, she insisted that she was exploring the human condition in general, rather than focusing on specific feminist issues. Yet inter-war critics reacted strongly to the play’s performance and saw it as part of “women’s drama.” Moreover, House of Women inspired Maria Morozowicz-Szczepkowska to write Sprawa Moniki (Monika’s Case), a play that critics perceived as the first real example of feminist theater.6 Szczepkowska, an actress, screenwriter, and director, was also a feminist activist who did not hide her desire to produce a work that would stir up audiences. She had disliked Nałkowska’s play, calling it a “galeria kwękających, niedołężnych, bezapelacyjnie poddanych supremacji męskiej bab” (gallery of grousing, feckless broads, completely subject to male supremacy).7 Szczepkowska’s drama did cause a scandal and did draw crowds to its record-breaking almost 300 performances. She then went on to write two more “scandalous” plays, one of which is Milcząca

  3. See, for example, Czanerle 1970; Marczak-Oborski 1984, and Kwiatkowski 2000.   4. Recent historical work has unearthed some other titles. See, for example, PoskutaWłodek 2006 and Hernik-Spalińska 2006.   5. Nałkowska 1990, 5–130. All references to and quotations from the play will be followed by page numbers referring to this edition.   6. Morozowicz-Szczepkowska 1933. All references to, and quotations from, the play will be followed by page numbers referring to this edition.   7. Morozowicz-Szczepkowska 1968, 277.

x Introduction siła (Silent Power).8 Attacked by inter-war critics for its poor dramatic quality, it nevertheless is fascinating because it shows the author trying to work out how to define the human subject and how to deal with women’s situation in society. At the time of writing, Szczepkowska’s thinking was clearly in a state of flux and she explored the topic from a number of different angles. The resulting text offers more questions than it answers, but also reveals the author’s complex and multifaceted approach. Continued attacks by critics led Szczepkowska to move in a different, seemingly less inflammatory, direction. As a result, she wrote Walący się dom (The Falling House), a play about the decline of a landowning family.9 Works on this topic had a long tradition in Poland going back to the plays of Aleksander Fredro.10 Yet, in some ways, in The Falling House, the author’s approach to the definition of the human subject is more radical than in her earlier works. The only other play that caused as much of a theatrical sensation as Monika’s Case was Marcelina Grabowska’s “Sprawiedliwość” (“Justice”).11 From the moment of her journalistic debut in 1932, Grabowska was primarily a journalist with leftist leanings. She was also, however, a playwright and novelist who continued to work long into the post-1945 period. Grabowska intended “Justice” to be a shocking work in the style of “Zeittheater”; certainly, even today, the topic of abortion can be controversial.12 The author went further than just breaking a thematic taboo. She created a Naturalist-style work in which a character starts as a type, but then develops in the direction of an individual.   8. Morozowicz-Szczepkowska, Manuscript nr. 3238. All references to, and quotations from, the play will be followed by page numbers referring to this manuscript.   9. Morozowicz-Szczepkowska, Manuscript nr. 2256. All references to, and quotations from, the play will be followed by page numbers referring to this manuscript. 10. Aleksander Fredro, 1793–1876. Considered to be the best Polish Neoclassical writer of comedy. He never accepted or incorporated Romantic issues or elements of style, despite his long life. Fredro wrote comedies of manner focused on gentry life as well as tales in the manner of the French writer Jean de La Fontaine. 11. Grabowska, Manuscript nr. 541. All references to and quotations from the play will be followed by page numbers referring to this manuscript. 12. Zeittheater is politically engaged, leftist theater initiated in Germany in the first decades of the twentieth century. A classic example is the theater of Erwin Piscator. It brought to the audience’s attention the most pressing, and often the most scandalous, taboo social problems.

Introduction  xi

In a completely different vein, we have Maria Jasnorzewska’s Egipska pszenica (Egyptian Wheat) and Baba-Dziwo.13 On the one hand, Jasnorzew­ ska’s fame came from her poetry: a hyper-feminine voice of the modern woman. For the Polish reading public, she has remained a poet. On the other hand, she was also the third most frequently staged popular playwright of the period, a fact forgotten today. She herself wanted to remain a popular commercial playwright, supposedly steering clear of associations with feminism and theatrical experiments. Yet inter-war critics often linked her with “women’s drama,” since she presented issues from a female perspective. Even more removed officially from “women’s drama” is Zofia Rylska’s Głębia na Zimnej (The Deep at Zimna).14 The writer had the play produced pseudonymously under the name of her son in 1938, showing the reluctance of some women even at that late stage to come forth publicly with a theatrical work. At the same time, The Deep at Zimna underscores the fact that feminist ideas and a focus on women had spread out beyond the group of women playwrights linked by critics to “women’s drama.” Another play seemingly concerned with the landowning class, it nevertheless raises serious questions about the status of women in society.

✻✻✻ These plays reflect the sea change that occurs in the social position of women during the inter-war period. In addition, they are part of a heated discussion on the role of women in society that begins the minute Poland regains independence in 1918 and that continues for the next 20 years. Scholars have studied these transformations from a feminist perspective in only a piecemeal fashion. By the term “feminism,” I mean first the direct attempt to change the ideology that underlies the entire social order. This kind of change would improve women’s rights and social position. Feminism here also refers to the less obvious, but equally challenging, 13. Pawlikowska-Jasnorzewska 1986, Egyptian Wheat—vol. 1, pp. 429–556, and Baba-­ Dziwo—vol. 2, pp. 277–392. All references to and quotations from these plays will be followed by page numbers referring to this edition. 14. Rylski, Manuscript nr. 1164. All references to and quotations from the play will be followed by page numbers referring to this manuscript.

xii Introduction exploration of various aspects of reality through the filter of female sensibility. Finally, I describe a given author’s approach to the definition of subject as feminist, if in some way it challenges and/or defies the traditional, essentialist representation of subject. Thus, my aim in this study is to answer the question “What is or is not feminist about these works?” with a focus on how these authors define the human subject. Such a decision is justified by the broad Modernist preoccupation with the subject that had already started at the end of the nineteenth century and continued into the twentieth.15 In order to “get at” these definitions, to determine whether these plays are feminist or not, I employ a variety of theoretical perspectives, and consider the critical reception of these works during the inter-war period. First, this shows how contemporaries reacted to these plays and how they fit them into the broader discussion on women. Second, considering these plays from a 1930s perspective, as well as a contemporary one, reveals that these plays are original not just in their historical context, but are innovative even by today’s standards.

✻✻✻ One challenge that I need to mention at the outset is the choice of texts, the kind of texts, and the kind of critical responses that I analyze. First, all of the dramatic texts are plays that were widely discussed in the press at the time of their staging. Though other women’s works that have remained 15. It is important to emphasize that discussions concerning the subject included both men and women. My study focuses on women. However, one should keep in mind the changing ideas concerning masculinity. Beginning with Charles Baudelaire’s “flaneur,” one moves to a Modernist Wildian concept of the “dandy,” as well as various forms of androgyny. In Poland, Romantic masculinity consisting of an ethos of rebellion and chivalry, but also of patriotism, gradually began to coexist with different models during Young Poland—the Polish version of Modernism. In general terms, we could say that there was a movement away from the aristocratic/noble model to an intelligentsia model. In most cases, older models of both the female and male subject did not disappear completely, but rather found room for themselves within the new model. For more on the changes in the Polish model of masculinity, see Ingebrant 2014. Young Poland, named to align itself with Young Germany and Young Scandinavia, dominated Polish culture and art from 1890 to 1918. The movement opposed Positivism (Polish Realism) and bourgeois culture. Its adherents believed that a whole epoch was ending. Some of these artists exhibited a hedonistic escapism into decadence, symbolism, and, in the visual arts, into Art Nouveau. The movement also saw itself as continuing Romanticism— thus, its other name, “neo-Romantyzm” (Neo-Romanticism).

Introduction  xiii

out of reach would supplement the depiction of “women’s drama,” the plays considered here offer a remarkable cross-section of inter-war women’s dramatic writing focused on women’s issues. Second, the issue of publication raises some questions. All of Jasnorzewska and Nałkowska’s dramatic works have been published. Of the remaining plays, only Morozowicz-Szczepkowska’s Monika’s Case appeared in print. The printed texts all first appeared during the lifetime of their authors, and we can accept them as authoritative versions. The other four plays considered in the study I obtained from archives. They are typescripts with handwritten corrections used for these plays’ stage performances. The theatrical texts are not finished or definitive projects; one, in fact, has two endings. I have had to treat them as more of an approximation than a final product. This is a challenge that often arises in women’s studies when dealing with women’s writing from earlier periods; it makes the interpretation of the texts both more tentative and more interesting since, in a sense, when looking at theatrical texts, we are dealing with live theater or at least its remains. Third, for both types of texts, the critical reception that I consider comes in the form of newspaper reviews of stage performances and not scholarly analyses of plays. This adds extra layers of complications, but also allows us to see the critics’ immediate reactions to these works. Thus, on the one hand, the critics had their own agendas that influenced their opinions; they were reacting to texts often shortened or adjusted for a given staging, and they were seeing the plays through the prism of the director’s vision and the actors’ performance. On the other hand, with the exception of The Deep at Zimna, all of the playwrights actively participated in the staging of their works and, as far as is known, approved the productions. This gives at least some authorial sanction to the performances.

✻✻✻ I base the analysis of the dramatic texts on a literary theoretical approach supplemented by historical and cultural information. The ephemeral theatrical performances of these plays have left exclusively written “traces.”16 These plays survive only in written form, be it in print or typed theatrical 16. For the value of a context-based study of historical texts, see Belsey 2005, 85–98, quote p. 89; Ratajczakowa 2006, vol. 1, 30–32, and Iwasiów 2006, 14.

xiv Introduction manuscript. Moreover, reaction to the performances from the inter-war period exists only in written form, primarily in reviews. Furthermore, despite the recent emphasis on theater studies, the analysis of dramatic texts—in and of themselves—continues to impart a wealth of cultural information. More specifically, as Gayle Austin comments on the value of dramaturgy for feminist criticism: . . . there are advantages for the feminist critical project of studying plays. Plays allow the reader and audience to visualize, and to fill in blanks and gaps. They provide the frameworks for productions that can bring out many of the issues feminism finds pressing. They combine verbal and nonverbal elements simultaneously; so that questions of language and visual representation can be addressed at the same time, [. . .] They [plays] contribute a unique field of examples of women’s representation.17

Inga Iwasiów writes in a similar vein about the merits of gender being represented both verbally and visually: Dramaturgia [. . .] stanowi obszar szczególnie atrakcyjny badawczo (z punktu widzenia krytyki feministycznej), bowiem kategoria płci zyskuje w jej obrębie wyraziste znaczenie już na poziomie wypo­ wiedzi bezpośrednich (dialogów) postaci, opisów, charakterystyk zawartych w didaskaliach. (For research (from the point of view of feminist criticism) dramaturgy forms an especially attractive field, because within its boundaries, the category of sex is given clear definition already on the level of the characters’ direct statements (dialogues), on the level of descriptions, characterizations contained in the stage directions.)18

In effect, I analyze theatrical reviews, as well as dramatic texts, while keeping in mind the sociocultural milieu of inter-war Poland and how that environment affected the critical reception accorded these plays. 17. Austin 1990, 3. 18. Iwasiów 2000, 157.

Introduction  xv

All of this without forgetting the variations in the nature of printed texts, typed theatrical texts, and newspaper reviews. As mentioned earlier, the search for the feminism, or lack thereof, in these works follows a variety of paths. Patricia Schroeder writes convincingly on the subject of not limiting oneself to a particular ideology: . . . to insist that their [women’s] plays cannot be considered feminist unless they adhere to a particular ideological stance within feminism or that they take shape in a certain prescribed dramatic form, is to practice essentialism in its most insidious guise; . . . 19.

Moreover, Rita Felski states that . . . the political meanings of women’s writing cannot be theorized in an a priori fashion, by appealing to an inherent relationship between gender and a specific linguistic or literary form, but can be addressed only by relating the diverse forms of women’s writing to the cultural and ideological processes shaping the effects and potential limits of literary production at historically specific contexts.20

Inga Iwasiów takes a similar stance when she writes that . . . trzeba czytać oświetlając tekst i kontekst, korzystając z doświadczeń lektury wrażliwej genderowo, ale starając się też raz jeszcze, bez uprzedzeń, przejrzeć paradygmaty, definicje gatunkowe, recepcję. [. . .] Pokazać [. . .] kobiecy tekst jako uwarunkowany przynależnością do gatunku i modyfikowany przez rodzaj, przez płeć. (. . . one must read in a way that illuminates text and context, making use of the experience of readings that are gender sensitive, but once more, without prejudice, looking through paradigms, genre definitions, reception. [. . .] One must show [. . .] a woman’s text as conditioned by belonging to a genre and modified by gender, by sex.)21 19. Schroeder 1996b, 165. 20. Felski 1989, 48. 21. Iwasiów 2008, 10.

xvi Introduction This need for a variety of perspectives reflects the very nature of literature that “does not conform to a strictly logical order”.22 Literature requires us to read “textual details,” not just general content and ideas, but the nittygritty of how ideas are presented on all levels of composition. This trait makes literature “particularly resistant” to being stuffed into one universalizing and abstracting theory.23 Concurrently, I could have asked which feminist theory to apply. Since “the varieties of feminist theory are almost without limit,” which one do I choose?24 In fact, “feminism’s meanings are constantly in dispute.”25 Do I follow first-, second-, or third-wave feminism? Should I look at women’s situation only through the lens of arguments over the definition of subject? Perhaps it would be better to focus on the authors’ exploitation of genre expectations. Alternatively, I could map the unique experiences of the female protagonists as they relate to inter-war Poland. Actually, a variety of approaches offers useful insights. By considering each play through the prism of several different theories, I have been able to highlight each work’s uniqueness, while showing the similarities and differences among them. Moreover, given that drama is an “open” genre that finds “closure” only in its theatrical realizations, applying a number of theories to the same play can “allow the reader [. . .] to fill in the blanks and gaps.”26 In the end, I have found it most useful to consider each play from the perspective of subject definition, cultural myth, and genre expectations. Since some variant of the essentialist, body/mind duality is present in every play, I begin there in my approach to the definition of subject. At the same time, there always appears what I call the “possibility of change.” The given writer believes in an essentialist substratum of traits associated with each sex, but also depicts the change in and development of characters based on different theories and resulting from a variety of stimuli. Moreover, in every case, these changes occur through relations with the “Other.” Finally, two plays introduce in one case a partial and in the other a complete nonessentialist approach to the subject. 22. Rooney 2006, 2. 23. Rooney 2006, 2. 24. Buchanan 2010, 165. 25. Jaggar 2008, vii. 26. Austin 1990, 3.

Introduction  xvii

Having established from a theoretical perspective a definition of subject in each of the plays, I then examine the presentation of women against the background of cultural myths. Since no writer creates in a void and since the inter-war period was a transitional era, I found it productive to consider these texts vis-à-vis the foundational myths of Polish national identity: the so-called “dworek” (estate) myth, as well as the “Matka-Polka” (Mother-Pole) myth.27 In some cases, the writers openly oppose these myths. In others, they take a quieter, more subversive approach, seemingly accepting a myth, yet undermining or reinterpreting it in a novel way. I then consider both genre expectations held by audiences used to the dominance of Realist form, as well as how these writers use various elements of form to challenge the depiction of women. In every case, the writers exploit the “fissures” of the genre used, fissures that stem from the very origins of Western drama and theater. By exploiting them, by widening them into “fractures,” these authors create tension between the traditional and the feminist; they make the image of women and their situation more complex and raise questions that do not always have answers. Finally, I study the critical reception of these works in the inter-war period. I consider the theoretical, social, and political inclinations of the handful of critics whose reviews I analyze. I show what they focus on and what they miss, but also what they notice. Despite certain prejudices and limitations, the best of the liberal critics were sensitive to the quality of these works, as well as to their weaknesses.

✻✻✻ In order to give the reader a more nuanced picture, Chapter 1 compares Modernist Polish theater and drama produced by women with women’s theater and drama in Western Europe and the United States. Chapter 2 presents a more detailed description of the Polish inter-war period. It looks at discussions concerning both the role and status of women, as well as the form and goal of theater and drama in the newly independent country. It considers how developments in popular culture, such as 27. For an explanation of these two foundational myths of Polish national mythology, see Chapter 7.

xviii Introduction cabarets and film, affected the development of literature, including drama. Then, since some of the playwrights are completely unknown even to Polish readers, Chapter 3 introduces the writers and highlights their major achievements and/or ideas. Chapter 4 does the same thing for the actual texts, as they too are unknown to audiences for the most part. Chapters 5 and 6 focus on the approach to subject in each work. Chapter 5 shows how and to what degree the definition of subject is essentialist. Chapter 6 demonstrates the various “possibilities of change” and the conditions that lead to the transformations of the characters, and discusses the two plays that take a nonessentialist approach to the subject. Chapter 7 considers how these writers present women, their roles, and social standing in terms of the “estate” and “Mother-Pole” myths. This analysis is useful given that four of the discussed plays are set on estates. Moreover, the other works deal with the intelligentsia, which many in Polish society at the time perceived as the heir of the landowning class.28 Chapter 8 focuses on a variety of “fissures” in the dramatic form and on how their use complicates the presentation of women and of their role within family and society. Chapter 9 gives a brief survey of the major inter-war liberal critics, then looks at their critical reviews of these plays, pointing out what the critics noticed and what they missed. I link the critics’ comments to various elements of genre that may have affected their response. Finally, the conclusion summarizes the uniqueness of these plays, showing how they emerged from and responded to nineteenth-century women’s drama and, in turn, foreshadowed the post-1989 renaissance of plays written by women.

✻✻✻ “Women’s drama” elicited a flurry of responses during the inter-war period, yet there exists no comprehensive study of this short-lived, but important, phenomenon. Such a study has become all the more important as, once again, there has occurred a flowering of plays written by women since 1989. One has the feeling of déjà vu; contemporary women playwrights are 28. The intelligentsia is an East European and Russian phenomenon, in which intellectuals see themselves as a separate class and consider themselves to be the spiritual leaders of their respective nations. For a more detailed explanation, see Chapter 7.

Introduction  xix

depicting many of the same issues discussed 60 years ago. Like the inter-war works, these contemporary plays offer a full range of subjects from essentialist to nonessentialist; they question maternity and woman’s role within the family. Once again, male critics are expressing condescension towards them, while women writers have a harder time getting their works staged than do their male counterparts. A thorough and comprehensive consideration of inter-war “women’s drama” reveals plays that ranged from great to mediocre as works of art, but all of which contained a complex understanding of the female subject and of the role of women in society. Furthermore, the analysis uncovers a shared faith in the possibility of individual improvement among the inter-war writers, a characteristic that differentiates them from the defeatism of most contemporary women’s plays, especially those written in the years immediately following 1989. I hope that this study will be of interest not only to scholars of Polish literature and drama, but also more broadly to all scholars of drama. In addition, I think that those scholars who apply feminist theories to literature might find my synthetic approach useful. By analyzing these plays through the lens of subject definition, cultural myths, genre, and “fissures,” I can highlight the similarities and differences among the individual works, and show the significance and specificity of the entire group. Furthermore, I have offered a broad sociocultural background, as well as explained and/or footnoted numerous cultural references. This should make the monograph accessible to advanced undergraduate and graduate students, possibly in a course on Eastern European/Polish drama and film. The post–World War II literary criticism of Nałkowska and Jasnor­ zewska’s oeuvre has been overwhelmingly traditional. Only very recently in post-communist Poland have feminist theory and criticism made significant inroads. The greater part of these newer studies deals with the feminism of Nałkowska’s early, pre–World War I novels, with her diaries, as well as with her controversial public appearances in the first years of the 20th century.29 Barbara Smoleń discusses the author’s progressive presentation of women in House of Women as compared to Federico Garcia Lorca’s House 29. For some examples of newer criticism of Nałkowska’s work, see: Borkowska 2000; Chałupnik 2004; Foltyniak 2004; Kochańczyk 2001; Kraskowska 2000a; Kraskowska 1999b; Marszałek 2004; Walczewska 1999; Wójcik 2001; Wójcik 2004; Kirchner 1996; Galant 2005; Iwasiów 2008, 133-192, and Wiśniewska 2008.

xx Introduction of Bernarda Alba.30 Hanna Kirchner’s 2011 biography of Nałkowska devotes one chapter to the play. In it, she interweaves biographical data with inter-war critical responses, frequently quoting Tadeusz Żeleński.31 She also refers to Smoleń’s article, without adding any new analysis.32 Two writers, Inga Iwasiów and Marian Rawiński, have discussed the “(non) construction of a feminist heroine” in Jasnorzewska’s dramatic works.33 In a 2009 article, Arleta Galant uses a feminist perspective in order to compare the presentation of family in Nałkowska’s House of Women and Jasnorzewska’s Egyptian Wheat. She concludes that both plays are very pessimistic, not offering women any hope of improving their position within the family, a point of view that this study disputes.34 In 1984, Anna Godlewska wrote a brief overview of Morozowicz-Szczepkowska’s work. She characterized it as a journalistic reflection of the inter-war period, further claiming that it could have no real interest for today’s audiences. Godlewska wrote before the next wave of plays by women, on the same issues, appeared around 1990.35 Recently, Anna Pekaniec published a conference paper that gives an overview of Morozowicz-Szczepkowska’s literary activity.36 As her sources, she repeatedly and almost exclusively refers to the writer’s own memoir, which underscores the paucity of other critical sources. In the case of the other three playwrights, only three post-war articles briefly mention their work as part of a historical survey of pre-war “women’s drama.”37 Thus, this study attempts for the first time a comprehensive analysis of a group of plays that formed a significant and publicly visible part of women’s struggle to find their place, improve their social situation, and discover who they were in inter-war Polish society. 30. Barbara Smoleń 2001b. Federico Garcia Lorca (1898–1936) was a Great Spanish poet and playwright, executed by Nationalist forces during the Spanish Civil War. 31. Tadeusz (Boy) Żeleński (1874–1941). Literary critic, poet, translator of French literature, a doctor by training. He was a major figure in Young Poland, who dominated both the literary and the social scene in Poland during the first three decades of the 20th century. Liberal, he was very involved in championing women’s rights and women writers. 32. Kirchner 2011. 33. See Iwasiów 2000; Rawiński 1996 and Rawiński 2001. 34. Galant 2009. 35. Godlewska 1984. 36. Pekaniec 2011. 37. Hernik-Spalińska 1996 and 2006; Poskuta-Włodek 2006.

C HAPTE R 1

Women and Drama in Other Western Modernisms

I

n order to put the Polish situation in perspective, I will briefly compare the various environments in which women were writing in Europe and the United States, especially as they pertain to the creation of plays. Overall, some general tendencies characterize the situation of Modernist women playwrights in all of these countries.1 First, even the most cursory glance shows that there were far fewer plays by women published, and especially performed, than there were book editions of poetry and prose by women throughout the nineteenth century and into the first three decades of the twentieth.2 This had much to do with the widespread idea of theater being an unacceptable place for women, whether as actress, author, or spectator. Moreover, even at the turn of the last century, some male critics still claimed that women were simply incapable of creating great drama. We find such attitudes in critics as disparate as Piotr Chmielowski in Poland and Brander Matthews in the United States.3 If male critics did consider plays by women, they were often condescending; they reviewed the works differently than those of men and focused on the author’s biography and on her “ladylike” traits, or lack thereof. In fact, in the United States newspapers often placed reviews of

  1. Modernism is the complex of movements that dominated Western literature from about 1880 (earlier in France) up until World War II. It included such movements as Symbolism, Expressionism, Futurism, and Surrealism. Young Poland was a part of Modernism.   2. For the situation in America, see Abramson 1990a. For the situation in England, see Gale 1996, 10–13. For a more general survey of a number of countries, see Kelly 1996. For an overview of the Polish situation, see Kiec 2003.   3. Chmielowski 1898, 529–530 and Brander Matthews quoted in Shafer 1995, 459.

2 Complicating the Female Subject plays by women not with other theatrical reviews, but on the society pages.4 Even women critics sometimes wrote about the femininity of women playwrights, rather than about the plays themselves.5 It is true that in all these countries, a minority of male critics and/or artists supported women in their endeavors, as was the case in Russia with Viacheslav Ivanov helping to publish plays by his wife, Lidia Zinovieva-Annibal or with Léon Blum in France insisting the Comédie Française accept Marie Lenéru’s play.6 However, in general, not only did women playwrights have to contend with condescending critics, they also found it more difficult to stage their plays. In practice, this meant that, for many women, playwriting functioned as a secondary form of creativity, with their income derived chiefly from prose, poetry, and/or journalism.7 In this respect, the United States was something of an exception, with a sizable number of women actually supporting themselves by writing for the stage. Both popular theatrical venues, and later Hollywood, consistently accepted and produced works by women.8 In Poland during the nineteenth century, the plays of only one woman playwright reached the stage with any regularity and frequency. This was Zofia Mellerowa, known for her well-made comedies.9 Even after the popularity of Gabriela Zapolska’s Naturalist satirical comedies at the turn of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, theaters staged only three to four plays by women per year in the whole country.10   4. Abramson 1990b, 58–59. For the British context, see Gale 1996, 15–17.   5. See Abramson 1990a, 46 and Shafer 1995, 149.   6. See Davidson 1996, 162 and Kelly 1996, 147. Also, note that, as in the case of ZinovevaAnnibal and her husband Ivanov, male support was sometimes a two-edged sword, with the woman feeling pressured to conform to the man’s ideas (see, for example, Davidson 1996, 172).   7. See, for example, Gale 1996, 61–66. For the Polish situation, see Kiec 2003, 144.   8. Shafer 1995, p. 153. One big exception was African-American women whose work was almost exclusively performed by amateur ensembles (Shafer 1995, 370–371).   9. Zofia Mellerowa (1848–1901) sometimes wrote under the male pseudonym Wiktor Burzan. She was a playwright, short story writer, and journalist, best known for her comedies of manner, as well as for two dramas about peasant life that she coauthored with J. Galasiewicz. 10. For details, see Marczak-Oborski 1972. Gabriela Zapolska, 1857–1921. The leading Naturalist playwright in Poland, she wrote comedies of manners that mercilessly made fun of middle-class hypocrisy and immorality. Her plays continued to be staged even after World War II.

Women and Drama in Other Western Modernisms    CHAPTER 1 3

Therefore, we can treat the sudden production of around ten plays per year by women starting with 1930 as a veritable “explosion.” Given the frequent climate of hostility and condescension, it is not surprising that—especially in the period before World War I—a good number of women who wrote plays did so under a pseudonym. Thus, Elsa Bernstein wrote as Ernst Romer in Germany, Marguerite Eymery as Rachilde in France, and Maryla Wolska as Zawrat or Iwo Płomieńczyk or Tomasz Raróg in Poland. In many cases, the male names seem to lend authority to the published literary works, since the public actually knew the women behind the male names. Other women writers published under their own name, but took on a male persona in their writing. Here, Zinaida Gippius in Russia can serve as an example. Despite all of the abovementioned difficulties, beginning with the 1860s in Scandinavia, women playwrights “exploded” onto the scene throughout Europe and the United States. “Explosion” is a relative term, of course. First, it refers to the fact that many more plays by women reached the stage, not necessarily that more women were writing plays. In Italy, for example, a steady number of women wrote dramas throughout the nineteenth century, but they intended these works for schools and even convents, not for the professional stage.11 Second, the scale of this explosion varied significantly. The greatest number of plays by women appeared in the United States, though the overwhelming majority of these were for Hollywood and various other venues of light entertainment.12 The number of works in the States that we can actually call “feminist”— applying the broadest possible definition—was far fewer. Real numbers were definitely lower in countries such as Italy, Germany, France, and Russia. Poland’s numbers were among the smallest.13 These turn-of the-century feminist women playwrights, both in Europe and in the United States, shared a predilection for Realist form. 11. Kelly 1996, 45. 12. Schlueter 1990, 44–46. On the one hand, in the United States, nineteenth-century audiences knew women playwrights and were used to seeing women’s names on playbills. On the other hand, not until Rachel Crothers at the very end of the century did women introduce feminist issues into their plays. 13. Marczak-Oborski 1972.

4 Complicating the Female Subject At times, there was much discussion on the merits and demerits of this style.14 In practice, Realism prevailed because it was seen as the most familiar, thus the most accessible, form in which to present the didactic message that most of these plays wished to disseminate. However, except for exclusively popular fare, this was not a Realism that perpetuated patriarchal views, but rather Realism with a “feminist twist,” a Realism that exploited the “fissures” inherent in Western drama.15 These “fissures” assumed many forms, including a strong foregrounding of female characters and women’s social issues; a juxtaposition of stereotypical essentialist male figures with independent, nonessentialist female ones; an innovative use of space; and tension between the presented world and off-stage reality. Of the Polish plays that I discuss here, only one, Jasnorzewska’s BabaDziwo, is not primarily Realist, and even this play interweaves grotesque scenes with Realist ones. The 1938 premiere of Jasnorzewska’s experimental Baba-Dziwo in the major theater of Kraków, the Teatr Miejski imienia Juliusza Słowackiego, was an exception and the result of audiences’ and theater directors’ recognition of Jasnorzewska as both a great poet and a popular playwright. In general, an experimental form increased difficulties for women. First, as in Symbolism, some experimental movements did not welcome feminist ideas.16 Symbolism, for example, tended towards misogyny and depicted woman as angel and/or whore. Even the more mystical kinds of Symbolism­— such as the one in Russia, which identified women with the Eternal Feminine, Dionysian ecstasy and with the “divine spark” in people—were problematic for women writers. Women who participated in the Symbolist movement, like Rachilde (Marguerite Eymery) in France, often declared that they were not feminists, despite filling their plays with strong female characters.17 Others, such as Lidia Zinovieva-Annibal in Russia, struggled to free 14. For example, for the American context, see Schroeder, 1996a. 15. See my discussion in Chapter VIII. 16. Symbolism was a literary and artistic movement that originated in France in the late 1870s with such writers as Stephane Mallarmé and Paul Verlaine. It used symbols and suggestions to express emotions, the unconscious, and/or mystical ideas. 17. Kelly 1996, 270.

Women and Drama in Other Western Modernisms    CHAPTER 1 5

themselves from the ideas of the male writers around them and resorted to using Symbolist elements of style in order to satirize Symbolism. Not only Aleksandr Blok’s much discussed play Balaganchik (The Puppet Booth) mocked Symbolists. Zinovieva-Annibal did the same in her play Pevuchii osel (The Singing Ass).18 Second, though other experimental movements, such as Expressionism, were in a way more accepting of women writers, both men and women could stage experimental works often only within the confines of small private theaters.19 Such was the case with the plays of Susan Glaspell and the Provincetown Players in Massachusetts. When Zoe Akins, a popular American playwright of the inter-war period, experimented with form in a play intended for Broadway, producers gave her the choice to rewrite or not see her work staged.20 Overall, since women writers desired a wide dissemination of their ideas, they usually aimed for more established theaters with a large audience. This meant that they not only had to find a sympathetic director, but also that they had to use a Realist style. Theatrical directors and managers knew that Realist works filled seats much more easily than experimental plays. In all of these countries, a decrease in the performing of plays by women typically followed the “explosions.” For example, England saw one upswing during the suffrage movement, followed by a downswing. Another increase occurred in the years after World War I.21 In Russia, the first dozen years of the twentieth century were a “Golden Age” for women, but the onset of the War and Revolutions of 1917/1918 greatly limited the possibilities of reaching the stage, even more so for women than for men.22 Poland was unusual in that the greatest visibility of “women’s drama”

18. Davidson 1996, 163–175. 19. Expressionism was an artistic movement that originated in Germany, though it was inspired and created to a large degree by the Russian painter Wassily Kandinsky before World War I. It advocated an extreme subjectivism of viewpoint and allowed for a distorted presentation of reality in order to heighten the emotional effect. 20. Shafer 1995, 152. 21. Gale 1996, 1–13. 22. Rosenthal 1992 and Ledkovsky 1992.

6 Complicating the Female Subject occurred in the 1930s, notwithstanding Gabriela Zapolska’s popularity at the very beginning of the twentieth century. Finally, in every country, one sees a moment when male critics and historians established an “acceptable” canon, one that led to women disappearing from histories of drama and theater. Men determined which works were the “greatest”; however, they defined that greatness, and what was worthy of preservation. Unfortunately, in almost every case, male critics felt that only works written by men deserved that appellation. In England, the process began as early as 1912 with Ashley Duke’s Modern Dramatists. It reached its finalized form in Allardyce Nicoll’s British Drama: An Historical Survey from the Beginnings to the Present Time originally published in 1925, then repeatedly republished.23 In the United States, the process only started around 1950. The two major works that accomplished this exclusion were Alan Downer’s 1952 Fifty Years of American Drama and Bernard Hewitt’s 1959 Theatre U.S.A.24 In Poland, it was the threat of fascism in Germany, as well as the depression of the 1930s, that turned interest away from a feminist theater in the second half of the decade. World War II and the traditionalism of Socialist Realism in the 1950s completed the process of eliminating women’s plays from the national canon.25 Russia was a country where the traditional nature of society both before World War I and during the Soviet era always excluded women from the literary and dramatic canon.26 In Poland, out of the hundreds of Modernist women writers, only a handful made it into such histories of literature, as Julian Krzyżanowski’s Dzieje literatury polskiej od początków do czasów najnowszych.27 Thus, throughout Europe and the United States, women all but disappeared from histories of literature— then, in turn, from school textbooks. 23. Kelly 1996, 2–3. 24. Shafer 1995, 461–462. 25. Socialist Realism originated in the USSR under Stalin and was adopted by East European countries after they fell into the orbit of the Soviet Union in 1945. Its goal was to present communist ideals and a glorious future within a hyperrealist manner. It began to disappear after Stalin’s death. 26. Marsh 1996, 2. 27. The work appeared in 1969. An English-language translation, A History of Polish Literature, appeared in 1978.

Women and Drama in Other Western Modernisms    CHAPTER 1 7

✻✻✻ Concurrently, in each country, women playwrights faced a situation unique in one way or another. For example, in Great Britain, the United States, Scandinavia, France, Germany, and Russia, the invasion of works by women onto the stage occurred at the end of the nineteenth century. However, the actual reasons for the “explosion” differed from country to country. In the United States, the emancipation movement began with the abolition movement, within which women presented their rights as part of universal human rights. Only after the abolition of slavery did an exclusive struggle for suffrage begin. As different as the situation was in the two countries, in some way, the inclusion of women’s rights in the abolition movement in the United States mirrored what happened in Poland, where throughout the nineteenth century, women presented their struggle for women’s rights as part of the national struggle for independence.28 In both cases, women writers practiced a kind of self-limitation, with abolition and independence taking precedence over women’s rights. In England, the initial appearance of a large number of “feminist” dramas accompanied the suffrage movement, where plays with a strong political message served as a useful tool in the struggle for the vote.29 A second “explosion” in England right after World War I resulted from women’s experiences during the war. They felt liberated as they moved into the labor force to fill the places of men serving in the army and after the war, often did not want to leave their jobs.30 In Scandinavia, from the 1880s until 1914, women playwrights for the most part reacted to or reinterpreted Henrik Ibsen’s work.31 In Russia, reform-minded male critics had already discussed the “woman question” in the 1860s. These discussions centered on women’s access to education. This approach was both similar to and different from 28. Poland was partitioned among Russia, Prussia, and Austria from the end of the eighteenth century until 1918. The largest portion of the country was under Russian control. 29. Abramson 1990a and Kelly 1996, 1 and 108–110. 30. Gale 1996, 10–13. 31. Kelly 1996, 17.

8 Complicating the Female Subject the calls for women’s education in Poland. In Russia, reformers felt that women needed an education to help reform the country socially and culturally.32 In Poland, women called for access to education so that they could raise patriotic children willing to fight for independence. Moreover, in Russia, though women themselves did respond to the issue, they did so primarily in prose and not in drama.33 Even in the first decade of the twentieth century, the fledgling calls for suffrage in Russia, which led to the formation of the Union of Equal Rights for Women, produced very few plays.34 Russian women playwrights for the most part rejected the label of “feminist.” Contrary to other countries, they often associated with more experimental developments, especially Symbolism. They also wrote popular and children’s forms.35 In contrast, in neighboring Finland from the 1880s until World War II, women dominated in drama. The situation in Finland most probably resulted from the country’s peripheral status in Europe. Often countries that find themselves in peripheral locations and/or situations (however temporary) tend to give women more rights and to equalize their position in society. Thus, Finland gave women the vote in 1907. We could compare this to other peripheral places. For example, New Zealand had already allowed women to vote in 1893. In the United States, the constitutional amendment to allow women to vote did not pass until 1920. However, Wyoming and Utah, two frontier (i.e., peripheral) states, gave women the vote in 1869 and 1870, respectively. Among other differences, the possibility for American women to write for Hollywood and various popular venues stood in sharp contrast to the situations in Italy, Russia, or Poland, where it continued to be easiest for women to write for children and amateur ensembles. Moreover, in the United States and England, more organized groups supported performances of plays by women. Some of these were actual theaters, such as The Independent Theatre Society in England and the Provincetown Players in

32. Rosenhom 1996. 33. Rosenhom 1996. 34. Edmondson 1992. 35. Smith 1994.

Women and Drama in Other Western Modernisms    CHAPTER 1 9

the States.36 Others were women’s groups such as the Actresses Franchise League in England and the Drama League in Illinois.37 In contrast, in Poland and Russia, women had no organizations of their own to promote their work. Instead, individual, strong women pushed through their own and/or other women’s plays onto the stage. Examples include the directors Vera Komissarzhevskaia in Russia and Zofia Modrzewska in Poland. Even they relied on the support of male directors, as when Karol Adwentowicz at the Teatr Kameralny supported Modrzewska. However, occasionally, male theatrical directors or critics sympathized with the women’s cause. For example, Vsevolod Meierkhold in Russia staged Zinaida Gippius’s work The Green Ring. In the United States, George Cram Cook of the Provincetown Players helped produce the Expressionistic plays of Susan Glaspell, while in Poland Tadeusz Żeleński actively supported women writers, including playwrights, as part of his broader campaign for social change. Two things stand out when comparing the sociocultural situation in Poland with that of other countries. First, before 1918, the struggle for independence dominated all writing, including that of women playwrights. Any call for women’s rights took a back seat. Second, in contrast to most other countries, Poles treated the aftermath of World War I—and the statehood that came with it—not just as a time of moral crisis, but also as a time of heady joie de vivre. That was not the case in other countries. For example, in England, though women experienced a sense of liberation from entering the labor market during World War I, male authors felt traumatized by the war. In Russia, writers were dealing with the double trauma of War and Revolution. America’s Lost Generation headed to Paris to form a community of expats. Overall, as I will now discuss in more detail, the past did not completely disappear and Polish inter-war culture developed as a juxtaposition of the old and the new.

36. Kelly 1996, 5–6. 37. Gale 1996, 47–53 and Shafer 1995, 460–461.

CH A PT E R 2

Inter-War Poland

I

n the nineteenth century, the Polish political situation was unique: no statehood combined with an intense struggle to retain national identity. As a result, even though the overall social situation of women resembled that of women in Western Europe, ideas about the role of women were tailored to the particular needs of Poland. Moreover, the political situation led to unique cultural needs, including the strong position afforded drama. Beginning with the messianic examples of Romantic drama, both men and women playwrights felt that they had a crucial role to fulfill for the nation.1 Therefore, as Halina Filipowicz convincingly argues, in discussing Polish literature—and drama—we should not “throw overboard” “rodzim[y] ‘balast [. . .]’ w postaci naszej tradycji narodowościowowyzwoleńczej” (the native ballast in the form of our tradition of national struggle).2 Though statehood returned in 1918, inter-war Poland’s cultural and social landscape was a transitional and complex mixture of various ideas, historical baggage, and new phenomena.3 Let me start with a few words about the historical baggage, a negative term, or perhaps ballast, a more steadying image. During partitions, Poland’s political oppressors repeatedly confiscated estates, exiling or killing a high number of men. In turn, this led to women needing to find employment, running estates more frequently than in other countries, and participating in the revolutionary movement. The fall of the January 1863 Uprising quickened the disintegration of a rural-based economy, partly due to the end of serfdom, partly to more   1. “Messianic” refers to the fact that Polish Romantic ideology compared partitioned Poland to the suffering Christ, crucified for the sins of the world.   2. Filipowicz 2001a, 233.   3. The conflict between old and new in the inter-war period existed throughout Europe and the United States, in some countries erupting in violence. See Blom 2015.

Inter-War Poland    CHAPTER 2 11

confiscations of estates.4 Simultaneously, the country witnessed rapid industrialization and migration to the cities both of peasants and impoverished gentry. Throughout the nineteenth century, the overwhelming primacy of the nation’s struggle for independence caused the women’s emancipation movement to present itself as part of that struggle. In that sense, there was little difference between the Positivists, the suffragists, and even the pre–World War I Modernists. In the late 1860s, Eliza Orzeszkowa and Positivist activists made jobs and education the central focus of their campaign.5 They explained their calls for education and work for women as an essential part of the patriotic woman’s duty to raise and educate young Poles.6 Suffragists, such as Paulina KuczalskaReinshmit or Kazimiera Bujwidowa, claimed that granting women the vote was necessary to boost the Polish voice in elections throughout the partitions.7 Even the Modernists, amidst all their calls for art for art’s sake and changing culture, especially sexual mores, could never forget the national cause.8   4. January Uprising (1863–1864) in the Russian partition of Poland. It was conducted primarily as a guerilla war. By abolishing serfdom in the partition, Russia enlisted the support of Polish peasants against the uprising.   5. Positivism was the Polish version of nineteenth-century European Realism. It differed from other Realisms in that its so-called “organic work” with peasants and emphasis on education were supposed to safeguard Polish ethnicity in the face of severe attempts at russification and germanization after the January Uprising of 1863. Eliza Orzeszkowa, 1841–1910. She was a major novelist, short story writer, and activist for women’s rights during Positivism. See Górnicka-Boratyńska 1999, 8–10; Walczewska 1999, 75–84; Borkowska 1996, 160–200, and Kałwa 2002, 14.   6. Górnicka-Boratyńska 1999, 17; Walczewska 1999, 111, 112. Already in the nineteenth century, there appeared ideas on emancipation that rejected the tendency toward self-sacrifice in the name of the patriotic good. The best-known of these projects is found in the writing of Narcyza Żmichowska. She and the women—and men—around her, the “Entuzjastki” and “Entuzjaści” (“Enthusiasts” in the feminine and masculine form), waged a Romantic struggle against the “obróbki ciała kobiecego” (retooling/ redesigning of the female body. See Walczewska 1999, 16–33, quote p. 26; Borkowska 1996, 10–160; Górnicka-Boratyńska 1999, 10). Moreover, Halina Filipowicz has shown how, in some popular but second-rate works throughout the nineteenth century, one finds the dominant misogynist tradition occasionally opposed, the role of mother and wife at times rejected. (See Filipowicz 2004, 100).   7. Górnicka-Boratyńska 2001, 242.   8. I use the term “Modernism” for all the literary movements that appear in Poland between 1890 and 1939. These groups share much with Western European Modernisms,

12 Complicating the Female Subject As a result, in 1918 when Poland returned to statehood, “[n]awet najbardziej radykalni przeciwnicy kobiet (a takich w przededniu odzyskania niepodległości niemalże nie było) nie kwestionowali dojrzałej współodpowiedzialności kobiet za losy kraju i ich wielkiej roli w podtrzymywaniu tożsamości narodowej, innymi słowy—ich realnego istnienia jako obywatelek” [even the most radical opponents of women’s rights (and there were almost none on the eve of regaining independence) did not question women’s mature co-responsibility for the fate of the country and their great role in sustaining national identity, in other words—their real existence as citizens].9 Thus, Polish women, despite a very small and elitist emancipation movement, received suffrage before their sisters in England or France as recompense for their patriotic work. The constitution guaranteed them complete equality in terms of voting and jobs. Simultaneously, throughout the nineteenth century, male voices lauded the supposed emancipation of Polish women when contrasted with the situation of their sisters in Western Europe. Their often cynical exploitation of women in the name of patriotism led to the creation of the image of Matka-Polka (Mother-Pole) that was “głęboko antyfeministyczna” (deeply antifeminist).10 While placing woman on a pedestal, praising and respecting her, the image also circumscribed her to “female duties,” the most important one of which was raising children to be good Polish patriots. She undertook “male roles” only when forced to do so and happily relinquished them as soon as the patriarch reappeared.11 Moreover, the myth of “Mother-Pole” tied into the myth of the “dworek” (estate), as depicted so beautifully in Adam Mickiewicz’s verse epic Pan Tadeusz but have stronger ties to Polish Romanticism. Moreover, no group calling calling itself Symbolist Symbolist appears, as happened in many other European countries. Instead, the major group that appears around 1890 calls itself Young Poland, modeled after Young Germany and Young Scandinavia. Walczewska 1999, 133.   9. Górnicka-Boratyńska 1999, 17. See also Walczewska 1999, 111–112. 10. For a detailed discussion of this foundational Polish myth, see Chapter VII. Also, see Filipowicz 2001a, 233. See also Walczewska 1999, 41–46, 53–56. 11. See Filipowicz 2001a, 233. Halina Filipowicz gives a more concrete example of how, in popular nineteenth-century drama, the “performative constructions of [. . .] heroines reinforced rather than dispelled existing anxieties and prejudices about gender transgressors” in Filipowicz 2002. For a historical approach to the division between reality and the myth of “Mother-Pole,” see Górnicka-Boratyńska 2000, l.

Inter-War Poland    CHAPTER 2 13

(Mr. Tadeusz): the ultimate image of an idyllic, pastoral, and patriarchal life. These two myths become part of a Polish national mythology that existed not only as a substratum of the inter-war culture, but that continues as an ever evolving meta-narrative or reference point that reappears during moments of crisis, be it the Warsaw Uprising or Solidarity.12 I should note that the generally accepted mythologized picture of the nineteenth century was based on a “popular blueprint” of Romantic messianism and martyrology or, as German Ritz called it, “Romanticism without text.”13 This mythologization led to an overemphasizing of certain elements in nineteenth-century writing, and to an ignoring of others. It is only very recently that scholars have begun correcting our understanding of the partition period. What is important here is the fact that all of the writers, including female ones, were educated on Western European philosophy and literature. Thus, though patriotic themes may be their primary focus, there are often many other aspects and layers to their work that reflect their education and that are similar to issues raised in Western European literature. The year 1918 and statehood brought a heady joy to Poland—a feeling very much absent in the rest of Europe. For the first time in over 100 years, artists felt that they could put aside national issues and focus on the personal. The Skamander group of poets formed in the year of independence best represents this freedom and happiness.14 At least for a time, these writers embodied the feelings of many young people, summed up in

12. These two myths join with the “insurrection” myth and the phenomenon of a “demokracja szlachecka” (democracy of the nobility) to form the Polish foundational mythology. See Törnquist-Plewa 1992. The failed, but heroic, Warsaw Uprising occurred in August of 1944 against the Germans. Solidarity was the trade union formed in 1980 that used civil disobedience and strikes to oppose, and eventually bring down, the communist regime in Poland. 13. I have borrowed the term “popular blueprint” from a paper by Joanna Niżyńska, entitled “Delectatio morosa: or the Modes of Cultural Compensation,” presented at the IV International Polish Studies Abroad Conference held at the University of Illinois at Chicago on October 15–18, 2012. Ritz’s term can be found in Ritz 2002b. 14. The Skamander group was formed by five poets (Julian Tuwim, Antoni Słonimski, Jan Lechoń, Jarosław Iwaszkiewicz, Kazimierz Wierzyński) in 1918. Though exhibiting close ties to Neo-Romantic poetry, especially to that of Leopold Staff, the group’s goal was to return Polish poetry to everyday language and topics, turning away from national, patriotic themes.

14 Complicating the Female Subject the phrase “zielono mam w głowie” (It’s green in my head) from a poem by the poet Kazimierz Wierzyński.15 Yet, this joy coexisted with the same kind of moral angst experienced in Western Europe. The creation of new states throughout the continent was accompanied everywhere by “podważanie starych hierarchii społecznych i załamanie się dotychczasowych struktur życia partyjno-politycznego” (the undermining of old social hierarchies and the collapse of hitherto existing structures of party and political life).16 The parliamentary elections of 1919 made it clear to intellectuals that education was no longer a strength in running for office. They lost badly.17 The rude awakening was stronger for Polish intellectuals than for Western European ones. As in all of Eastern Europe and Russia, in the nineteenth century, educated individuals formed a separate class, called the intelligentsia, which perceived itself and was perceived by most people as the spiritual leaders of the nation.18 Seeking a solution to this cultural crisis, many Polish intellectuals claimed that women—creatures different both biologically and psychologically from men—should create a “women’s era” that would repair Poland’s moral condition.19 Thus, once suffrage was obtained, the struggle of women, but also of liberal male intellectuals, turned toward restructuring society into a less patriarchal, more gentle and moral one. Just as in the nineteenth century, “[k]obiety w jakiejś mierze ponownie zastrzegają się, iż nie chcą pełni praw i dostępu do władzy dla własnej, jednostkowej samorealizacji, ale pragną jej dla podniesienia moralnego poziomu całej ludzkości” (women once again to some degree stipulate that they do not want full rights and access to power for the sake of their own, individual self-realization, but that they desire it in order to elevate the moral standard of all of humanity).20 Irena Krzywicka’s calls for women’s self-realization was a rare voice among women activists.21 15. For a complete text of the poem, see Wierzyński 2005. 16. Hass 1999, 185. See also Plach 2006, 18–20. 17. Hass 1999, 194. 18. For a concise explanation, see Plach 2006, 10–11. 19. Górnicka-Boratyńska 1999, 18–20, and Kałwa 2002, 13. 20. Górnicka-Boratyńska 1999, 21. 21. Irena Krzywicka, 1899–1994. She was a major feminist, writer, and translator, who, along with Tadeusz Żeleński, championed sexual education and access to contraceptives. See Walczewska 1999; Krzywicka 2008 and Górnicka- Boratyńska 1999, 22–24.

Inter-War Poland    CHAPTER 2 15

Self-imposed censorship notwithstanding, Poland experienced the same enormous changes in culture and sexual mores as other European countries. Women suddenly became visible in public: on the street, at work, in cafés, even in parliament. They projected a much more varied image: “od wampów do poważnych profesjonalistek, od rakietki tenisowej do teczki urzędnika” (from vamps to serious professionals, from tennis rackets to a civil servant’s briefcase).22 The development of film and explosion of popular cabaret placed women in the center of mass culture.23 These two forms of art influenced other arts, including drama. Yet, the old norms and attitudes did not simply disappear. The entire inter-war period consists of friction between the old and the new in every area of life. For example, the constitution guaranteed women equal employment with men. However, conservatives attacked them for abandoning their God-given roles as wives and mothers. With the global economic crisis of the 1930s, conservatives redoubled their attacks on emancipated women. Additionally, they now also criticized them for taking away scarce jobs from men by accepting lower wages. Strengthened opposition to feminism occurred throughout Europe and the United States in the 1930s.24 Tension also appeared in the discussions focused on family, marriage, and sexual matters. Liberals called for the introduction of civil marriages and divorce, family planning, and even the legalization of prostitution.25 Already in 1920, the Ministry of Religious Creeds and Education suggested that schools introduce sexual education, and by the 1930s, textbooks for this class included a significant amount of concrete information. The primary goal was to decrease the incidence of venereal disease in the population.26 In 1929, Tadeusz Boy Żeleński, not just literary critic, but a doctor by training, helped open the first family planning clinic in the country.27 The Catholic Church opposed many liberal reforms, and in the 1930s, the 22. Kałwa 2002, 15–16. 23. See Groński 1987 and Skaff 2007. 24. Kałwa 2002, 16, 17. 25. Kałwa 2002, 16, 17, and Walczewska 1999, 36–38. 26. Babik 2010, 142–144 and 269–270. 27. Plach 2006, 134–137.

16 Complicating the Female Subject Sanacja government’s need for the Church’s support led the government to accede on such issues as civil marriages and divorce.28 When it came to sex education, the Church decreed that children should be enlightened on the topic, but that parents should be responsible for this education.29 In many ways, the fledgling film industry reflected some of these tensions as they pertained to women. Throughout the period, two types of movies coexisted with each other. The government consistently sponsored “national” cinema that upheld traditional values, including that of the self-sacrificing mother and wife.30 Conversely, popular movies translated the conventions of cabaret to the screen. Here, women were, on the one hand, dominant figures, sexually daring and glorified in publicity shots. On the other hand, the conventions of their presentation continued the exploitative objectification of women.31 Ironically, one of the most powerful figures in production, a woman, produced some of these films.32 Simultaneously, women film critics attacked such exploitation.33 Film became the new mass art that fascinated many intellectuals and artists, and cast its influence on other forms of art, including drama.

✻✻✻ Let us return to the nineteenth century and briefly consider women’s playwriting. Plays written by women were performed very sporadically. Besides the comedies of Zofia Mellerowa, only a miniscule number of dramatic texts written by women reached the theater.34 The majority of plays by women, especially in the second half of the nineteenth century, served patriarchal and patriotic pedagogical purposes. Their public visibility was 28. “Sanacja” is the popular name of the regime in Poland from 1926 to 1939. In 1926, Marshall Piłsudski, seeing the continued chaos and deadlock of the Polish parliament, led a short coup that established him as the de facto leader of a quasi-democracy. The name “sanacja” refers to the moral “treatment/cleansing” that Marshall Piłsudski promised in his 1926 coup. 29. Babik 2010, 178–188. 30. Skaff 2007, 71–72. 31. Radkiewicz 2006 and Groński 1987. 32. The woman was Maria Hirszbejn. See Skaff 2007, 83. 33. Skaff 2007, 114. 34. Marczak-Oborski 1972.

Inter-War Poland    CHAPTER 2 17

limited to print form and amateur performances. If we check in the Bibliografia dramatu polskiego for the names of women such as Maria Szeliga, Waleria Marrené-Morzkowska, Anna Libera, or Julia Goczałkowska, we realize that with very few exceptions their works existed only in print. Therefore, it should not come as a surprise that, for most of them, playwriting was a secondary career.35 Moreover, these patriotic plays never question the patriarchal family unit as the highest social and national value. It was not until the end of the nineteenth and beginning of the twentieth centuries that the woman playwright Gabriela Zapolska first created a different image of family in her dramas and broke into commercial theater. Writing within the tradition of Naturalism, she introduced new themes, violated thematic taboos, presented the audience with role reversals in the unit family, and even suggested alternative families.36 Zapolska’s work was frequently staged and continued to be staged both during Modernism (pre– and post– World War I) and after World War II. The phenomenon of a female writer of such stature and popularity for so long a period is a rarity when one looks at other European literatures and theaters. Much more typical for that generation was the situation of such writers as Anne Charlotte Leffler Edgren in Sweden, Elsa Bernstein in Germany, or Zinaida Gippius in Russia, who started writing before World War I, were much appreciated for a number of years, then fell into oblivion after World War I. However, neither Zapolska, 1918, constitutional rights, nor greater visibility in the public sphere translated immediately into women’s greater visibility in the theater. In fact, the number of plays by women that reached the professional stage before 1924 ranged between zero to three per year.37 Maria Jasnorzewska’s successful theatrical career started in 1924, with the author soon becoming the third most frequently staged playwright. However, until 1930, Jasnorzewska and Zapolska were the only two women whose plays were staged with any regularity. Of the few other plays by women that were performed, almost all were works for children or adaptations of light foreign fare. 35. Marczak-Oborski 1972 and Kiec 2003, 129–148. 36. Kłosiński 2009, 73–74. 37. Marczak-Oborski 1972.

18 Complicating the Female Subject

✻✻✻ Finally, if we look at the specific theatrical context in Poland during the inter-war years, we can conclude that audiences expected what amounted to a Romantic content embedded in a Realist form. Such a conclusion is supported, on the one hand, by the discussions occurring around theater and drama and, on the other hand, by a study of the theatrical repertoire of the period.38 Both the general ethos and the various discussions on the preferred character of theater favored the Romantic heritage—in its “popular blueprint” form, and a serious approach to art and values. Men and women playwrights wanted the theater to be a “pulpit” that presented the most significant issues of the newly resurrected Poland. Simultaneously, theater was also supposed to supply sunny fare that satisfied the joie de vivre of audiences, except that such Modernist Freudian topics as eroticism and psychology were to be avoided. As Jacek Popiel writes: . . . z jednej strony krytycy „żądali od pisarzy, by poruszali zagadnienia budującej się Polski”, gdzie teatr „ma zastąpić kazalnicę”. Z drugiej strony chcieli ograniczyć tematykę, pragnąc „słoneczności i radości” i wyłączając erotykę i psychologię. 39 (. . . on the one hand, critics “demanded from writers that they bring up the issues of a Poland that was rebuilding itself,” where the theater is “to take the place of the pulpit.” On the other hand, they wished to limit the subject matter, desiring “a sunny and joyous mood” and excluding eroticism and psychology.)

Critics exhibited a more complex attitude towards dramatic form and theatrical productions, then to content. The majority of plays staged during the inter-war period were, from the perspective of form, traditionally Realist, well-made plays, with the staging of experimental Romantic dramas by Adam Mickiewicz or Juliusz Słowacki left to a few visionary directors.40 Thus, audiences came to expect a Realist experience on stage 38. See Popiel 1995 and Marczak-Oborski 1972. 39. Popiel 1995, 38–39. 40. Adam Mickiewicz (1798–1855) and Juliusz Słowacki (1809–1849) were great Romantic poets and playwrights, whose messianic visions of Polish glory placed them in a

Inter-War Poland    CHAPTER 2 19

and all that this entailed in terms of structure, composition, characterization, and resolution. However, critics’ attitudes concerning form were characterized by ambiguity, depending on whether they were commenting on the dramatic text or on the theatrical performance. On the one hand, as Popiel writes: “dla wielu jeszcze krytyków wzorzec dramaturgii reali­ stycznej pozostawał nienaruszalnym tabu” (for many critics the model of a realistic dramaturgy still remained an untouchable taboo).41 Thus, dramatic texts were basically praised or criticized on the basis of their Realist composition. Even a great critic like Tadeusz Żeleński treated drama as a realistic reflection of what was happening in society, a reflection that he could use to support his liberal struggles for social change.42 On the other hand, “krytyka odczuwała zmęczenie panującą ‘mieszczańsko-realistyczną’ estetyką inscenizacyjną” (critics felt tired with the reigning “bourgeois-realistic” aesthetics of staging).43 In their reviews of actual theatrical performances, they conducted an “ostra kampania przeciwko realizmowi i naturalizmowi” (sharp campaign against realism and naturalism).44 Nevertheless, though critics may have been calling for changes in performance styles, overall audience expectations—based on the prevailing dominant style both of the dramatic texts and of the performances—continued to be for “lofty,” Romanticism-inspired themes embedded in a Realist form.

pantheon of revered bards of Polish literature. On the theatrical visionaries, see Braun 1984, especially the chapters on Juliusz Osterwa and Leon Schiller. 41. Popiel 1995, 36. 42. Krasuski 1992. 43. Popiel 1995, 36. 44. Popiel 1995, 41.

C H A PT E R 3

Who Were They? A Short Biographical Introduction

T

wo of the writers discussed here, Zofia Nałkowska and Maria Jasnorzewska, were well known during their lifetime and continue to be known today. However, neither was seen, or is seen today, primarily as a playwright. Nałkowska merits respect as a prose writer, while Jasnorzewska is lauded for her poetry. Maria Morozowicz-Szczepkowska, Marcelina Grabowska, and Zofia Rylska each had their moment in the spotlight during the inter-war period, but then fell into complete obscurity. In fact, not much information is available about these three authors, especially the last two. By the time audiences saw Zofia Nałkowska’s House of Women in 1930, she was 46 years old and had already written ten novels.1 Born in 1884 into an intellectual family—her father, Wacław Nałkowski, was a well-known geographer and publicist—she debuted at an early age with poetry, but then quickly switched to prose. Throughout her life, Nałkowska actively participated in the cultural life of Poland. Her journalistic work was copious. She was a member of the Polish Academy of Literature and, in 1936, received its highest award: the Złoty Wawrzyn (Golden Laurel). Nałkowska was also involved in the work of Przedmieście (Suburb), a literary group that functioned in the years 1933 to 1936 and that wanted to apply the methods of “authentic observation” to prose that would chronicle the living conditions of the poorest and lowest social groups. Her pre–World

  1. Information taken from Kirchner 2011, unless otherwise specified.

Who Were They? A Short Biographical Introduction     CHAPTER 3 21

War I novels, such as Kobiety (Women, 1906), Książe (Prince, 1907), and Narcyza (1911) are considered feminist, as are those published during the war and soon after, namely, Węże i róże (Snakes and Roses, 1914), Hrabia Emil (Count Emil, 1920), and Romans Teresy Hennert (The Romance of Teresa Hennert, 1923). In them, she attempts “the affirmation of the female otherness—physical–biological, mental–intellectual and moral.”2 She presents, but does not condemn, shocking images of women’s passions, sexuality, and romantic affairs, because at this stage in her development, the author’s “ethical project arises out of the priority given to individual choices.”3 In these early novels, Nałkowska not only breaks thematic taboos, but also searches for a style in which to present this affirmation of the female otherness, settling for strong aestheticization as a “strategi[a] samoobrony” (strategy of self-defense).4 Moreover, this aestheticization “polega na uzurpacji dandy męskiego jako formy dla kobiety” (consists of a usurpation of the male dandy as a form for woman).5 The aestheticization serves a two-fold purpose. Female heroines use a Wildian, fin-de-siècle beautifying of everyday life in order to oppose the national myth of service and sacrifice to which they are subjected.6 Simultaneously, the writer offers aesthetics—that is, art—as the only solution to the social problems facing women. She does not see resolution in the real social sphere as a possibility. The most that women can hope for is to present their issues in a voice of their own and seek solace in art. Furthermore, in these early works, the author also wrestles with defining the female subject. On the one hand, her philosophical reflections and artistic trials lead her to posit an essentialist interpretation of human   2. Rembowska-Płuciennik 2005, 157. See also Chowaniec 2012, 37–38.   3. Rembowska-Płuciennik 2005, 158.   4 Marszałek 2004, 157.   5. In the midddle of the nineteenth century, the French poet Charles Baudelaire gave the term “dandy” its  metaphysical connotation. The dandy’s complete aestheticization of every aspect of life was to serve as a form of defiance against established bourgeois norms. See Marszałek 2004, 161.   6. Fin-de-siècle refers to the movement at the end of the nineteenth century characterized by a pessimistic rejection of middle-class materialism and rationalism. The art of this movement emphasized artifice, symbolism, and an aestheticization of even everyday objects. Oscar Wilde (1854–1900), an Irish playwright, novelist, and poet, was the best-known example of the movement in Great Britain.

22 Complicating the Female Subject identity, be it male or female. Even in her later writings, Nałkowska stays true to her belief “w istnienie ‘natury żeńskiej’, żeńskiego, ponadczasowego pierwiastka świata” (in the existence of a ‘feminine nature,’ of a feminine supra-temporal, world element).7 On the other hand, influenced by the ideas of Henri Bergson, and to some degree by Georg Hegel, she balances determinism with a relativism that perceives human identity as a series of “wcieleń” (realizations) brought about by contacts with other people.8 The writer has an ambiguous view of these contacts, seeing them always as painful and destructive, yet simultaneously necessary for human development. She believes that “czynnik międzyludzki ma charakter destrukcyjny i przejawia się głównie w postaci presji bądź przemocy” (the intrapersonal factor always has a destructive character and manifests itself primarily in the form of pressure or violence).9 Moreover, she states that these contacts are especially destructive for women because of their “defect” of caring for others. Due to this “defect,” every relationship between a woman and a man results, for the woman, in a partial loss of her feminine identity.10 In her diaries, the young writer wrote about this   7. Górnicka-Boratyńska 2001, 53.   8. Kraskowska 1999b, 51. Kraskowska also distinguishes between “form” in Witold Gombrowicz and in Nałkowska. She writes in the same book: “forma Gombrowicza to istotnie przede wszystkim wytwór jakiegoś środowiska, konwenans, system norm, w ramach którego funkcjonujemy, itp. Natomiast forma Nałkowskiej—to coś, co przychodzi do nas z zewnątrz, by nas sobie podporządkować—jest cudzą psychiką, charakterem, podświadomością, instynktem, sposobem bycia, a nawet genami. Ludzie Gombrowicza nie muszą być ze sobą blisko związani, żeby na siebie wzajemnie oddziaływać. [. . .] Ludzie Nałkowskiej, by się nawzajem zmieniać (a to znaczy: niszczyć), muszą być sobie bliscy.” (form in Gombrowicz is really above all the product of a milieu, a convention, a system of norms, within which we function, etc. Whereas form in Nałkowska—is something that comes to us from the outside in order to subjugate us—it is another’s psyche, character, subconscious, instinct, way of being, even genes. Gombrowicz’s people do not have to be closely related in order to mutually act upon each other. [. . .] Nałkowska’s people must be close in order to mutually change (and that means: destroy) each other) (Kraskowska 1999b, 51). Henri Bergson (1859–1941) was a French philosopher especially influential in the first half of the twentieth century. He emphasized the importance of experience and intuition in the understanding of reality. Georg Hegel (1770–1831) is a canonical philosopher of the Enlightenment who introduced numerous important concepts. For the purpose of this study, his ideas on “recognition” and a need of the “other” in understanding oneself are paramount.   9. Kraskowska 1999b, 63. 10. Kraskowska 1999b, 65.

Who Were They? A Short Biographical Introduction     CHAPTER 3 23

loss in a dramatic “Young Poland” fashion: “Dla kobiety zostaje tylko ułamek życia—musi być albo człowiekiem, albo kobietą.” (For a woman there remains only a fragment of life—she must be either a human being or a woman.)11 Finally, in her pre–World War I work, Nałkowska is strongly influenced by the philosophy of Nietzsche, which, for the young Nałkowska “oznaczało [. . .] przede wszystkim wolność od rygorów obyczajowych, rygorów zwłaszcza erotycznych, i od tradycyjnych kobiecych powinności związanych ze stereotypowymi rolami żony i matki” (meant above all a freedom from social rigors, especially erotic rigors, and from traditional women’s duties tied to the stereotypical roles of wife and mother).12 This attitude culminates, in some sense, in her public statement at the 1907 Congress of Women, during which she insists on the need to eradicate the hypocrisy surrounding matters of sexual equality and prostitution.13 After World War I, Nałkowska’s writing changes; in her works of this period, “problem statusu kobiety mieści się w ramach refleksji pisarki na temat kondycji ludzkiej w ogóle” (the problem of the status of women is part of the author’s reflections on the condition of humankind in general). The author herself claims that she is now trying to present the unchanging nature of both men and women, rather than to create unique female individuals.14 Her two best novels are written during the inter-war period, namely, Granica (The Frontier, 1935) and Niecierpliwi (The Impatient Ones, 1938). It is also at this time that the author makes her first foray into the dramatic field, a foray greeted by most critics with a positive condescension: they praise the classic form, but dislike the women-dominated story, often vehemently. Despite the criticism, the play becomes a staple of Polish theaters and is soon translated into a number of languages. The author writes only two more dramatic works, neither of which can compare in 11. Marszałek 2004, 145. 12. Kraskowska 1999b, 111. Friedrich Nietzsche (1844–1900) was the most influential philosopher during Modernism. For the purpose of this study, his ideas on rejecting religion, substituting art for religion, and aestheticizing life are paramount. 13. For recent discussions of Nałkowska’s pre–World War I novels and her public statements, see Borkowska 1996; Kochańczyk 2001; Kraskowska 1999b; Walczewska 1999, and Smoleń 2001a. 14. The quotation and the idea of the last sentence are borrowed from Wójcik 2001, 188–189.

24 Complicating the Female Subject quality to House of Women. To a large degree, her definition of the human subject stays the same as it had been before World War I. Nałkowska spent World War II in Warsaw in very difficult circumstances. After the War, she once again became involved in the cultural, and even political, life of Poland. She was a member of the Główna Komisja Badania Zbrodni Niemieckich (Central Committee for Studying German Crimes). Out of her work in the Commission came her collection of stories Medaliony (Medallions), which chronicled the horrors of the concentration camps in a matter-of-fact tone that only served to enhance the horror. The work has been translated into numerous languages. In addition, she served in parliament and received a number of literary awards. After her death in 1954, one more aspect of her literary activity became known: her Dzienniki (Journals). She had kept them throughout her life and they have become one of the major examples of autobiographical writing in twentieth-century Polish literature.

✻✻✻ Maria Jasnorzewska was born in 1891 in Kraków into the famous Kossak clan of artists.15 Her father Wojciech, grandfather Juliusz, and brother Jerzy were painters. Her sister Magdalena became a satiric writer under the name Magdalena Samozwaniec, while her cousin Zofia KossakSzczucka wrote historical novels. The Kossak clan was known and liked throughout Poland; thus, Maria Jasnorzewska’s initial start in literature was helped by her name. However, with the publication of her debut collection of poems Niebieskie migdały (Blue Almonds) in 1922, she soon proved that she possessed an undoubted talent of her own.16 This volume was followed by fourteen more. Jasnorzewska, educated at home, moved in the artistic circles of Kraków and Warsaw, becoming especially close to the poets of the Skamander movement. For a time, she was also friends

15. Unless otherwise specified, information is taken from Hurnikowa 1999. 16. The title refers to the Polish saying “myśleć o niebieskich migdałach” (to think about blue almonds), which means to think about something light, pleasant, and trifling.

Who Were They? A Short Biographical Introduction     CHAPTER 3 25

with the avant-garde writer Stanisław Ignacy Witkiewicz (Witkacy).17 She frequently traveled abroad, primarily to France and Italy. Married three times, she finally, to the surprise of her family, found happiness with Lieutenant Stefan Jasnorzewski, her junior by ten years. When World War II broke out, the couple fled to France, then moved to England. They settled in Manchester. Jasnorzewska, isolated, lonely, and worried about her family, fell sick with cancer. After a long and painful illness, she died, her husband at her side, in 1945. Many years after her death, her oeuvre was augmented by the publication of her autobiographical writing, Ostatnie notatniki (Last Notebook). Besides being considered one of the greatest women poets in Polish literature, Maria Jasnorzewska had a very successful theatrical career that spanned about 14 years.18 In fact, she was the third most frequently staged popular playwright in inter-war Poland, writing 12 plays and three radio scripts. She wrote primarily light comedies that reflect her unique perspective on motherhood, as well as the idea that a man’s love is a necessary component in the creation of a woman’s identity. Though in her poetry and in the majority of her plays the heroines make daring and unconventional decisions about their choice of a partner, they cannot be considered emancipated even by inter-war standards, as within these fictional worlds, a woman simply does not exist without the love of a man.19 Concurrently, she shows marriage and motherhood as destroying love. Behind these ideas lies the poet’s morbid fear of aging, above all physically, but also spiritually. Jasnorzewska believes that both the soullessness of egotistic husbands and the dangers of giving birth contribute to the aging process. The antidote that keeps a woman “perpetually” beautiful is a constant and repeated falling in 17. Stanisław Ignacy Witkiewicz (1885–1939) was a playwright, novelist, painter, and thinker. He is best remembered for his dramas that initiated the Theatre of the Absurd in Poland. 18. For more on Jasnorzewska’s popularity, see Pysiak 1987 and Hurnikowa 1999, 268, 282. Moreover, all the histories of drama and theater consistently enumerate Jasnorzewska among the most popular playwrights. See, for example, Marczak-Oborski 1972. Furthermore, Hurnikowa also attests to Jasnorzewska’s “commercial” attitude toward her plays (Hurnikowa 1999, 292). 19. For more on this subject, see Iwasiów 1995.

26 Complicating the Female Subject love, as well as a Wildian aestheticization of everyday life. Similar to Nałkowska’s early novels, the objects that she lists most often belong to the fin-de-siècle period.20 An extension of the aestheticization, one that can be found primarily in her poetry, but also to a lesser degree in her plays, is the rather ambiguous category of “wdzięk” (charm). Using beautiful names and, in the case of the plays, beautiful behavior, however vaguely and variously defined, this category is to function as a kind of aesthetic/poetic opposition to all that is ugly and destructive in the world.21 Jasnorzewska’s 1924 stage debut with the lighthearted comedy Szofer Archibald (The Chauffeur Archibald) was greeted favorably, in part to her fame as the first hyper-feminine voice in Polish poetry, in part to the sympathy bestowed on the Kossak clan, and in part to its genuinely witty and lighthearted dialogue. Her next plays, though conventional in form, sparkle with clever dialogues that make them a favorite with theater audiences. Critics were perhaps more interested in her collaboration with the avant-garde writer Stanisław Ignacy Witkiewicz. Direct statements by Witkiewicz on Jasnorzewska’s playwriting are few and fragmentary, especially from the 1930s. Yet enough letters between the two friends have survived to show that, at least in the 1920s, Witkiewicz valued her dramatic works and tried to “improve their quality” with suggestions of effort, hard work, and less compromise for the sake of commercial marketability. During this time, the two cooperated on a play that was never staged and that has been lost.22 The influence of Witkiewicz’s ideas on Jasnorzewska first becomes apparent in her play Mrówki (Ants), which premiered in 1936. However, it is only in her last play, Baba-Dziwo, that Jasnorzewska really internalizes her friend’s experimental approach to drama and creates a genuinely different form. In the meantime, in 1932, she causes a small scandal with her work Egipska pszenica (Egyptian Wheat) labeled by critics as feminist and part of “women’s drama.” 20. On how Jasnorzewska shares this somewhat old-fashioned predilection for fin-desiècle aesthetics and objects d’art with Nałkowska, see Hurnikowa 1995, 215–217. 21. For more on the ambiguous aesthetic/poetic opposition that includes elements of Jasnorzewska’s ideas on “wdzięk” (charm) and the use of unusual names, see Józefacka 1966, 79–83; Kwiatkowski 1979, 447–482; and, above all, Czaplajewicz 1981. 22. See Czarnik 1987.

Who Were They? A Short Biographical Introduction     CHAPTER 3 27

✻✻✻ Maria Morozowicz-Szczepkowska, born in 1885, was the daughter of an actor and theatrical director, Rufin Morozowicz, and of a mother whom she saw as “jedną z prekursorek ruchu wyzwoleńczego kobiet” (one of the precursors of the women’s emancipation movement).23 Like her father, Morozowicz-Szczepkowska was multi-talented and practical, a trait evinced throughout her life. She started as an actress, moving quickly from amateur performances through an engagement in the provincial Teatr Wileński, to work at the premier theater of Kraków, the Teatr Miejski imienia Juliusza Słowackiego. In 1913, during an engagement in Poznań, she directed for the first time, staging her own work, Kabotyni (Buffoons). That same year, she married the sculptor Jan Szczepkowski. The couple settled in Kraków, where Szczepkowska stopped acting and turned to playwriting. In a short period of time, she wrote three plays, one of which received a prize in a contest and one of which was staged, though without much success. When World War I broke out, the writer moved to her parents’ villa in Milanówek, while her husband served in the army. After the war, her home became a cultural center, drawing numerous writers and other artists. Moreover, Milanówek was a town socially and politically active. It included an organization such as the Związek Pracy Obywatelskiej Kobiet (Women’s Association of Civic Work), which Szczepkowska joined. Its goal was to bring together women of all social classes and to develop their “postawę obywatelską” (civic stance).24 Szczepkowska also wrote in her memoirs that she was a member of The International Federation of Business and Professional Women and that, thanks to membership in that 23. Morozowicz-Szczepkowska 1968, 71. Most of the information given in this summary relies on this memoir of Szczepkowska’s. Therefore, it must be treated with a certain amount of caution. There exist two newer articles about Szczepkowska: TalarczykGubała 2010 and Pekaniec 2011. However, both rely on the memoirs for almost all of their information. 24. Morozowicz-Szczepkowska 1968, 262–263. It is interesting to note that Szczepkowska, so often labeled a “feminist,” did not join an organization that called for the self-realization of women, but one that called for developing a “civic stance.” This confirms earlier statements about feminism in inter-war Poland, a feminism that, with few exceptions, tended to self-limit just as in the nineteenth century.

28 Complicating the Female Subject organization, she received care packages from American members during World War II.25 It was in the years 1932 to 1934 that her three most sensational plays were written and staged. The first is Monika’s Case, written in response to Nałkowska’s House of Women, which Szczepkowska strongly criticizes for presenting weak, complaining, and, according to her, masculinized women. The work, directed in 1932 by Zofia Modrzewska at the Reduta Theater, is the first real salvo in the battle for a feminist theater.26 The playwright sold the rights to Monika’s Case to Broadway, where it was briefly staged. It then appeared as a Warner Brothers movie in 1934, titled Doctor Monica, directed by William Keighley and starring Kay Francis. Though the movie is a free adaptation of the play, it does credit Szczepkowska as the author of the original play.27 In 1933, Szczepkowska’s Silent Power is staged and 1934 sees a production of Type A, a play that includes male nudity on the stage. The critical reaction to the latter work is vicious; when the author tries to defend herself by writing an open letter to critics, no paper will publish it.28 That year, the writer begins to change direction in terms of subject matter, eventually writing two plays about family issues. The second work, The Falling House, about the decline of a landed family, staged in 1937, receives favorable though patronizing reviews.29 Szczepkowska also undertook work for a film consortium that produced films based on Polish classic novels. She wrote numerous film scripts, the most successful of which was Wyrok życia (Life Sentence) from 1933. When compared with the Hollywood Doctor Monica, this film by Julian Garden is much more daring, without a “happy ending” that promotes children and 25. Morozowicz-Szczepkowska 1968, 269. 26. Hernik-Spalińska 1996, 150. The Reduta Theater, founded in 1919, was Poland’s first “theatre-laboratory.” It saw productions by some of the most creative directors in inter-war Poland, beginning with Juliusz Osterwa. 27. Though Szczepkowska never mentions how she sold the rights to her play on Broadway, she did have contacts with American women through her membership in the International Federation of Business and Professional Women. 28. A copy of this letter is reprinted in Morozowicz-Szczepkowska 1968, 286–288. It seems that a naked man was perceived by audiences as more obscene than a naked woman was. The latter had already appeared on the Polish stage in 1908 in a production of Leopold Staff ’s Lady Godiva (Poskuta-Włodek 2006, 52). 29. See Żeleński 1970, 219–223.

Who Were They? A Short Biographical Introduction     CHAPTER 3 29

family life. There was enough interest in the movie generated abroad that it was remade by the French director Bernard Roland in 1936 under the title Femmes (Women). However, the French version was not a success. During World War II, the couple continued to live in Milanówek, where they frequently hid well-known figures of the underground resistance. After the war, the writer was active in various organizations. Moreover, two of her plays were staged soon after the war: Monika’s Case again directed by Zofia Modrzewska and Genewa Paquis numer 10 (Geneva Pacquis number 10) by the Teatr Wybrzeże.30 However, with the arrest of her son-in-law in 1950, a certain disenchantment seems to have come over her. Szczepkowska ended her literary activity by writing her memoir: Z lotu ptaka (From a bird’s eye view). She finished the work in 1966, two years before her death.

✻✻✻ The only play that came close to repeating the theatrical success of Monika’s Case was “Sprawiedliwość” (“Justice”) by Marcelina Grabowska.31 Grabowska was born in 1912 in Lviv, where she graduated from the university with a doctorate in Polish philology. She debuted with an article in the magazine Kobieta Współczesna (Contemporary Women) in 1932. After moving to Warsaw, she continued her career of writer and journalist with feminist and leftist leanings. She published several novels and wrote a total of seven plays. Only two were ever performed. After “Justice,” her first attempt, Grabowska wrote, among others, Koniunktury głupoty (A Boom for Stupidity) in 1936, Amerykańska walka (Free-style Wrestling) in 1938, and Dzieci nie chcą żyć (The Children Don’t Want to Live) in 1938. The last was staged by the Warsztat Teatralny (Theatrical Workshop) at the Teatr Nowy (New Theater) in Warsaw.32. From what we know, the play, like “Justice,” intended to shock audiences with pressing social issues. It revolves around such negative aspects of school life as suicide under pressure and the corruption of 30. Morozowicz-Szczepkowska 1968, 369. 31. This information is from the online site www.labodram.pl and from Bartelski 1995, 120. 32. The difficulties involved in staging the more radical feminist plays can be seen in the fact that the only available venue for Grabowska’s The Children Don’t Want to Live was a stage given over to the final projects of graduating drama students.

30 Complicating the Female Subject wealthy parents. The play was deemed too drastic and naturalistic by censors and was taken off the stage after one performance, but then allowed to proceed after Tadeusz Boy Żeleński and a number of other critics intervened. During World War II, Grabowska was active in the underground Związek Syndykalistów Polskich (Association of Polish Syndicalists). After the war, her leftist leanings led her to join the Communist Party, of which she remained a member until 1968. Her membership in the party allowed her to travel abroad, to Egypt in 1959 and 1961, then to Greece and Israel in 1965. The trips to Egypt led to her collection of short stories Ucieczka z Kemeth (Escape from Kemeth), which chronicled the social conditions of women in that country. Grabowska continued to be known as a minor prose writer until her death in 1986. Her novels include both historical works, such as her novel about Tadeusz Kościuszko, and social novels about contemporary life written from a woman’s point of view. Recently, in 2007, a renewed interest in women’s writing led to the Laboratorium Dramatu (Drama Laboratory) of the Teatr na Woli (Theater in Wola) to do an actors’ reading of the play “Justice.”

✻✻✻ No information is available about Zofia Rylska, except for the fact that, in 1938, Karol Adwentowicz at the Teatr Kameralny directed Głębia na Zimnej (The Deep at Zimna) by Zygmunt Rylski. It was hailed as the debut of a new and promising playwright. Only Zygmunt was really Zofia Rylska who had taken her son’s name when sending in her manuscript to the Młody Teatr (Young Theater) for evaluation.33 Another of her plays, never staged, can be found in manuscript form in the archives of the Teatr Miejski imienia Juliusza Słowackiego in Kraków.34 33. The Young Theater was an association whose goal was „ożywienie repertuaru teatrów w zakresie współczesnej twórczości rodzimej oraz udostępnienie nowym autorom drogi do sceny.” (to enliven theatrical repertoires in the area of contemporary native creativity, as well as to facilitate a road to the stage for new authors). It had a “komitet lektury” (reading committee) that read manuscripts sent in to it and suggested some of them for production to interested theatrical directors. See Żeleński 1975, 473–474, 575–577. 34. Poskuta-Włodek 2006, 53.

C HAPTE R 4

What Are They? Plot Summaries of the Plays

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imilar to the authors, the majority of texts that I analyze remains unknown to most readers, even in Poland. Therefore, in this chapter, I offer brief plot summaries of each work, without going into any details concerning characterization, subject formation, and myths. I give the plot summaries in chronological order based on the first production of each play. In the case in which two plays premiered in the same year, I list them alphabetically by title. In those instances in which important critical reviews were not limited to the premiere, I list more than one production. Zofia Nałkowska, Dom kobiet (House of Women): premiered in 1930 in the Teatr Polski, Warsaw, directed by Maria Przybyłko-Potocka. The play is a lyrical Chekhovian work driven by contrasts in and changes of emotions and existential ideas, with little plot. Set on a country estate, it introduces seven women who live a peaceful life within a matriarchy. At the head of this family stands grandmother Celina Bełska, who owns the estate. She lives there with her daughters Maria and Julia, her daughter-in-law Tekla, and her granddaughters Joanna and Róża. Except for Róża, who is divorced, all are widowed. Joanna has most recently returned to the manor after the death of her husband. She is grieving his death, but has also been made ill by feelings of guilt. Inexplicably for her, though loving her husband, she was never happy in the marriage and at one point had a brief affair. As the women go about their daily activities, they discuss their deceased husbands, sons, and brothers-in-law. Along the way, the grandmother imparts some of her wisdom about the difficulty of understanding both oneself and others. Into this peaceful life comes Ewa. She turns out to

32 Complicating the Female Subject be the illegitimate daughter of Joanna’s husband, who had had two families for years. Confronted with this fact, Joanna has to rethink her memories of her husband. Meanwhile, Ewa is being pursued by a married man whom the audience never sees, only hears his voice. Ewa wants financial help from Joanna so that she can avoid becoming the man’s mistress and repeating her mother’s fate. However, for a variety of reasons that I discuss, the women do not offer Ewa a place in their home. In the end, she leaves with the man, while the others resume their peaceful life on the estate. Maria Jasnorzewska, Egipska pszenica (Egyptian Wheat): premiered in 1932 in the Teatr im. Juliusza Słowackiego, Kraków, directed by Juliusz Karbowski Set on an estate, like House of Women, this play is a comedic satire interspersed with lyric moments. The story revolves around the marriage of Ruta and Wiktor. She is a young, romantic girl completely in love with an older man for whom she abandoned a promising career as a dancer. Wiktor is typical of Jasnorzewska’s myriad husbands: selfish, stupid, incapable of understanding and appreciating his wife’s love. Desperate to have an heir after five years of marriage, Wiktor forces Ruta to adopt his supposed love child born to a servant girl. This act of domination completely kills Ruta’s feelings for him. Twenty years later, Ruta blossoms by falling in love with her “son” Horacy and—unusual for a Jasnorzewska character—conceiving a child with him. This is unusual because, in general, Jasnorzewska saw giving birth as a negative phenomenon that aged women and destroyed true love. Eventually, Horacy is able to absolve the couple of guilt by discovering that he is not related to Wiktor, his alleged father. The servant girl had duped Wiktor in order to ensure a good future for a child, who for her could only be a great hindrance. In the end, Wiktor refuses to accept the situation and claims the infant as his own, while insisting only on a separation from his wife rather than a divorce for appearances and his mother’s sake. Though Ruta seems to be able to overlook her husband’s boorishness and to understand that he is genuinely suffering, nevertheless, the lovers decide to start a life together. An important catalyst of action throughout the play is the exotic and androgynous Wahtang Sziradze, Wiktor’s Georgian business partner. Hopelessly and eternally in love with Ruta, he serves as contrast to the typical Polish nobleman.

What Are They? Plot Summaries of the Plays    chapter 4 33

Maria Morozowicz-Szczepkowska, Sprawa Moniki (Monika’s Case): premiered in 1932 in the Teatr Reduty, Warsaw, directed by Zofia Modrzewska Critics perceived this play as the first true salvo in a battle for a “woman’s drama.” Unusual for the time, it was staged almost 300 times, with busloads of feminist activists coming from all over the country to see the production. Even the most liberal of inter-war critics had a hard time accepting the work because of its radical plot. Monika’s Case is an openly didactic work with long monologues and, as I discuss, ranges from very traditional elements to very innovative ones. It presents the audience with three female characters: Anna, Monika, and Antosia, as well as one male, Jerzy, who never appears on stage and who becomes dispensable by the end of the play. The play opens in Anna’s apartment with Anna and Monika living together, while Jerzy, Monika’s husband, works on overcoming his drinking problem. Anna is a successful architect, and was at one time Jerzy’s mistress. Monika is a compassionate pediatrician and an independent woman, whose independence is destroying her relationship with her husband. At the same time, giving in to social expectations, she has just undergone an operation that should help her to have children. Finally, there is Antosia, a servant girl and Jerzy’s current mistress, pregnant with his child. By accident, Antosia happens to come to Monika to ask for an abortion. Monika, who has had problems conceiving, tries to convince her to keep the child. In the process, she discovers her husband’s infidelity. In despair, she tries to commit suicide, but is stopped by Anna, who takes care of her, nurses her back to health, and convinces her of the necessity of continuing to live. Eventually, Monika overcomes her despair and returns to work. In the meantime, Antosia does have an abortion. Before departing for another city, she stops by to thank Monika for her kindness. In the end, all three women have dispensed with Jerzy and go on with their lives—the element that most upset critics. Maria Morozowicz-Szczepkowska, Milcząca siła (Silent Power): premiered in 1933 in the Teatr Polski, Poznań and immediately afterwards in the Teatr Reduty, Warsaw, directed in both cases by Zofia Modrzewska The play takes place in a futuristic setting more typical of literary works written in the early 1920s than of those from the 1930s. The “olbrzymia

34 Complicating the Female Subject szklana ściana” (gigantic glass wall) in the press building where the drama is set brings to mind Stefan Żeromski’s 1925 novel Przedwiośnie (Before Spring) оr Evgenii Zamiatin’s 1920 novel Мы (We).1 All of these works are characterized by a fascination with tempo, speed, and furious work. Ewa, the central character, stands at the head of a multimillion-dollar, international women’s movement that edits its own newspaper in many languages. In addition, the movement runs a cooperative linen trust that opposes and competes with the cotton trust run by men. Just before appearing at an important international women’s conference, Ewa is visited by a representative of the cotton trust, who suggests a merger. Simultaneously, Ewa discovers that this representative is her former lover and the father of her son. Still unsettled, the man proposes marriage to Ewa. She rejects both offers, financial and personal. Moreover, the son who overhears the conversation also rejects this would-be father. On the sidelines of this main plot stand the subplots of those women who either oppose Ewa or try to steer her energy in a different direction. Her employee, Teresa, claims the need for a personal life of fun and happiness, something that Ewa acknowledges, while emphasizing how much she personally likes to work. The ladies of the XYZ movement desire a return to traditional family values and roles. The wealthy American, Rut Barckley, having lost a son in World War I, is now dedicated to pacifism and tries to convert Ewa to her cause. In the end, Ewa, having reaffirmed her relationship with her son, departs for the international congress accompanied by Rut. Marcelina Grabowska, “Sprawiedliwość” (“Justice”): premiered in 1934 in the Teatr Miejski, Vilnius, directed by Mieczysław Szpakiewicz; staged in 1935 in the Teatr Kameralny, Warsaw, directed by Karol Adwentowicz; staged in 1937 in the Teatr im. Juliusza Słowackiego, Kraków, directed by Józef Karbowski This is a Naturalistic work in which the characters are types, especially the two women who do not even have names. “Justice” is the story of   1. Stefan Żeromski (1864–1925) was the preeminent Polish Modernist novelist. The novel Przedwiośnie (published in English in 2007 as Coming Spring) is a social commentary expressing the author’s disenchantment with the Second Republic (Poland from 1918 to 1939). Evgenii Zamiatin (1884–1937) was a Russian writer most famous for his dystopian novel We (Мы), which describes a futuristic police state.

What Are They? Plot Summaries of the Plays    chapter 4 35

a young servant girl jailed for five years for killing her illegitimate child after her lover abandoned her in dire poverty. While incarcerated, she has been a model prisoner and, therefore, has been allowed to carry out some chores unsupervised. After three years in prison, this situation gives the prison director’s adolescent son the opportunity to approach the girl while she is working unattended. Initially resisting, she is eventually entranced by the young man’s promise of a shortened prison sentence in exchange for succumbing to his advances. Once again, she becomes pregnant, yet the promise is never kept. The prison director, faced with a scandal that could terminate his job and leave him incapable of feeding a large family, applies sadistic techniques of intimidation to force the woman into an abortion. She wishes to keep this second child as a kind of expiation for her first sin, but in the end is unable to withstand the pressure put upon her. Afterwards, with the help of a Pilate-like doctor and an influential school friend, the director is able to hide and obfuscate the scandal: the woman is given an early release based on the fact that she supposedly has tuberculosis, though, in actuality, she is suffering from the aftereffects of a badly done abortion. As the curtain closes, the director is shocked to discover that his own son is responsible for the pregnancy. From this point on, the extant manuscript of the work shows two endings. Originally, for the Vilnius and Warsaw productions, the play ended more melodramatically, with the prison director tearing out his hair in complete despair. In this version, the curtain would fall on the director repeating over and over “Jak ją [sprawę syna] mam załatwić?!” (How am I to resolve it [son’s case]?!). The Kraków production appeared under a different title (Woman Number 14), with a different ending. A more cynical, though psychologically better motivated, version was prepared by Grabowska. In answer to the director’s exclamations of how to go on living knowing the moral perfidy of his son, the doctor cynically tells him that nothing will change. Though a “rysa” (scar, crack) will remain in the director’s psyche, he will go on living just as before—for the sake of his children, for this one, the eldest, as well as for the other ones. Maria Morozowicz-Szczepkowska, Walący się dom (Falling House): premiered in 1937 in the Teatr Mały, Warsaw, directed by Zbigniew Ziembiński

36 Complicating the Female Subject The play is a family drama focusing on the collapse and degeneration of the landowning class. The story centers on the Rakuski family manor that is literally falling apart due to greed and neglect. The head of the family is a misanthropic tyrant who is desperately pretending that nothing has changed, while at the same time looking out for his own best interests. Of his two daughters, Ludwika is the meek and obedient one, living in perpetual mourning for the suitor she was not allowed to marry. The other daughter, Helena, has broken out of this prison and now works in an insurance company, putting aside money in order to open her own real estate agency some day. Rakuski’s son, Janek, vehemently upholds all the old prejudices and strictures for his two sisters, while himself scheming to marry an industrialist’s daughter. Into this unhappy household returns Professor Barski, Rakuski’s brother-in-law, who has lived abroad for many years and who now comments on everything that he sees. The plot is simple, revolving around each character’s plans to improve one’s own personal happiness and material conditions. The story ends with Rakuski marrying his nurse and moving to the city, despite the protests of his children. Ludwika is forced to leave with her Uncle Barski, while Helena and Janek consider hiring an attorney to take their father to court in order to obtain their share of the estate. Maria Jasnorzewska, Baba-Dziwo: premiered in 1938 in the Teatr im. Juliusza Słowackiego, Kraków, directed by Wacław Radulski; one performance on September 2, 1939 in the Teatr Nowy, Warsaw, directed by Stanisława Wysocka This play is the only one of the group that is not Realist. Instead, Jasnorzewska follows the ideas of her friend Stanisław Ignacy Witkiewicz, father of the Theater of the Absurd in Poland, and creates a grotesque work interwoven with Realist scenes, either comedic or lyrical in nature. For a start, the title of the play is untranslatable. “Baba” is a negative word in contemporary Polish for a woman, implying—depending on the context—­ vulgarity, coarseness, and/or dictatorial tendencies. Concurrently, it is also the term used until recently among peasants simply to refer to a woman. “Dziwo” can mean something bizarre and grotesque, yet something wondrous and miraculous as well. In this work, there are two female protagonists to whom the term “baba-dziwo” can be applied and “who

What Are They? Plot Summaries of the Plays    chapter 4 37

manifest their womanhood differently.”2 The story revolves around the masculinized Valida Vrana, who has seized power in Prawia, an unspecified society of the future, and who, in revenge for her innate ugliness, has imposed upon this society a patriarchal and authoritarian system in which women are required by law to procreate or risk losing their jobs and even their freedom. Her main opponent is Petronika Selen-Gondor, a beautiful woman and an eminent chemist who refuses to submit to the arbitrary and demeaning laws. Fired from her job, Petronika moves her laboratory into the family home. There, she eventually invents a truth drug that helps depose Vrana. As the curtain falls, it is Norman, Petronika’s husband, who is acclaimed the new dictator by the crowds. In the meantime, at home, Petronika pursues a stormy relationship with her husband. Norman is so afraid of the dictator that he continues to behave like a sycophant, though, in reality, he vehemently hates Vrana. The work also has two subplots. One involves Petronika’s sister, Ninika. She is an aspiring dancer who escapes from being confined to a barrack for the sake of conceiving children. In the end, she is saved by marriage to the young lover of the play, Kołupuk Genor. The other subplot involves Agatika, an unusual character for Jasnorzewska because, though maternal, she is also brave, ready to stand up to the regime and hide Ninika if need be. Zofia Rylska, Głębia na Zimnej (The Deep at Zimna): premiered in 1938 in the Teatr Kameralny, Warsaw, directed by Karol Adwentowicz The work is another Chekhovian reflection on the situation within a gentry family living on an estate. The patriarch, Mr. Kercz, is shown as involved in an affair with the governess, while his wife watches in stoic suffering. The focus of the work is the teenage daughter, Nika, who bitterly resents her father’s behavior. In an unbalanced teenage gesture, she attempts to drown the governess, who is then saved by an old fisherman, Łuka. Łuka functions as the “wise old man” of the story who knows what is good and bad, and who criticizes the moral failings of others. When the drowning attempt fails, Nika tries to have a serious conversation with her father about his affair. However, Kercz silences his daughter by deftly   2. Grossman 2004, 3. This text offers a shortened translation of the play. In this monograph, I use my own translations of the original.

38 Complicating the Female Subject alternating between paternal condescension as if toward a small child and lascivious interest in his daughter’s budding physical attractiveness. Simultaneously, Nika, who stands on the cusp between childhood and adolescence, also flirts with her younger brother’s tutor, Aleksander Kłosek, not yet always recognizing the signals he sends her. Kłosek is himself very attracted to Nika. The final scene suggests an oneiric stasis and a return to the status quo of the opening scene. However, the author undercuts the stasis through Nika’s gesture of ostentatiously inviting Kłosek into the garden for a rendezvous. In some ways, Nika, having matured, realizes that she will not change her father’s behavior. Yet, by going out into the garden, she suggests that she will not meekly accept the situation, as her mother has done.

C HAPTE R 5

Theorizing The Subject: Seeing Through an Essentialist Lens

W

hen dealing with historical texts such as the plays discussed here, we must consider both essentialist and nonessentialist definitions of the subject. While for centuries, Western culture took an essentialist and antonymic approach to the subject, the modernist search for a different definition did not suddenly eradicate the earlier approach. In fact, the discussion between the two continues to this day. For example, in the 1980s, sexual binarism was ubiquitous in feminist writing. Then, in the middle of the 1990s, there appeared a strong tendency to turn away from both essentialist definitions of the subject and from sexual binarism.1 In the last decade, sexual essentialism has shown up again in the writings of so-called material feminists, who are interested in some aspects of Darwinian Theory.2 In order to do full justice to the eight works by these inter-war women writers, we must utilize both approaches, as, in the end, these authors tended to combine the essentialist with the nonessentialist.

Seeing through an essentialist lens It is a truism to say that, from the inception of Western culture, thinkers have based their ideas on a nonneutral, essentialist dualism of mind   1. For a good overview, see Cranny-Francis 2003, 1–36 and Grosz 1994, 1–20. Butler 1993 is a good example of the 1990s kind of nonessentialist presentation of subject.   2. For a good selection of articles with a material feminist approach, see Alaimo 2008.

40 Complicating the Female Subject and body. Though the terms vary over the centuries, they have continued to see the human subject as composed of mind, reason, psychology, spirit, and soul on the one hand, and body, matter, passion, and biology on the other. Repeatedly the “body” has been the subordinate term. It has been viewed as that which “is not mind, [. . .] [that which] the mind must expel in order to retain its ‘integrity.’”3 Moreover, the female has been consistently associated with the bodily, while the male has been associated with the mind and viewed as superior. For hundreds of years, this dichotomy has led thinkers, writers, and artists to treat the male sex as the “default” sex and the feminine sex as the “Other.” In her early work, Volatile Bodies: Towards a Corporal Feminism, Elizabeth Grosz divides feminist thinkers into three groups. While Grosz is referring to contemporary feminist writing, we can also apply her divisions to the dramatic texts of an earlier time. Her first two groups are very useful in discussing essentialist definitions of subject. She writes that both these groups retain “a biologically determined, fixed, and ahistorical notion of the body and re[tain. . .] the mind/body dualism.”4 The difference between the two groups lies in the fact that the first, for the most part, regards the body as a negative “limitation” and has “accepted patriarchal and misogynist assumptions about the female body as somehow more natural.”5 The second group, though still ahistorical and rejecting a culturally produced subject, perceives the body in a more positive light, as a given distinction, “whose representation and functioning is political,” but in and of itself not worse or less valuable.6 Grosz’s third group refers above all to the early writing of Judith Butler and of those feminists who shared her approach. In Bodies that Matter, Butler tries either to replace the dualism with monism or at least to establish a nonconfrontational relationship between the terms.7 Moreover, the early Butler and those in agreement with her at the time were suspicious of the gender/culture

  3. Grosz 1994, 5–19. On this topic, also see Horner 2000, 1–3.   4. Grosz 1994, 15–17.   5. Grosz 1994, 15.   6. Grosz 1994, 16.   7. Grosz 1994, 18.

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versus sex/nature opposition.8 Grosz’s third group really reflects the dominant feminist ideas of the early and middle 1990s. Since then, both Butler and other feminist thinkers have moved on to definitions of subject that are more complex or ones that combine an interest in the subject with other topics, for example, ethics. We will come back to these newer ideas in the next chapter. For the sake of clarity, we will have to consider not only the difference between the concepts of essentialism and nonessentialism, but also what I call the “possibility of change.” A nonessentialist approach assumes that each human being is unique and that one cannot assign any innate traits to either of the sexes. “Possibility of change” refers to the situation when a writer takes an essentialist approach to the subject, yet still allows that subject to change, in various circumstances and to a lesser or greater degree. For now, let us start with those elements in these eight plays that reveal an essentialist attitude.

✻✻✻ With the exception of The Falling House, some form of essentialism is present in all of the works. However, whether the essentialism is positive or negative, all-encompassing or not, permitting change or not differs from play to play. The one thing that all of these playwrights have in common is the fact that they overwhelmingly depict the male subject as negative and essentialist, regardless of how they present women. They may present individual males negatively even when they see an abstract, essentialist “maleness” as positive! This is the situation in Szczepkowska’s Monika’s Case, a play that best illustrates Grosz’s first group. Through the statements of the three female protagonists, the unseen Jerzy comes across as weak, passive, irresponsible, and an alcoholic. Monika, his loving wife, insists that “to szlachetny typ” (he is a noble type), “to czysty człowiek” (he is a pure man), but also says that he is “lekkomyślny” (irresponsible), “słaby” (weak), “bezradny” (helpless), “łatwowierny” (gullible), “dziecko” (a   8. Grosz 1994, 18.

42 Complicating the Female Subject child) (13, 18, 19). Anna, his former mistress, speaks of him only with sarcasm (61), while his current mistress, Antosia, calls him “ładny” (pretty) and “delikatny” (delicate), but also a “ścierwo” (dirty swine) (29, 69). The fact that his wife directs every detail of his life, such as, what he will wear or when he goes for a walk, underscores his passivity (23). His one voluntary action—betraying Monika—suggests an immoral individual who does not have either the decency or the force of character to be open with his wife. His absence from the stage, as well as the use of reifying vocabulary, further reduce Jerzy’s stature. When Monika speaks of him, she most often mentions objects, such as his voice, his tie, and his two suits, rather than speak of him as a person, or even his character traits. Yet this negative male individual appears in a play in which the writer presents male essentialism as positive and superior when compared with the innate traits of women. Anna, Szczepkowska’s porte-parole, insists that men are wiser because they understand that the essence of life is joy, not a self-denying and all-encompassing love, which women find so important. Moreover, as Anna states, men also know that the only eternal matter that a person leaves behind is one’s work. It is not love, as women would have it, because love is temporary, just as “human sensibility is fleeting” and just as human beings themselves are “fleeting”: Radość! Wie o tem i bierze to od kobiety mężczyzna, nie uznaje tego i nie może zrozumieć kobieta. (45) (Happiness! Man knows about it and takes it from woman; a woman does not recognize and cannot understand it.) . . . pionem moralnym jest poczucie własnej wartości. Gubi go i depce kobieta, zatracając się w mężczyźnie! (45) (. . . one’s moral fiber is a sense of self-worth. A woman loses it and tramples on it when she loses herself in a man!) . . . trwać nie może [miłość], bo ludzka wrażliwość jest przemijająca (44) (. . . it [love] cannot last, because human sensibility is fleeting)

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. . . tylko nie robić sobie zbyt wiele z tego bydlęcia [człowieka]. Przemija, jak wszystko w przyrodzie, kruchy jest człowiek. Przeżywa go jego dzieło, ślad jaki po sobie zostawia. (21, 22) (. . . just don’t make too much of this beast [man]. He passes, as everything in nature, man is fragile. It’s his creative work that outlasts him, leaves a trace.)

In fact, Szczepkowska has Anna criticize Monika for “entwining” her husband in the institution of marriage. According to the author, women’s essentialist emotionalism deprives both women and men of self-respect and freedom and, in this particular case, causes the “bankruptcy” of Jerzy and Monika’s marriage: . . . nie dałaś najcenniejszej rzeczy: wolności sobie i swemu kochankowi. Opięłaś go w ramy instytucji społecznej: małżeństwa, wierności—bał się ciebie. I kłamstwo wasze zbankrutowało! . . . (62) (. . . you didn’t give the most valuable thing: freedom for yourself and for your beloved. You wrapped him up in the framework of a social institution: marriage, loyalty—he was afraid of you. And your lie went bankrupt!)

For Szczepkowska, the most important positive element of men’s essentialism is their innate cerebral rationalism, a trait that the author continuously juxtaposes to woman’s emotionalism. Jerzy’s supposed talent as a writer—a cerebral activity—leads Monika to accommodate herself proudly to the needs of his literary work: “Ale przekonacie się, czem jest Jurek, gdy skończy swoją powieść.” (But you’ll find out who Jurek really is when he finishes his novel.) (19). It even elicits grudging approval from Anna “. . . Owszem, talent ma.” (. . . Granted, he’s got talent.) (18). As we will see, women can achieve this rationalism, this cerebral attitude toward life that brings with it wisdom. However, it is not an innate trait for them. In the end, in Monika’s Case, Szczepkowska’s attitude toward male subjects becomes ambiguous. In the general scheme of things, she clearly reveals her respect and preference for male essentialism, characterized primarily by the rational. She, in fact, goes further, urging women to

44 Complicating the Female Subject defeminize, to become more like men. It is not just a case of accepting the inevitable and of urging women to become like men, so that their lives would be easier among male-constructed social norms. The author repeatedly extols male traits and criticizes female ones. Simultaneously, she depicts the individual male in this play as decidedly negative, his only possible virtue that of trying to be a writer. Eventually, the audience comes to doubt his literary abilities, while all three female characters discard him. There remains the question that Tadeusz Żeleński raised already during the inter-war period. Why make Jerzy such a weak and negative character? It diminishes dramatic effectiveness, though it does show how difficult it is for women to change their traditional habits even against such a lightweight. While the writer sees male essentialism in this play as positive, she presents female essentialism as negative. Szczepkowska claims that women are innately emotional, instinctual, bodily, unreasonable, and easily victimized. The clearest example of all of this negativity is the uneducated servant girl, Antosia, a woman “w niezakłamanej formie” (in a nonfalsified form) (71). The issue of class differences and feminism appears here, but it is not the focus of Szczepkowska’s play.9 Rather, the focus is on how women can overcome their innate traits. In the meantime, she shows Antosia responding to various situations based on feelings, desires, instincts, and passions, even when Antosia herself thinks she is being logical and calculating. The servant girl believes that she controls her life, not realizing that she has always been an exploited victim. Antosia definitely sees a difference between herself and her educated mistresses. She thinks it is “normal” that a woman of her class was raped at 15 by a “young master,” without any adverse consequences for the perpetrator. Unfortunately, she also thinks that when she sells herself for money she gains respect, rather than suffering further exploitation: Bo panie są niezwyczajne znać nasze życie, bo panowie dla paniów to są ustępliwe i delikatne, każdy udaje niewiniątko, ale z nami, o . . . z nami—to ceregielów nie robią: Ja piętnaście lat miałam, jak mnie panicz zniewolił, a jakem płakała, to jeszcze groził, że matce powie . . . My tego zwyczajne, to—to się nazywa, że uczciwa   9. On the issue of class and feminism, see Belsey 1985; Kruger 1996; Forte 1996, and Reinelt 1996.

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dziewczyna. Ale jak dziewczyna rozum ma i za swoją młodość i fatygę płacić sobie każe, to się mówi, że jest „taka”. A niech się tak mówi. Jak mi zapłaci to mnie uszanuje. (69) (Because you ladies aren’t used to knowing our life, because gentlemen for you, misses, are yielding and delicate, each one pretends he’s an innocent, but with us, oh . . . with us—they don’t stand on ceremony: I was fifteen when a young master coerced me, oh how I cried, but he just threatened he’d tell mother . . . we’re used to this, that—that’s what’s called an honest girl. But if a girl’s smart and she demands payment for her youth and effort, then they say “such a girl.” Let them say it. If he pays me he’ll respect me.)10

Antosia envies Monika her financial independence and education. However, she does not understand that education can function as a means of “modifying” the raw, emotional woman—as do Anna and Monika. Instead, Antosia perceives education as a ticket to more money, which, in turn, leads to more free time, and more free time would allow her to look for her true love. For, despite her unpleasant experiences with men, she still harbors traditional dreams of finding Mr. Right: O pani to nie powiedzą: utrzymanka, bo pani by i chłopa jeszcze za swoje zarobione pieniądze utrzymała. Ot, tak zarabiać bym chciała! . . . to bym potem te ścierwa, co jednego ze schodów zrzucała . . . Aż bym trafiła na swego. Na takiego, coby mi—myśl swoją powiedział . . . (70) (They won’t say kept woman about you, Miss, because you, Miss, could support even your guy on the money you make. Oh, how I would like to make money! . . . then I’d throw those dirty swine one by one down the stairs . . . Until I found my own. One who would— tell me his thoughts . . .)

Yet, pessimistic vision of women notwithstanding, in this play, Szczepkowska avoids complete defeatism. The all-encompassing essentialism does allow 10. It is impossible to render the “texture” of this passage, because Antosia uses a substandard, uneducated Polish that does not translate well.

46 Complicating the Female Subject for the “possibility of change”; this possibility is the real focus of this work, as I discuss in more detail in Chapter 6.

✻✻✻ Let us now consider a play in which the author’s view is the exact opposite of that of Szczepkowska in Monika’s Case, namely, Nałkowska’s House of Women. Here, men are negative, women positive. The work in many ways fits Grosz’s second group. Nałkowska had wrestled with the definition of subject already in her pre–World War I novels. She came up with a definition that combined essentialism with the “possibility of change,” staying true to this definition even in her later writings. Nałkowska believes in the essentialism of both the male and female subject, though, in her work, she focuses on women. When it comes to the male subject, she repeatedly presents it as negative, as in this play.11 In House of Women, the male characters do not appear on stage. However, they are ubiquitous in the conversations of the women. Throughout her career, Nałkowska linked the male subject with logic, reason, and the ability to organize society. She believed that, through these essentialist traits, men control women in the real world. The author presents the idea of male domination outside the haven of the estate, as an expanding theme that gradually develops and reveals increasing amounts of information through the various reminiscences and conversations of the women. She shows this male control through a number of devices. First, the playwright emphasizes that, in the real world, men dominate women in marriages. (In Nałkowska’s ideology, marriage is actually a two-edged phenomenon; I discuss its association with change in the next chapter.) What Babka says about Joanna: “Ona cała istniała przez niego [męża], nie sama” (She existed entirely through him [her husband], not by herself) (22), is, according to Nałkowska, true for all women in society. Due to this consuming involvement with the men they love, women mourn the end of marriage—or any other relationship with a man—exceptionally strongly. In the meantime, men control family finances while their dominance also allows for a continuing double standard in sexual matters. 11. Negative images of males were a staple of Nałkowska’s early prose. On this topic, see Kraskowska 1999b, 53–61.

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Second, male power is apparent in that deceased men can determine the relationships between living women. What happened between their respective husbands influences the relationship between Tekla and Julia (92). Tekla continues to have an acrimonious relationship with Julia because she believes that the latter’s husband refused to help her own husband in a time of need, thus hastening his premature death. Third, throughout the play, for all their strengths and individuality, Nałkowska emphasizes the weaknesses of the female characters. For example, Grandmother Celina, the strongest spiritually, is physically infirm: BABKA (. . . Jedna ręka na kiju, druga, zgięta, uczepiona do ramy drzwi . . .) (124) (GRANDMOTHER (. . . One hand on a stick, the other, bent, clutching the doorframe . . .) BABKA (chce podejść, ale nie odważa się puścić ramy) (126) (GRANDMOTHER (wants to approach, but doesn’t dare to let go of the doorframe)

Similarly, Joanna’s feelings of guilt and grief have brought on a serious illness, as shown in the following statement by the old servant Zofia: ZOFIA. Pani Nielewiczowa [that is, Joanna] taka słaba, taka jeszcze zdenerwowana, a wciąż są do niej jakieś interesy. [. . .] . . . pani Nielewiczowa, odkąd nieboszczyk pan umarł, nikogo nie przyjmuje, że chora. (10) (ZOFIA. Mrs. Nielewicz is so weak, so nervous still, yet all the time there are all kinds of business matters for her. [. . .] . . . Mrs. Nielewicz hasn’t been receiving anyone since the master died, she’s sick.)12

Julia is a hypochondriac who spends her time fighting imaginary illnesses with diets, herbs, and exercise: JULIA. No, dziś to się obudziłam fatalnie, ręce ani rusz, nogi ani rusz! A język biały, jak obrus. [. . .] A wiesz dlaczego? To ta filiżanka mleka wieczorem. (11) 12. The form of Joanna’s last name that Zofia uses further emphasizes the link to her husband. The “-owa” suffix is added in Polish to a last name in order to indicate a married woman who carries her husband’s last name. The practice is dying out today.

48 Complicating the Female Subject (JULIA. Well, today I woke up really badly, my arms won’t budge, my legs won’t budge! My tongue’s white, like a tablecloth. [. . .] And you know why? It’s that cup of milk last night.)

Maria runs the estate, but her competence in dealing with local peasants and finances is uncertain, even if not a complete failure that would threaten the women’s existence: MARIA. Ach, bo Zofia mówi, że w zeszłym tygodniu te dwie kobiety robiły tylko cztery dni. To nie jest prawda. Mnie się zdaje, może najwyżej opuściły jeden dzień. Zresztą było przecież święto. Prawdę mówiąc, nie zapisywałam tego i dobrze nie pamiętam. (101) (MARIA. Oh, because Zofia says that last week those two women worked only four days. That’s not true. It seems to me that they missed maybe one day at most. And after all there was a holiday. To tell you the truth, I didn’t write it down and I don’t remember precisely.)

This emphasis on the characters’ weakness in various forms underscores the women’s own reminiscences of male control, with their recurring theme of women’s inferior status in the social reality of inter-war Poland. Moreover, Nałkowska does not depict men as kindly spirits who benevolently look after this female household from afar. Rather, as the play unfolds, men come across as one-dimensional and overwhelmingly negative. For example, Julia constantly remembers her husband, Włodzimierz, in warm terms and emphasizes how much he loved her. Yet by the end of the play, it is apparent, both through Julia’s own statements and through those of the other characters, that he was a spendthrift who forced his wife to economize while probably being unfaithful to her: JULIA. Mój Włodzio był przecież dla mnie najlepszy, ale miał też wadę, że lubił za dużo wydać. (25) (JULIA. My Włodzio was after all the best for me, but he had a fault, he liked to spend too much.) TEKLA. Włodzimierz dobrze zarabiał i dbał o ciebie. Czegoż ci trzeba było więcej? Wolałaś na inne rzeczy patrzeć przez palce. Nie byłaś podejrzliwa. Nie dbałaś o to, co robił poza domem, . . . (58)

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(TEKLA. Włodzimierz earned a lot and cared for you. What else did you need? You preferred to overlook other things. You weren’t suspicious. You didn’t care what he did outside the house, . . .)

Similarly, the recently widowed Joanna was supposedly married to a pillar of rectitude, devoted to helping people. When the play begins, she is grieving not just over his death but also out of a sense of guilt. For no apparent reason, she felt unhappy in the marriage and, at one point, had a brief affair with an anonymous man. During the course of the work, it becomes apparent that Krzysztof was actually a boorish and stingy husband who for years had deceived his wife. As her niece, Róża, says of him: “To Krzysztof nie dał Joannie nigdzie iść, nie dał jej z nikim rozmawiać, wciąż się gniewał o byle co, wciąż jej robił awantury—a wszyscy go chwalą.” (It was Krzysztof who wouldn’t let Joanna go anywhere, who wouldn’t allow her to talk to anybody, was angry all the time about nothing, was constantly making scenes—yet everybody praises him.) (94). Róża’s own marriage ended in divorce when her husband found himself a younger women. The young man who calls out to Ewa at the end of the play is just as immoral: already married, he pursues Ewa as a mistress, knowing that she is financially destitute and, therefore, desperate. Overall, Nałkowska’s philosophy of human beings was both essentialist and “relational.”13 However, in this play, she presents male subjects only as essentialist and negative: rational, powerful in the real world, immoral and tyrannical, with no real exceptions or glimmers of anything good. The author always saw the dominant position of men in society as inevitable. In her pre–World War I novels, the only “solace” she could offer her readers was escape into an aestheticized fictional world.14 In House of Women, while still accepting the superior position of men off-stage in the real world, she focuses on the positive essentialism of women, their happy life in a refuge without men, and their development as human beings. 13. “Relationality” is Judith Butler’s term that substitutes for better-known terms in philosophy, such as “intersubjectivity” and “alterity.” All three terms refer to a concept of identity construction that requires the recognition of another person and the ability to differentiate between self and other in order to define one’s identity. Judith Butler (born 1956) is an American philosopher, and gender and literature theorist. 14. Marszałek 2004, 157–161.

50 Complicating the Female Subject The author believed “w istnienie ‘natury żeńskiej’, żeńskiego, ponadczasowego pierwiastka świata” (in the existence of a ‘feminine nature,’ of a feminine supra-temporal, world element).15 As Foltyniak has written, for Nałkowska [k]obiecość jest nierozerwalnie związana z [. . .] miłością. [. . .] Miłość ta [. . .] w planie globalnym stanowi pomnażanie życia, praenergię poruszającą tryby świata, w planie indywidualnym, dla bohaterów, jest drogą ku poznaniu, . . . (femininity is inextricably tied with [. . .] love. [. . .] This love [. . .] in the global scheme of things means a multiplication of life, a pre-­ energy moving the gears of the world, in the individual scheme, for the heroes, it is a path to knowledge, . . .) [emphasis added]16

Note my emphasis, via underlining. Love for Nałkowska was actually a means of gaining knowledge—an idea that goes back to Romanticism, but one that many Modernists also espoused. We will come back to this notion when discussing the “possibilities of change” for the characters. In addition, women also suffer from what Nałkowska calls a “perwersja dobroci” (perversion of goodness); that is, they tend to be too good and too self-sacrificing in relationships. As a result, for women, love of a man always involves painful emotions and a loss of part of their identity.17 Ultimately, the author perceives love both as a means of gaining self-knowledge and as a wonderful and valuable experience, despite the pain involved, because “miłość wszystko podnosi, upięknia, wszystko uszlachetnia. [. . .] miłość jest takim szczęściem.” (love elevates everything, beautifies, ennobles everything. [. . .] love is such happiness) (95). Nałkowska defines female essentialism in traditional terms: emotional, bodily. More specifically, she focuses on the caring and love that the women offer each other, on the emotions that they express, and on a lyric kind of domesticity. Let us first consider the caring and love. Already, the initial stage directions point to the solicitude shown Grandmother. The author lists all the items that stand in the living room for her comfort: “fotel,” “stolik,” “pled,” 15. Górnicka-Boratyńska 2001, 53. 16. Foltyniak 2004, 171. 17. Kraskowska 1999b, 65.

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“podnóżek,” and “poduszka” (armchair, end table, blanket, footstool, and pillow) (7). On several occasions, Nałkowska has the old servant Zofia, the daughter Maria, the pessimistic daughter-in-law Tekla, or the granddaughter Róża bring Celina food, patiently sit and talk with her, help her eat (7–8, 19–21, 44–45). The gentle tone of the dialogues in these scenes, supported by stage directions referring both to actions and moods, strongly suggests a genuine desire to help the older woman, not just a sense of duty that must be fulfilled. Given that House of Women shows Chekhovian influence, it is perhaps not surprising that Nałkowska pays so much attention to emotions. In Chekhov’s plays, the emotions and pauses mentioned in the stage directions alternate with lines of dialogue; together, the two emphasize the alienation of and miscommunication between the characters.18 In contrast, here, the stage directions refer to emotions that connect the speakers. The moments of silence point toward reflection, worry about the other person, or hesitation concerning how best to express an idea or feeling. Overall, the conversations reveal the real warmth that exists among the women and, at times, the delicacy of feeling with which they approach each other, not wanting to offend and/or hurt the interlocutor. Tekla is the exception, with her acerbic and bitter comments. However, for the other characters, it is enough to take any two random pages to see the connection between the characters. For example, we could consider two pages from Act II in which Grandmother is talking with Maria about Joanna. In those two pages, we have the following stage directions: z trwogą, rozważa, załamuje ręce, patrzy w ziemię, krótki płacz, nieśmiało gładzi ją po ramieniu, milczenie, ciszej, pauza, cicho, cicho, pauza, milczenie, and wyciąga szyję niespokojnie (63–64) (with fear, reflects, wrings her hands, looks at the ground, cries briefly, shyly pats her shoulder, silence, more quietly, pause, quietly, quietly, pause, silence, and stretches her neck anxiously).

When we combine these stage directions with the actual dialogue, we have a scene in which Celina and Maria worry about Joanna, and Maria is 18. Kot 1999, 37–40.

52 Complicating the Female Subject overwhelmed by her daughter’s unhappiness, while Celina struggles over how best to comfort Maria. Nałkowska’s focus on emotions reflects her belief that women react emotionally to life’s various situations. Finally, there is the play’s lyric domesticity. Already, on the first page, the stage directions mention ”kwitnące drzewa” and “kwiaty, w dwóch wazonach tkwią kwitnące białe gałęzie” (blossoming trees and flowers, white branches stick out of two vases) (7). In the scenes in which food is served, Nałkowska does not just state that food is served. The stage directions are much more specific: “przysuwa bliżej stolik, rozkłada talerzyki” (she pulls the little table closer, sets the plates), “pije z wolna, ostrożnie dmuchając” (drinks slowly, carefully blowing), or “obciera usta, oddaje serwetkę” (wipes her mouth, returns the napkin) (19, 26, 45). There is a constant bustle in the house with both servant and mistresses repeatedly going in and out of the room. The servant Zofia “otwierała okna i ściągała zasłony” (was opening windows and curtains) or “wynosi krzesło na taras” (takes the chair out on the terrace). Maria “przekrawa bułkę na kawałki, podaje, podtrzymuje szklankę” (cuts the roll in half, offers it, holds the glass). Róża “porządkuje na większej tacy” (arranges things on the larger tray) (9, 9, 20, 45). Moreover, among all the existential conversations, there appear plenty of comments on mundane, everyday matters. Tekla says “A ja źle spałam.” (And I slept badly.) (9). Julia talks about her health and the merits of herbal tea: “Wstałam z samego rana, wypiłam szklankę ziółek i zaraz do ogrodu. To dziurawiec. Zofia mi zaparzyła jeszcze wczoraj. Dziurawiec jest bardzo zdrowy. ” (I got up early, drank a glass of herbal tea and immediately . . . into the garden. It’s St. John’s wort. Zofia brewed it for me already yesterday. St. John’s wort is very healthy.) (11). Róża talks about the fact that “spaceruję cały dzień, żeby schudnąć, a potem leżę z książką na kanapie i tyję” (I stroll all day in order to lose weight, then I lie on the couch with a book and grow fat) (49). Earlier, I used the word “lyric” to describe this domesticity. The presence of the garden supports the choice of adjective. The entire play takes place in a room that leads onto a terrace and into the garden. Almost all of the characters remark on the beauty of the latter at one time or another (11–13, 75, 88, 89). Its presence aestheticizes the home, offers happiness and peace to its residents. The garden

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emphasizes the image of a true haven, with the outside world starting not immediately at the front door, but beyond the garden protected by a wall and gate (42, 52, 53). There is also a domestic side to the garden: an orchard and vegetable patch, with Maria supervising the work of hired labor (8, 49, 75, 96–97, 101). A “working” garden reminds us that this is an estate, that these women have ties to the land. Traditionally, Western literature presents such ties as a source of strength.19 On the one hand, all these references to the daily bustle increase the play’s sense of realism. After all, that is how people conduct their serious conversations in real life. On the other hand, playwrights usually leave out such domestic details because they detract from the dramatic effect and do not add to plot development. Moreover, this is precisely why male critics have often disparaged women’s writing and its private, domestic setting, claiming that women lacked a broader kind of “experience” that would allow them to reach more profound conclusions about existence. Nałkowska chose to include the domestic, trivial, everyday. Here, we should briefly consider the concept of “experience” theory. Feminists have debated and contested this concept because it “became caught in the dichotomy between discourse and experience, unity and difference” and often collided with feminist definitions of identity and power.20 Moreover, the very definition of the word is uncertain. Overall, there seem to be “two different approaches to ‘experience—as ‘knowledge’ gained through empirical testing or as emotional, affective, corporeal perception of the world.”21 “Experience” should be understood “not in its previous sense of naïve, self-present and authentic experience,” often reduced to oversimplified ethnographic studies. Rather, we should define it as a means to situate events and people in a definite historical period or social milieu.22 In its “affective, corporeal perception of the world,” it serves to describe more precisely the unique characteristics of life in a specific 19. See Wickham 2012, 31–54, 60–81, and 113–134; Beneš 2001; Ehrlich 2001. 20. Quoted in Chowaniec 2010, 9. On experience theory, see also Howie 2010, 71; Cerwonka 2011 and Canning 2006. Experience theory is closely linked to standpoint theory. For an introduction to the latter, see Harding 2004. 21. Chowaniec 2010, 6. 22. Chowaniec 2010, 10.

54 Complicating the Female Subject time and place. More important, some feminist thinkers insist that one can draw philosophical conclusions about existence and subjectivity precisely from the experience of everyday life with its numerous, almost imperceptible, and seemingly negligible actions. They state that these inconspicuous and unnoticed events have a strength of their own. Within the Polish context, Jolanta Brach-Czaina writes about the ontological value of “krzątanina” (bustling).23 For Brach-Czaina, if we ignore the everyday, then we devalue ourselves: “Skoro nasze istnienie przebiega głównie w doświadczeniu potocznym, pośród czynności zwykłych, to odmawiając im znaczenia unieważniamy się sami.” (Since our existence runs its course primarily in everyday experience, among commonplace activities, then by refusing them significance we nullify ourselves.)24 According to her theory, “bustling” creates existence. If we stop “bustling,” we are plunged into nonexistence.25 This vision of existence assumes an eternal cycle of creation and destruction, a philosophical idea accepted by many thinkers in many different periods. In fact, this is probably the oldest, cyclical vision of existence, closely tied to the changing seasons. Yet, earlier male writers did not perceive this struggle in terms of the everyday, the mundane. However, for Brach-Czaina, when we accept the importance of the everyday, we come to realize that this everyday “bustling” really recreates the eternal cycle of creation–destruction on a less noticeable scale: “Krzątactwo samo siebie unicestwia. Każda czynność anihiluje własne działanie, by dać miejsce możliwości ponawiania.” (Bustling destroys itself. Every activity annihilates its own effect, to give room to the possibility of renewal.)26 In other words, as Brach-Czaina repeatedly states, we dirty and wash dishes—destroy and create—eternally. Interpreted through this perspective, Nałkowska’s decision to include “domesticity” makes sense. Her very specific indications of mood and daily activities, as well as dialogue that includes “homely” statements, do not function simply as “scene setters.” Rather, they serve as a means of presenting the positive essentialism of the female subject. The loving, caring 23. Brach-Czaina 1999, 55–80. 24. Brach-Czaina 1998, 57. 25. Brach-Czaina 1998, 73. 26. Brach-Czaina 1998, 77.

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emotionalism of women comes through all of this “bustling.” The author implies that it is in the very nature of women to express their love through everyday, mundane caring. Maria cutting a roll for her mother, day in and day out, expresses her love more naturally than if she repeated “I love you” frequently. At the same time, by combining existential conversations with the domesticity, the author points to a bodily, one might say realistic, grounding of women. Historically, women have not had the luxury of just sitting and reflecting. They have had to think while fulfilling the womanly duties assigned by society. Such a situation has given them a different perspective, an ability to accept that life goes on and a realization that life consists both of the reflecting (ideas) and the “bustling,” the mundane. Moreover, Nałkowska defines women as subjects who primarily perceive and react to life emotionally. Women certainly do think, as we will discuss later. However, more often they react, that is, experience an emotion in response to other people and situations. For that reason, the author injected numerous stage directions that refer both to “bustling” and to emotions. At the same time, the domestic emphasizes another, very different, existential idea. In the next chapter, we will discuss the “possibilities of change” that the play offers women. Here, we should note that, from her earliest writings, Nałkowska emphasized “nieprzejrzystość głębin bytu” (the opaqueness of the depths of existence).27 Part of this “opaqueness” the writer linked to the “possibilities of change” within a subject. However, she also believed that the “opaqueness” resulted from the randomness of events. She wrote that, “zdarzenia przychodzą ‘z bylekąd’, tak jak i śmierć przydarza się w miejscu ‘byle jakim’,” (events arrive from “wherever,” just as death happens in “whatever” place), an existential fact of which her characters always seem cognizant.28 The play reflects this ideology in its emphasis on “ciemność” (darkness), the author’s term for the existential “opaqueness.” For Nałkowska, the essentialism of the “Other,” as well as the essence of life, remain a mystery. Thus, while the domesticity reflects women’s essentialist bodiliness and while the “bustling” reflects the eternal struggle 27. For a more detailed discussion of this philosophy of death, as well as the nature of men and women, see Smoleń 2001a; Borkowska 1996; Marszałek 2004, 180; and Kraskowska 1999b, 34–53. 28. Kraskowska 1999b, 34.

56 Complicating the Female Subject between existence and nonexistence on a smaller scale, domesticity is also all that human beings have. In Nałkowska’s philosophy, since the deeper layers of existence are not directly accessible, we can comprehend existence only through the everyday, the mundane.

✻✻✻ Domesticity is absent from Jasnorzewska’s Egyptian Wheat, but a beautiful garden is ever present. Like House of Women and Monika’s Case, the play presents male and female subjects as essentialist. To a large degree, the traits assigned to each sex are a reflection of the author’s idiosyncratic ideas on aging, pregnancy, marriage, and love. The work does not fit smoothly into any of Grosz’s three groups. Both Krzeptowski and Horacy are essentialist characters in keeping with the majority of Jasnorzewska’s comedies, in which she presents husbands as not very intelligent tyrants and young lovers as one-dimensional characters, laced with a good dose of sentimentality. From the initial stage directions, the author depicts Wiktor Krzeptowski as a selfish, domineering husband, whose sensitivity, mental powers, and emotional awareness are limited: Wiktor Krzeptowski, inżynier i społecznik, wysoki, krzepki, przystojny, ale bynajmniej nie czarujący blondyn, lat około 35, okaz zdrowia i tężyzny: włosy ma nieco długie, w tył zaczesane, kołnierz Słowackiego, luźne ubranie z paskiem z surowego jedwabiu, opalony, rozkochany w higienie. Głos nieco twardy, ostry. Wie, czego chce, a przynajmniej tak mu się zdaje. (I–432) (Wiktor Krzeptowski, an engineer and social activist, tall, strong, handsome, but by no means charming, blond, around 35 years of age, a specimen of health and strength: his hair is somewhat long, combed back, a collar à la Słowacki, loose clothing with a belt of raw silk, tanned, in love with hygiene. His voice somewhat hard, sharp. He knows what he wants, or at least thinks that he does.)

Without making Krzeptowski a three-dimensional figure, the author does round him out somewhat by balancing his ludicrous and unpleasant traits with a genuine love for his son, Horacy. His emotions for the boy are often

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frenetic and ridiculous, but the alienation that occurs between him and the young man truly devastates Krzeptowski. Even after he has learned the whole truth, including the fact that this is not his biological child, Wiktor still tries to create a bond between them, still worries about him. Utter despair sets in only after Horacy rebuffs even the gentlest and most hesitant expression of caring on the part of his adoptive father: Wiktor . . . Horacy! // Horacy (zimno) Słucham // Wiktor (szuka słów) Horacy, mój synu. Horacy . . . Przyjechałeś motocyklem—co? // Horacy Tak. // Wiktor Uważajże na siebie. Pamiętaj, że ty . . . i ja . . . Że dla mnie ty—mój syn . . . // Horacy Czy masz mi co więcej do powiedzenia? // Wiktor (blednie i tracąc nadzieję) Nie . . . Owszem . . . Tak. No, trudno. Więc czekam na ciebie w Warszawie. [. . .] Przyjeżdżaj prędko . . . razem . . . zwyciężymy, przewalczymy . . . [. . .] (głos mu się załamuje, wychodzi). (I–554, 555) (Wiktor: . . . Horacy! // Horacy: (coldly) I’m listening. // Wiktor: (searching for words) Horacy, my son. // Horacy . . . You came by motorcycle—what? // Horacy: Yes. // Wiktor: Take care of yourself. Remember, that you . . . and I . . . That for me you—my son . . . // Horacy: Do you have anything else to say to me? // Wiktor: (becoming pale and losing hope) No . . . Actually . . . Yes. Well, that’s tough. So I’ll wait for you in Warsaw. [. . .] Come quickly . . . together. . . we’ll win, we’ll battle through. . . (his voice breaks, exits))

Inter-war critics were quick to notice Krzeptowski’s pain and praised the playwright for adding depth to this character. Horacy, the chosen heir to the estate, is an even more one-dimensional figure than his father is. He is a boyish, Byronic-like lover, both charming and manly: “Włosy w lokach rozrzucone. Wdzięk mężczyzny-dziecka, nieco kapryśny, ale jest to chłopak z charakterem, o wysokim czole, jasnych oczach.” (Hair scattered in locks. The charm of a man-child, somewhat capricious, but he’s a young man of character, with a high forehead, light eyes) (I–500).29 In his first appearances, he moves from one “artistic” 29. George Gordon Byron (1788–1824) was a Romantic English poet. The adjective “Byronic” came to refer to a man who is mysterious, moody, yet attractive.

58 Complicating the Female Subject pose of utter desperation to the next: “zły” (angry), “gest beznadziejności” (a gesture of hopelessness), “gorzko” (bitterly), “podpiera ręką czoło, swobodny w wyrażeniu bezgranicznego zniechęcenia” (supports his forehead with his hand, free in expressing boundless dejection), “z gorzkim triumfem” (with bitter triumph) (502–504). In Act III, the author adds a negative touch to the character. She shows him as lacking any sensitivity, unable or unwilling to respect Krzeptowski’s love for him (I–554, 555). Instead, he continues to play the all-encompassing role of lover toward Ruta. Egyptian Wheat is an atypical comedy in two respects. One of these is the fact that Jasnorzewska introduces a male character, whom she depicts as nonessentialist. Wahtang Sziradze, an androgynous, romantic foreigner, fulfills the role of catalyst in the work. I will discuss him in detail in the next chapter, in which the author uses this character in her reinterpretation of the estate myth. Here, we must note that his presence in this play does not permanently influence Jasnorzewska’s presentation of male subjects in her subsequent dramatic works. She continues to depict them as negative and essentialist. Whereas in the preceding two plays, the subject was either all positive or all negative, in Egyptian Wheat, Jasnorzewska presents the female subject in a bifurcated way. The writer consistently makes all feminine subjects fragile, completely determined by external elements, and dependent on men. However, after that, it depends on whether a woman is young and beautiful or old and ugly. If the former, then love for and by a man defines and molds her identity: its absence or presence, the right or wrong kind of love. For the writer, the “right” kind of love was often outside the bounds of marriage. If a woman is old and ugly, the two being synonymous at this stage for Jasnorzewska, she is defined by her relationship to the family name and to the babies that she either succeeds or does not succeed in forcing on younger women. Moreover, like the young woman but in a different way, the matriarch is also dependent on men, because she can sustain her status within the family only as long as patriarchal norms bolster it. Furthermore, Jasnorzewska’s female characters, regardless of age, do not participate in or take advantage of the rapid social changes occurring during the inter-war period, including the ability to pursue a profession and gain financial independence.

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Rather, the author creates a feminine subject protected and maintained by a man or by male norms. In both cases, young and old, Jasnorzewska posits an essentialist subject that is all about body. The status of that body, its positive or negative value, depends solely on its physical condition, which, in turn, profoundly affects the emotions and behaviors of its owner. The two female protagonists of Egyptian Wheat exemplify this theory. Róża Krzeptowska, Wiktor’s mother, is a typical “babsztyl” (hag)—an older woman, turned ugly with age who wreaks revenge on younger women by forcing maternity on them. She finds happiness only in infants, even changing diapers with pleasure. In general, she infantilizes the whole world around her. Her speech is peppered with diminutives: “Wiktunio,” “Horuś,” “Rutka” (these words are diminutives of proper names), “bobasek” (diminutive of baby), “wózeczek” (diminutive of baby carriage), “mamusia” (mommy), “dzieciątko” (diminutive of child), “wnusio” (diminutive of grandson) (469, 471, 526, 527, 530, 532, 551). Once a child grows up, as Horacy has done, it is no longer of interest to her. Moreover, hags side with husbands in their control and domination over young wives. Here, the mother’s lack of femininity, her closeness to the patriarchal family clan, and her support of societal norms and stereotypes are all emphasized by the fact that throughout the play, the writer refers to this character by her surname, Krzeptowska, and not by her first name, as she does with Ruta. Ruta is the quintessential female lover from Jasnorzewska’s plays. In Act I, her description is that of a sickly fin-de-siècle heroine, of the poetic and spiritual type, not the sexual vamp: “piękna, bardzo biała, jakby anemiczna” (beautiful, very white, as if anemic) (I–431). As long as she is in love with her unpleasant husband, the playwright compares her ironically to a sunflower that changes position along with the sun (431, 433, 434). In Act I, Ruta’s sun is Wiktor. For him, she has given up a promising career as a dancer, has gone through treatment and an operation in the hopes of bearing a child (I–433, 435, 436). One is here reminded of similar domination over intimate matters in Szczepkowska’s Monika’s Case. Moreover, in trying to rekindle her husband’s love, Ruta indulges in exalted language: “Gdy jesteś przy mnie, czuję się zawsze dobrze” (When you’re next to me, I always feel well), “Ty mówisz o miodzie—ja—o powietrzu [miłości] potrzebnym do życia” (You’re

60 Complicating the Female Subject talking about honey—and I—about air [love] needed for living) (I–433, I–435). She wheedles, caresses, and flirts with him, changing her tone from “przymilnie” (ingratiatingly) to “z uśmiechem” (with a smile) to “przekornie” (with contrariness) (436, 437, 443). Even though she acknowledges Sziradze’s love and sees in him a soul mate who values beauty, she refuses to leave with him. It is only when confronted with Wiktor’s infidelity and forced to accept his child that she at last exclaims: “Niech więc żyje nasze dziecko, a niech umiera nasza miłość!” (Let then our child live and let our love die!) (I–476). Act II shows Ruta at last in love with the “right” man, her “adopted” son. For the playwright, this is true love because it is both outside the bounds of matrimony and reciprocal. Therefore, Jasnorzewska’s distancing tone of irony toward the heroine, so prevalent in Act I, disappears and, as the plot evolves, she clears the lovers of all culpability. Moreover, rejuvenated by true love, Ruta has not aged. In fact, she looks better than she did 18 years ago: Ruta sama, przędzie biały sweter gruby, szydełkowy. Uśmiecha się, śpiewa. Słychać radio z sąsiedztwa. Ubrana jest jasno, krótko, jakby do tenisa. Włosy w lokach, młoda jak i przedtem. Trochę więcej koloru, zdrowia, siły żeńskiej. Szczęście aż bije od niej. (I–478). (Ruta alone, spinning a white thick sweater, crocheted. Smiling, sings. A radio is heard nearby. Dressed in something light-colored, short, as if for tennis. Hair in curls, as young as earlier. A little bit more color, health, feminine strength. Happiness radiates from her.)

As in the writer’s other plays, love of a man determines Ruta’s entire life. Once again, she has no existence beyond her experience of love for Horacy; except that, this time, the playwright finds the devotion acceptable, focused on an appropriate lover. The unusual feature for Jasnorzewska is that, in Egyptian Wheat, the love produces a child. Normally for the playwright, childbirth was something to be feared, something that aged, therefore, something to be avoided. In this work, the playwright uses the child to focus attention on the control, or lack of it, over their own bodies that women have or do not have. Here, the author first depicts Ruta’s “bodily vulnerability” in her relationship with Krzeptowski: numerous operations and treatments in order to get pregnant. In contrast, in her

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second relationship with Horacy, Ruta controls her situation: she chooses to leave her husband; she chooses to give birth under sedation. Overall, with so much of Jasnorzewska’s ideology based on biology, the characters’ “possibilities of change” and development are limited. We will come back to these changes in Chapter 6.

✻✻✻ It is social class, rather than biology, that determines a subject’s essentialism in Grabowska’s “Justice.” This is a dramatic work with strong Naturalistic tendencies. From the first page, the author creates types differentiated by their profession or social standing. The author depicts the male characters, all members of the intelligentsia, as completely negative. Grabowska subverts the positive image of the Polish intelligentsia, usually presented as the spiritual leaders of the nation, the heirs of the gentry. In this play, the male characters differ only in their degree of immorality. Among them, the prison director demonstrates the most “developed” conscience and struggles throughout the play with pangs of guilt. Even though he is not obligated, he desires to help the woman and offers her money upon her release. This is a genuine offer, because, at this stage, he does not yet know that his son is the culprit. Therefore, he is not trying to cover up any family skeletons. When he does discover the truth, he is overwhelmed, unable to dismiss this horrible idea. The despair is that much stronger because it was the desire to guarantee this favorite son a peaceful existence that motivated his actions. In other words, Grabowska suggests that, for this male character, the good of the family serves as a valid excuse for all immoral actions: Przecie co robiłem, to dla niego. Przecie na największe świństwo ważyłem się, aby mu zapewnić spokój, przyszłość. Tyle się po nim spodziewałem, wierzyłem w niego i . . . czy pan doktor wierzy?— jego przecie najwięcej z moich dzieci kochałem. (47) (After all, whatever I did, was for him. After all, I dared do the greatest meanness in order to guarantee him peace, a future. I expected so much of him, I believed in him and . . . will you believe it, doctor?—after all, I loved him the most of my children.)

62 Complicating the Female Subject Yet, in the end, the doctor accuses the director of carrying the greatest share of guilt, a statement with which an inter-war critic like Jan Miller agreed.30 The doctor concludes that since the director has a conscience, he should have used it. He not only did not use it, he knowingly and viciously persecuted the victim of the initial crime. “For the good of the family” was his constant excuse. The favorite son, Piotr, despite his youth, experiences only the briefest glimmers of uneasiness, not even real pangs of conscience. Rather, these may be termed moments of confusion that suggest above all a desire not to be discovered. Piotr repeatedly counsels his father not to follow his conscience, giving practical advice on how to avoid trouble: A czy naprawdę musisz dać znać? Możemy zatuszować. Dozorczyni zagrozi się dymisją, a potem ułaskawi. Będzie ze strachu siedziała cicho. I skręci się sprawie łeb. [. . .] I co komu przyjdzie z twojego sumienia? Komu pomożesz twoim raportem? Jeżeli dziewczyna zgwałcona—przepadło. (22) (And do you really have to notify? We can hush things up. The warden will be threatened with dismissal and then pardoned. She’ll sit quietly out of fear. The issue will be stopped dead in its tracks. [. . .] And who will benefit from your conscience? Who will be helped by your report? If the girl has been raped—it’s all over.)

He goes even further and engages in the exact same psychological stratagems with his father as he does with Number 14. He states that he cannot be open with either of them if they are not first open with him (4, 21). In both cases, Piotr claims he wants openness. However, he does not genuinely care about either person, but simply wants to obtain useful information. At the end of the play, he continues to pretend that he does not know Number 14, even though all evidence is against him. Finally, it is through Piotr that Grabowska introduces the issue of “body vulnerability.” We must call what happens between him and Number 14 a rape, since she is not in a position to refuse his advances. He the perpetrator escapes not only punishment, but also even blame. 30. Miller 1935, 4.

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Equally without morals are the judge and the doctor—the official representatives of justice and medicine. Miller in his review seems to perceive generational differences in the author’s approach to morality, with the youngest generation supposedly showing the least conscience.31 Miller’s opinion may have resulted from the theatrical performance that he saw. Judging simply from the manuscript, it would be hard to defend such an idea. Both the judge and the doctor, even though not as forthright as Piotr, are equally devoid of a conscience. Both pretend to function just like objective machines that simply report and without prejudice set matters in motion. In fact, they collude in the failure of morality. The judge does not object to events being hushed up; the doctor, by not filing his report, suggests that Number 14 is suffering from tuberculosis. The difference between them lies in the fact that the judge, a sketchy figure, is never seen as having scruples, while the doctor, though not sorry for what he did, feels some pity for the woman’s situation and offers to help her on the outside, if she ever needs it. Overall, there is more uniting the male characters than differentiating them. In one way or another, they all shirk responsibility and find excuses for doing so, excuses such as supporting the family or the supposed benefit to Number 14 from her early release. They make morally untenable comparisons, as when the director equates his own temporary discomfort and nervousness to the tragic sufferings of Number 14: murder of a child due to dire poverty, a five-year prison sentence, another unwanted pregnancy, forced abortion, ruined health. First, the director tells the doctor that he sees no need for his going to prison because “[m]oje cierpienie, niepewność przez wiele dni, upokorzenie—były dostateczną karą” (my suffering, uncertainty for many days, humiliation—were sufficient punishment) (43). A little later, when speaking directly to the woman, he claims that he did not do anything really wrong, that the two of them together were being punished for the sins of someone else: “Widzisz: ja nie zawiniłem tak bardzo. Piłem tylko z tobą piwo, które kto inny nawarzył” (You see: I haven’t offended that badly. Together you and I only drank the beer that somebody else brewed) (44). 31. Miller 1935, 4.

64 Complicating the Female Subject Turning now to the two female characters in the play, we see that they are also types. Yet there is an important difference in the title page list of characters: the men have names, and the women do not. Grabowska calls the heroine Number 14 and throughout the play, whenever that character speaks, the author designates her simply as “kobieta” (woman). Thus, even though types, the male characters are slightly more individualized. Moreover, Grabowska links the namelessness of the two women (Number 14 and the warden) to social class. All of the men are educated and of good social standing; even the director’s son is studying for his “matura” at a “gimnazjum.”32 Concurrently, the heroine and the warden are simple, uneducated women. After this initial page, Grabowska shows how cultural/social practices toward women have ingrained certain essentialist traits in them. In all social classes, any woman may suffer from a distorted psyche when she finds herself completely dependent on her male relatives, with no access to divorce and no financial independence, and if the circumstances of her everyday life become too oppressive. Grabowska’s choice to present these psychological distortions in a woman of little education and from the lower classes allowed her to create an extreme situation, and thus increase the work’s dramatic effect. Extreme events, such as the murder of a newborn, are more common in the lower classes simply for economic reasons. Moreover, social norms in inter-war Poland were such that educated men could treat uneducated women more brutally. Grabowska thus created an example of “Zeittheater” that “grabs” the audience’s attention by shocking its sensibilities.33 Choosing a middle- or upper-class milieu might have resulted in a more psychological drama in the spirit of Henrik Ibsen’s A Dollhouse, but would have made it harder to produce the strongly didactic effect of this play. Thus, the playwright uses Number 14 in order to demonstrate that social practices and norms—dire poverty and maltreatment—lead to 32. The matura was and is a state exam that graduates of college preparatory high schools (gimnazjum, lyceum) needed to pass before taking a university entrance exam. During the inter-war period, only a small percentage of students entered the university. 33. “Zeittheater” is a movement within German, primarily Expressionist, theater that aims to teach by shocking. Examples include Frank Wedekind’s 1891 Spring Awakening, Ferdinand Bruckner’s 1928 The Criminals, and Friedrich Wolf ’s 1929 Cyanide.

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insurmountable desperation, passivity, and acceptance of whatever fate deals. Number 14 believes that no matter how she behaves she is punished for her own and others’ sins, that she cannot escape her fate, and that she is simply a pawn that “has to do things”: Muszę to, muszę tamto. Poprostu muszę. (1) (I have to this, I have to that. I simply have to.) Czy mi co kiedy przyszło z mówienia prawdy? [. . .] Mnie nigdy nic nie wyjdzie na dobre. (13) (Have I ever gotten anything out of speaking the truth? [. . .] Nothing ever turns out well with me.) Może to nieprawda—to, co myślę, ale ja tak się przyzwyczaiłam do tego, że za darmo nie mam nic, że za wszystko płacę i to drogo płacę. Drożej, niż wszyscy inni ludzie za to samo. Taki już mój los. (44) (Maybe it’s not true—that which I think, but I’ve already become so used to the fact that I don’t ever get anything for free, that I pay for everything and pay dearly. More dearly than all other people for the same thing. That’s my fate.)

The author shows how years of ill treatment have left Number 14 with such low self-esteem that, like many victims, she has developed a convoluted logic. She sees herself at fault, at least partly taking the blame for what has happened: Kto winny? Czy wiem kto winny? [. . .] Widzi pan naczelnik, jak mogłabym teraz kłamać i nic nie powiedzieć, chociażbym niby mówiła wszystko. Mogłabym opowiedzieć bajkę. Ale ja nie chcę. Nikt mnie nie napadł. Byłam całkiem przytomna—Tylko jak tu powiedzieć kto winny. Bo może to winna moja głupota, moje nieszczęście, a on co—tylko człowiek. Może tak, czy tak krzywda się stanie. (16) (Who’s guilty? How do I know who’s guilty? [. . .] You see Mr. Director, how I could lie now and not say anything, even though I would be saying as if everything. I could tell you a fairy tale. But I don’t want to. Nobody attacked me. I was completely

66 Complicating the Female Subject conscious—Only how can one say who’s guilty. Because maybe it’s my stupidity that’s guilty, my bad luck, and he, what—he’s just a man. Maybe no matter what, somebody will be hurt.)

Finally, in some ways, like Szczepkowska in Monika’s Case, Grabowska asserts that one of the fundamental traits of women’s essentialist nature is impulsivity. The majority of stage directions referring to Number 14 deals with her emotions. Often, these are sudden outbursts of feelings: “pełna nadziei, której trudno uwierzyć” (full of a hope difficult to believe), “ożywia się [. . .] z żalem” (comes alive [. . .] with sadness), “nagle z krzykiem” (suddenly cries out), “woła” (cries out), “płacze” (cries), “milknie dławiona wzruszeniem” (falls silent choking with emotion), “rzuca się ku lekarzowi, chce go pocałować w rękę” (rushes to the doctor, wants to kiss his hand) (3, 6, 8, 13, 16, 38, 40). These emotions are frequently contradictory, and there is a lot of vacillation and inner struggle in Number 14. She oscillates between despair and hope, between a desire to trust and a mistrust born of experience: Kobieta milczy, patrzy na niego badawczo: kłamał czy nie? Walczy ze sobą: uwierzyć, czy nie? Decyduje się więcej nie mówić, zabiera się do zamiatania. (4)34 (The woman is silent, she looks at him closely: was he lying or not? Struggles with herself: to believe or not? Decides not to say anything more, starts to sweep up.) Kobieta w męce wahania, zwraca się szybkimi, instynktownymi ruchami do Piotra, do naczelnika, do doktora. (45) (The woman in an agony of indecision; she turns with quick, instinctive movements to Piotr, to the director, to the doctor.) Zdecydowana [. . .] nagle onieśmielona (46) (Decided [. . .] suddenly overcome with shyness) . . . ale w niej jeszcze walczą niedawne zwroty i wahania (46) (. . . but within her there still struggle the recent turns and hesitations) 34. The word “badawczo” is the only suitable word in this sentence, thus I have corrected the typographical mistake of the manuscript (“baradczo”).

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Like Monika in Monika’s Case, Number 14 finds it difficult to overcome the essentialist traits that centuries of acculturation have ingrained in women. However, unlike Szczepkowska, Grabowska does not make the essentialism negative. She does not criticize women for it, as Szczepkowska did with Antosia through her porte-parole Anna. Rather, she presents essentialism as an unavoidable fact that makes women’s lives more tragic. Furthermore, as we will see in Chapter 6, the author creates tentative “possibilities of change” for her heroine.

✻✻✻ Rylska in The Deep at Zimna takes a very different approach to the subject, though still an essentialist one. For the author, time determines the degree of conventionalism and honesty that an individual exhibits. The playwright pessimistically concludes that what is essentialist for all human beings—men and women—is an ever-increasing conventionalism and duplicity. In order to demonstrate this idea, she presents both male and female characters in different stages of development. Rylska gives her audience the young boy Antoś, the young man Kłosek, the middle-aged Kercz, the adolescent Nika, the 35-year-old Tola, and, finally, Mrs. Kercz, who presumably is not older than her husband, but whom she shows as having aged more quickly than Kercz. The playwright indicates that, though there will always be exceptions such as the old fisherman, Łuka, in general, the human subject moves from spontaneity, honesty, individuality, and straightforwardness, to conventionality, duplicity, rigidity. The author shows how each adult character fits into a role appropriate for one’s environment, in this case a country estate. I discuss these roles in detail in Chapter 7 in conjunction with the “estate” myth. Meanwhile, Rylska presents children as creatively unformed, imaginative, honest, and moral. These traits form the basis of children’s “essentialism”—if we can call it that. Moreover, the author considers each child unique, not fulfilling any predetermined social role. In terms of their essentialism, we see that Nika and her brother Antoś are the only ones to speak honestly about what they observe and think. They are the only ones who balk at convention. Antoś is not afraid to show boredom or to blurt out that he prefers the radio to Tola’s playing (10, 12).

68 Complicating the Female Subject Most important, Rylska depicts children who are “nonrecognized” socially as moral beings, in contrast to their parents. “Recognized” refers here to a concept that Georg Hegel introduced when discussing the definition of a subject and how a subject defines itself.35 Judith Butler picked up on this idea when offering her own discussion of subject. In her early work Subjects of Desire, Butler comments on Hegel’s Lord and Bondsman story when interpreting the philosopher’s ideas.36 In Undoing Gender and Precarious Life: The Powers of Mourning and Violence, she instead emphasizes more strongly than she did in earlier books that it is through social “recognition” that persons are engendered as “socially viable beings”.37 Moreover, she moves more toward the ethical sphere when she writes that the recognition of an individual depends on social and cultural norms, norms that are not only changeable, but that sometimes exclude certain categories of people, marking them as “nonrecognized” or “less than human.”38 Butler thinks that a sense of ethics requires broader conditions of living, ones that would make life “livable” for all those now excluded.39 It is in Butler’s sense that I use the words “recognized” and “nonrecognized.” In Chapter 7, I discuss in detail how, in The Deep at Zimna, the author depicts a patriarchal system that does not “recognize” children and women. Here, in considering the essentialism of children, it is important to emphasize that while they are “nonrecognized” by society, Rylska perceives children as innately moral, a characteristic that seems to disappear with age. Her father’s affair profoundly upsets Nika, and all of her actions in the play stem from her attempts to deal with this situation, whether by discussing it with her mother (29, 30), confronting her father (80, 81), or rather histrionically attempting to get rid of the “other” woman. As an adolescent Nika stands in the middle between the childhood of her brother Antoś and the adulthood of her parents. The author shows her with an identity as not yet fully crystallized. During the course of one 35. The story of the Lord and the Bondsman appeared in Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit. For a clear and concise summary of Hegel’s development of the idea of “recognition,” see William 1997, 1–26. 36. Judith Butler 1987. 37. Lloyd 2007, 17. 38. Butler 2004a, 33 and Butler 2004b, 2. 39. Butler 2004b, 224–225.

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conversation, she oscillates between a child and a vamp. Her curiosity and matter-of-factness about life are still those of a child, as when she turns to her mother and explains her brother’s yawns in scientific terms (2). Concurrently, she is sometimes unable to understand certain situations. For example, she does not always discern, as the audience does, that Kłosek’s sudden shifts in mood or nervous laughter show that he is strongly attracted to her, but dare not reveal the fact. Instead, she taxes him severely, demanding to know why he is smiling (4). In another instance, she misinterprets his gesture and intent gaze, and laughs at his expression: Aleksander (bierze jej rękę i spogląda głęboko w jej oczy z natarczywą sugestywnością) Niech pani niczego się nie boi— śpi spokojnie i myśli o tej naszej przejażdżce—pojutrze. // Nika (wybucha nagłym śmiechem) Jaki pan śmieszny. // Aleksander (urażony) Dlaczego śmieszny? // Nika Ma pan taką minę jak kot na puszczy pod parasolem podczas gradobicia. (26) (Aleksander (takes her hand and looks deeply into her eyes with an importunate suggestiveness) Do not fear anything, Miss— sleep well and think of our excursion—the day after tomorrow. // Nika (bursts out in sudden laughter) You are so funny, sir. // Aleksander (offended) Why funny? // Nika. You have the solemn expression of a cat in March heat under an umbrella during a hailstorm.)

Yet simultaneously, she can occasionally already play up her feminine side, as when she ostentatiously sits with her legs crossed or goes up and stands right in front of Kłosek. Similarly, she seems to understand instinctively that when she accuses him of fear and sends him away, he will, in fact, stay (18). The vamping side is even more apparent in the last scene when Nika again stands in front of him and talks of kissing. Then, she invites him for a moonlight walk, adding quickly, “Niech mi pan tym razem nie odmawia.” (Please sir, don’t refuse me this time.) (87). Kłosek sighs deeply while gazing at her and declares that he no longer fears anything. In addition, the playwright endows Nika with a child’s imagination, something that adults usually do not have. The one exception to this is Łuka. Like the old fisherman, Nika sees the countryside as affecting both

70 Complicating the Female Subject the moods and actions of people. At one point, she attributes Aleksander Kłosek’s sleeplessness to the oppressive silence around them (36). Unlike Łuka, however, she sees a nature and a countryside teeming with death and inspiring murderous thoughts: Może ludzie nawet umierają w mieście. Ale w mieście śmierci nie widać. A tu—tu—tu śmierć stoi ciągle na oczach—tu śmierć—żyje.—Czy pan wie, że te piękne drzewa nad stawem [. . .] rosną na starem cmentarzysku [. . .]? ·Że w stawie utopił się dwa lata temu—rymarz, [. . .] A stara klucznica—Tereska, którą piorun zabił [. . .] A jak się wyjdzie do lasu to często można znaleźć wśród zeschłych, zeszłorocznych liści szkielet ptaszka albo wiewiórki . . . (23, 24) (Maybe people do die in the city. But in the city, one doesn’t see death. While here—here—here death constantly stands before one’s eyes—here death—lives. Do you know sir that those beautiful trees by the pond [. . .] are growing in an old cemetery [. . .]? [. . .] That two years ago a harness maker drowned in the pond, [. . .] And the old housekeeper—Tereska, who was killed by lightening [. . .] And if you go into the woods, you can often find among last year’s leaves the skeleton of a little bird or squirrel . . .)

Rylska’s focus being the process of growing up, the author reveals a talent for psychological realism, showing how the hormone-induced mood swings of adolescence lead to rash, immoral, and unwanted actions. Nika attempts to drown Tola, even though in her calm moments she exhibits a sense of morality. After the boat incident, thinking that Tola is dead, Nika behaves very childishly for a while: she demands money from Kłosek in order to escape from home, ignoring the ramifications and practicalities of such a step. The playwright shows how Nika first announces that Tola has drowned, then dismisses Kłosek’s idea that running away is an indication of guilt, and finally insouciantly dismisses his statement that she cannot support herself, claiming that she would work, though without specifying at what (51–54). Rylska acutely captures the various contradictions of adolescence, including sudden mood

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swings that she notes in the stage directions. Within a few pages, Nika can go through a myriad of emotions: —z ironią (with irony), —przyskoczyła do niego, przytuliła policzek do jego rękawa (springs to him, hugs her cheek to his sleeve), —powoli (slowly), —zmienia nagle ton (suddenly changes her tone), —z przesadnym patosem (with exaggerated pathos), —po krótkiej pauzie (after a short pause), —lekki żal w jej głosie (slight chagrin in her voice), —patrząc ponuro przed siebie (looking gloomily in front of her), —spieszy się, coraz szybciej (hurries, faster and faster), —poczyna mówić coraz wolniej coraz wolniej (begins to speak slower and slower), —jakby zbudzona ze snu, normalnym informującym tonem (as if woken from a dream, in a normal informative tone) (16–24).

In the final scene, Nika herself seems to think that she has passed into another stage of development, as if adolescence had ended. She tells Kłosek that she wants to forget the earlier period, a time difficult to define, but that, in the end, she calls her “werewolf ” stage: when she was part phantom, part human, and part animal: Bo—widzi pan—ja bym chciała koniecznie zapomnieć—[. . .] Nie mogę tego panu dokładnie określić—sama dokładnie nie wiem— Chciałabym zapomnieć o jakichś myślach—kiedy byłam jeszcze wilkołakiem—[. . .] Tak—czemś co jest trochę upiorem—trochę człowiekiem—a trochę zwierzęciem— (86) (Because—you see, sir—I would terribly like to forget—[. . .] I can’t define it exactly for you—I myself don’t know exactly—I would like to forget about some thoughts—when I was still a werewolf—[. . .] Yes— something that is a bit phantom—a bit human—and a bit animal—)

Though, in fact, not yet an adult, even in the last scene, she misses some of Kłosek’s suggestive innuendos. Nevertheless, Nika in some

72 Complicating the Female Subject way has accepted that the situation with her father will not change. Her proposition to Kłosek to go out into the garden for a kiss carries a double meaning. On the one hand, it indicates an acceptance of conventional duplicity and secretiveness, and of the fact that things at home will stay as they are and that, therefore, it is childish to fight them. On the other hand, by just making the assignation, knowing it to be contrary to all of her mother’s admonitions, she suggests that she refuses to become a submissive female, meekly accepting a double moral standard. Nika wants to be “recognized.” She takes the lead in setting up the rendezvous, even though this is unacceptable in terms of social norms. The question arises, is Nika still a “werewolf ” that does not understand the standards and conventions of society or is she consciously flaunting those standards? It seems, given the “openness” of dramatic language, that both interpretations are possible.40 In addition to the idea that certain automatic changes occur between childhood and adulthood, Rylska sees a single, essentialist character trait in each of the sexes once they reach adulthood. In her male characters, including Łuka, who in many ways is exceptional, she suggests that this trait is passion. The playwright presents Kercz, the family patriarch, as a man in the thralls of a middle-age passion. Already, in the opening stage directions, Rylska emphasizes his consuming affair with the governess: Fortepian jest nieco w głębi, tak, że panna Tola i oparty o fortepian pan Kercz nieco odchyleni od reszty towarzystwa, są jakby poza jego nawiasem, zajęci tylko sobą, nawet więcej: pochłonięci sobą (1) (The piano is somewhat at the back, so that Miss Tola and Kercz, leaning against the piano, are somewhat removed from the rest of the company, as if beyond its borders, busy only with each other, even more: completely engrossed in each other.)

Further stage directions throughout the play underscore Kercz’s impatience to be alone with Tola: “z najwyższą nieciepliwością” (with the greatest impatience), “pociąga ją [Tolę] za rękę” (pulls her [Tola] by the hand), and “patrzy na zegarek” (looks at his watch) (15, 16, 73). 40. On the “openness” of drama, see Elam 1980.

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He is so aware of female physical attributes that he even looks sensually at his own daughter, observing her good looks, hinting at them with a certain lasciviousness that embarrasses Nika: Wiele ty masz lat już, bezmała szesnaście. (wzdycha) Mój Boże jak ten czas leci—Zaczynasz być ładna. (Przygląda się jej okiem znawcy) Ha—doprawdy—bardzo ładna. Nika. (Bardzo zmieszana) Ojcze. (81) (How old are you, must be sixteen (sighs) My God how time flies. You’re beginning to be pretty. (Observes her with an expert’s eye) Ha—really—very pretty. // Nika. (Very embarrassed) Father.)

Another time, Kercz himself becomes embarrassed when Tola enters at the moment when he is caressing Nika’s cheek. The fact that he abruptly steps away from his daughter upon Tola’s entrance emphasizes the sensual and questionable nature of the caress. His embarrassment is only strengthened by Tola’s overwrought reaction, which immediately puts an even more suspicious interpretation on the situation: (Ujmuje ją [Nikę] pod brodę, muska dłonią po policzku.) Ty—ty—brzoskwinie. Tola (Która weszła przed chwilą cofa się—trzepocząc dłońmi ruchem tańczących bajaderek) O o o—co za czuła scena rodzicielska. Nie przeszkadzam—nie przeszkadzam Kercz (bardzo zmieszany i zakłopotany odstępuje szybko od córki) (82, 83) ((Lifts her [Nika’s] head under her chin, lightly touches her cheek with his hand.) You—you—peaches // Tola. (Who has just entered, moves back and flaps her arms like a dancing bayadere) Oh—oh— oh—what a touching parental scene. I won’t interrupt—won’t interrupt—// Kercz. (very disconcerted and embarrassed quickly moves away from his daughter))

Aleksander Kłosek in many ways differs greatly from Kercz. He stands much lower on the social scale, a humble tutor. Characterized by diffidence and a sense of insecurity, he constantly controls his words, so as

74 Complicating the Female Subject not to overstep any boundaries. At the same time, he is also an intelligent and educated man, able to answer Nika’s myriad questions. Yet he, too, exhibits a strong passion toward Nika. The text of the play is full of stage directions that allow the audience to detect his constant state of arousal when the heroine stands close to him: “wzdycha” (sighs), “wybucha” (explodes), “głos Aleksandra załamał się” (Aleksander’s voice breaks), “poruszony do żywego” (touched to the quick), “wzruszony” (moved), “pokonywuje się” (controls himself) (7, 8, 9, 18, 85, 86). These directions are often accompanied by one of several versions of a sighing: “Ach—panno Niko” (Oh—Miss Nika) (9, 18, 85, 86). Kłosek’s class consciousness does restrain him at times as, for example, when Mrs. Kercz reprimands him for talking alone to her daughter (27). However, the desire remains constant, reappearing every time that Nika draws close to him. At the end of the play, he agrees to an assignation in the garden with her. The “openness” of the dramatic text allows actors to play the scene in different ways. His acquiescence could be yet another burst of uncontrollable passion. However, it could also be played as a more conscious decision to move against social norms. Finally, there is Łuka, a completely different type than Kercz and Kłosek. In this play, he functions as the “wise old peasant man” of fairy tales. Nevertheless, the playwright also endows him with strong passions that have very negative consequences. Uneducated, living close to nature, he once allowed those passions to get the better of him, as a result of which he murdered his own brother (70–71). He has since repented, becoming the only adult messenger of morality in this work, as well as a sensitive guardian over Nika, whom he saves from committing murder. Yet, Rylska complicates the situation by endowing Łuka with a well-developed instinct for self-preservation, strong enough to prevent him from divulging the murder. He may be the voice of wisdom and morality, but he also constantly controls himself, not even drinking as most peasants do, so as not to reveal his crime. Clearly, Rylska perceives passion as an essentialist characteristic of all men, a conclusion contrary to the century’s old dichotomy of body/mind, with men linked to mind and women to body. Kercz and Kłosek are dominated by their sexuality and sensuality. Both men can barely control

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themselves in the presence of an attractive woman and both are willing to flaunt conventions and/or morality. However, whereas in Kercz’s case, an affair is conventionally—though not morally—acceptable for a man in his position, for Kłosek it is a dangerous proposition that could easily lose him his job. His class consciousness serves as a partial damper; yet, as the plays ends, he seems to be willing to risk everything by following Nika into the garden. Łuka’s passion moves in a different direction: hatred of a brother and murder. Afterwards, he controls his emotions for many years. Though, as his muttered comments about Kercz indicate, the strong emotions/ passions do not disappear, he only keeps them in check (72). Overall, Rylska’s depiction of the essentialist male trait of passion carries decidedly negative overtones. The playwright assigns a very different trait to the two adult women, namely, grief. In the next chapter, we will consider grief as a means of development. However, that is not how grief functions in this play; it does not change anything. Moreover, it remains an open question whether Rylska perceives grief in women as an innate trait or as the ingrained result of centuries of social “nonrecognition.” Regardless of its provenance, grief unites two such disparate women as Mrs. Kercz and Miss Tola. Rylska shows how, in a society in which adult individuals must conform to rigid patterns of behavior, even suffering has to follow the rules of etiquette. The stage directions clearly indicate that Mrs. Kercz is both fully aware of her husband’s affair and that she suffers acutely. However, etiquette requires that she do so in silence: (tknięta do żywego. Skręca się jak robak nadziewany na haczyk wędki) (28) ((touched to the quick. She twists like a worm being put on a fishing hook)) (Na chwilę zaniemówiła ogłuszona) (29) ((For a moment she falls silent stunned)) (Zakrywa twarz dłońmi. Siwe kosmyki wymykają się z pod przekrzywionego, liljowego czepka. Cała jakby się skurczyła, zmalała i

76 Complicating the Female Subject jeszcze więcej postarzała. Jak balon z którego uszedł gaz, albo jak zdechła mucha, pomniejszona do połowy dawnej wielkości.) ((Covers her face with her hands. Gray tufts of hair escape from her lilac cap sitting askew. It seems all of her has shrunk, become smaller and even older. Like a balloon from which gas has escaped, or like a dead fly, diminished to half its former size.))

Except for the gestures and physical signs of suffering indicated in the stage directions, Mrs. Kercz never verbally reveals her pain. She is precluded by patriarchal convention from expressing her true feelings. Instead, she adopts the dignity of a grande dame, with her cliché statements forming a shield that stops any personal revelations. Years of practice have schooled her into both submissiveness vis-à-vis her husband and hauteur when dealing with the lower classes. As different as Tola appears from Mrs. Kercz, suffering is also part of her life. An infant prodigy on the piano, playing Bach’s fugues at an early age, she did not fulfill the expectations that society had of her. Her life has descended into working as a governess in a provincial home, where she continues to play the same fugues. She carries on a romance with Kercz, as a paltry substitute for unfulfilled love. Tola plays for him the role of a sweet little girl, sentimental, kind, and enchanted with everything, even though she is no longer very young: (Skromna minka) (11) ((modest expression on her face)) (. . .—ze śmiechem) (12) ((. . .—with laughter)) (podbiegając do Niki, którą obejmuje wpół, tuli się do niej, łasi jak kotka . . .) (14) ((running up to Nika, whom she hugs at the waist, to whom she nestles up, to whom she ingratiates herself like a kitten . . .))

However, there is a scene in which Tola reveals for an instant her suffering, as well as a true understanding of Nika’s pain. Like Kłosek in his night scene, she, too, drops her arms:

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(podbiega ku Nice z wyciągniętymi ramionami—ze zwykłą jej przesadą i manierą) Moje Niciątko kochane—(zatrzymuje się jednak nagle, ręce jej opadają. Obie kobiety przez setną część sekundy spoglądają sobie w oczy jakby zapuszczały jakąś sondę w swe dusze—jakby się poraz pierwszy ujrzały.) (83) ((runs up to Nika with outstretched arms—with her usual exaggeration and mannerism) My dearest little Nika (yet she suddenly stops, her arms hang loose. Both women look into each other’s eyes for a hundredth part of a second, as if sending a probe into each other’s souls—as if seeing each other for the first time.))

Note that the stage directions call Nika a “woman.” Though she has not yet completed the process of growing up, Nika is already enough of a woman to understand—at least for a moment—the heartache of another woman. This understanding could be one more factor, besides her mother’s suffering, that makes her decide to rebel against acceptable norms by going to the garden with Kłosek.

✻✻✻ Understanding between women is both more complex and ambiguous in Szczepkowska’s Silent Power, a play that looks back to the author’s Monika’s Case, while foreshadowing her later text, The Falling House. At this stage, when it comes to the definition of subject, Szczepkowska seems to be in a state of flux, slowly moving toward a nonessentialist definition. She does retain some of her earlier ideas from Monika’s Case in that she sees the subject as essentialist, though with “possibilities of change.” We will come back to these changes in the next chapter. Here, let us consider what is essentialist about the subject. In an echo of the earlier play, Szczepkowska makes numerous suggestions that support the vision of a bodily, emotional woman who must overcome her inherent nature in order to accomplish anything in life. Ewa, the character closest to a porte-parole, several times says something to the effect that “jednakże kobiety są słabe!” (still women are weak!) (13). Furthermore, the author presents love as a strong part of women’s emotionalism. Ewa admits to her former lover that, had events in her life developed

78 Complicating the Female Subject differently, she might have “jak zbyt wiele kobiet rozpłynęła w panu lub stała się tylko pańską suflerką” (as too many women do, melted in you or become only your prompter) (51). In other words, as in Monika’s Case, women seem to have an inherent tendency to lose themselves and their identity in the man they love. Ewa also declares that love of a child is the greatest happiness for women, an essentialist part of their nature, while simultaneously and traditionally linked to sacrifice: “Zasadniczo inną jest miłość w życiu mężczyzny, a inną w życiu kobiety. Nasycenie serca posiadaniem dziecka płaci się ciężkim trudem wychowania. Niech mi pan wierzy, że to jest jedyne realne szczęście.” (Love in a man’s life is intrinsically different than in a woman’s life. Satiating the heart by having a child is paid for by the hard labor of raising it. Please believe me, sir, that this is the only real happiness.) (55). At first glance, it seems that, in Silent Power, as in her later play, The Falling House, Szczepkowska introduces a variety of male subjects. Yet, a closer look reveals that all of them harken back to the lightweight Jerzy from Monika’s Case. First, what unites the men is weakness vis-à-vis the women, an inability to stand up to the female protagonists. Second, as she did with Jerzy, the author reifies the male characters, though she uses different means than in the earlier work. Here, she reduces the males to types in a manner reminiscent of Grabowska’s play “Justice.” In “Justice,” in which all characters are types, only men have names. In Silent Power, the characters are also types to some degree, but only women have names, while the men remain anonymous. The anonymous man, who makes his way by guile into Ewa’s office in order to protest her paper’s ideology, is a kindly and modern, diaper-changing father. Yet, he easily succumbs to the female secretary’s verbal onslaught: she forcefully suggests that instead of trying to publish an article in their paper, he write a play presenting his ideas. Uncertain, the man mulls over her suggestion while allowing himself to be pushed out of the office. Ewa’s son, a seemingly successful architect, has an unhealthy relationship with his mother. Throughout the play, the son always gives in to Ewa and places their relationship above everything else. He addresses her as “moja najmilsza” (my dearest) and “kochana” (beloved), and before she departs for a congress presents her with roses. When he learns of the existence of his biological father, he rejects him, not because he is angry that this father is a stranger who was never involved with him or interested in

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marrying his mother, but because he perceives him as an intruder into his relationship with his mother. Ja nie widzę . . . powodu. Pan czułby się . . . obco między nami, pan nie wie nic o naszych wspólnych przeżyciach, latach, dniach tygodniach, pan nie wie nic o naszych charakterach i upodobaniach . . . (61) (I see no . . . reason. You, sir, would feel . . . a stranger among us, you, sir, know nothing about our common experiences, years, days, weeks, you, sir, know nothing about our characters and predilections . . .).

The Man, Ewa’s former lover, is vice-president of the cotton trust. The author presents him as a successful businessman, not especially evil: cunning and willing to put pressure on a competitor, but also intelligent enough to compromise, if necessary. In the past, he did lack sensitivity and did not realize that Ewa was pregnant. However, now he is ready “to do the right thing,” according to traditional norms, and proposes marriage. Yet, the author shows him as incapable of convincing Ewa of anything. She rejects both his offer of a merger between the trusts and his belated offer of marriage. After The Man witnesses the total closeness between mother and son, as well as Ewa’s coldness, he rather melodramatically admits that he is “not needed.” In other words, he is as dispensable as Jerzy in Monika’s Case: MĘŻCZYZNA Tak. Zrozumiałem, jestem niepotrzebny, zrewanżowała mi się pani. Niepotrzebny. Gorycz odtrącenia jest rzeczywiście goryczą. No, cóż, chciałem się zrehabilitować. Nie tylko to . . . (ogarnia oboje zmęczonym spojrzeniem) wierzę, że byłbym szczęśliwy . . . nareszcie szczęśliwy (schrypniętym głosem) nie—po—trzeb—ny . . . (wziął kapelusz ogląda go długo, jakby czekał na coś) EWA (zrozumiała, wyciąga rękę) . . . żegnam pana . . . (obojętny, zwykły uścisk dłoni) MĘŻCZYZNA (wyciąga rękę do SYNA) SYN (obojętny, zwykły uścisk dłoni) MĘŻCZYZNA (właściwie już radby nie być tu) Szczęśliwej . . . hm, podróży . . . (wyszedł) (62) (MAN Yes. I understand I’m not needed; you have revenged yourself on me. Not needed. The bitterness of rejection is really bitterness. Oh, well, I had wanted to rehabilitate myself. Not just that . . . (takes

80 Complicating the Female Subject in both with a tired glance) I believe I would’ve been happy . . . happy at last (in a hoarse voice) not—nee—ded . . . (takes his hat, inspects it for a long while, as if waiting for something) // EWA (understands, extends her hand) . . . I bid you farewell. . . (an indifferent, ordinary handshake) // MAN (extends his hand to his son) // SON (an indifferent, ordinary handshake) // Man (really preferring to be gone already) A good . . . hm, trip . . . (exits))

Throughout the play, Szczepkowska suggests weakness, not just in these male characters, but also in all men in general. Ewa repeatedly states that the image of a strong man is a myth (25, 23). What is more interesting, the women of the XYZ Party, who support traditional family values, claim the same thing in a more underhanded way. They insist that, in order to avoid hatred between the sexes, women should allow men to deceive themselves about their supposed strength. Women should “dandle” and pamper men, while actually “leading them with a strong hand”: Możemy być podpowiadaczkami naszych mężczyzn, zostawmy im jednak złudzenie, że są panami życia, [. . .] Kołyszmy go jak dotąd, prowadząc mocną ręką . . . to jest droga dla kobiety . . . to jest ominięcie nienawiści, . . . (24) (We can be our men’s prompters; however let us leave them the illusion that they are life’s masters [. . .] Let us dandle him, as we have done up till now, while leading him with a strong hand . . . that’s the path for women . . . that’s avoiding hatred, . . .)

Such an approach is typical of some patriarchal societies, in which women exert their influence behind the scenes, while in many ways looking down on men. Ewa’s approach of overt competition is actually more open and honest. Overall, in terms of essentialism, Silent Power repeatedly suggests that women are innately bodily and emotional, while men are weak. Assigning weakness as an essentialist trait to men is a radical break with tradition, since throughout the centuries thinkers and artists have continuously depicted women as the “weaker sex.” However, in the end, the presentation of the subject in this play both allows for “possibilities of change” and

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suggests a tentative nonessentialism. We will discuss these other aspects in Chapter 6.

✻✻✻ Two more plays remain. Both of them differ from all the preceding ones in that they do not present the subject as primarily essentialist. The Falling House moves away completely from essentialism, which I discuss in the next chapter. In Baba-Dziwo, Jasnorzewska creates a variety of interesting, nonessentialist female characters, but still keeps to her essentialist presentation of male characters. Nine males appear on stage in this work; the author does not portray any of them as positive. Besides making them flat, one-dimensional, she depicts them as servile, fearful, and passive. All of the bureaucrats in Vrana’s administration serve her out of fear or from an obsessive devotion. Jasnorzewska even paints the young lover without her usual sentimental and lyrical touches. Kołupuk Genor lacks a lover’s loyalty and treats his first fiancée with condescension. He is opportunistic and shows no inclination to rebel against the oppressive government, preferring to escape into hedonistic pleasure with his second fiancée. Jasnorzewska presents Norman Gondor, the major male character in this play, as a study in the deterioration of an individual beset by fear in a totalitarian society. Though fired from a job that he loves, he continues to praise Vrana, to follow even the most absurd dictates, and to hush all criticism of the regime. Yet, his servility actually covers a hatred of immense magnitude toward the dictator. In the final scene, while Petronika attempts to save Vrana, Norman, choking with fury, states that no punishment is strong enough for the tyrant: Norman (otrząsając się) Zmoro! Upiorze! [. . .] O, to nie dosyć kary! O ja bym z nią inaczej postąpił . . . (II—389–390) (Norman (shuddering) Nightmare! Ghoul! [. . .] Oh, that’s not enough punishment! Oh, I would act differently with her . . .)

Norman loves the brilliant and beautiful Petronika. However, it becomes obvious as the play goes on that he would prefer a more traditional wife, instead of the talented, professional woman that he has. He accuses

82 Complicating the Female Subject Petronika of allowing her chemical experiments to take precedence over their relationship, criticizes her for not accommodating herself to the regime, and blames her for his woes. All the while, he praises the mediocre, submissive, and silent wife: Weź na przykład naszą obecną sytuację: młodzi jesteśmy, sami w mieszkaniu, z własnej nieprzymuszonej woli zaślubieni i co nas dzieli: twoje trutki, twoja alchemia, twoje sumaki, barbitury, flogistony! (II—295) (Take for example our present situation: we’re young, alone in the apartment, married of our own free will, and what divides us: your poisons, your alchemy, your sumacs, barbiturates, phlogistons!) Tyś mnie zgubiła! Nie ona [Vrana]! Ty! Ty, twoim rozpuszczonym językiem, twoją swadą pensjonarską!!! Są kobiety, które instynktownie dopomagają mężom, szczęście niosą w dom—ale to są te kochane, bezosobowe, przeciętne istoty. (II—325) (You destroyed me! Not she [Vrana]! You! You! With your loose tongue, with your schoolgirl glibness!! There are women who instinctively help their husbands, bring happiness into the home—but those are the loved, colorless, ordinary creatures.)

Norman’s love for his wife rounds out this character a bit. His genuine feelings save him from being like all the other male characters in this play: a grotesque example of abject servility and fear. Petronika’s arrest devastates Norman—though, even at such a moment, caution dictates that he express his emotions by an anguished facial expression, rather than by words: Norman po jej wyjściu daje upust swojej rozpaczy i nienawiści wyrażonej gestem i wyrazem twarzy. Tłucze coś umyślnie. Słysząc kroki opanowuje się. [. . .] Mariata wraca, załamuje ręce. Norman patrzy przez okno, nagle postarzały, zwiędły, gryząc pięść z gniewu. (II—332, 333). (After her exit Norman vents his despair and hatred, expressed with a gesture and facial expression. Breaks something on purpose. Hearing footsteps he controls himself. [. . .] Mariata returns and

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wrings her hands. Norman looks out the window, suddenly aged, wilted, biting his fist in anger.)

Later, when Petronika treats him coldly after her return from the police station, he breaks down—though still silently: Norman (obejmuje ją czule i sadza w fotelu. Klęka przed nią. Załamuje się w milczeniu) Czego chcesz ode mnie? Czemuś taka zimna—Petroniko? Kochanie! (II—360) (Norman (embracing her tenderly and sitting her down in an armchair. Kneels before her. Breaks down in silence) What do you want from me? Why are you so cold—Petronika? Dearest!)

In the end, in an ironic twist of fate, he becomes a dictator through weakness rather than strength. On the one hand, the crowds in the street demand his appearance on the balcony. On the other, Petronika urges him to accept the dictatorship, knowing how much it means to him. Despite the crises and differences between the spouses, this is the only play by Jasnorzewska in which the author presents a solid and realistic marriage. Overall, in this work, the author treats male characters as weaker, more negative, and passive than females, yet ubiquitous and never dispensable. They function primarily as a foil for the splendid, nonessentialist variety of female subjects.

✻✻✻ Except for Szczepkowska in The Falling House, all of these playwrights see the human subject, to a greater or lesser degree, as essentialist. In terms of the male subject, every one of them presents it as essentialist. Moreover, with the exception of Monika’s Case, the writers perceive the male subject as negative, though sometimes in unexpected ways. For example, Rylska in The Deep at Zimna attributes a negative passion to all men, a trait traditionally associated with emotional, bodily women. Even Szczepkowska’s praise of essentialist male characteristics in Monika’s Case becomes ambiguous in the end, because the only male character is an immoral lightweight. Differences aside, in these plays the negativity of the male subject appears inevitable, powerful, and dominant. The inter-war period may have been

84 Complicating the Female Subject witnessing deep social changes: constitutionally guaranteed equality, a struggle for professional acceptance, an evolution in cultural mores. Yet there is a kind of resigned fatefulness in these writers’ acceptance of male-­ constructed social norms. The authors reveal more variety in presenting the essentialism of women. In Monika’s Case, Szczepkowska sees woman in her raw form as negative, a condition she should strive to overcome. In The Deep at Zimna, Rylska attributes essentialism in all human beings to their age, whether they are children or adults. Moreover, she endows all adult women with grief, a trait that perhaps automatically appears with age or perhaps results over time from living in a patriarchal world. In House of Women, women’s caring nature and everyday bustling create a warm sisterhood apart from men. In contrast, in “Justice,” the essentialist Number 14 resembles the uneducated woman in Monika’s Case: passive, resigned, meek, accepting blame even for the crimes of others. Jasnorzewska’s philosophy in Egyptian Wheat somewhat resembles that of Rylska’s play: age and beauty, factors beyond the individual’s control, determine a woman’s position in society and goals in life. Much later, in Baba-Dziwo, Jasnorzewska presents a sisterhood of strong, active, and intelligent women. Szczepkowska in Silent Power looks both backward and forward, discovering essentialist weaknesses and strengths in women. By the time she writes The Falling House, the author’s thinking has evolved into accepting a nonessentialist definition of the human subject. The great variety in the presentation of the female subject reflects these writers’ more general attitude toward life during the inter-war period. They all seem to accept the existence of a society constructed and dominated by men. The plays suggest that the authors do not envision the basic structure of this society changing any time soon. However, as the next chapter demonstrates, they all believe that within this male-dominated world, women still have the possibility to evolve into richer individuals. The playwrights also suggest that women can change themselves or manipulate their position in a way that makes life easier and/or better, and that gives them access to a profession or improved personal relationships. The improvement of the female characters’ social and/or personal situation results from a number of different stimuli and actions, to be discussed in the next chapter.

C HAPTE R 6

Theorizing The Subject Possibilities of Change As I indicated in the introduction, these playwrights avoid defeatism by believing that women can change and improve their lives even within the confines of a male-constructed society. When analyzing the changes that occur in these plays, the concept of “relationality” proves especially useful. The term refers to the idea that the subject needs an “Other” in order to define itself. The concept appears already in the writings of Georg Hegel and links with his ideas on (non)recognition that were discussed in the previous chapter.1 “Relationality” is a very broad term that we can apply to a variety of very different relationships between subjects. The first type of relationship that I would like to consider is called “materiality” by a number of contemporary thinkers.2 In the last 15 years, there has been a renewed interest in the body as an important part of the subject, along with a renewed desire to move away from the juxtaposition between nature and culture, as well as from an anthropocentric approach to existence. Judith Butler always wrote about the “vulnerability of the body,” a concept that we can apply especially to the historical situation of women and their control or lack thereof over their own bodies. More recently, Butler has begun to attach even more existential importance to the body and actually to see the physical body “as the medium of our relations with other bodies.”3 Without giving up the struggle for bodily self-determination, she urges that we   1. Butler 2004a and Butler 2004b.   2. See, for example, Haraway 2008.   3. Lloyd 2007, 139.

86 Complicating the Female Subject accept the body as a “porous boundary” that “establishes a field of ethical enmeshment with others.”4 A different kind of “materiality” consciously harkens back to the work of Charles Darwin. We can find an example of this approach, among others, in the latest work of Elizabeth Grosz. Grosz sees in Darwin’s writings both the idea that we cannot eliminate “sexual difference,” as well as a “decentering” of the focus on human beings that places humans back in nature, among other animals.5 She also explores how Darwinian sexual difference compares with the ideas of Luce Irigaray.6 Similar ideas appear in the recent work of Donna Haraway and in the writings of the Polish philosopher/feminist/art critic Jolanta BrachCzaina.7 The theories of Charles Darwin and Georg Hegel were certainly known and discussed at the end of the nineteenth and beginning of the twentieth century. Keeping in mind the concepts of “body vulnerability,” “body as medium of relationships,” as well as the more Darwinian approach helps in describing the type of changes that occur in the subjects of some of our plays.

✻✻✻ Let us start with Jasnorzewska’s Egyptian Wheat. The author perceives as the basis of the female subject her essentialist need for love. Moreover, the physical condition of a woman’s body determines both her position in society and her “possibilities of change.” In this kind of approach, any change is instinctive, limited, and to a large degree beyond a woman’s control. Yet, there is some change and within narrow confines, the woman does make choices. If she is old and ugly, she must create her social niche by supporting the patriarchal system. This includes forcing younger women into following in her footsteps and producing an heir. Overall, Jasnorzewska focuses more, not just in this play, on the young and beautiful. These women must make the right choices in love in order to be   4. Butler 2004b, 25.   5. On sexual difference, see Grosz 2008 and Grosz 2011, 115–142. On placing the human being within nature, see Grosz 2001, 11–25.   6. See: Grosz 2011, 143-168.   7. See: Haraway 2008 and Brach-Czaina 1999.

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“recognized.” However, for the author, this “recognition” is not just a social question, but literally an existential one. As Inga Iwasiów has shown, without the “right love,” a woman simply does not exist on some level.8 The author presents this idea most symbolically and visually in her play Popielaty welon (Ash-gray Veil). In that work, she “obliterates” those heroines who have not found their true love by having them wear a gray veil over their faces. Without love, they are not individuals. Furthermore, in a critique of inter-war society, Jasnorzewska shows women choosing relationships outside of marriage. The standard, traditional, patriarchal husband cannot fulfill the role of a true love. Even more radically, the author suggests that even this “right love” might be transitory and that a woman may have to fall in love more than once. The reasons vary. In the case of Egyptian Wheat, Jasnorzewska hints that the love between Ruta and Horacy will end because of the large age difference between them. In any case, once a young and beautiful woman finds her true love, she changes physically for the better. Ruta, for example, seems younger, more radiant, and more beautiful when she is in love with Horacy, than she did 18 years earlier during her marriage to Krzeptowski.

✻✻✻ “Materiality” of a very different kind leads to change in The Deep at Zimna. The condition of the body determines both a subject’s social status and its essentialist traits. However, here the similarity with Egyptian Wheat ends. In Rylska’s existential view, passing time and age determine the traits of both men and women. There is no “possibility of change.” It is a predetermined change that occurs in all people as they move into adulthood, the old fisherman simply being the exception that proves the rule. Yet, it is precisely the figure of Łuka who suggests a different kind of “possibility of change.” Here, we must return to the writing of Judith Butler and another aspect of “relationality,” namely, grief. Butler writes that it is at the moment when the “enmeshment” with the “Other” is broken—in other words, at the moment when the subject loses the “Other” and is mourning the breakup   8. Iwasiów 1995.

88 Complicating the Female Subject of the relationship—that the subject simultaneously realizes that it is losing not only the “Other,” but also part of its own identity.9 The “Other”— be it man or woman—thus provides not only love and/or friendship to a subject, but also “its own sense of self.”10 Butler’s purpose in the work is to suggest a means of moving away from “retaliatory politics” towards a “shared ethical and radical political project.”11 Rylska’s use of grief is more personal, psychological. In this play, grief functions as a mechanism of a character’s development. Łuka, a “wise peasant” type, seen throughout Polish nineteenth-century literature, genuinely believes in God and feels that if God is not merciful, a person might commit a crime—almost unconsciously.12 Furthermore, his own state of symbiosis with nature makes him believe that acts occur under the influence of time and place. For him, water has an especially strong, negative effect on people: before they know it, the crime has occurred: Ale jak On [Bóg] swego zmiłowania okazać nie chce—gdy wiatr nadlatuje, komar bzyczy, trawa się kołysze, zboże się chwieje, las szumi—i wszystko gada, gada, gada,—i niebo i ziemia i woda—O— ona to najwięcej gada—ona to najchytrzejsza, najzdradliwsza, najbardziej ciągnąca. Bije o brzeg i gada—A potem ręka sama O o o. (68) (But if He [God] does not wish to show his mercy—then when the wind comes flying in, when the mosquito hums, when the grass rocks, the wheat sways, the forest hums—and everything talks, talks, talks,—heaven and earth and water—Oh—she talks the most—she is the most sly, the most treacherous, the most enticing. She hits against the shore and talks—Then your hand by itself Oh oh oh.)  9. 10. 11. 12.

Butler 2004b, 22. Lloyd 2007, 142. Lloyd 2007, 141. See, for example, the figure of Maciej Boryna in Władysław Reymont’s novel Chłopi (The Peasants) or peasant characters in some of Ignacy Kraszewski’s stories, such as “Ulana.” Wise peasant figures also frequently appear in Russian literature. See, for example, Lev Tolstoy’s Platon Karataev in Война и мир (War and Peace) or the wise peasants in Ivan Turgenev’s cycle of stories Записки охотника (Hunter’s Sketches).

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Yet, despite God’s involvement or noninvolvement, and the role of time and place, Łuka does not absolve humans from responsibility. Ever since his own crime, he has lived in a state of grief combined with repentance, as well as with the feeling that God has turned away from him and that his prayers do not reach heaven: (Dzwonią.) (Żegna się) Pomyłuj panie, pomyłuj . . . Dzwonią za zmarłe duszyczki, za duszyczki potępionych—w grzechu poma­ rłych­—­dzwonią (żegna się) (Kuli się coraz więcej, jakby ten dzwon sprawiał mu wielką przykrość). Nie można się pomodlić choćby dusza rada. Niebo zawarte. Niema słowa któreby niebo odewrzyć mogło. Mołytwa jak ustrzelona kraska nie doleci do nieba. [. . .] Niema nijakiej rady—aż do końca żywota—(41) ((Ringing) (Crosses himself) Have mercy lord, have mercy . . . They’re ringing for dead little souls, for the little souls of the condemned— deceased in sin—they’re ringing (crosses himself) (Curls up more and more, as if the bell was causing him great distress) One can’t pray, even if the soul was glad of it. The heavens are closed. There is no word, which could open the heavens. Prayer like a shot roller won’t reach heaven. [. . .] There’s nothing to be done—until the end of life—).13

It is his continuing grief over the tragedy combined with feelings of guilt that have changed Łuka and made him more sensitive to the needs and emotions of others. Knowing Nika from childhood, he reacts to the slightest change of mood or gaze in her. For example, when in Act II Nika questions him about the boats, he “patrzy na nią podejrzliwie” (looks at her suspiciously) (p. 43) and “grozi jej palcem” (shakes his finger at her) (p. 45), warning her not to go out on the water alone. In the last act, he tells her that the night before the attempted crime, when he had seen Nika with her father, he had already noticed how she had looked at Kercz and had guessed what she intended: Jak ja wtedy wieczorem toju rybu przyniósł. To ja już wiedział wtedy—Jaśnie wielmożnego widział i ciebie jakeś patrzyła—(69) 13. The word “roller” refers to a type of bird, “kraska” in Polish. Łuka’s peasant speech is not really translatable.

90 Complicating the Female Subject (When last night I brought that there fish. Already then I knew— I saw the master and I saw how you looked—)

Łuka attributes his ability to sense what is going on in others to his state of having fallen from God’s grace: “[b]o człowiek dla którego Bóg nie był miłosierny to wszystko wie i widzi jak w godzinie skonania.” ([b]ecause a man for whom God has not been compassionate knows and sees everything as at the hour of death) (69). Having understood Nika’s desires and plans before they happened, he is on hand when Nika tries to kill Tola. By rushing to the water, he is able to save Tola, thus at last expiating his own sin. Yet, Rylska is a subtle Realist, who paints a complex picture of Łuka. Though his grief and guilt have changed him into a more sensitive human being, the author also shows a well-developed sense of self-preservation in the old man. At the same time, she suggests another way in which grief might possibly serve as a stimulus towards change. In Chapter 5, I discussed grief as an essentialist trait of adult women, Mrs. Kercz and Miss Tola. Yet, I also referred to the scene in which Tola and Nika silently experience a moment of understanding, both bonding in grief: Tola for lost opportunities, Nika for the suffering caused by her father’s romance. Rylska calls Nika a “woman” in that scene, even though, subsequently, she shows her as not quite there yet, only on the threshold of adulthood. The “openness” of the dramatic text allows for a number of interpretations. Certainly, a possible interpretation might be that this moment of “womanly” grief that Nika experiences while still an adolescent is one factor that pushes her toward her rebellious gesture at the end of the play. Seeing the suffering of her mother undoubtedly influences her attitude toward life. However, realizing that even her “enemy” Tola suffers as a woman, could further strengthen Nika’s desire to break out of assigned social roles, to take control of her life.

✻✻✻ Grief as a means of change appears more strongly in three of the other plays, namely House of Women, “Justice,” and Monika’s Case. Let us start with House of Women. In this work, Nałkowska presents change as a complex

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phenomenon that requires certain conditions and involves a number of factors. First, let us return to the author’s idea of the “opaqueness of the depths of existence.” I discussed the concept earlier in relation to the “randomness of events” and to its ties with the play’s “domesticity.” The other reason why existence appears “opaque” is the numerous “realizations” that human beings experience. Nałkowska takes this idea from the philosophy of Henri Bergson. Briefly, what is important for this play is that Bergson wanted to overcome what he called the binarism between “life” and “matter.” We can define his concept of élan vital as “the gap in mechanistic explanations of evolution” and “as a virtual power of differentiation.” Bergson claimed that there is an overall symbiosis between “matter,” which contains the past, and “life,” which pushes matter in new, unexpected, and creative directions. Thus, there is a constant becoming/ unbecoming between permanent, dormant matter and creative, dynamic life. Élan vital then leads to the concept of the “relationality” of a subject: it needs an “Other” in order to define itself.14 Nałkowska’s belief in Bergsonian “realizations” forms part of the complex “relationality” in House of Women. While leaving an essentialist base in subjects, “realizations” and “relationality” allow for change and development in the characters. However, this change is not a straightforward matter. On the one hand, human beings might wish to avoid relations with others, as, according to the author, interpersonal relationships are always unpleasant in one way or another. The writer was convinced that contacts between human beings are not benign, but rather are a “pułapk[a] zastawion[a] przez drugiego człowieka” (trap set up by the other person).15 This is especially true for women because of their essentialist “perversion of goodness,” discussed earlier. Regardless of the fact that the author states that “love elevates everything,” love for women in all of Nałkowska’s oeuvre is always an extremely painful experience that leads to the loss of part of their identity. This approach to relations between people reminds us of Judith Butler’s “enmeshment with the other.” When that “enmeshment” is broken, the subject loses a part of itself. 14. Buchanan 2010, 56. 15. Foltyniak 2004, 171.

92 Complicating the Female Subject On the other hand, since Nałkowska rejects transcendental metaphysics, she sees relations with other human beings as absolutely necessary, because “egzystencja wyczerpuje się całkowicie w ‘międzyludzkim’, drugi człowiek jest ratunkiem i jednocześnie zagrożeniem” (existence exhausts itself in the “inter-human”; the other person is simultaneously salvation and danger).16 In a world without transcendence, other human beings become an essential part of human existence, albeit most often a painful one. Moreover, as mentioned earlier, Nałkowska believes that love “is a path to knowledge.” Therefore, in order to understand oneself, one must love an “Other,” at least once in life. This cognitive function of love returns us to the other aspect of marriage. Earlier, I discussed marriage as an institution that helps men control women. At the same time, since marriage is a relationship with another person supposedly based on mutual love, it is an obligatory stage in the process of an individual’s development. Of course, marriage is only one of several relationships possible. Certainly, in this play, the author also emphasizes the relationships between mothers and daughters, mothers-in-law and daughters-in-law, grandmothers and granddaughters. However, as painful as it is, marriage—or at least some relationship with a man—is, in the author’s worldview, an unavoidable stepping-stone on the path to change. There is still yet another idea that forms part of the complex conditions for change. Fifty years before the feminist writings of Luce Irigaray, Nałkowska posits the notion that “change” means “finding your own voice,” and not just improving social conditions or competing professionally with men. Moreover, by sequestering her female subjects on an estate without men, the author suggests, as did Irigaray, that this kind of search for “voice” must occur away from male-dominated and male-constructed society.17 Women, the “nonrecognized” members of society, need their own space in order to develop. In inter-war Polish society, there were few such explicit calls. Overwhelmingly, the suggestions for improving the lot of women were linked to an idea prevalent throughout Europe after World War I: that after the horrors of war, women would save humankind by 16. Marszałek 2004, 180. 17. See, for example, Irigaray 1985, 135.

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elevating its moral standards.18 One exception that Nałkowska would have known was Irena Krzywicka, who repeatedly advocated that women must find their “voice.”19 The need for a place away for men creates practical problems. Very few women, whether in inter-war Poland or today, could simply withdraw into some kind of haven in order to find themselves. Yet, this is precisely what Nałkowska focuses on in this play. She does not see the possibility of broadening social norms. She does not suggest that women accept male norms or try to copy men. Instead, she offers them a haven. Thus, the independence of these characters is exceptional, since the majority of inter-war women did not have the financial option of owning an estate. Certainly, poor women could have a refuge only if, like Zofia, they worked as servants for the wealthier ones. Nałkowska’s vision of emancipation neither abolishes class differences nor posits it as possible for the majority of women. Putting all of the above together, we see that Nałkowska’s worldview requires a number of factors to come together before any deep-seeded change can even begin to take place. First, women have to go through a number of painful, but necessary, relationships that also include men. As a subject moves through life, it acquires a greater or lesser number of “faces” or Bergsonian “realizations” through these relationships. Next, “nonrecognized” women must find a haven away from male-constructed society, in which they can accomplish the process of change. This, of course, limits the number of women who can find themselves—for strictly financial reasons. Yet, Nałkowska does not consider those practicalities. Once the subject has taken care of these prerequisites, it can begin to change. Yet, change itself is also a process, not an overnight epiphany. Moreover, this process involves reflection and grief. Thus, we have come back full circle to grief, which pushes Nika in The Deep at Zimna to rebel. In Rylska’s play, grief is a one-time stimulus. In House of Women, Nałkowska shows grief as a drawn-out process that accompanies reflection. In the quiet of the estate, reminiscing, while simultaneously going through a long period of mourning for the lost men—be they deceased or 18. See Plach 2006, 18–24. 19. See the introduction to Krzywicka 2008 and Chowaniec 2011.

94 Complicating the Female Subject divorced—the heroines of this play have a chance to find “their voice,” using Luce Irigaray’s term. Grandmother Celina already went down that path after the death of her son. Sleeping little and spending her nights thinking and mourning, Celina has rethought her opinions of the dead or divorced husbands, sons, and sons-in-law in the family. They have changed in her memories and she has changed as a result of remembering. She has become more accepting of others, of their faults, but has also recognized her own mistakes. For example, she gently apologizes to her daughter Maria for having pushed her into a loveless marriage. Earlier, she had thought that this was a union offering her daughter security and prosperity. She now knows that without mutual love, she only made her daughter miserable. In front of the audience, Celina’s granddaughter Joanna goes through the same process. Joanna is not only mourning the death of her husband, but she is also struggling with a guilty conscience. Not understanding why she felt unhappy in her marriage and why she continued to miss something, she entangled herself in a short affair with an anonymous man. Though Joanna feels extremely guilty, Celina does not condemn her granddaughter’s behavior. Instead, she focuses on the positive fact that Joanna genuinely loved her husband, and that this love was a necessary precondition of change (125). Moreover, as Barbara Smoleń has written, through her passionate affair, Joanna starts on the road to emancipation even before she retreats to the estate, because she “dopuściła do głosu własne ciało; [a] ten głos podwarza struktury patriarchalne” (gave her own body a voice; [and] that voice undermines patriarchal structures).20 Later, in the quiet of the estate, remembering the past, listening to Grandmother, and above all after meeting her husband’s daughter from an illicit relationship, Joanna moves beyond feelings of guilt to see more clearly and to reassess her marriage. Unknotting the consecutive stages of the relationship, she evaluates her deceased husband and herself differently: Myślę: Krzysztof. Ale nie ma go już na tym miejscu, gdzie jest to słowo. [. . .] On jest gdzie indziej. Tam jest ktoś inny, [. . .] Czy nie 20. Smoleń 2000, 118.

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było także jego śmierci? Jest tak, jak gdyby nic nie było . . . (126–127) (I think: Krzysztof. But he’s no longer in that place, where the word is. [. . .] He’s somewhere else. Someone else is there, [. . .] Did his death also not happen? It is as if there had been nothing . . .).

In Nałkowska’s worldview, this repeated unraveling through remembering combined with grieving leads to a better understanding of one’s own inner core.21 At the same time, the search can offer a glimpse of the mysterious essence of another human being and, if only for a moment, obviate that painful cry that keeps reappearing in many variants throughout the play “pomiędzy człowiekiem i człowiekiem jest ciemność” (between human being and human being there is darkness) (77). In short, in House of Women, social “nonrecognition” induces women to leave male-dominated society, finances permitting. The author offers no possibility of broadening social norms. Instead, after withdrawing, women—through prolonged reflection and mourning—can come to understand themselves better and to develop as a result of their reflections. Given Nałkowska’s complex ideas on human development centered on “relationality,” the ending of House of Women now comes as a logical conclusion. The fact that Ewa is forced to depart with the man in the garden is not simply a result of the women’s weakness vis-à-vis men. Instead, within the author’s worldview, Ewa’s departure with her lover fulfills a number of functions. One of these functions is certainly to emphasize the inferior status of women in inter-war society: the male voice must be obeyed. Second, essentialist femininity—inextricably tied to both love and the “perversion of goodness”—works as a powerful biological and instinctual force that pushes Ewa into the arms of the man whom she reluctantly loves. At the same time, we could say that the young Ewa has not yet fulfilled her prerequisites; she is not yet ready to withdraw to the estate. By leaving with the man, she will enlarge her “realizations,” experience the love of a man, but also experience pain and loss. All of this will prepare her for the reflection and mourning that will eventually help her to develop. 21. For more on this topic, see Foltyniak 2004, 170–180; Marszałek 2004; and Smoleń 2001a, 206.

96 Complicating the Female Subject Finally, when it comes to the “possibilities of change” in House of Women, we have to consider the figure of Tekla. She refuses to take advantage of the haven and of the opportunity to reflect. She resists change, instead spending her life celebrating the memory of her husband and that of Krzysztof, Joanna’s husband, with whom Tekla had probably been in love.22 Clinging to her negative philosophy, she perceives herself and all the women around her as useless, because they are no longer wives. Moreover, her relation to the deceased men determines even her relationship with her living female relatives. She continues to hold a grudge against Julia, because Julia’s husband did not help her own husband when he became ill. In this play, Tekla functions as Celina’s ideological opponent, expressing views that the author does not support. However, she also shows that the process of change is voluntary and conscious. Not every woman will go through it, even if the right conditions exist. A woman must be open to change, if she is to change.

✻✻✻ Grief also plays a role in the development of characters in Szczepkowska’s Monika’s Case. Monika’s first reaction to her husband’s unfaithfulness is despair. She goes through an uncontrolled emotional reaction, of the kind that we would expect from the uneducated servant Antosia. She rants, raves, and attempts suicide. Grief because of the demise of a relationship implies, of course, some form of “relationality.” Both Monika and Anna change after their relationships with Jerzy end. That broken “enmeshment” does something to them, so that even friends notice the difference. Monika uses the term “wydłużona” (elongated) to describe what happened to Anna after the breakup of her affair with Jerzy: . . . wydałaś mi się całkiem inna, jakby . . . wy–dłu–żo–na . . . [. . .] Ciebie się musi szanować i . . . troszeczkę bać . . . (42) (. . . you seemed completely different to me, as if . . . e–lon–ga–ted . . .[. . .]One must respect you and . . . be a little afraid of you . . .) 22. Smoleń 2000, 114.

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Yet, in this play, grief serves only as the initial impulse to change, reminiscent of its function in The Deep at Zimna. Here, it is not an active means of evolution that combines with reflection, as in Nałkowska’s House of Women. For Szczepkowska that means of change is education. According to the author—at least in this play—only educated women can dream of a position in the real world, because it is thanks to education that a woman rids herself of her female weaknesses, such as impulsivity, emotionalism, and subservience, becoming more “masculine.” As discussed, throughout the play, Anna blames women for “not knowing” and “not understanding” much about life. They do not know how to experience joy (45). They lose their self-dignity by losing themselves in a man (45, 62). They do not realize that the only permanent thing in life is the trace left by labor (21–22). Szczepkowska repeatedly links the negativity of women’s essentialist traits to their lack of the cerebral. Therefore, when Monika despairs and mourns her husband’s ­infidelity, Anna cares for her, but at the same time criticizes her, saying “[s]przeniewierzasz kapitał włożony w ciebie, kapitał nauki” (you’re betraying the capital invested in you, the capital of knowledge) (60). Anna emphasizes that Monika is betraying herself as a “pełnowartościowy człowiek” (full-fledged human being) (69). It is Anna’s belief in education and the cerebral that determines her attitude toward the servant girl Antosia. She demonstrates very little understanding for Antosia’s fate. Anna calls her a woman “w niezakłamanej formie” (in an undistorted form) (71), uneducated and, therefore, not worthy of membership in the sisterhood of educated women. She blames Monika for spoiling the servant and states that “od rzemiosła nie trzeba jej odrywać, bo z czego będzie żyła po skończeniu tej całej awantury?” (one shouldn’t tear her away from her craft or how will she live once this whole scandal is over?) (38). Nevertheless, Monika must go through a period of mourning in order to become “wydłużona” (elongated) (63). The actual evolution of a woman includes obtaining an education, overcoming her negative essentialist feminine traits, and then competing professionally with men. Yet, Anna understands that without that initial phase of grief, Monika will

98 Complicating the Female Subject not evolve. As a friend, all she can do at this stage is to care for Monika, as someone cared for her when she was going through her own mourning: Krzycz, bij, przeklinaj mnie! Może w tym znajdziesz ulgę. Ja ci pomogę, bo i mnie kiedyś pomogły czyjeś dobre ręce . . . (63) (Scream, hit, swear at me! Maybe you will find release in this. I will help you, because I was also helped by someone’s kind hands. . .)

As the play ends, Monika has finished with mourning. She is getting ready to re-engage in her profession and to be “recognized” again in the male-­ dominated world. In inter-war Poland, Monika’s profession of pediatrics was male-dominated, as was Anna’s field: architecture. Moreover, Monika’s evolution suggests that perhaps a woman can follow a somewhat different path than Anna’s. Even after Monika has found out that her husband had betrayed her with Antosia, she shows not only interest in, but also compassion for, the fate of the girl (67–71). While Anna listens to their conversation and comments sarcastically, Monika is genuinely concerned. Thus, while on one level Szczepkowska posits male essentialist traits as superior, stating that women should become more like men, she simultaneously ends the work with a tentative hope that perhaps a woman could succeed in the male-­ dominated profession, while retaining something of her femininity.

✻✻✻ In “Justice,” Grabowska focuses on the “nonrecognition” of a woman in “her undistorted form.” As discussed earlier, Number 14 functions as a classic example of an uneducated woman on some level. The writer endows her with such essentialist female traits as passivity, fatalism, low self-esteem, impulsivity, and emotionalism. In addition, like Antosia in Monika’s Case or Karolina from Jasnorzewska’s Egyptian Wheat, Number 14 puts on a mask when in the presence of someone from a higher class. Antosia falls to her knees and kisses Monika’s hand, while behind her back criticizing Monika’s behavior toward her husband. Karolina smiles and bows politely, even though she deceives her former lover and leaves him with another man’s child. Here, in the presence of the prison director, his son, or the doctor, Number 14 puts on a mask of dumb humility. In this

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way, she covers her innate impulsivity and her suffering, but also something else—to which we will return. The stage directions abound in comments, such as: “opuszcza głowę” (lowers her head), “miesza się [. . .] milczenie” (loses countenance [. . .] silence), “patrzy na niego i milczy” (looks at him and remains silent), “Kobieta milczy” (The woman is silent), “pokornie” (humbly), “milczy” (silent) (3, 12, 13, 14, 14, 39). Men treat her as a being with limited faculties, from whom they expect humility and complete obedience. Yet, it is precisely this “nonrecognition,” this being treated like a child-idiot, that sharpens the heroine’s perspective. The tragic plot emphasizes both the grotesque nature and the weakness of the mask. In a situation in which the heroine should have the right to despair, anger, and tears, Number 14 pulls on a mask of meekness and silence in front of representatives of the higher class who decide her fate. However, over and over the mask keeps sliding off, pushed aside by the tragedy of the events. Throughout the whole play, after stage directions referring to meekness and silence, almost always there follow other directions that negate the silent and meek ones: “spostrzega jego zmieszanie” (notices his embarrassment), “zwolna, nieufnie” (slowly, suspiciously), “Kobieta wybucha ironicznym śmiechem” (The woman breaks into ironic laughter), “z subtelną ironią” (with subtle irony) (4, 4, 14, 37). These other directions, combined with the heroine’s direct statements, reveal that Number 14 is not just that dullwitted and meek woman whom those deciding her fate would like to see. First, she has a certain amount of intelligence. Her statements show that she understands that in inter-war society men can do what they want, while in her case, poverty will never serve as an excuse for any lapse from acceptable social norms. According to Grabowska, she will always be judged by the most severe moral norms established by society. Furthermore, if she once transgresses those norms, she will always be treated as something worse—as a person devoid of even the most universal human emotions—in every situation: Już panna, co miała dziecko, to i tak w ludzkich oczach niewiele warta. E! Taka służąca, co to może Bóg wie z kim . . . Nawet niekoniecznie musiała kochać. Prawda. Co za kochanie może być

100 Complicating the Female Subject u takiej? A jak jeszcze dziecko zabiła, to już chyba całkiem na psy. Już nawet nie człowiek. Nawet nie ma nic do stracenia. (6) (A girl, who’s had a child, isn’t worth much in the eyes of people. Eh! Such a servant girl, who possibly, with God knows who . . . She didn’t even necessarily have to love. Right. What kind of loving can there be in such a one? And if on top of that she’s killed her child, then she’s completely to the dogs. Not even a human being anymore. Doesn’t even have anything to lose.)

Neither Karolina from Egyptian Wheat nor Antosia from Monika’s Case ever see the unfairness of society or understand that they are being exploited and deceived, even when they are being paid. Second, Number 14 realizes that, as long as she behaves meekly, men will talk with her as with a mentally defective child whom they can pity and will even help from time to time—of course, within the limits of their own convenience. However, if she only disobeys, does not listen, they immediately explode in anger and threaten. Even if Grabowska exaggerates with the “subtlety,” the prisoner does react to these kinds of situations with irony: why threaten her, when she is just a “baba” (broad), “może nawet nie człowiek” (perhaps not even a human being) and “nie myśli” (doesn’t think) (39). Again, if one compares her with Karolina and Antosia, one sees the difference. Neither of these characters understands irony. They can be angry and/or offensive, but never ironic. Finally, as I discuss in detail in Chapter 7, the playwright shows that Number 14 has developed a moral fiber and refuses to collude with the immoral “justice” of the male-dominated world. She uses the prisoner’s attitude to show up the moral bankruptcy of the male members of the intelligentsia. Overall, Grabowska creates a convincing character in Number 14. She keeps her within the bounds of probability, both for the type of woman that she represents and for the type of situation in which she finds herself. Therefore, in the stage directions, the playwright shows that besides glimmers of irony, Number 14 also has moments of naïveté. This is especially visible in the prisoner’s attitude towards the doctor: thanks to a series of small compassionate gestures on the part of the doctor, the woman begins to trust him too much, not sensing the limits of his

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compassion. All the more painful is her moment of disappointment, when, in a situation full of stress for the prison director, the doctor involves himself completely in the man’s problems, and simply forgets about the woman (46–47). In the end, even though the essentialist traits remain, Number 14—influenced by a series of tragic events, her “nonrecognized” status, and her grief over her dead child—changes from being simply a humiliated, dull, lower-class woman into a character with a certain amount of intelligence and, above all, with a moral fiber.

✻✻✻ Earlier, I analyzed those plays in which the authors see the subject as primarily essentialist, with some “possibility of change.” Let us now consider a work that stands on the border between an essentialist and nonessentialist approach: Szczepkowska’s Silent Power. As discussed, the playwright repeatedly suggests that the female subject is weak, impulsive, and emotional. At the same time, “possibilities of change” exist. Several times throughout the text, one of the characters states that they have changed. The way Ewa describes the change is reminiscent of Monika’s Case; she says that she has learned to “odróżniać, oceniać, szacować” (differentiate, evaluate, estimate) (53). In other words, she has become more cerebral, and capable of thinking rationally. Yet, this work clearly moves toward a nonessentialist approach to subject. By the time Szczepkowska writes The Falling House, she no longer claims that women are bodily, emotional, or impulsive. In this play, she still says that. Concurrently, she moves toward nonessentialism by offering her audience a great range of characters, both female and male. Ewa herself, in addition to making statements about the essentialist nature of subjects, says that she knows “tkliwych, bezsilnych mężczyzn” (tender, powerless men) as well as “mocne, wytrzymałe kobiety” (strong, tough women) (25). The author not only fills the play with a variety of characters, but also gives most of them scope to express their point of view in a convincing way. For example, the women of the XYZ party stand in opposition to Ewa’s values and goals. They see men as a necessary component of a traditional family: the unchallenged breadwinner. This group claims

102 Complicating the Female Subject that the employment of women threatens the family unit, angering and weakening men, while depriving women of their essentialist characteristics. Though the group’s ideas challenge Ewa’s, the playwright allows these characters to express their ideas in a believable manner: Mężczyzna przestanie pracować, stanie się gnuśnym, rozleniwionym, zatraci najistotniejsze cechy: siłę, energię, my nie chcemy gnuśnego mężczyzny, gdy odbierzemy mu naturalną podnietę, by walczył o byt kobiety i dzieci—skarleje, a my, zatracimy swoje charakterystyczne cechy. (23) (Man will stop working, will become sluggish, lazy, will lose his most important characteristics: strength, energy, we don’t want a sluggish man, if we take away his natural stimulus to fight for the welfare of woman and children—he will become a dwarf, while we, will lose our characteristic traits.)

Moreover, Szczepkowska avoids oversimplification and shows that, for all their traditionalism, these women are not afraid to act, oppose, and protest, even violently—breaking a window to get inside the press. Such aggressiveness is traditionally associated with male essentialist traits. Next, Szczepkowska creates the character of Teresa, who represents yet another kind of woman. Teresa was forced to work from an early age in order to support her mother and siblings. Later, she bought into Ewa’s ideas and was swept along into the hectic, never-ending work of the press. Needing money, she refuses all holidays until one day she looks in the mirror and realizes that she is dissatisfied with life and aging quickly. She wants to drop everything, flee, and have a good time: travel and pick up men. Though not interested in a family, the lack of a man in her life has hit Teresa forcefully, leaving her despondent for the moment. Ewa understands that Teresa is not the kind of person who could lead a wild life. She has been timid until now and will continue being timid even if she leaves the press. What Teresa needs, according to Ewa, is a long vacation. Eventually, Teresa herself admits to timidity and decides to stay, though not happily. The function of this character is different from that of the XYZ women. The differences with Ewa are not ideological. Rather, the focus is on the personal character of Teresa, on what she can or cannot do

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given her particular character traits. By introducing the figure of Teresa, the author is pointing out that not every woman is capable of participating in the “struggle of the sexes.” There will always be weaker followers in any society who will need to be supported and helped. In addition, through Teresa, Szczepkowska moves away from the exclusive value of work, so forcefully stated in Monika’s Case. Instead, she has Ewa reiterate that enjoyment and relaxation must supplement work. The American, Rut Barckley, represents yet another kind of woman. She serves as an example of how personal tragedy can propel a person into social and political activity. She began her pacifist campaign only after her son died in the trenches of World War I. In a sense, she continues to struggle for him and in his name. In other words, pacifism and Hegelianism do not have abstract value for Rut, but are an emotional outgrowth of her grief. Szczepkowska gives Rut long monologues that present a psychologically accurate picture of how young men are drawn into war. Though these monologues weaken the dramatic effect, they simultaneously make for interesting reading. Finally, there is Ewa. The writer intended for her to be the central protagonist of the play. She states this intention directly in stage directions, just before Ewa’s initial appearance (9). However, given the complexity and variety of this play, Ewa functions less as the playwright’s porte-parole than Anna did in Monika’s Case. She is also a more nuanced character. She combines some of the best features of Anna and Monika. Highly intelligent, she understands not only how to run a linen trust, but also the psychological reactions and emotions of the other characters. She has a lot of common sense and practical wisdom combined with empathy. A successful businesswoman who loves to work, she has not become defeminized. She receives numerous proposals of marriage, which she refuses. Instead, she focuses her attention on her relationship with her son. The male characters appear as weak vis-à-vis the women, but besides that, they are very different from each other as well. The anonymous man, who makes his way by guile into Ewa’s office in order to protest her paper’s ideology, is a surprisingly modern man. He reaches the office by handing a tip to the bellhop. Yet, the author depicts him as kindly and very unusual for the time in that he washed his children’s diapers. He also stresses that

104 Complicating the Female Subject he was always faithful to his wife. As he points out to the secretary, a play that he and his wife had seen together upset them both by attacking all men. The author further emphasizes the closeness between his wife and him when the man considers writing an ideological play with his wife, even saying that maybe his wife will write it. Ewa’s son is a successful architect. He comes across as attractive, with many young women calling him. Concurrently, as discussed in the previous chapter, he has an unhealthy relationship with his mother. In Chapter 5, I showed how, throughout the play, the son always gives in to Ewa and places their relationship above everything else. When he learns of the existence of his biological father, he rejects him because he perceives him as an intruder into his relationship with his mother, one who does not know their habits and tastes. Moreover, he reveals that years before, at the death of his adoptive father, he felt only a release and joy, because from that moment on, he would have his mother exclusively to himself: Miałem wtedy dziesięć lat i pamiętam ten wieczór . . . zarzuciłem ci ramiona na szyję i miałem to dzikie uczucie, że teraz już jesteś moja wyłącznie! że nic już między nas wejść nie może . . . Szczęście moje było tak straszliwe, że bałem się mówić ci o tem . . . nigdy ci tego nie powiedziałem. Od tego dnia byłem o ciebie strasznie zazdrosny. (58) (I was ten years old then and I remember that evening. I threw my arms around your neck and experienced this wild feeling that you were now exclusively mine! that nothing now can come between us . . . My happiness was so terrible, that I was afraid to tell you about it . . . I’ve never said this to you. From that day on I was terribly jealous of you.)

Finally, the recipient sees The Man, Ewa’s former lover, one of the vice-­ presidents of the cotton trust. As discussed, the playwright depicts him as cunning, but also intelligent enough to compromise, if necessary. Moreover, he is not without sensitivity, though expressed in a traditional manner through an offer of marriage. In the end, he becomes dispensable for Ewa both as a business partner and as a husband.

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What we see then in this play is Szczepkowska moving toward a nonessentialist definition of subject. There still appear direct statements about the supposedly essentialist traits of men and women. However, the sheer variety of both male and female characters begins to suggest a different view of the subject. If we compare Silent Power to a play like Jasnorzewska’s Egyptian Wheat, then we see the difference in approach. Jasnorzewska creates types, occasionally rounding them out a bit, as when she introduces the genuineness of Krzeptowski’s love for his son. In Silent Power, Szczepkowska creates characters that significantly differ from each other in terms of character traits, thus beginning to suggest that each human being is an individual, rather than a type.

Through a nonessentialist lens Nonessentialist characters appear in only two of the plays. The first is Jasnorzewska’s Baba-Dziwo, and even that is a partial fit. As discussed in the previous chapter, the male characters are very much essentialist in this work. However, the female characters constitute an enormous change in Jasnorzewska’s thinking about the subject. For the first time, the writer does not limit herself to creating beautiful young women and old hags, both types and both in different ways dependent on men. Here, all of the female characters are strong; but, beyond that, they constitute a varied and interesting group, starting with the character of Mariata. She is an old servant, competently carrying out her duties, yet not afraid to say what she thinks to her employers. Loyal above all to Petronika, she is deeply upset when the latter is temporarily arrested. At the same time, she clearly has an ironic view both of the dictatorship and of Norman. Halima, Kołupuk’s first fiancée, seems to be the ideal young woman, always silent and meek. Yet, in the few scenes in which she appears, the audience comes to realize that there is much going on inside her. At one point, the stage directions note “zmiana nieśmiałego tonu na gwałtowny” (change of shy tone to a sharp/vehement one) (300). She shouts out that she wants to scream in the street (300). She erupts again to tell Norman and Petronika not to divorce, then again “chowa głowę w ramiona” (hides her head between her shoulders) (303). She laughs openly at Petronika’s critical

106 Complicating the Female Subject comments and cries when she hears about the death by suicide of the female pilot Marfa (302, 303). After her eruptions, she returns to cautious silence. A very different type is Petronika’s sister Ninika. The initial stage directions describe her as “nadzwyczaj ujmująca, wrażliwa, dziecinna. Bardzo ładna w swoim przebraniu.” (unusually charming, sensitive, childish. Very pretty in her costume) (278). She tends to react dramatically to everything. For example, she rushes into the Gondor apartment with “[t]warz tragiczna, blade, oczy pełne łez” (a tragic face, pale, eyes full of tears) (339). Once she realizes that Agatika will hide her, she immediately “ociera ostatnie łzy, promieniejąc” (wipes away the last tears, beaming) (350). When the police arrive to arrest her, she “w popłochu, szuka ratunku” (in a panic, looks for help) (354). Yet, she has enough of her wits about her to claim suddenly that Kołupuk is her lover. Therefore, according to the laws of Prawia, he, and not the government, is responsible for her. This news stops her arrest (354–355). Finally, after a momentary thought for the abandoned Halima, she nervously drags Kołupuk away with her (359). At the other end of the spectrum stands Lelika Skwaczek, “elegancka i urocza w swojej doskonałej brzydocie” (elegant and charming in her perfect ugliness) (278). At first, it seems that she is the dictator’s only true friend. Vrana loves her for ugliness, greater than her own (367). Skwaczek even momentarily worries that a woman uglier than herself might supplant her (367). We then realize that there is more to her than just loyalty to the dictator. She decides to dance her grotesque dance not just to please Vrana, but also in order to exploit the dictator’s momentary satisfaction for the benefit of others (368–369). She pleads for the abolition of the death penalty, in vain. The truth drug reveals that Skwaczek dislikes being at the beck and call of Vrana, constantly addressing her as “macierzyńska wysokość” (maternal highness). As I discuss in Chapter 7, her poetically sounding name seems to put her in the camp of positive female characters. Yet, in the end, she remains an ambiguous figure. The character of Vrana shows how Jasnorzewska treats ugliness differently for the first time. Here, ugliness is innate, not due to the passage of time. Moreover, the author’s depiction of Vrana is bifurcated. On the one hand, Jasnorzewska stays true to her earlier, somewhat simplistic, ideas that the experience of ugliness warps the soul. Vrana hates all things

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beautiful: “Piękno to słabość, piękno to zepsucie, piękno to zarzewie niezgody!” (Beauty is weakness, beauty is corruption, beauty is the source of discord!) (II–311). Her behavior is purposely uncouth: “Valida chwyta palcami ociekający masłem naleśnik i żarłocznie go zjada” (Valida grabs the crepe dripping with butter with her fingers and eats it greedily) (II–320). Later, having attained power, Vrana vengefully executes many young men—against a wall—for ignoring her when she was an ugly young girl, whom nobody asked to dance and who sat the dances out—against the wall (II–381). Thus, in some ways, she is a “super hag.” Her position allows her to do more than just to force babies on young women; she can actually shed blood and imprison. Though the playwright generally uses language in a traditional manner in her works—standard, educated Polish and theatrically “incomplete”— here, she plays with the usage of imperatives in order to masculinize Vrana.23 It has been shown that among native Polish speakers, men use imperatives much more frequently than women. Literature reflects this fact, and even a much later work, such as Sławomir Mrożek’s 1964 Tango, adheres to this norm. However, in Baba-Dziwo, the female dictator uses imperatives as often as all the male characters combined and the strongest imperatives (with “won” and “precz”) issue from her mouth.24 In other words, the author still endows an ugly woman in power with masculine traits. On the other hand, for the first time in creating a “hag,” the playwright strives for psychological complexity, showing how Vrana combines undying hatred with genuine pain. The memory of being ignored as a young girl still hurts: Z pasją tyranizuję teraz młode kobiety. Z pasją! Za moje serce zmarnowane! Moje serce! [. . .] Prócz żółciotwórczej wątroby! Została nienawiść! [. . .] Nic nie rozumiesz. A oto obrazek: z lat dawnych: dziewczęta tańczą—ja pod ścianą. Brzydka, więc nie proszona. (II–381) 23. For a discussion of “incompleteness” in drama, see Elam 1980, 140–141. On nonassertiveness in women’s speech, see Philips 1987, 6–10; Deucher 1988; and Tannen 1993. On the use of imperatives in Polish, see Christensen 1999. 24. Both these terms are impolite ways of saying “go away.”

108 Complicating the Female Subject (With a passion I tyrannize young women now. With a passion! For my wasted heart! My heart! [. . .] Except for a bilious liver! Only hatred is left! [. . .] You don’t understand anything. Here’s a picture: from long ago: girls are dancing—I’m against the wall. Ugly, therefore not invited.)

Vrana describes herself as “nieszczęśliwa” (unhappy) (II–367), and even at this stage in her life, she struggles to accept herself and to get over her years of humiliation. Her struggle takes the form of admiring all that is grotesque, ugly, and bizarre. This is what lies at the basis of Vrana’s strange friendship with the Baroness Skwaczek, a woman even uglier than the dictator: Ale to nic Lelika! I ja cię lubię, a za co? Boś jeszcze brzydsza ode mnie . . . Natura cię poniżyła, ale ja cię wywyższam! Wiesz co? Uczę się teraz podziwiania właśnie asymetrii, właśnie dysharmonii, ropuszego uroku, degeneracji, humorystyki małego wzrostu lub ciężkiej budowy, jednym słowem, wszystkich twoich i moich atutów, aby się wyzbyć uczucia upokorzenia, w którym wzrosłam . . . (II–387) (But that’s nothing Lelika! And I like you, for what? Because you’re even uglier than I am . . . Nature abased you, but I elevate you! You know what? I’m now learning in fact how to admire asymmetry, disharmony, toad-like charm, degeneration, the humorousness of short stature or heavy build, in brief, your and my strengths, in order to get rid of the feeling of humiliation with which I grew up . . .)

Uniquely among the playwright’s “hags,” Valida retains one feminine trait: she likes beautiful smells, perfumes. She finds them acceptable because they do not have a visible form, and form is what she tries to ignore given her own ugliness: Destylacja tuberoz! . . . albo storczyków! . . . piżmo! . . . olejek sandałowy! . . . oto jest piękno jedyne, które uznaję—sam zapach, bo ono nie ma widzialnego kształtu. Mniejsza o piękną formę, którą lekceważę! (II–312)

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(A distillation of tuberose! . . . or orchids! . . . musk! . . . sandalwood oil! . . . that is the only beauty that I recognize—pure smell, because it doesn’t have a visible shape. Never mind beautiful form, which I disregard!)

Eventually, this feminine trait will lead to Vrana’s downfall when she accepts an aromatic bouquet steeped in the truth drug. Most important, what we should note is the fact that the dictator’s suffering enriches her “hag” persona and moves her in the direction of the tragic. The most unexpected character in this play is Agatika. A person steeped in motherhood, she settles into the Gondor’s apartment by compulsory order. Nevertheless, though this “śmieszna kobieta-kwoka” (ridiculous woman-hen) (II–279), as Jasnorzewska describes her, accommodates to the regime to some degree, she is not without dignity, courage, and intelligence. Agatika opposes the patriarchal system. She not only apologizes for her husband’s servile behavior, but also bravely offers to save Ninika from imprisonment (350). Moreover, she astutely sums up Norman’s cowardly behavior motivated by fear: “pan były eks-minister trzyma z rządem . . . bo rząd z nim nie trzyma!” (Mr. former ex-minister sides with the government . . . because the government doesn’t side with him!) (II–349). We find the most complex combination of elegant femininity and professional brilliance in the character of Petronika. She may not want children at the moment, due to the political climate, but that does not make her any less feminine: she can still delight in a bouquet of flowers or appear in an alluring negligee. Nor does she cease to work as a chemist after being fired: she moves her laboratory into her home. Furthermore, the difficulties that Petronika exhibits in her relationship with Norman stem not from an inner friction between her own body and mind, but rather from her husband’s character and the complex nature of their relationship. At times, Petronika’s attitude towards Norman involves pity, criticism, and dislike: Proszę—jeśli ci [Normanie] przeszkadzam—możemy się rozejść! Ja się nie zmienię! (II–303) (Please—if I am in your [Norman’s] way—we can separate! I won’t change!)

110 Complicating the Female Subject . . . jest w tobie pycha, ale nie ma dumy! [. . .] Nie, ach nie, mój biedny Normanku, żal mi cię! Przepraszam. (obejmuje go pełna szczerego współczucia) (II–326) (. . . there’s conceit in you, but no pride! [. . .] No, oh no, my poor little Norman, I’m sorry for you! Forgive me. (embraces him, full of real compassion))

Her tone toward her husband runs the gamut from flippancy and irony, through irritation, to true affection and caring. After the police interrogation, Petronika experiences a moment of despair and a fleeting desire for death: Owszem. . . dlaczegóż by nie. . . niech będzie i to . . . (znowu bierze jedną flaszeczkę do ręki, stawia ją z dreszczem znowu na stole) Słuchajcie moi drodzy . . . schowajcie przede mną te wszystkie moje flaszeczki . . . i próbówki . . . dobrze schowajcie, nawet zamknijcie na klucz! Chcę żyć jeszcze, choć tej głupoty mam potąd (pokazuje szyję) . . . prędzej . . . zabierajcie to wszystko . . . (II–345–346) (Perhaps . . . why not . . . let even that be . . . (again takes one of the little vials into her hand, puts it down on the table with a shiver) Listen to me, my dears . . . hide from me all these vials of mine . . . and the test-tubes . . . hide them well, even lock them away! I still want to live, though I’ve had enough of this stupidity, up to here (shows her neck) . . . faster . . . take away all of this . . .)

She claims that she has returned home only for the sake of her laboratory: “Nie wróciłabym już nawet pod twój dach, gdyby nie to moje biedne laboratorium.” (I wouldn’t have even returned under your roof, if it wasn’t for my poor laboratory.) (II–360). Jasnorzewska shows the desire for suicide and for leaving her husband as a strong character’s fleeting lapse into despair. It is part of the complexity and nonessentialism of this character. In fact, in the same scene a few moments after the despair, Petronika walks off the stage, then reappears in an alluring negligee and exhibits a moment of positive feelings towards Norman. Except for the essentialist activism that unites all the female characters in this play, Jasnorzewska creates a rich collection of varied, nonessentialist women. Petronika is the best example of this three-dimensionality.

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✻✻✻ Finally, let us consider Szczepkowska’s The Falling House, the only play that incorporates a nonessentialist approach to the subject. Undoubtedly, to some degree we can associate each character with a certain social type, a device typical of Realist literature. Count Rakuski is the family patriarch. His son Janek functions as the fickle, spoiled, and grasping heir. The nurse Justyna is an example of the avaricious lower-class person who uses wile to improve her social standing. Barski is the idealistic member of the intelligentsia. However, here, the body/mind juxtaposition does not follow the old division of body—female, versus mind—male. Both sexes are associated with both sides of the juxtaposition. The author endows Filip Rakuski, the family patriarch, both with strong desires and with reason. Rakuski towers over his family, governed by greed, tyranny, sexual lust, and a passion for life itself. He is a powerful character, perfectly capable of achieving his desires. He bullies his family for years, hoards money, prevents his children from living a decent life, and marries his young nurse in order to satisfy his lust. Devoid of any sense of morality or even compassion for his children, Rakuski sees them as parasites, sucking him dry of income and waiting for his death. In the case of his son Janek, that is certainly true. Thus, Rakuski sees no reason why he should let his children “live” by giving them their share of the estate: Na śmierć moją czyhają! Wiem o tym . . . (26) (They’re lying in wait for my death! I know that . . .) . . . rzucacie mi się do gardła i nawet mi żyć nie pozwalacie?? . . . mam się wyliczać z każdego grosza !! (80) (. . . you leap for my throat and don’t even let me live?? . . . do I have to account for every penny!!)

Though governed by emotions and passions, Rakuski is, nevertheless, perfectly lucid and logical about the fact that, given his advanced age, he continuously needs to “buy” the nurse who is the object of his lust: first, in order to get her to marry him, then to make sure she remains his wife. To ensure that he keeps her, he is even willing to sell the estate:

112 Complicating the Female Subject A kiedy do tego dojdzie k o b i e t a ze swoją m ł o d o ś c i ą . . . Wszystko jedno j a k a jest ta kobieta . . . ciepła, młoda, czara życia! Tego w starości nie dostaje się . . . darmo! Ja to wiem. Za to trzeba p ł a c i ć! (79) (And when in addition you get a w o m a n with her y o u t h . . . It doesn’t matter w h a t k i n d of a woman . . . warm, young, a goblet of life! In old age, you don’t get that . . . for free! I know that. One has to p a y for that!)

Szczepkowska forces the audience, if not to empathize with the old tyrant, then at least to respect his overwhelming passion for life. When temporarily paralyzed, when the very act of walking seems to be all important, Rakuski falls into despair and anger. He cannot stand losing not only his independence, but also the ability to indulge in the things that he likes: Przepraszam cię, uniosłem się, ale ja bym ci kazał leżeć bezwładnie i myśleć tylko o tym, że już nigdy nie zrobisz tej najprostszej rzeczy: (z naciskiem) C h o d z i ć ! . . . chodzić! Przenosić się samemu z miejsca na miejsce! I ś ć . . . tam, gdzie się c h c e, woli, lubi! Nie być kłodą! Niemrawą! Nie zależeć od byle kogo! (22) (I’m sorry, I flared up, but what if I ordered you to lie immobile and think only about the fact that you’ll never again do that simplest of things: (emphatically) W a l k! . . . walk! Transport oneself from place to place! W a l k . . . wherever you w a n t, desire, like! Not to be a log! A slug! Not to have to depend on anybody!)

Having regained his health, he fights—viciously, but passionately—for what he desires, for his own happiness. It is true that in the process he is ready to trample on the happiness of his children. However, it is hard to ignore both the genuine anguish and the full-blooded passion, as he explains to his son how he sees old age creeping up on him. The fear of old age makes him only more desirous of exploiting every moment to the fullest: Poczekaj, kiedy dożyjesz mojego wieku, może wtedy zrozumiesz, jak to każdy dzień przeżyty wydaje się . . . łaskawym, nieoczekiwanym d a r e m. Jaki człowiek staje się łapczywy . . . żarłoczny. Jak

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dopiero zaczyna rozsmakowywać się w darze życia! Cóż wy, młodzi wiecie?! Depczecie po życiu, jak słonie! nie rozumiecie, jakie to niepojęte szczęście: B Y Ć ! Tylko być ! Chodzić. Patrzeć. Oddychać. [. . .] Ale przecież nie można rezygnować . . . z życia! (miękko, błagalnie) . . . bo jest niepowrotne, niepowtarzalne . . . jedyne . . . (79) (Wait until you reach my age, then maybe you’ll understand how every day you live appears . . . like a magnanimous, unexpected g i f t. How one becomes rapacious . . . voracious. How one only now begins to delight in the gift of life! What do you young ones know?! You trample over life like elephants! You don’t understand what an unimaginable happiness it is: T O B E! Only B E! To walk! To look! To breathe. [. . .] But one can’t give up . . . on life! (gently, pleadingly) . . . because it is irretrievable, unrepeatable . . . unique . . .)

The other negative male character is the old Count’s son, Janek, the best artistic creation in The Falling House. Janek—jovial, completely self-­ absorbed, and constantly scheming how to improve his lot—is thoroughly negative, though a pleasant villain. While the house literally falls apart around him, he focuses on selling strawberries and cheating at cards in order to be fashionably dressed: (staje na rozkraczonych nogach) Co?? Jak Boga . . . jak Boga kocham . . . wuj Leon! Z nieba nam wujaszek spadł! [. . .] Po prostu z obłoków! . . . (strzela pocałunkami) Niechże wujaszka uściskam! A to niespodzianka! Nareszcie życzliwa dusza, z którą można będzie pogadać. [. . .] Elegancki? Niby ja? no, jak taki światowiec mówi . . . a wie wujaszek co ja noszę? . . . Truskawki! Jedyna żywotna strona tego gospodarstwa. [. . .] Jeżdżę jak woźnica, cztery razy dziennie do Warszawy no i . . . [. . .] Wie wuj co dają mi te truskawki? 50 złotych dziennie, jak łza sieroty! (5) ((stands astride) What?? As God . . . as God loves me . . . Uncle Leon! Uncle’s fallen from the sky! [. . .] Simply out of the clouds! . . . (fires off kisses) Let me hug you, Uncle! What a surprise! At last a sympathetic soul with whom one can talk. [. . .] Elegant? Meaning me?

114 Complicating the Female Subject Well, if such a man of the world says it . . . and does uncle know what I’m wearing? . . . Strawberries! The only life-giving part of this property. [. . .] Like a coachman I drive four times a day to Warsaw and what . . . [. . .] Does Uncle know what those strawberries give me? 50 zlotys per day, like an orphan’s tears!)

Janek methodically and heartlessly woos the besotted Jadzia, daughter of a wealthy industrialist, negotiating with her parents for the best financial arrangements. His actions reflect the fact that he fully subscribes to patriarchal views. According to him, his sisters should never even consider marrying outside their class and should be content with sitting at home, sewing, and preparing meals. However, he is genuinely convinced that, as a man, he has a natural right, first to have affairs, and, second, to marry an industrialist’s daughter upon whom he will bestow the very great honor of carrying the noble name of Rakuski. He proffers his philosophy while describing to his uncle, Leon Barski, the incident of Helena’s broken engagement. Janek helped dissolve his sister’s relationship with the son of a restaurateur so as not to shame the family name. As for himself, he insists that: Ja jestem m ę ż c z y z n a! Za mnie każda kobieta się przejdzie. [. . .] Ale ja mam tytuł! Ja mam resztki fortuny! Ja poprawię czyjąś rasę!! nawet, gdyby była podlejsza . . . Ja jestem kęsek! Ja mogę się ożenić, nawet nie ze szlachcianką, bo ja kryję moim nazwiskiem . . . kryję!! Prawda, to jest zasadnicza różnica!! [. . .] A dziewczyna? Co? Dziewczynę zawsze zdobi mężczyzna! (16) (I’m a m a n! Every woman will walk up the aisle with me. [. . .] But I have a title! I have the remains of a fortune! I will improve someone’s race!! even if it is inferior . . . I’m a morsel! I can marry even nongentry; because I offer my family name . . . offer it!! That is the essential difference, right!! [. . .] And a girl? What? A girl is always adorned by a man!)

In the end, despite all of his scheming, Janek remains an ineffectual figure. The playwright cuts him down to size and he emerges as a small-time villain: able to scheme only for little things, like selling strawberries to buy clothes. He cannot plan far in advance and, therefore, cannot carry through any long-term actions, such as wooing Jadzia. Thanks to his father’s

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miserliness, he was never educated. He lacks the skills necessary to find an acceptable job. In fact, Janek does not even realize that he lacks the needed skills. He cheerfully believes that his family name should be sufficient in itself in obtaining a position. This conviction surfaces in his conversation with Uncle Leon when he bemoans the fact that he cannot get an offer from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs even though he dances beautifully. His uncle’s remarks about Janek’s lack of education and preparation do not make any impression on the young man. JANEK Ooo! właśnie, M.S.Z. to coś dla mnie! Jak te bubasy żyją! podróże, wypitki, wesołe życie . . . jak Boga kocham, ja czuję w sobie powołanie polityczne, [. . .] BARSKI (ze śmiechem) Nie, nie, dziś to już za późno. Trzeba szkół zawodowych, matury . . . JANEK Szkoda, bo ja jestem przystojny, tańczę ładnie . . . BARSKI Eee, to ty, widzę, masz talenty! . . . JANEK A jak? niech się wuj tu popyta o mnie! . . . mazura tak nikt nie poprowadzi! (16) (JANEK Oh! Exactly, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs that’s something for me! How those fellows live! trips, drinks, a merry life . . . as God is my witness, I feel a calling to political life, [. . .] // BARSKI (with laughter) No, no, it’s too late today. You need professional schools, a diploma . . . // JANEK That’s a pity, because I’m good looking, I dance nicely . . . // BARSKI Eh, I see you have talents! // JANEK Of course? You can ask around about me, uncle . . . nobody can lead the mazurka like me! )

Janek’s inability to stick to a plan stems fundamentally from his indecisiveness and choleric temper. On the one hand, other people easily influence

116 Complicating the Female Subject him, emotions taking over reason. He changes his intentions depending on his interlocutor. One minute, after a passionate embrace with Jadzia, he intends to continue his negotiations with her father. A minute later, after listening to his uncle’s plans for land reform, he desires to go into partnership with him to modernize the estate. Later in the play, he declares his readiness to go into partnership with his sister Helena in starting a real estate agency. On the other hand, instead of talking to the nurse Justyna, he erupts in anger, once grabbing her throat, another time aiming a gun at her. For all of his reasoning and supposedly logical planning, Janek, like his father, easily explodes in anger. However, despite a choleric temperament, the old count had the determination to move straight toward what he wanted, the knowledge of how to acquire it, and the tenacity to hang on to it. The Falling House is very much a play about an entire family, with the author presenting both daughters in equal detail. Ludwika, like her father, has strong feelings; in every other way, however, she is a complete opposite to the Count. As a young girl, she fought for her independence from oppressive family traditions. She had broader interests, and wanted to attend the university. When not allowed to do so, she taught herself English. Ty myślisz, że ja zawsze byłam taka? Czyż nie gryzłam rąk, nie biłam w tym samym pokoju głową o ścianę? Tu klęczała przede mną moja matka i płacząc krzyczała: nie zabijaj nas, nie odchodź! Bo chciałam na uniwersytet, w świat! A potem nauczyłam się sama angielskiego, nawiązałam stosunki z kierownikami ruchu wolnościowego w Indiach, . . . (31) (You think that I was always like this? Didn’t I bite my hands; didn’t I hit my head against the wall in this very room? Here my mother knelt in front of me and crying screamed: don’t kill us, don’t leave! Because I wanted to go the university, into the world! Then I learned English on my own, got in touch with the leaders of the independence movement in India, . . .)

Incongruously, she was allowed to attend a conference in Holland, where she fell in love with an Indian. Of course, the family did not permit her to marry this foreigner, who later died in prison. Yet, even as a middle-aged woman—still unmarried—she has retained her intelligence and is capable

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of objectively judging her brother Janek and his abilities or, rather, their lack thereof: Jaki on tam agronom, nie posiada wiedzy zawodowej, praktykował po amatorsku, jakkolwiek zawsze się mówiło, że on obejmie majątek, majątek się rozlazł, Janek stare takie chłopaczysko, właściwie nic nie umie, nie potrafiłby nawet zapracować na kawałek chleba. (29) (What kind of an agronomist is he, he doesn’t have any professional knowledge, he apprenticed like an amateur, even though it was always expected that he would take over the inheritance, the inheritance has come apart at the seams. Janek, such an old boy, doesn’t really know anything; he wouldn’t even know how to earn a piece of bread.)

However, under the relentless tyranny of her father, Ludwika has lost her rebelliousness and broader interests. She has become a defeated, lachrymose, and ineffectual creature. She accepts her situation with great, but forced, meekness and humility, having promised her mother on the latter’s deathbed that she would always take care of her father. Aby tylko przeżyć ten swój czas między godziną urodzin a godziną śmierci . . . (32) (Only to live through this time between the hour of birth and the hour of death . . .) Przysięgłam matce, że ojca nie opuszczę do śmierci! [. . .] (w męce) Przyrzekłam matce . . . (67, 68) (I swore to mother that I wouldn’t leave father until death! [. . .] (in torment) I swore to mother . . .)

Simultaneously, though patriarchy turned Ludwika into a victim, she has become the family’s chronicler. She sees her family as fitting into the ancient framework of its history, visibly symbolized for her by the 500-year-old linden tree growing in front of the house. Studying the past and its heirlooms form a kind of substitute of life for her: Szperałam po bibliotece, znalazłam trochę szpargałów na strychu . . . tu, wiedz o tym, gdzie stoi nasz dwór był dawniej inny okazały

118 Complicating the Female Subject naszych przodków. Tam na prawo trzyma straż lipa . . . [. . .] Pięćset-letnia . . . pod tą lipą jak mówi legenda, leży paź starego już króla, [. . .] Wszystko tu było i wielkość, i namiętność, i namiętność i zbrodnie. Wszystko na tym kawałku ziemi. To są ramy naszego życia, czego szukać gdzie indziej? (30) (I rummaged in the library; I found some scraps of paper in the attic . . . know that here, where our manor house stands there was another splendid house of our ancestors. There on the right the linden stands watch . . . [. . .] Five hundred-year-old . . . as legend has it under this linden lies the page of the old king, [. . .] Everything was here, greatness and passion, passion and crime. Everything on this piece of land. This is the framework of our life, why look elsewhere?)

Szczepkowska presents Ludwika as completely ineffectual, incapable of acting or even demanding anything for herself. Her Christian charity extends to her bullying father, and she feels that she must accept his marriage if it gives him happiness: “A może tak właśnie jest dobrze. Jeżeli jest szczęśliwy . . .” (Maybe this in fact is good. If he’s happy . . .) (66). However, for all her charity and meekness, she herself is always sad and in tears, hurt by the cruelty of others. This is repeatedly emphasized by the stage directions: “w męce” (in torment), “przez łzy” (through tears), and “stoi ze spuszczonymi i zalanymi łzami oczami” (she stands with her eyes lowered and brimming with tears) (68, 26, 87). In the end, when her father remarries and departs for Warsaw, Ludwika is forced to uproot and leave for Paris with her uncle. Ludwika’s sister Helena is a very different character. Along with Leon Barski, she is one of two characters who comes closest to being three-­ dimensional subjects. Whereas Ludwika swore to her dying mother to take care of her father, for Helena, it was the sight of her mother’s corpse that finally pushed her to break out of the family home. She realized how little time she had to “live”: Bo to [tradycja] promieniuje z każdej otaczającej nas osoby, z każdej sytuacji, bo to nosimy we krwi, bo z tego właśnie jesteśmy! i ja bym się nie wygrzebała . . . dopiero śmierć matki . . . ta straszna

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godzina, kiedy ktoś, pełen ruchu i uczuć, ktoś najważniejszy w naszym życiu, ktoś kochany!! w naszych oczach zmienia się na sztywną, zimną, i, ah! Jakże bezbronną r z e c z! [. . .] Powiedziałam sobie: nie! Zanim będę taką właśnie bezbronną, zimną, i godną litości—chcę żyć! Chcę każdy dzień, jak owoc wyssać z trudu, ruchu! (58) (Because this [tradition] radiates from every person who surrounds us, from every situation, because we carry this in our blood, because we are made from this! And I wouldn’t have dug myself out . . . until mother’s death . . . that terrifying hour, when someone, full of motion and feelings, someone who’s most important in our life, someone beloved!! before our eyes changes into a stiff, cold, and oh, so helpless t h i n g! [. . .] I said to myself: no! Before I become just such a helpless, cold, and pitiful thing—I want to live! I want to suck out every day, like a fruit, of its labor, motion!)

Having suffered and escaped from the tyranny of a father, Helena has not completely broken her emotional bonds with the house. At times, she is passionately angry or bitter about the noble traditions that imprisoned her for so long. Whereas the resigned Ludwika sees the ancient trees around the manor house as symbols of the family’s past glory, Helena perceives these same trees as vicious polyps that sucked dry the youth and energy of generations. She would like to cut them down: I za tę zmarnowaną młodość, nienawidzę tych olbrzymich, rozrosłych drzew, rzucających ogromny cień na ten stary, rozsypujący się dom. Każdy z tych konarów żywił się jak polip, naszym śmiechem dziecięcym, naszą młodocianą energią! Pożerał nasze chęci, nasze siły! nasze lata!! idące po sobie . . . z tego są takie wielkie i silne!! (z nienawiścią) To w ich cieniu wyblakła nasza siła, nasza młodość, nasze zamiary! Jakżebym je rąbała i niszczyła, nie tylko za mnie, ale za te wszystkie pokolenia, które w cieniu ich minęły niepotrzebne, bezwartościowe, bezimienne! (59) (And because of that wasted youth, I hate these huge, lush trees, throwing their huge shade on this old, crumbling house. Each of

120 Complicating the Female Subject these branches fed like a polyp on our childish laughter, on our youthful energy! It devoured our desires, our strength! our years!! following each other . . . that’s why they’re so large and strong!! (with hatred) In their shade paled our strength, our youth, our plans! How I would like to hack and destroy them, not only for myself, but for all those generations, which in their shade passed by unneeded, valueless, anonymous!)

In some ways, Helena is her father’s daughter, with a passionate love of life and independence. Old Rakuski despises being dependent on anybody when he is paralyzed and abandons the estate in order to follow his young wife. Helena glories in her very modest independence. Her enthusiastic statements to Uncle Leon are all about work, the fact that she is needed, that she intends to become completely independent, and that she leads a modest life: Pracuję! Nareszcie wiem, po co wstaję, rozumiem wartość każdej godziny, nabrzmiałej sensem, mam to niczym niezastąpione poczucie, że jestem potrzebna. (56) (I’m working! At last I know why I get up, I understand the value of each hour, swollen with meaning, and I have this irreplaceable feeling, that I’m needed.) Ach, mój drogi, przyjdź do mnie, zobaczysz jednopokojowy pałac z pudełkiem radia / 3 złote miesięcznie / półeczkę na książki / abonament 2 złote / stolikiem na cztery osoby. Ani stosunki, ani obżarstwo, tylko malutka szara, żadna . . . ja! Zobaczysz szczęście! (56) (Ah, my dear, come and see me, you’ll see a one-room palace with a box of a radio / 3 zloty per month / a little book shelf / subscription 2 zloty / a table for four people. No relationships, no gluttony, only little gray no one . . . me! You’ll see happiness!)

Szczepkowska presents Helena as an intelligent and effective character, one who knows her rights, is willing to use a lawyer against her father if need be, and is capable of a business-like approach to life. Concurrently, there is

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no indication that she has become defeminized by working, something that happens to Anna in Szczepkowska’s Monika’s Case. In fact, her uncle, upon first seeing her, exclaims “. . . świetnie wyglądasz . . . elegancka, pewna siebie!” (. . . you look wonderful . . . elegant, confidant!) (55). Moreover, despite having herself suffered, she continues to be sympathetic to the sufferings of others, as suggested by her brief exchange with the old servant Wawrzyniec, from whom she inquires about his health (63). Finally, Szczepkowska gives us Uncle Leon Barski. He is the brother of Rakuski’s deceased wife Emilia. Having received a good education, he has joined the ranks of the working intelligentsia and has lived abroad in Paris for a long time. He is an intelligent, sensitive, and in many ways progressive man. He comes back to Poland to sell the land that he still owns, in order to invest it in a publishing company. Barski functions as both the recipient of confidences of the various family members and as the author’s porte-parole. He berates his brother-in-law for his greed and his nephew for his petty egotism. He applauds the independence achieved by Helena and encourages Ludwika to stand up for herself. He decries Ludwika’s passivity: I to jest właśnie najgorsze! Jakże może człowiek żywy do niczego nie dążyć, niczego nie pragnąć? (29) (And that’s precisely the worst! How can a living human being not strive for anything, not desire anything?)

Yet, he recognizes the difficulty of breaking out of the traditional way of life: Tak, mur tradycji, narośnięty z nawyknień, zwyczajów, przesądów . . . w tym tkwi czar, straszna siła! Nie jest łatwo wydobyć się z pod tego czaru . . . (58) (Yes, the wall of tradition, built up from habits, customs, superstitions . . . there’s magic, enormous strength in this! It’s not easy to get out from under that spell . . .)

As I discuss in the next chapter, though Barski thinks that it is time to change social structures and sell the land to the peasants, at the same time, he values tradition. The estate and its heirlooms represent a tradition that

122 Complicating the Female Subject at one time was valuable, caring, and creative. Moreover, Barski, along with Helena, are the two characters through whom the author introduces the theme of morality.

✻✻✻ We have finished analyzing how these playwrights depict the subject in the context of theory. Briefly summarizing, we can note that, with the exception of The Falling House, the writers present male characters much more simplistically and negatively than female characters. This is true even for a play like “Justice,” in which men are actually foregrounded in terms of plot. When it comes to the female subject, only Szczepkowska in Monika’s Case and Nałkowska in House of Women develop the essentialism of female characters into more complete sets of traits. In the other works, the playwrights assign only one or two inherent traits to women. The play that moves furthest from essentialism for both male and female subjects is The Falling House. With the exception of The Falling House and Baba-Dziwo, which offer audiences nonessentialist female characters, all of the other plays introduce “possibilities of change.” The changes that occur always stem from some aspect of “relationality.” Thus, change might occur because of “nonrecognition,” or grief, or the requirements of social norms. In some plays, the writers present change as a conscious development on the part of female characters. In others, the change is “bodily,” that is, emotional, instinctive, caused by time and aging. In general, these writers’ theoretical definitions of the human subject imply a vision of Polish society inherited from the nineteenth century. Regardless of whether men are good or bad, these playwrights suggest that male essentialist traits help men construct social norms, including the role assigned to women. For all the constitutionally guaranteed rights of women in inter-war Poland, society still expects women to fulfill the roles of wife and mother within a patriarchal framework. Yet, though accepting the inevitability of social norms, these writers imply that women can maneuver and learn how to improve their individual situation. Thus, the different “possibilities of change.” Various stimuli, such as grief,

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mourning, love, discrimination, education, and professional competition, can change women and/or their situation. In some cases, the change refers to an internal development and enrichment of understanding and personality, without any external, social benefit to the woman. In others, the opposite occurs: education leads to an improved professional position or the choice of lover produces a good relationship. The picture of how women maneuver in society will emerge more clearly in the next chapter, when we consider the presentation of the human subject against the cultural substratum of national myths.

CH A PT E R 7

The Subject Vis-À-Vis Cultural Myths

T

he attempts to create a feminine—and, to a lesser degree, masculine— subject, as well as the presentations of important issues concerning women, did not occur in a void. On the one hand, social changes taking place during the inter-war period affected the writers. New job and educational opportunities were opening up to women; film was invading culture, while cabarets, where women were often the star performers, were all the rage. On the other hand, the playwrights wrote against the background of various cultural constructs of gender and class, constructs that had been developing for over a century. As discussed in Chapter 2, the 120 years of partitions created unique political and economic conditions that influenced Polish values and ideas. In turn, these values and ideas contributed to the appearance of a Polish national mythology that existed not only as a substratum of the inter-war culture, but that continues until the present as an ever evolving meta-narrative that reappears during moments of crisis. I should remind you that, as discussed, the generally accepted mythologized picture of the nineteenth century bases itself on a “popular blueprint” of Romantic messianism and martyrology. Certainly, all discussions concerning women and their social status in inter-war Poland occur against the backdrop of two myths: the myth of the “dworek” (estate) and the myth of “Matka-Polka” (Mother-Pole). This chapter shows how the individual playwrights present and develop their understanding of the subject while in the process reacting to, interpreting, and/or reinterpreting the myths and their variants.

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The country estate or life in a “dworek” Though the meta-narratives of “szlachetczyzna” (collection of traits associated with gentry) and “demokracja szlachecka” (gentry democracy) were well-established ideas by the beginning of the nineteenth century, it was Adam Mickiewicz’s 1834 verse epic Pan Tadeusz (Mr. Tadeusz) that created the ultimate image of an idyllic, pastoral life on a country estate.1 As the diminutive “dworek” implies, Mickiewicz was depicting the cozy home of an average member of the nobility, not the palatial residences of the aristocracy. The family structure presented in the work is definitely traditional and patriarchal. Though the somber events of history intrude into the plot, the overall mood remains sunny. Over the course of the nineteenth century, as Poles struggled to retain their ethnic identity, Mickiewicz’s “dworek” came to epitomize for Poles an ideal lifestyle. Even after Poland began to industrialize in the second half of the century, the rural estate continued to be the longed for ideal.2 By the time Poland regained independence in 1918, this type of life was fast disappearing. Yet, the desire to be part of this idealized myth of a “dworek szlachecki” (little gentry manor) remained, sometimes subconsciously. Simultaneously, the myth was, in some sense, transferred to and conflated with belonging to the intelligentsia. Thus, anybody who became a part of that class almost unconsciously began to perceive oneself as an heir to the values and images associated with the “dworek” myth. Many sociologists feel that this mentality persists even in twenty-first-century Poland. Eastern European “intelligentsia,” as opposed to “intellectuals,” not only felt an allegiance to a separate social class, but also considered   1. Throughout the history of Western literature, writers have portrayed the countryside as idyllic in one way or another, while seeing cities as problematic in a variety of ways. The Polish pastoral myth is unique in that it focuses on the country estate, rather than on the rustic/rural elements or just on nature itself, though there exist some similarities with the Italian treatment of pastoralism. See Beneš 2001 and Ehrlich 2001.   2. It is enough to consider such classics of Polish literature from the second half of the nineteenth century as Henryk Sienkiewicz’s Trylogia (Trilogy) and Władysław Reymont’s Ziemia obiecana (Promised Land). Both works present the estate as a longed for ideal and bastion of Polishness.

126 Complicating the Female Subject themselves the spiritual leaders of their respective countries, individuals with social obligations3. In Poland, we can discern several generations of intelligentsia, beginning with the 1830s.4 Throughout the nineteenth century and into the twentieth, heated discussions took place around the definition and role of the intelligentsia.5 Undoubtedly, in 1918, this social group experienced a crisis concerning its new role in a sovereign state.6 What united all of the generations of intelligentsia was their “postawa narodowowyzwoleńcza” (stance of national liberation).7 This stance made the intelligentsia into the heirs of the “szlachta” (nobility).8 Romantic historiography went through a series of steps in order to evolve this link. First, Romantic historians stress the fact that the “demokracja szlachecka” (democracy of the nobility) struggled for freedom from monarchical oppression. Next, they see the definition of “nation” expanding in the eighteenth century from the ten percent of nobility to the Polish people more generally. Once Poland lost its independence, the idea of struggling against the king turned into the “insurrection” myth of struggling against the foreign oppressor. The intelligentsia spiritually, and sometimes actually, led the nation in its struggles during the partitions. Thus, they conclude, society began to perceive this group as the heirs of the “szlachta” (nobility).9 Returning to the inter-war period, one sees that literary presentations of estates moved in a number of directions. With the restoration of independence, the patriotic interpretation of the myth was no longer the only acceptable variant. Some writers did adopt a Chekhovian tone of lyric nostalgia about an ideal that would soon be gone. Others, however, revealed a much more critical approach than had prevailed during the nineteenth century. Still others, in one way or another, wholly or partially overturned the myth. Four of the plays—The Deep at Zimna, Egyptian Wheat, House of Women, and The Falling House—grapple with the concept of subject in an   3. Plach 2006, 10–11; Hass 1999, 108 and Warońska 2010, 43.   4. Hass 1999, 123–149.   5. Zarycki 2008, 86–99.   6. Szpakowska 2012, 117–118 and Warońska 2010, 48, 51.   7. Hass 1999, 121–122.   8. Zarycki 2008, 87; and Hass 1999, 43, 111.   9. For a clear summary of this evolution, see TÖrnquist-Plewa 1992, 119–123.

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estate setting. What differentiates these works from the majority of inter-war works on this topic written by men is the focus on the situation of women on the estate. All four writers either strip the estate of the lyrical, idyllic, and patriotic associations that it connoted during partitioned Poland or in some way overturn the myth.

✻✻✻ In The Deep at Zimna, Rylska shows how positive tradition becomes negative fossilized practice that oppresses women. She adopts some of the lyrical, emotion-driven conventions of Chekhovian dramas, over the course of the play creating a sense of almost oneiric stasis. The author combines these Chekhovian elements with a realistic and acute psychological analysis, especially of the main character. As discussed in Chapter 5, once subjects reach adulthood, they lose their creativity, emotional and intellectual curiosity, and even their morality. They replace these positive attributes with a hypocritical conventionalization and fossilization. In a shallow and grotesque fashion, the social conventions that appear in adulthood uphold a patriarchal stranglehold on the family, a double moral standard, as well as the oppression of women. The patriarch, Mr. Kercz, controls his little kingdom with an iron hand, but also with an extreme conventionalism in terms of patriarchal expectations. For example, he expects absolute compliance on the part of his wife. She must accept his romance with the governess, Miss Tola, while fulfilling her responsibility of raising the children. Bringing up children as good Poles by wives was always part of both the “dworek” and the “Matka-Polka” myth. Thus, when his young son, Antoś, misbehaves, Kercz does not reprimand him directly, but rounds sharply on his wife, telling her to do so (12). The author depicts Kercz’s romance with similar conventionality. Though affairs were never openly part of the estate myth, a double moral standard in terms of sexual behavior was always an unspoken norm. On the one hand, when dealing with Miss Tola, Kercz relies on the conventional and sentimental gallantry toward women popularly associated with the Polish nobleman. On the other hand, he often employs diminutives that convey a condescending attitude toward women, whom he treats as unintelligent children:

128 Complicating the Female Subject Brawo, brawo kochana panno Tolu—jest pani prawdziwą artystką. Ślicznie nam pani zagrała to presto. (11) (Bravo, bravo dearest Miss Tola—you are a true artist. You played that presto for us beautifully.) Subtelna kobieca dusza mimozy. (11) (A woman’s subtle soul of mimosa.) Czekają [konie] już dwie godziny—panno Tolusiu. (83) (They [horses] have already been waiting for two hours—little Miss Tola.)

Kercz uses a similar mix of conventionality and condescension toward his daughter. This kind of behavior is especially apparent in the last act when Nika tries to have a serious conversation with her father about his romance, while Kercz keeps turning everything into a joke: Niech pani [Tola] zostawi tę smarkatę [Nikę] i nie stara się jej czegośkolwiek wytłumaczyć. Znajduje się ona w tym cielęcym wieku, że opozycja dla opozycji wydaje się jej rozumem i oryginalnością— (14) (Miss, you [Tola] should leave this brat [Nika] alone and not try to explain anything to her. She is at that puppy stage when opposition for the sake of opposition seems to her to be reasonable and original—) Czego więc przestraszyła się [Tola]. Zrobiłaś [Nika] jej jaką straszną minę? Do niedawna lubiłaś ćwiczyć się przed lustrem w robieniu strasznych min— (80) (So what was she [Tola] frightened of? Did you [Nika] make a horrible face at her? Until recently, you liked to practice making horrible faces in front of the mirror—)

At one point, he even stands Nika between his legs, as one might do to lecture a small child: Obraca krzesło—siada znów na nim opiera się plecami o poręcz, przyciąga córkę stawia ją między kolanami jak małe dziecko. (81)

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(Turns his chair—sits down on it again, leans against the back, pulls his daughter toward him, places her between his knees like a small child.)

Though insensitive to Nika’s emotional needs, he is astute in the handling of his daughter. On the one hand, he treats her like a small child. On the other hand, he bestows upon her lascivious looks, comments, and even a caress. Such a dual approach confuses Nika. She is unable to stand up to him, is reduced to one-word answers. The conversation never takes place: (Bardzo zmieszana) Ojcze. (81) ((Very disconcerted) Father.) (Która już wysunęła się z pomiędzy jego kolan—patrzy w ziemię— sztywna i niedostępna) Jak uważasz ojcze. (82) ((Who has already moved out from between his knees—looks at the ground—very stiff and unapproachable) As you think best, father.) (niedbale) Przypuszczam, że może nie. (82) ((carelessly) I presume that perhaps not.)

Mrs. Kercz suffers acutely because of her husband’s romance, but she still plays the role of matriarch and grande dame, still upholds the status quo. Rylska shows a woman who is both a victim of patriarchy and an abettor of the system. In order to deal with the painful situation, she puts on a mask of artificial sweetness combined with a conventional dignity: Nagle zwróciła głowę w stronę pianistki [Toli], przybrała słodki wyraz twarzy, opuściła robotę na kolana—[. . .] i uśmiechnęła się z mdłą i konwencjonalną, bezbarwną czułostkową uprzejmością, złożyła białe jak z waty ręce do oklasku—do sfingowanego oklasku— albowiem waciane ręce go nie wydały) (11) (She suddenly turned her head in the direction of the pianist [Tola], took on a sweet expression, laid her needlework on her lap—[. . .] and smiled with a bland and conventional, colorless mawkish politeness, put together her white, cotton-like hands as if for applause—a fake applause—since cotton hands didn’t produce it)

130 Complicating the Female Subject In the instances in which she is in the presence of Kercz and Tola, the playwright further emphasizes her mask with such stage directions as “pedantycznie” (pedantically), “konwencjonalnie” (conventionally), “ceremonialnie” (ceremoniously) (11, 15). The mask also remains on when Nika confronts her about Kercz’s romance. By refusing to discuss the romance and the question of morality, she abets the patriarchal system with its double standard. She coldly answers Nika, forbidding her even to think about the situation with her father: (Po chwili wyniośle) To ciebie nic nie obchodzi Niko, kiedy ojciec powróci. (28) ((After a moment with hauteur) Nika, it is not your concern at all when your father returns.) To bardzo niestosowne pytania—Niko (29) (That is a very inappropriate question—Nika) (Już się opanowała, zesztywniała, mówi ze zwyczajną pedanterią, bez serdeczności, konwencjonalnie, oschle) Uspokój się Niko—a przede wszystkim nic sobie nie wyobrażaj. (30) ((She has already controlled herself, has stiffened, she speaks with her usual pedantry, without warmth, conventionally, drily) Calm down Nika—and above all don’t imagine anything.)

Though Rylska does not make the other major male character in The Deep at Zimna, Aleksander Kłosek, a villain like Kercz, she definitely endows him with negative traits. Kłosek is not without sensitivity toward the emotional condition of others, though, like Kercz, he exhibits strong passions: a consuming attraction for the adolescent heroine, Nika. Concurrently, he is a weak and ineffectual character, with an inferiority complex resulting from his lower social status. It is not morality, but an acute class consciousness that causes him to back away from Nika. An awareness of his low social status within this patriarchal household seems never to leave him. For example, when Mrs. Kercz comes upon him at night talking to her daughter, she puts on her grande dame condescension: (unosi łuki brew w górę co ma oznaczać dystyngowane zdziwienie i jeszcze bardziej dystyngowaną naganę) Ach—taaaak (pauza)

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dobranoc panu panie—panie—(jakby szukała w pamięci) Kłosek (27) ((lifts her eyebrows to signify dignified surprise and an even more dignified criticism) Ah—yeeees (pause) goodnight Mr.—Mr.—(as if searching in her memory) Kłosek)

The playwright describes Kłosek’s reaction to this treatment as “unicestwiony” (annihilated) (26). He bows and leaves without trying to explain himself (27). Yet, he is an intelligent and well-educated man, quite capable of answering Nika’s myriad questions. Nevertheless, Kłosek fulfills the conventional role of the meek and humble tutor, effacing himself at the least sign of criticism from his employers. Only at the very end of the play does he seem to defy his social status by acquiescing to meet Nika in the garden. The question is this: does his passion win out or is he ready to defy social norms? In reference to this character, Rylska offers a telling moment in the stage directions that emphasizes the arduousness of keeping on the mask of conventionality. She describes the tutor in detail as he is wandering around the house at night, thinking himself unseen: (Usta skrzywione jak po przełknięciu proszku chininy, policzki obwisłe jakby odtajały po zamrożeniu przymusem towarzyskim. Ręce obwisłe jak martwe, oczy w słup nieruchome.) (35) (Mouth contorted as if after swallowing quinine, cheeks flabby as if thawed after having been frozen by social constraints. Arms hanging loosely, as if dead, eyes fixed, unmoving.)

Meanwhile, Tola fulfills the conventional role of the sensitive, young, and unmarried girl, whose place in this structure is that of governess—though she is neither young nor morally innocent. Every statement of hers breathes emotional and aesthetic sensibility produced in a tone of histrionics and exaltation, with the addition of a considerable dose of girlish coquetry, which ill suits a woman in her thirties: (z egzaltacją i pretensjonalnością) Tak—rzeczywiście—czułam, gram dzisiaj lepiej niż kiedykolwiek—Ale to nie była moja zasługa—tylko tych, którzy mnie słuchali—(Patrzy przeciągle na pana Kercza) (11)

132 Complicating the Female Subject ((with exaltation and pretension) Yes—in fact—I felt that I was playing better than ever before—But that’s not my achievement— but of those who were listening to me—(Looks for a long time at Mr. Kercz)) (obejmuje Antosia patetycznym ruchem—głos słodki jak zapach akacji) O niech się pan na niego nie gniewa. (12) ((embraces Antoś with a gesture full of pathos—a voice sweet as the aroma of acacia) Oh sir, please don’t be angry with him.) (figlarnie z banalną zalotnością) Czy naprawdę? Jak one prychają— To na dobrą wróżbę—[. . .] (Biegnie ku drzwiom jak młoda dzieweczka, w progu zatrzymuje się) Pa—Nikuś—A nie martw się bez potrzeby tem co przeszło—(84) ((playfully with banal coquetry) Really? How they snort—That’s for good luck—[. . .] (Runs to the door like a young girl, stops on the threshold) Bye—my little Nika—And don’t worry about that which has passed—)

As discussed in Chapter 5, Rylska shows that children, not yet fossilized, are creative, spontaneous, and imaginative. They are also “nonrecognized,” their needs and desires ignored by adults. Here, what is important is that Rylska endows children—the “nonrecognized” subjects of the patriarchal hierarchy—with a sense of morality. Thus, Nika strongly condemns her father’s immoral behavior: Przecież ojciec jest twoim mężem—mamo. Ty go kochasz—on ciebie także powinien kochać. [. . .] Bo ojciec jest dla niej [Toli] przecież jeszcze więcej obcym człowiekiem niż pan Aleksander dla mnie. Bo pan Aleksander niema ani żony, ani dzieci i obowiązku kochania ich (29) (After all father is your husband—mama. You love him—he should also love you. [. . .] Because for her [Tola] father is even more of a stranger than Mr. Aleksander is for me. Because Mr. Aleksander does not have either a wife or children, or the obligation to love them)

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Moreover, she lashes out at her mother’s criticism, saying she is putting ideas into her—that is, Nika’s—head, attributing connotations to her conversations with Kłosek that she herself never entertained: Wy starzy tylko wogóle po to jesteście aby nam młodym przywodzić na myśl rzeczy, któreby same nigdy do nas nie przyszły, . . . (29) (You old ones in general exist only to put ideas into our young heads, ideas that would not come to us by themselves, . . .)

Yet, though she admonishes her mother for standing by and doing nothing to intervene, she also strongly feels her mother’s pain, even criticizing herself for inviting Tola for the summer, thus sparking the affair (30). At the same time, the playwright complicates the situation and paints a nuanced and realistic picture, because she shows how an adolescent’s emotional instability can lead to attempted murder, despite the heroine’s sense of morality. Overall, Rylska presents a damning picture of life on the estate: a nobleman who is a tyrannical, hypocritical, and conventional ruler of his dominion. Within this little world, the playwright also discusses the broader implications of patriarchy for the definition of subject. She sees all subjects—male and female—moving from nonessentialism, creativity, sensitivity, and morality to the fossilized conventionalism of adulthood. In some sense, therefore, the author’s pessimistic vision of existence makes even Kercz a victim of this natural progression into adulthood. However, Rylska focuses on the results of social “nonrecognition” in a Hegelian/ Butlerian sense. The estate is a world that does not recognize the needs and rights of both children and women, that allows the patriarch to do what he wants. Yet, for the author, the “nonrecognized” children are the guardians of morality, not the “pater familias” who safeguards tradition.

✻✻✻ “Nonrecognition” in an estate setting is one element that links Rylska’s The Deep at Zimna with Jasnorzewska’s Egyptian Wheat. However, in the latter play, the reasons for the “nonrecognition” stem as much from Jasnorzewska’s idiosyncratic theory of love and subjectivity, as they are the result of the

134 Complicating the Female Subject patriarchal setting. In Egyptian Wheat, the question of love intertwines with life on an estate, especially with the issue of marriage. Despite the seriousness of the themes, the tone of Jasnorzewska’s play is much more parodic and less menacing than that of Rylska’s play. Wiktor combines a romantic appearance with the inter-war fashion for healthy living, all leavened with an unpleasant character and a doubtful intelligence. As in The Deep at Zimna, the family patriarch expects absolute compliance from his wife. Throughout the play, his attitude toward his wife is one of patronizing compassion, easily shifting to irritation. Scattered stage directions confirm this: “Uśmiech protekcji i wyrozumiałości” (A patronizing and indulgent smile); “odbiera jej zeszyt, składa nie całkiem żartobliwie” (he takes away the magazine, not quite jokingly); “niecierpliwie” (impatiently); “z lekkim szyderstwem” (with slight sarcasm) (I–432, 434, 435). As the owner of an estate, Krzeptowski requires an heir to inherit the patrimony and carry on his name. His desire for an heir oscillates between the ludicrous and the threatening. Krzeptowski married a young, romantic girl, Ruta, genuinely in love with him, and an aspiring dancer. However, in his role as patriarch, the only thing that he demands from his wife is an heir. He stops noticing her beauty, while her attempts at romantic flirtation only irritate him. When an heir is not forthcoming, he forces his wife to undergo various treatments in the hope of improving her fertility. This is where “body vulnerability” appears, the idea that the wife’s body is the property of the husband, to do with as he pleases. Since the treatments produce no result, Krzeptowski forces Ruta to accept his out-of-wedlock child as her own. In the end, his wife will have her revenge, since the heir turns out to be a foundling. Presumably, Krzeptowski was infertile, while Ruta gives birth outside the bounds of marriage. Furthermore, as in her other plays, Jasnorzewska presents Krzeptowski as a husband in league with the “babsztyle” (hags)—older women who have lost their beauty and who force young women into maternity. Together, husbands and older women are the guardians of the patriarchal system, ensuring that it endures. This system includes the suffering and self-sacrificing image of Mother-Pole. For Krzeptowski, the image means that pain must accompany childbirth. That is normal, traditional, and for

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him there is something scandalous, even unnatural, in the fact that Ruta chooses to give birth without pain, under sedation (I–537). Jasnorzewska is merciless in her presentation of the patriarch. In the second half of the play, she shows how he retains his vanity despite having aged and grown a paunch. Moreover, the author depicts his feelings on pregnancy as bordering on the obsessive: O! ja nie zaniedbuję ćwiczeń fizycznych. Co dzień rano na wiosnę marienbad i spacer. Chodzi o linię. Nawet pas gumowy noszę, wie pan? Bo cóż? Kobieta brzemienna, której linia się zaokrągla, to widok godny najwyższego zainteresowania . . . [. . .] Bo u kobiety to jest życie, początek nowego bytu! To jest wspaniałe! Ale mężczyzna z brzuszkiem—to smętny koniec, to brzemienność, ale śmierci . . . (I–485) (Oh! I don’t neglect physical exercise. Every morning in spring a cold bath and a walk. It’s a question of my figure. You know, sir, I even wear a rubber belt. Because why? A pregnant woman whose figure expands is a sight worthy of the greatest interest . . . [. . .] Because in a woman this is life, the beginning of a new existence! It’s wonderful! But a man with a paunch—that’s a sad ending, that’s a pregnancy, but of death . . .)

Yet, Jasnorzewska makes Krzeptowski a more interesting figure by emphasizing the enormous love that he has for Horacy (see Chapter 5). This is actually a love that opposes traditional patriarchy: Horacy is not his legitimate heir; he is not even his biological child. In showing this love, the writer questions the system in yet another way. If such strong love occurs outside the established patriarchal system, then maybe the system is not worth much. Krzeptowski’s love also undercuts the image of Horacy. In most respects, the young man is the typical, two-dimensional lover of Jasnorzewska’s comedies (see Chapter 5). He is good looking, moody in a Byronic fashion, exalted as a lover. With Ruta, he keeps lapsing into Young Poland-like clichés, as when he tells Ruta “Teraz nie myślę o tobie, ale żyję tobą . . .” (I don’t think about you now, I live you) (I–549) and “Gdybym mógł, darowałbym ci taką [gwiazdę],

136 Complicating the Female Subject ale całą z ogromnych brylantów.” (If I could, I would offer you such a [star], only entirely out of huge diamonds.) (I–556). Yet, the fact that he completely rejects Krzeptowski’s love suggests a definite lack of sensitivity and/or intelligence. After all, the older man genuinely loves him. Even Ruta, who has suffered so much and has every reason to resent her husband, recognizes the genuineness of the feelings and tries to soften the blow for Krzeptowski. The author sets Egyptian Wheat on an estate. However, what is important is that she presents men and male power in the same way both in plays set on the estate and in those set elsewhere. This continuity results from the fact that, unconsciously, Jasnorzewska treats the intelligentsia as a newer manifestation of the nobility, passing seamlessly from estate to urban setting and back. Perhaps the clearest example of this merging occurs in the play Dowód osobisty (Personal ID), in which the Zebrzydowiecki family resides in the city, even though they are clearly descendants of the nobility with their own coat of arms. In this respect, Rylska’s The Deep at Zimna and Szczepkowska’s The Falling House are different, focusing on the estate as a specific social phenomenon. Returning to Egyptian Wheat, we see that, in this particular work, Jasnorzewska juxtaposes the two not so bright examples of nobility (in Horacy’s case by upbringing) with a male of a completely different type. Wahtang Sziradze is Krzeptowski’s Georgian business partner. However, his profession does not interest Jasnorzewska. As usual, she focuses instead on the personal relations of the characters. Here, Jasnorzewska endows Sziradze with characteristics not usually present in her male subjects. Sziradze exhibits great sensitivity and intuition, emotional complexity, poeticism, and a heightened sense of aesthetics. In many ways, he is a true soul mate for the romantic Ruta, with whom he is in love. With the creation of this character, the author makes a statement about “normal” Polish men on the estate, whom she depicts as lacking all these positive traits. In Sziradze, such traits are possible because he is an outsider: neither a Pole nor a man conforming to societal norms. On the one hand, he is a cultured foreigner who speaks Polish with an accent and throws in Russian and French words. On the other, he has the eyes of a woman and the movements of a panther: Typ oczywiście wschodni, oczy pięknej kobiety. Erotyczna poezja której absolutny brak przykro daje się odczuwać w Wiktorze,

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rozkwita w nim z orientalnym przepychem. Ruchy ma płowe (fauves), znać w nim siłę skupioną i gotową do skoku. (I–444) (Of course an Eastern type, the eyes of a beautiful woman. Erotic poetry—whose complete absence is unpleasantly felt in Wiktor— blossoms in him with an oriental splendor. His movements are yellowbrown (fauves), one feels in him a strength that is focused and ready to jump.)

As so often happens in her poetry and plays, Jasnorzewska’s presentation of this character has a fin-de-siècle flavor to it: the description of movement through colors (fauves), the heightened eroticism that opposes the health-conscious atmosphere of the inter-war period, and the elements of an Oriental androgyny. Besides physical characteristics, the author creates a sense of androgyny through two other elements: Sziradze’s womanly interest in all gossip and his intuitive flair that gives him a quick insight into many situations. These two traits allow him to be an important catalyst of action in Egyptian Wheat. It is he who hints to Ruta and Wiktor of the latter’s infidelity, thus making his successful rival uncomfortable; he who lets Horacy know that he is not committing incest; and he who unexpectedly sends Ruta flowers after the birth of her child. In contrast to Jasnorzewska’s other plays, in which plot derives from the actions of female characters, here, the plot moves forward thanks to Sziradze’s hints. Nevertheless, Jasnorzewska does not choose this oriental example of sensitive androgyny as an acceptable partner for Ruta. She reserves that role for the usual sentimental lover, for a Polish man, as negative as his presentation may be. Sziradze’s role remains that of catalyst for the development of both Ruta and the plot. In addition, he is the only nonessentialist character in this play. The playwright only adds touches here and there that slightly round out the other characters. Part of the difference in characterization between The Deep at Zimna and Egyptian Wheat stems from the genres of the two works. The former is a lyrical/psychological drama; therefore, more rounded characters would be the norm. The latter is a comedy, a genre, for the most part, based on stock characters. Despite the influence of genre and personal ideology on Jasnorzewska’s essentialist approach to the subject, she actually goes much further than Rylska in undermining the estate myth and, with it, the patriarch’s authority.

138 Complicating the Female Subject Not only does Jasnorzewska make Krzeptowski a humorous figure, but she also has him being deceived by the servant girl, Karolina, and raising an “heir” who is not biologically his son. Where she differs from traditional nineteenth-century comedies, like those of Aleksander Fredro, is in not restoring traditional social norms at the end of the play. Instead, at the end, though Ruta’s situation remains unsettled, with suggestions that her happiness is a temporary condition, the estate and its way of life collapse because Krzeptowski loses control over Ruta and Horacy. The young lovers leave the estate and move into a hotel.10 The transient nature of the hotel setting shows that, at least in this play, the question of what is to follow the mythologized estate remains unresolved. In addition, the fact that Jasnorzewska does not make the sensitive, nonessentialist Sziradze an acceptable partner for Ruta adds to the play’s ambiguity. Even though the writer abolishes the estate, a certain traditionalism of views remains, if the acceptable lover must be a Pole.

✻✻✻ At first glance, Szczepkowska’s The Falling House may appear to be more traditional than the preceding works. The storyline fits into the conventions of a realistic social drama, critically presenting life on a decaying estate. The playwright’s criticism of the tyranny, greed, and narrow-mindedness of the male members of the family adheres to audience expectations, and is in line with a tradition that goes back to the comedies of Aleksander Fredro. Yet, as discussed in the previous chapter, a closer look reveals that in fact this play is very innovative in that the playwright abolishes essentialist traits for both male and female characters.11 At the same time, gone is the sunniness and lightheartedness of more traditional dramas about 10. On Ruta’s situation at the end of the play, see Galant 2009 and Kot 2015. 11. I disagree with Joanna Godlewska’s view that this play represents a “porażka” (defeat) for women. In her opinion, in Silent Power, women strove towards a “dyktatura kobieca” (women’s dictatorship), whereas here, they are satisfied with just being independent. For me, the ideological innovativeness of this play lies on an existential level. Assuming the nonessentialism of all human beings, as well as demanding the same morality for both sexes, exemplifies a more mature understanding of emancipation. See Godlewska 1984.

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estates. For example, Fredro was highly critical of many aspects of the landowning class. Yet, his works, for all their sharp social satire, are funny comedies that restore the traditional, patriarchal order at the end. For Szczepkowska, the estate is neither an idyllic rural home nor a haven. It functions as a prison for all of its characters, including the family patriarch. In the end, the home/prison breaks apart, scattering its inhabitants. The central focus of this work is morality, both on the personal level and on a broader social scale. On the personal level, the author insists on applying the same moral code to both men and women. The double standard in terms of relationships and sex is condemned. Not only should a woman be allowed to marry whomever she chooses, but also, in order for a male subject to be considered positive in this play, he must be faithful. Szczepkowska uses primarily the characters of Helena and Barski to transmit her ideas on morality and fair play. Helena is at times bitter, thinking of how badly the family treated her. She opposes both her brother Janek’s ideas on marriage and her father’s ruthlessness. She does not treat the family name of Rakuski as a sacred emblem, one that allows its male holders to do what they want in terms of sexual mores, while greatly limiting choices in the female line. Helena clearly favors freedom of choice for everybody. According to her, Janek can marry as he wills, but she also has the right to choose her own spouse: “a jak będę wychodziła zamąż to na własny użytek, nie dla przyjemności mego rodu.” (when I’m ready to get married, I will do so for my own pleasure, not for the pleasure of the family.) (61). She also does not oppose her father marrying Justyna (as long as she receives her share of the estate), for in her eyes everyone has the right to pursue their dreams: Ojciec ma, powiedzmy, prawo do swego osobistego życia, ale i my mamy także prawo. Co prawda ojciec nam go dotychczas.. odmawiał. No, ale jak powiedział Janek, wszystko już jest za nami. Zostaje nam tylko rozsądek i trochę . . . sprawiedliwości. (80) (Father, let’s say you have the right to your personal life, but we also have that right. It’s true that up till now . . . you refused us that right. But, as Janek said, all that is behind us. We are now left only with reason and a bit of . . . justice.)

140 Complicating the Female Subject Similarly, Barski condemns his nephew’s lack of morality, including the fact that he pursues Jadzia only for her money. Unfortunately, it is doubtful that the badly educated and conceited Janek even understands his uncle’s ironic tone: Wiesz, jestem już starszy pan, ale myślę, że dwie kobiety naraz, to trochę nie w porządeczku . . . (35) (I know I’m already an old man, but I think that two women at the same time are not quite all right . . .) No . . . ale widzisz, ludzie wytworzyli sobie tak zwaną moralność . . . (36) (But you see, people have created for themselves so-called morality . . .)

Barski’s sense of fair play leads him to support and praise Helena’s independence: Tak, Helenko, doszłaś do tej dojrzałości, której połowa ludzi nie osiąga nigdy, masz słuszność, nikt za ciebie życia nie przeżyje, i dlatego nie ma prawa o twoim życiu decydować . . . (58) (Yes, Helena, you have achieved that maturity which half of mankind never achieves, you’re right, nobody will live your life for you, and, therefore, no one has the right to decide for you about your life . . .)

In Barski’s eyes, Helena did the right thing by leaving an oppressive home, a family that broke up her engagement simply because the man she loved was not a nobleman. Moreover, he strongly and repeatedly encourages Ludwika to do the same, while still acknowledging the difficulty of breaking away from centuries of tradition. Furthermore, Szczepkowska expands her interest in morality from the strictly personal to the social. Helena emphasizes the modesty of her home and lifestyle (56). By doing so, she introduces another theme: a democratic need for the leveling of class differences. She further proclaims that she will begin the process of democratization by tackling a very democratic kind of job: running a real estate agency (60). Barski’s ideas on morality vis-à-vis social issues focus specifically on his attitude toward the land that he owns. He has come back to Poland intending to sell his part of the estate in order to invest it abroad. Meeting his family only

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strengthens his intention to sell the land to the local peasants. They may be grasping and uncouth at times, but they are the ones who work on this land and who really care about it. Therefore, they deserve to own it. Barski thinks that his aristocratic family members have lost the right of ownership. They no longer function as careful custodians who utilize the land in a meaningful way. Instead, they simply sell it piece by piece or grow the most profitable crop, such as strawberries, in order to make money quickly: Wy, którzy się tej ziemi wyzbywacie, którzy żyjecie ze sprzedaży tej ziemi, jakież wy macie do niej prawo? Rola wasza skończyła się, należy wywekslować na inne tory, nie pasożytować na niej! [. . .] Ja sprzedam tę ziemię nie wam, jak chce tego twój ojciec . . . [. . .] ale ja tę ziemię sprzedam . . . chłopom. (37) (You, who are getting rid of this land, who live off of the sale of this land, what right do you have to it? Your role has ended, it’s time to switch tracks, not be parasites on it! [. . .] I will sell this land not to you, as your father would like . . . [. . .] but I will sell this land . . . to the peasants.)

Moreover, like his niece Helena, Barski also clearly believes that everyone must act to help eradicate class differences. That includes members of the gentry: Ale wiedz o tym, że wszyscy musimy się troskać, aby zniwelować potworne nierówności, bo inaczej będzie źle, mój ty przedstawicielu warstwy uprzywilejowanej . . . [spoken to Janek] (40) (But know that we must all take care to even out the horrible inequalities, because otherwise, things will go badly, you, my representative of the privileged classes . . .)

Yet, Szczepkowska does not dismiss the value of family tradition. Barski, despite his liberalism and sense of fair play, respects and appreciates his family’s long history—above all, the artifacts associated with it—that is, the manor house and the art objects passed down from generation to generation. He is upset to discover that not only is the house disintegrating, but that the family has been selling off the heirlooms: Bójcie się Boga, toż to niedawno, przed moim wyjazdem do Paryża, piętnaście lat, jaki on był, ten wasz stary dwór. Ten salon..

142 Complicating the Female Subject ten sam salon.. o tu.. stał świetny garnitur mebli! Tu wisiały portrety: podkomorzego, dziadka Ojrzyńskiego, tu hr. Walewskiej, tu cesarza, prawie nasz, do licha powinowaty! Czemu ta podłoga taka goła i brudna? Tu obok był mniejszy salon.. pamiętam, z kolekcją starej broni i porcelany? (6) (Oh my God, not too long ago, before my departure for Paris, fifteen years, what was this old manor house of yours like. This drawing room . . . this very drawing room . . . oh, here . . . stood an excellent suite of furniture! Here hung portraits: chamberlain, grandfather Ojrzyński, here countess Walewska, here the emperor, almost, confound it, a relative! Why is this floor so bare and dirty? Here adjacent was a smaller drawing room . . . I remember, with a collection of old weapons and porcelain?)

Though the tone of The Falling House is very different from that of Egyptian Wheat, Szczepkowska, like Jasnorzewska, ends the play by destroying life on the estate. The author shows no sympathy for the mythic estate with its supposedly idyllic, patriarchal way of life. Rather, she presents it as both a prison to be broken out of and a patrimony no longer deserved by the family, whose patriarchal norms have degenerated into a tyranny that especially discriminates against women. In the end, not only does Ludwika—it can be assumed—leave with Uncle Barski and Helena go back to her work, but even the patriarch Rakuski abandons what is left of the estate in pursuit of his passions. At the same time, Szczepkowska is not a radical who only wishes to raze the estate. She respects the traditions of the earlier periods, when life on the estate still had value, when its inhabitants cared for the land and lovingly built up a certain way of life. Based on Barski’s statements, the author finds patronage of the arts especially important, a patronage that no longer exists.

✻✻✻ Finally, in connection with the “dworek” myth, we need to consider Nałkowska’s play House of Women. Neither inter-war critics nor contemporary ones have really remarked on the fact that, in its own way, this play overturns the myth in quite a radical way. The work shows a fictional world

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in which a group of women lives on and runs an estate, not during times of partitions and their husbands’ exile to Siberia, but during independent Poland. Though there are hints that Maria, who shoulders the primary responsibility for the day-to-day running of the estate, struggles at times, there is no indication that she will fail or that the women will have to move. Rather, the writer gives her audience an estate with a matriarch instead of a patriarch, a multigenerational family living for the most part in harmony, as tradition dictates, but without any men! Though not destroying the image of the estate, as Szczepkowska does in The Falling House by having its inhabitants breach the walls and escape, Nałkowska stands the myth on its head. Furthermore, Nałkowska makes the garden not just a place of beauty and solace, but also a workplace where Maria supervises a number of hired helpers. In other words, this is an active manor with a normal agricultural routine. Traditionally in Western literature, ties to the land have given strength and importance to the owners, overwhelmingly men. Here, as part of her reversal, the author gives those ties and that strength to women.12 In the previous chapter, I discussed the fact that Nałkowska perceives the subject—male and female—as essentialist, that she presents men as negative and women as positive and capable of developing. Moreover, in this play, “change” for the author means finding “one’s voice,” reaching one’s essence, rather than adjusting to male-constructed society. The process of development requires a haven away from society. Therefore, the estate assumes the important function of a haven, a refuge where the women can recoup. As mentioned in Chapter 5, the fact that a walled garden surrounds the manor house adds to this effect. The characters repeatedly mention the idea of keeping out the world, of locking the gates. Hidden away from the real world, the women can go through the process of change. Barbara Smoleń’s comparison of House of Women with Federico Garcia Lorca’s House of Bernarda Alba, written at about the same time, makes this idea of a haven clearer. Whereas, in Lorca’s work, the house serves as a prison that gradually destroys the women, in Nałkowska’s play, the estate is a refuge to 12. For the historical connection in different cultures between gardens and estates, see Wickham 2012, 31–54, 60–81, and 113–134; Beneš 2001, and Ehrlich 2001. For a Modernist connecting of gardens and power in the writing of Virginia Woolf, see Saguaro 2006, 6–21.

144 Complicating the Female Subject which the women come voluntarily in order to gain strength, and find their own voice.13 Finally, in perhaps an unconscious wink at the brotherhood of “bracia szlachta” (brothers gentry) traditionally associated with the estate myth, Nałkowska offers her audience a sisterhood.14 Despite what Tekla says, Grandmother insists that the women are not “unneeded” simply because they do not have husbands. Rather, she says that they can be useful as mothers, sisters, daughters, sistersin-law, and/or friends, not just as wives (28-29). In this play, even the servant is part of the group. Nałkowska does not exclude because of class, calling the old servant by her name, Zofia, just like all of the other characters. Moreover, as described in Chapter 5, the author emphasizes the love, respect, and caring that exist between the women, not excluding the acerbic Tekla.

✻✻✻ Rylska in The Deep at Zimna, Jasnorzewska in Egyptian Wheat, and Szczepkowska in The Falling House all show how, in reality, the sunniness of the estate myth, as pictured in Mickiewicz’s Pan Tadeusz, is in fact just that, a myth. Their tone ranges from the serious to the humorous, but all three writers present gentry patriarchy as an oppressive system, causing suffering to and imposing limits on those lower down in the hierarchy, primarily women and children. Jasnorzewska and Szczepkowska both end their plays by destroying the estate. In Egyptian Wheat, the hierarchy collapses when Ruta and Horacy depart, leaving Krzeptowski with no one to govern. In The Falling House, the inhabitants abandon the estate: Count Rakuski and Helena because they want to, Ludwika because she has no choice. Rylska’s work is the most pessimistic of the three. Linking her 13. Smoleń 2001b and Smoleń 2000. 14. “Brothers gentry” goes back to the “democracy of the nobility” of the sixteenth through the eighteenth centuries. The nobility elected Polish kings and, at least in theory, all noblemen, be they minor landholders or aristocrats, were equal, therefore could address each other as “brother.” In practice, this system led to the political downfall of the country. Yet, after Russia, Prussia, and Austria partitioned the country, this form of government, along with life on the estate, came to be glorified as part of Poland’s great past.

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presentation of the estate to an essentialist vision of all subjects moving toward conventionalization and hypocrisy, she ends her work with a final scene of stasis that is almost a repeat of the opening scene. The only element that breaks the stasis is Nika’s gesture of going out into the garden. However, this is an ambiguous gesture for, in performance, the director could interpret it as simply the final rebellious act of a teenager. The gesture will only suggest change if interpreted as a more mature desire on Nika’s part not to follow her mother’s path of meekness and acceptance of patriarchy. In contrast, Nałkowska in House of Women does not destroy the estate. Rather, she stands the myth on its head by presenting a rather idyllic picture of a matriarchy. Men may govern the real world and this estate-haven may be an exception not available to the majority of women. Nevertheless, for a moment, the author creates a world apart in which women can recoup, find their own voices, and live happily without men. I discussed the essentialism of the subjects in Chapter 5. Here, we should note that, with the exception of The Falling House, the writers present the characters in these plays as more or less essentialist. Rylska in The Deep at Zimna presents children as nonessentialist. Sziradze in Egyptian Wheat is also a nonessentialist male. However, all of the remaining characters are far from being three-dimensional. They are essentialist/stock characters either because of the genre of the given play or because of the authors’ views on the human subject or a mixture of the two. At most, the authors round out the characters a bit with one unique trait. What is interesting is that whether subjects are essentialist or not does not affect the final message about patriarchy and the estate myth. In all four plays, the writers criticize the traditional estate. Regardless of the differences in tone and final message, all four authors emphasize—in one way or another—the fact that in inter-war Polish society, male power limits and determines the status and possibilities of women. Moreover, the idea of male power goes beyond the estate setting, appearing in the other plays that take place elsewhere. The next section explores those other settings in which we can see male power as an extension of the patriarchal estate myth.

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Extensions of the estate myth: the intelligentsia As mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, over time, the estate myth devolved onto and conflated in a variety of ways with the image of the Polish intelligentsia. Moreover, in inter-war Poland, the majority of men who received an education and worked in white-collar jobs had descended from the nobility: doctors, lawyers, judges, military officers, various administrators, even artists. When we look at plays dealing with women’s issues in inter-war Poland, in almost all of them, the male characters are either noblemen on their estates or members of the working intelligentsia. Workers and peasants do not appear in these dramas. Szczepkowska’s Monika’s Case and Silent Power, Grabowska’s “Justice”, and Jasnorzewska’s Baba-Dziwo depict male power in the context of men who are part of the intelligentsia in one way or another.

✻✻✻ Of the works not set on the estate, Grabowska’s “Justice” presents the most institutionalized example of male power—in a prison setting. “Justice” is exceptional among the so-called “women’s drama,” in that it avoids the domestic setting. The first scene takes place in the prison courtyard, while the entire rest of the play is set in the prison director’s office. Moreover, as discussed in Chapter 5, Grabowska creates a Naturalist play in which characters are types. All of the male characters belong to the intelligentsia: prison director, doctor, judge. Even the director’s teenage son, Piotr, is about to get his “matura,” a diploma received by a small percentage of the population in inter-war Poland. Throughout the play, all of these male characters, educated and in good social standing, make full use of class differences and of the sex of Number 14 in order to treat her as a lower type of being. All of them, including Piotr, address her informally, while she speaks to them formally—a historically realistic linguistic nuance, but one that demonstrates the sharp social stratification of the inter-war period. All of them speak gently, like to an idiot child—as long as the woman is docile. However, the minute she shows any defiance or sees through their words, they switch to a rude and threatening tone, as in the following encounters between Number 14 and the director:

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NACZELNIK Nie bój się niczego i mów śmiało. Już zrobię, co należy. Możesz być pewna. Możesz mi zawierzyć. (Kobieta wybucha ironicznym śmiechem) Czego się śmiejesz, głupia?! Myślisz, że się tu będę cackał z tobą?! Mam ja na ciebie sposoby! Mogę cię zrobić o taką, taką malusieńką. (wyciąga rękę nad podłogą). Skruszejesz, jak ciastko. To ty sobie wyobrażasz, że jak ja do ciebie dobrocią, to już inaczej nie mogę? Tylko nie chcę— rozumiesz? Jeszcze mi ciebie żal. (14) (DIRECTOR Don’t be afraid of anything and speak freely. I’ll do what has to be done. You can be certain. You can trust me. (The woman bursts out with an ironic laughter) Why are you laughing, stupid?! Do you think that I’m going to treat you gingerly like an egg?! I have methods to deal with you! I can make you so, oh so very small. (extends his hand above the floor). You’ll soften up, like a cookie. So you really imagine that if I’m nice to you, I can’t do it any other way? I just don’t want to—understand? I still feel sorry for you.) NACZELNIK (zły) Co ty sobie myślisz?! Że ja sobie ciebie kupuję, czy twoje milczenie?! Patrzcie babę! Tu jej człowiek po ludzku rękę podaje, a ona zaraz Bóg wie co. Widzę, że z prostymi ludźmi nie można po ludzku. (39) (DIRECTOR (angry) What do you think?! That I’m buying you or your silence?! Look at the broad! Here a man humanely stretches out his hand, and she immediately . . . God knows what. I see that one can’t act humanely with simple people.)

Grabowska aims to show a universal collusion among the men, regardless of whether they are friends, like the director and his influential former schoolmate, or relative strangers, like the director and the doctor. She paints a world in which men belonging to a certain class automatically help each other and maintain an oppressive control over women of the lower classes. The author achieves this feeling of male collusion with the help of a number of elements. First, she emphasizes each character’s social function, rather than personality traits, thus suggesting types. Types such as a doctor, prison director, or judge appear everywhere, not just in the one province in which the play is set.

148 Complicating the Female Subject Second, during the course of the work, the playwright overturns the initial suggestion that what happens in this prison is an isolated event from the provinces. Initially, the opening stage directions state that “[r]zecz dzieje się w więzieniu małego kresowego miasta” (unnumbered second page) (the action takes place in the prison of a small border town). It is this particular province that supposedly has come up with the idiomatic expression “końce w wodę” (ends into the water) which means, “to hush up a scandal.”15 Yet, the behavior of the doctor, who is from another region, belies this limitation, for his actions are just as immoral as those of the local prison director. Moreover, toward the end of the play, the doctor tells us that people in his home province now know this expression. In other words, he suggests that these events are not an isolated phenomenon: “U was istnieje nawet na to [zatuszowanie] techniczne, w moich stronach do niedawna nieznane określenie: końce w wodę, co !?” (You even have a technical name for this [hushing up], a name until recently unknown in my area, what!?) (42) [my emphasis]. Third, as Number 14 painfully discovers, every man thinks first of himself or of another man. At the crucial moment when the director learns that his own son is guilty, even the seemingly compassionate doctor tries to convince the woman to take the director’s money, not for her own sake, but for the sake of the director. Any benefit for the woman is just an extra outcome: KOBIETA . . . Gdy mam co robić bez pomocy, mam wybrać—nie ma porady—zawsze sama. Pan doktor jeden .  .  . pomagał— wierzę—pomyślał o mnie. LEKARZ (zawstydzony) Nie myślałem w tej chwili o tobie. (Kobieta kuli się pod wrażeniem zimna.) Ale tak naprawdę najlepiej i dla ciebie. (bierze pieniądze, daje je, kobieta je bierze w głuchej bierności. Miękko) Wypoczniesz i—kiedy ci trzeba

15. The saying “końce w wodę” is a translation of a Russian saying “kontsy v vodu.” The Dictionary of Russian Language (Slovar’ russkogo iazyka, Evgeneva 1983, vol. 2, 89) defines the saying as follows: “no traces of a crime, behavior, any sort of action exist, have been left or won’t be left.”. This use of a translated Russian idiom suggests a provincial town in eastern Poland. However, what is most important is that the idiom—and with it the concept it represents—is spreading.

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będzie—przyjdź do mnie. Pomogę, zawsze pomogę. Wierzyć mi możesz. (Kobieta machnęła ręką. Bez słowa wychodzi.) (46, 47) (WOMAN . . . When I have to do something without help, have to choose—there is no advice—always alone. You sir, doctor, the only one . . . helped—I believe—thought of me. DOCTOR (embarrassed) I wasn’t thinking of you at this moment. (The woman shrinks into herself, as if from cold.) But this is for the best, also for you. (takes the money, gives it, the woman takes it in dull passivity. Gently) You’ll rest and—when you need it—come and see me. I’ll help, I’ll always help. You can trust me. (The woman makes a dismissive gesture with her hand. Exits without a word.))

Finally, none of the male characters blames the man who seduced or raped Number 14—that seems to be an accepted fact of male behavior. Just like the first man who made the woman pregnant and escaped punishment, so Piotr will go unpunished. When the director discusses the event with his son, he explicitly puts the blame not on the male perpetrator, but on the female warden. She was not in control: “Wina naturalnie dozorczyni. Nie dopilnowała” (The fault, of course, is the [female] warden’s. She didn’t supervise carefully enough.) (22). The moral, or rather immoral, collusion that appears throughout the work intertwines and involves all the male characters in so pervasive and persistent a fashion, from beginning to end, that it becomes the central theme of the play. The play foregrounds the male characters, not the female protagonist. Grabowska consistently depicts the male subject as powerful, egotistical, and immoral. Moreover, this is not a greedy bourgeoisie or an authoritarian government that the writer describes in this negative way. Rather, she criticizes the intelligentsia, heirs of the gentry and supposedly spiritual leaders of the nation. Inter-war critics certainly noticed that Grabowska generalized the idea of male collusion. The progressive Tadeusz Boy-Żeleński accepted it as an example of women’s oppression, especially in sexual matters.16 Other critics—for example, Karol Irzykowski—were uncomfortable with this notion and went to 16. Żeleński 1969, 159.

150 Complicating the Female Subject great lengths in arguing, unconvincingly, that this was the depiction of an isolated case.17 In the plays set on country estates, the authors for the most part presented rather radical forms of rebellion to the oppression of the women: Ruta in Egyptian Wheat departs with her young stepson/lover; Helena in The Falling House lives independently and plans to start her own business. In House of Women, a matriarchal society lives happily on the estate. In Grabowska’s “Justice,” the response is not so radical, primarily because this play offers a heroine that is not from the nobility and/or intelligentsia. Number 14 is very definitely a poor, lower-class, uneducated woman. She is not a rebel who breaks out of the system of male power. However, she too rejects collusion with her oppressors. She does this by refusing to reveal the name of her seducer. Her refusal is not the dull silence of a mask, but a silence that results from a conscious decision. The playwright shows how, in the present social situation, the woman feels that no matter what she says, she will be unhappy with the results. It is a question of that titular “justice,” a justice in quotation marks. If she reveals the seducer’s name and he goes unpunished, then she will feel an even greater injustice and bitterness. At the same time, thinking about her unborn child, Number 14 concludes that a situation in which both she and the man find themselves in prison would not be good for the child. In the end, the prisoner decides that, given the present state of social justice, the only available means of controlling her situation is to remain silent, to refuse to give her seducer’s name. The silence will not help her; in fact, it will hurt her. However, this is the only way to avoid cooperating with the unfair justice that surrounds her. She makes the conscious decision to remain silent: Bo ukarze go pan naczelnik i pójdzie do kryminału, to co? Dziecko z samych kryminalników? Nie może to być dobre. Niech choć ojciec będzie wolny. A powiem i pan naczelnik nie wsadzi go do kryminału, niby, że to on—toby mnie zapiekło, że to sprawiedliwość dla różnych różna. To niech już chodzi wolny. Z mojego milczenia i z mojej chęci. (16) 17. Irzykowski 1997, 104.

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(Because you’ll punish him Mr. Director and he’ll go to jail, and what? A child from only jailbirds? That can’t be good. Let at least the father be free. And if I tell and Mr. Director doesn’t put him in jail, because he is—that would sting me, that justice is different for different people. Let him walk free. Thanks to my silence and my wish.)

I already discussed Number 14’s development as a subject (Chapter 6). Here, we should note that, besides an essentialist passivity, the author also endows her with intelligence and, more importantly, moral fiber. In comparison with other servants, such as Antosia in Monika’s Case and Karolina in Egyptian Wheat, Number 14 has moral integrity. Both Antosia and Karolina lack that integrity. They feel that it is all right to cheat and exploit those who act immorally toward them. Thus, though Grabowska starts with a character that is clearly a type, the oppression to which Number 14 is subjected leads the writer to move her heroine in the direction of nonessentialism. Moreover, her work brings to mind Rylska’s play. Both authors choose to make “unrecognized” members of society its moral representatives. Both authors are also similarly bleak in their presentations of male power. Through her suffering, Grabowska’s Number 14 develops in a tentative way. Rylska’s Nika decides to make a rebellious gesture at the end of the work. Yet, depending on the stage realization, of course, neither the patriarchal structure of Kercz’s estate nor the institutionalized structure of the prison seem much shaken by the timid protests of the heroines.

✻✻✻ Szczepkowska’s Monika’s Case returns to the domestic setting and to personal relationships. In this work, the author presents educated, professional women, not just the wives of educated men, as happens in House of Women. Anna is an architect, Monika a pediatrician. The fictional world is that of inter-war intelligentsia. The statements of the characters make it clear that society is male-dominated and male-controlled. In this work, Szczepkowska definitely accepts the traditional body/mind opposition with the male traits of reason, logic, education, and work ethic seen as superior. As discussed in Chapter 5, women change for the better by emulating men and becoming defeminized.

152 Complicating the Female Subject At the same time, if we put aside the direct statements of the porte-­ parole, then we will notice quite a number of ambiguities. First, there is the question of Jerzy. The author sees male essentialist traits as positive. Yet Jerzy is a weak individual endowed with a whole host of negative traits. As Tadeusz Żeleński already noticed, Jerzy’s weakness decreases the overall dramatic effectiveness of the play.18 Simultaneously, the weakness strengthens the depiction of male power: if it is difficult to break out from under the control of such a lightweight, how much more difficult would it be to struggle with the power of a strong male? Though it may seem strange, Jerzy does wield power over his wife. Monika is successful and financially independent. Nevertheless, she behaves like a weak little woman who constantly tries to satisfy her husband. For example, she will not appear in front of him ill or badly dressed: . . . on jest taki wytworny, wymagający, .. zawsze lękam się czy mu się podobam . . . dla niego nauczyłam się stroić. . . powiem ci w sekrecie . . . każe mi się malować, mój kochany—każe mi się malować . . . (50) (. . . he’s so elegant, demanding . . . I’m always worried that he won’t find me attractive . . . for him I’ve learned to dress up . . . I’ll tell you in secret . . . he demands that I put on makeup, my beloved does—he demands that I put on makeup . . .)

She admits that her feelings for Jerzy are stronger than any attachment to or pride in her professional work (13). Moreover, once again, the theme of “body vulnerability appears.” Social norms control even sexual matters, in this case, procreation. Since the reader never actually hears Jerzy, it is unclear whether he really wants children. Yet, Monika sees childbearing as part of her wifely duties. The power of male-created social norms puts such pressure on her that she risks her health undergoing an operation to improve her chances of having a child. As in Egyptian Wheat, pain seems to be a necessary condition of motherhood. The author also emphasizes “body vulnerability” through the character of the servant girl, Antosia. This is 1930s Poland, not a patriarchal estate, but Antosia is raped by a “master” at a young age and sees such abuse as her normal lot in life. 18. Żeleński 1966, 202.

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In addition, through the character of Monika, the writer suggests that centuries of cultural practice can ingrain essentialist traits in women, such as obedience, traits that must be “suffocated.” Even education does not immediately help to eradicate them. The fact that a strong woman can become submissive under the “male gaze” may also reflect “the instability of the feminine self ” in male-dominated inter-war culture.19 Monika insists that, in today’s world, women must dampen their own innate desire to obey men. However, she acknowledges how difficult it was for her to overcome these traditional notions: Trudno, mężczyzn trzeba wychować. Oni nie są źli, tylko, że kobieta od wieków traktowała mężczyznę jako pana, była mu posłuszna. To jest fałszywe. Ja sama długo walczyłam, aby zdusić w sobie tę chęć posłuszeństwa. (20) (Tough, men must be brought up. They’re not bad, only for centuries woman treated man as a master, she was obedient to him. That’s false. I myself struggled for a long time to stifle that desire for obedience within myself.)

Second, ambiguities exist in terms of how the author presents women’s essentialism. Again, Anna talks about women’s emotionalism, overly loving nature, impulsivity, submissiveness. Yet, she does not mention one trait that she and Monika have: an overarching drive. Both of them are very good at succeeding in their chosen professions, seemingly not a very traditional feminine trait. Moreover, if, as Szczepkowska desires in this play, women lose their essentialist traits through education, then what becomes of the body/mind opposition, already made ambiguous by Jerzy’s weaknesses? Next, Szczepkowska also offers the idea of haven and sisterhood, as Nałkowska had done in House of Women. Anna’s apartment functions for Monika as a temporary safe haven from the real world.20 Szczepkowska emphasizes the idea of a safe haven somewhat less than Nałkowska, but Monika openly speaks about a sense of security in Anna’s apartment: 19. Chowaniec 2008a, 159. 20. In her recent article on Szczepkowska, Anna Pekaniec also introduces this idea. See Pekaniec 2011, 46.

154 Complicating the Female Subject Dobrze mi tu u ciebie, Anno . . . Tu jest cisza. Poważna atmosfera pracy. Atmosfera myśli. Cała ty, beznamiętna, mocna i czysta. (41) (I feel good in your home, Anna. There’s silence here. A serious atmosphere of work. An atmosphere of thought. The whole of you, passionless, strong and pure.) W twoim zielonym świetle jest jakieś poczucie bezpieczeństwa, zdaje się, że w twoim domu nie może spotkać nic złego. Bo ty tu jesteś. Wyższa, niż inne kobiety, silniejsza . . . (43) (There’s a feeling of safety in your green light; it seems that in your home nothing bad can happen. Because you’re here. Taller than other women, stronger . . .).

Thus, a modern urban apartment has taken over the idea of home and haven that earlier the estate had fulfilled. In House of Women, the location of the home/haven on the estate was a traditional choice. However, the lyric, feminized domesticity was a radical departure from traditional patriarchy. Here, the location is very nontraditional: a city apartment. Yet, the focus of the feeling of safety both is and is not traditional. It is radical in that the focus for Monika is the figure of a woman, Anna. Yet, in a way, the traditionalism returns because the gruff, severe, defeminized Anna is more like a man, in some way fulfilling the role of a traditional head of household, who provides safety and comfort to the family. Finally, we see ambiguity in the figure of Anna. She is clearly Szczepkowska’s porte-parole in this work, producing monologues that state the author’s views on male and female subjects. On the one hand, the author consistently defeminizes Anna and her surroundings. She describes Anna as “skupiona, spokojna, szorstka” (focused, calm, gruff) (9), and her apartment as “sucho, nowocześnie, surowo” (dry, modern, severe) (9). As a seemingly successful “gender transgressor,” Anna suppresses her feminine traits in order to prosper in the male sphere.21 She renounces not only intimate, personal relations with men, but even the minor trappings and objects of feminine domesticity. She looks down upon “domesticated” 21. I have borrowed the term “gender transgressor” from Filipowicz 2002, 57.

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women as a form of self-defense by labeling them “kobietki.”22 The condescension serves as an encircling emotional wall that allows her to succeed in the male-dominated profession of architecture: . . . Nie, moja droga, od kredensiku do śpiżarenki, od śpiżarenki do kucheneczki, od kucheneczki do kuchareczki . . . i od razu mój dom samotnej kobiety zamieni się w zaciszne gniazdko ze smrodami kuchennymi i dyskretnie rozmieszczonemi pluskwami . . . te przyjemności zostawiam kobietkom, . . . (16, 17) (. . . No, my dear, from a little sideboard to a little pantry, from a little pantry to a kitchenette, from a kitchenette to a little cook . . . and immediately my house, that of a single woman, will turn into a cozy little nest with kitchen stench and discretely placed bedbugs . . . those pleasures I leave to the little women, . . .) . . . Uznaję tylko sezonowego kochanka . . . [. . .] Na razie, z powodu braku pieniędzy, muszę moje projekty erotyczne przesunąć na dalszy plan . . . (46) (. . . I recognize only seasonal lovers . . . [. . .] For the time being, because of a shortage of funds, I have to move my erotic projects into the background . . .)

On the other hand, Szczepkowska gives Anna a more feminine side, something that the inter-war critic Tadeusz Żeleński already noticed. Żeleński saw this as a pathetic, perhaps poignant, internal split that makes the modern woman’s life harder.23 He writes of her “double burden” and with more than a touch of condescension calls Anna “genialny architect w spódnicy” (a genius of an architect in a skirt).24 The critic could have been responding to the stage realization that he saw, because the text does not bear out his conclusions. Rather, the author introduces complexity into the figure of Anna. She shows her defeminization as a positive process 22. Kobietka is the diminutive of kobieta and literally means “little woman.” Just like in English, the diminutive has a pejorative connotation, suggesting a woman, who is perhaps pretty, but weak and not very intelligent. 23. Żeleński 1966, 200–201. 24. Żeleński 1966, 201.

156 Complicating the Female Subject that brings Anna enormous satisfaction, even joy when it comes to her work (65–66). Moreover, the nurturing feminine side that appears in her relations with Monika seems genuine. It is not a grim sense of responsibility or necessity. The stage directions suggest affection: “miękko” (tenderly) or “pogłaskała głowę” (strokes her head) (52, 58). So do her words: “Więc śpi maleńka.” (So sleep little one) (53). Moreover, the words that Anna uses to talk about cooking, traveling with Monika, her friend’s new dress are positive and suggest a genuine desire to rediscover a hidden side of herself (57–60). Of all the plays discussed, this is the only one in which an author strongly presents male essentialist traits and power as positive and supports this power coopting women to itself. In the process, women lose their feminine essentialist “weaknesses,” but in their place, they gain recognition and even success in the male world. This is not a question of women putting on a mask in order to function better in the male-constructed world.25 Here, Szczepkowska seems genuinely to prefer the traits of an essentialist male. At the same time, the playwright introduces a number of ambiguities and contradictions that make for a more complex and realistic fictional world. Male values and essentialist traits are better, yet, the only male character is weak and passive, eventually discarded by all the women. Women are innately emotional, instinctual, and bodily. Yet, both Monika and Anna seem to have “masculine” drive and ambition. If the author views human subjects as essentialist, thus supporting the traditional body/mind opposition, then what becomes of this opposition when women defeminize? The role of home/haven has moved in this inter-war fictional world from the estate to an urban apartment. However, the focus of the home remains a defeminized woman who assumes the role of head of household and protector. The inter-war audience found this play shocking—which is not surprising. To a large degree, the audience responded primarily to the plot and the fact that the women dispense with Jerzy. However, a closer look reveals that the work pulls in two opposite directions: superior, traditional, essentialist male values and traits, but also radical feminism that dispenses with men, shows women competing professionally with men and, possibly through the figure of Monika, moving in a new, not defeminized direction 25. Chowaniec 2008b, 2.

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even when successful. In many ways, the ambiguities reflect the transitional nature of the inter-war period.

✻✻✻ Szczepkowska’s next play was Silent Power. This very ambitious project shows the author in a state of ideological flux on a number of issues in the process of searching for definitive answers. In some ways, the work looks back to Monika’s Case, with Szczepkowska still accepting such traditional male values as financial strength and a rational approach to life. Moreover, she suggests that the greatest accomplishment of men has been the construction and organization of society (26). At the same time, in its tentative nonessentialism and focus on some aspects of morality, the play foreshadows The Falling House. Szczepkowska’s continued search leads her to introduce a great variety of characters and ideas. In addition, even though she posits a number of traditional values and ideas, she then proceeds to interpret the character and/or function of these phenomena in a novel way. In the end, the play asks more questions than it answers.26 The writer sets Silent Power in a society of an unspecified future in which women have supposedly achieved financial parity with men. This “futurism” is rather arbitrary; in many ways, what the author presents is an inter-war intellectual/entrepreneurial milieu. As in Monika’s Case, Szczepkowska suggests that women ought to accept certain male values, for example, an emphasis on finances and material wealth. After all, much of male power has always stemmed from financial strength. Here, the female protagonist, Ewa, repeatedly talks about the finances of both the women’s linen trust and their press. She clearly states that women have to be “reckoned with” because, by controlling various financial institutions, they have gained power: . . . rozwijać będą dalszy program pracy ekonomicznej, [. . .] Pięć już istniejących banków w Europie, [. . .] Dziś można nas krytykować, ale trzeba się już z nami liczyć. (11) 26. Throughout Europe and the United States, the inter-war period was a time of social, cultural, and ideological questioning. For more background, see Blom 2015.

158 Complicating the Female Subject (. . . they will further develop a program of economic work, [. . .] Five existing banks in Europe, [. . .] Today they can criticize us, but they must already reckon with us.) . . . potrzeba zarobków, masowe usuwanie z zajmowanych stanowisk, wydobyły z nas zdolności zorganizowania się. Dziś stanowimy bezsprzeczną SIŁĘ. (22) (. . . a need for income, mass layoffs from positions, brought out organizational skills in us. Today we are an unquestionable FORCE.) . . . my prosperujemy dobrze, wasz przemysł jeżeli upada, przestał być potrzebny. Zamknięte rynki zbytu to lekcja ekonomiczna. Trzeba wyciągać wnioski. (44) (. . . we are prospering well, if your industry is collapsing, then it’s no longer needed. Closed markets are an economic lesson. One must draw conclusions.)

In another echo of Monika’s Case, Szczepkowska offers a vision of an essentialist female subject that is weak, emotional, and given to self-sacrificing love. Moreover, she suggests that, in order to succeed in the real world, women must defeminize to a certain degree. In addition, the author applies the weakness of Jerzy from the earlier play to all the male characters in this one. None of the men can stand up to the women. At the same time, Szczepkowska foreshadows the nonessentialism of The Falling House. First, as discussed in Chapter 6, she offers a great variety of characters. Essentialist tendencies notwithstanding, there are enormous differences between the “ladies” of the XYZ Party, Teresa, Rut, and Ewa, as well as between the three male characters. Second, Ewa repeatedly proposes a very modern shift in focus from the division between the sexes to “człowiek” (human being): Płeć nie może odbierać ludzkiej istocie możności zarobkowania! (23) (Sex cannot deprive a human being of a chance to earn!) Chcę aby wszyscy, po równi rozwijali w sobie te siły duszy, które wołają o wyzwolenie. Chcę tylko aby nie zabijać ducha w

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człowieku. Powtarzam w człowieku. Nie kobiecie, albo mężczyźnie. Płeć nie może być przekleństwem; . . . (24) (I want everybody to develop equally in themselves those strengths of the soul, which are calling for release. I want only not to kill the spirit in the human being. I repeat in the human being. Not in the woman or in the man. Sex cannot be a curse; . . .) Nie płeć, lecz zdolności decydować będą o odgrywanej roli. (25) (Not sex, but abilities will decide the role one plays.)

Furthermore, though the author assigns to women a bodily/emotional essentialism, she concurrently offers a new, positive function for this essentialism. In Monika’s Case, she presents female essentialism—exemplified by Antosia—as completely negative. Here, Szczepkowska, like many Western intellectuals after World War I, sees a civilizational malaise in Europe that requires a change in the direction of future development.27 Like these thinkers, she, too, suggests that it is the function of women to become the spiritual leaders of change. Interestingly, Szczepkowska links women’s strength to the land, another idea frequently appearing in Western culture: Świat ciężko zaniemógł, na to aby go uzdrowić, mało jest wyrzec się dotychczasowych błędów, trzeba wyznaczyć nowe drogi i zapomnieć starych grzechów i wymazać krzywdy. Trzeba umieć na nowo stwarzać nowe wartości! I wierzę, że kobieta, jak ziemia, świeżo obsiana wybuchnie runią tych właśnie możliwości. To jest zadaniem kobiet wszystkich zapatrywań i z pod wszystkich znaków. (22) (The world has fallen gravely ill, in order to heal it, it is not enough to give up current mistakes; it’s necessary to delineate new routes and forget old sins and erase wrongs. It’s necessary to know how to create new values anew! And I believe that woman, like earth newly sown will explode with the green growth of just such 27. See, for example, a work that is very different in almost every way, but that suggests the same thing: Virginia Woolf ’s novel The Years. I am indebted to my colleague Diana Swanson from the English Department at Northern Illinois University for bringing this similarity to my attention. On this malaise, see Plach 2006, 17–20.

160 Complicating the Female Subject possibilities. That is the task of women of all views and of all political orientations.)

Ewa’s foil, the American Rut, for all the ideological differences between the two, also implies a positive, essentialist “Otherness” of women. Moreover, she too assigns women a revolutionizing role when she says that because women are “twórczynie życia” (the creators of life) (38), “kobiece ręce mogą uporządkować chaos” (women’s hands can bring order to the chaos) (32). Yet another example of how Szczepkowska gives a new twist on traditional values and/or norms is the question of social structures. Through the character of Ewa, the author posits social organization as the greatest achievement of men (26). Yet, Ewa also claims that male discrimination forced women to build their own social structures in order to gain strength and recognition (26). More important, she states that structures created by women are different. Women base their structures on equality and fraternity, rather than on privilege for one sex (26, 27). Moreover, Ewa insists that the economic system that women have built within their trust is unique, neither purely capitalist nor Marxist: . . . ustrój ani kapitalistyczny, ani komunistyczny. Wybrałyśmy ostrożnie drogę pośrednią. Każda pracownica może być kooperantką, może otrzymać świadczenia w naturze, może być udziałowcem. (11) (. . . a system neither capitalist nor communist. We have carefully chosen a middle road. Each worker (female) can be a cooperant, can receive payment in kind, can be a shareholder.)

Similarly, though the author propounds a capitalist, free-market competition between the linen and cotton trusts, she proposes a new explanation for the benefits of this competition, namely, creativity. It is impossible to say where Szczepkowska got her ideas. Capitalism propounds the idea of competition, struggle as the source of innovation. That may be part of it. However, it seems that Darwinian ideas may have been more influential

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here.28 On the one hand, Ewa describes life as a brutal jungle in which everyone fights for oneself: . . . ktoś musi na kimś żerować. (23) (. . . someone must prey on someone.) Dżungla bytowania to nie romans, to twarde wydzieranie swego kęsa i swego miejsca, . . . (25) (The jungle of existence is not a romance; it’s a tough wrestling for one’s mouthful and one’s place, . . .)

On the other hand, she refers to the elemental upheavals that occur in nature: Nie przeoczajmy praw natury: wiecznej: p r z e m i a n y: . . . (27) (Let’s not overlook the laws of nature: eternal: : t r a n s f o r m a t i o n: . . .) Nie wierzę w stały pokój świata. I w przyrodzie przewalają się szaleństwa burz i niszczycielstwo huraganów. (38) (I don’t believe in a permanent world peace. Even in nature the frenzy of storms and the destruction of hurricanes rolls over the earth.)

However, what is important, what Ewa repeats several times, is that struggle releases creativity and creativity leads to economic and civilizational progress. A “civilizational,” Hegelian kind of progress is suggested by the “[w]alka na talenty i dusze” ([s]truggle of talents and souls) (25). This is the main reason why Ewa will not join forces with the men’s cotton trust. She sees the struggle of these two trusts as beneficial for both men and women: Walka na talenty i dusze to najwznioślejsze widowisko świata: . . . (25) (A struggle of talents and souls is the world’s most noble spectacle: . . .) Jeśli wysuniecie jakieś ciekawe sposoby zwalczania nas, będziemy miały podnietę do twórczości. (43) 28. This is an interesting parallel to the twenty-first-century interest in Darwin. For example, see Grosz 2008 and 2011, as well as Haraway 2008.

162 Complicating the Female Subject (If you put forth some interesting ways of fighting us, we will be stimulated to creativity.)

Yet, Szczepkowska complicates the picture further by introducing Rut as a foil to Ewa. Rut, the wealthy American who has lost her only son in the trenches of World War I and who is now waging a one-woman war against militarism, is fundamentally different from Ewa. She does not talk of the cerebral, rational, or financial. All her thoughts derive from her overwhelming love and grief for her son. Rut balances Ewa’s more brutal, Darwinian approach to life with a more idealistic, partly Hegelian and partly Christian belief in the possibility of developing civilizations. For all of Ewa’s talk about coexistence and fraternity, struggle is still struggle, always with a destructive element. Rut insists that once a person has developed beyond barbaric nature and become a “human being,” that person must continue to follow the Spirit. In other words, as civilizations develop, they become more accepting and replace struggle with coexistence: Duch ta genjalna iskra, ta jedyna Prawda człowieka:, że gdy się wyszło z przyrody i opanowało ją, to już na tyle obowiązuje, że niepodobna wracać w jej pierwotne niszczycielstwo, w jej instynkt. Kto raz poczuł się c z ł o w i e k i e m nie może bezkarnie zostać z b r o d n i a r z e m. (39) (Spirit, that spark of genius, man’s only Truth, if one has left nature and come to control it, then that obliges one; then one simply can’t go back to its primeval destructiveness, to its instinct. Who once has felt himself a h u m a n b e i n g, cannot without consequences become a c r i m i n a l.)

This emphasis on morality, though more general and not focused on sexual mores, foreshadows the focus on the hypocrisy of double standards and class inequality in The Falling House. In addition, Rut’s vision of history supports the Romantic idea of a single strong individual affecting the course of events. When Ewa queries the ability of one person to accomplish anything, Rut responds:

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Mój głos, mój jeden głos wstrząśnie nie tylko powietrzem, rozedrze nie tylko spokój okolicznym mieszkańcom, zamąci nie tylko myśli i kalkulacje ludzkie, ale w wychluśniętych w górę murach, cementach, kamieniach, pogrzebie narzędzia śmierci. (37) (My voice, my one voice will not only shake the air, will not only tear the peace of locals, will not only stir up human thoughts and calculations, but through the walls, cements and stones flushed upward, will bury the instruments of death.)

What is most important is the effect that Rut has on the seemingly strong Ewa. At first, Ewa argues with Rut, claiming that struggle and bloodshed will never stop, that they are an inherent part of the human race. However, gradually, Ewa becomes less certain, as if lost, until finally she says to the American: “potrzebuję pomocy” (I need help) (40). The shadowy figure of Rut reappears at the very end of the play to accompany Ewa to the world congress of women. Silent Power raises more questions than it offers answers. The number of ideas that the writer includes makes the play less effective dramatically, but more interesting with respect to content and themes. In this work, Szczepkowska has begun to see the value of both emotion/body and reason/mind, as well as to consider questions of morality. She presents her protagonist as being in a state of flux, a flux that quite accurately reflects the condition of many, both women and men, during the inter-war period. On the one hand, Ewa is still controlled by, and accepting of, the values and norms of male power: financial strength, hiding feminine helplessness and emotionalism, a woman’s need for a man. On the other hand, there is a determination to move on to a more encompassing vision of humanity, one that creates new social structures, allowing women to be separate but equal partners with men.

✻✻✻ Finally, there is Jasnorzewska’s Baba-Dziwo, another play set in an unspecified future in the country of Prawia. Jasnorzewska goes further than Szczepkowska in that, in this futuristic society, women have achieved not just financial parity with men—a woman governs the country. In general,

164 Complicating the Female Subject this work differs greatly from the rest of Jasnorzewska’s dramatic oeuvre. As discussed in Chapter 5, the female subjects are nonessentialist. Moreover, the writer does not treat her personal obsession with ugliness as a given that automatically negatively marks a woman as a harassing “hag.” Instead, as discussed, she tries to motivate Vrana’s behavior psychologically. Furthermore, in Baba-Dziwo, Jasnorzewska does not employ her usual patriarchal/intelligentsia setting that she more or less humorously breaks apart at the end of the work. What then happens to male power in this situation? By law, in the kingdom of Prawia, men—be they husbands, brothers, or sons—are responsible for the women. In reality, men do not rule women in the least. Petronika generally ignores Norman’s complaints and continues both with her chemical experiments and with her defiance of the regime. Agatika apologizes for her husband’s behavior and proceeds to break the law by harboring Ninika. Even Kołupuk’s first fiancée, the ever-quiet Halima, defies him and speaks out against the state of things. It is Valida Vrana who appropriates male power by copying male behavior and accepting male societal norms. When women throughout the country boycott Valida’s patriarchal order to procreate, she “conscripts” all young women into prison-like conditions in which they will be forced to give birth. As in the House of Women, most of the male characters in this play belong to the intelligentsia and work as government employees of one kind or another. As in Nałkowska’s play, not one of them is portrayed positively, though they do appear on stage in this work. For the most part, they are even more negative than is typical of Jasnorzewska’s plays. With the exception of Norman Gondor, they are flat, one-dimensional, and servile towards the dictator Vrana, either out of misplaced devotion or fear. The author presents even the young lover, Kołupuk Genor, as negative. In general, in her dramatic works, Jasnorzewska treats young male lovers with a liberal dose of lyric sentimentality, for example, Horacy in Egyptian Wheat. Yet, that is not the case here. Kołupuk lacks a lover’s fidelity and is both opportunistic and condescending towards Halima, his first fiancée: Kołupuk (uspokajająco) Tak, tak, kochanie, kiedyś, i owszem, „za wszystkie czasy”. Ale na razie buziuchna stulona i milcząca, jak miły i wdzięczny kwiatuszek o zachodzie słońca. (II–300)

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(Kołupuk (soothingly) Yes, yes, my dear, one day, certainly, “for all times.” But for now your little mouth shut and silent, like a pleasant and graceful little flower at sunset.)

Abandoning his first fiancée for Ninika, he describes his future with his new love as a hedonistic escape from unbearable reality into the realm of the senses. Moreover, he takes no responsibility for his behavior, but blames it on the moral decay of his surroundings: Świat się wykoleił i ja też z nim razem. Ninika! . . . Na zgliszczach cywilizacji . . . w tym moralnym trzęsieniu ziemi, nie rozumiejąc już nic z tego świata, chcę już tylko z tobą zapomnieć o wszystkim, moja Ninika, wy, reszta biedaków, radźcie sobie, jak chcecie . . . (II–359) (The world has jumped off its rails, and I together with it. Ninika! . . . On the ashes of civilization . . . in this moral earthquake, not comprehending anything of this world, I just want to forget about everything with you, my Ninika, the rest of you poor things will have to manage, as you will . . .)

Power in this play lies in the hands of women, but the women split into two opposing groups. In one camp, there is Valida, the official ruler and her equally ugly follower Baroness Skwaczek. As discussed, Valida has suffered because of her ugliness, and now takes revenge for this on both men and women. Moreover, as a ruler, Jasnorzewska has made her a masculinized figure in a grotesque way, even though Vrana is not dependent for her power on men, as Krzeptowska had been in Egyptian Wheat. Instead, she has supplanted males in power, chosen to copy male behavior, and to keep patriarchal norms. In addition, when in her final play Jasnorzewska shows a woman controlling society, she gives her much more power than any of the husbands in the earlier works had ever wielded. Vrana rules an entire country, therefore, through her authoritarian government can oppress others to an unprecedented degree. The elaborate bureaucratic and police machinery that she has created controls every aspect of her subjects’ personal and intimate lives. Furthermore, like the male patriarchs and the elderly “hags” in her other plays, Vrana tries to force pregnancy on young women. In doing so, she oppresses other females

166 Complicating the Female Subject just as any traditional male might have. In this work, attitude towards sex has nothing to do with the sex of the figure wielding power. In a sense, Jasnorzewska’s presentation functions as a tragicomic example of Foucault’s ideas on how, in post-seventeenth-century Western cultures, power developed and expanded, reaching into the personal lives of average people.29 Yet, just as all the men are weaker than the women are, so Vrana’s one feminine trait overcomes her masculinized characteristics and leads to her downfall. Her love of formless, but beautiful, smells induces her to inhale the truth drug. The personal rambling that ensues brings about a mental breakdown that takes her to the psychiatric ward. In Baba-Dziwo, women, not men, oppose Vrana. Breaking with her earlier plays, the writer creates a varied group of female characters who are strong and active. As discussed in Chapter 6, for the first time in Jasnorzewska’s playwriting career, women do not define their identities in relation to men and are nonessentialist. Every female character shows more rebellious spirit against the oppressive regime than any male character. Moreover, the writer does not intend the sisterhood that exists in Baba-Dziwo to be a form of safe haven allowing women to find their own voice and/or offering support. These heroines already have found their own voice. Rather, they cooperate with each other in order to oppose the regime. “Sisterhood” here functions as an unofficial opposition group rather than as a means of recouping one’s strength or of self-realization. Perhaps because they have found their own voice, are active and strong, women in this play do not dispense with men. The situation in this play is not as in Monika’s Case, in which all three women turn away from Jerzy. This play differs from the matriarchal safe haven of House of Women. Nor is this like Silent Power, in which men are rejected as equal partners and appear only in the subordinate position of son to mother. Here, Agatika apologizes for Muk’s servile behavior, but continues to form a family with him. Petronika’s feelings for Norman run the gamut from anger and exasperation, through criticism and pity, to true caring and genuine emotion. In her depiction of Petronika’s and Norman’s marriage, the author offers the most mature and complex presentation of a male–female 29. Foucault 1978, 135–145.

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relationship of any of her dramatic works. She also overturns her earlier insistence on true love being possible only outside the bounds of marriage. However, in Baba-Dziwo, only a stage realization can offer a definitive message about male power—for that particular production. Given the “incompleteness” of a dramatic text and considering the exact wording of many of Petronika’s statements, we can interpret them in various ways.30 Depending on the actress’s and/or director’s interpretation, the following lines could be either flippant and ironic or genuinely caring: Bardzo mi cię [Norman] żal, ale jak ci poradzić! [. . .] Norman, zobaczysz, że jeszcze wypłyniesz, ja to czuję, Norman. (II–322) (I’m really sorry for you, but how can I help you! [. . .] Norman, you’ll see, that you’ll surface yet, I feel it, Norman.) Kochanie . . . jesteś przecież moim towarzyszem życiowym—życzę ci jak najlepiej . . . (II–327) (Dearest . . . after all you are my life’s partner—I wish you the bes t. . .)

Similarly, the ending of the play remains “incomplete.” Vrana has been deposed, the Director General wants to make Norman dictator. Though change has occurred, the Director General repeats a line uttered earlier, when Vrana still ruled Prawia and when men were at least in theory responsible for women. Moreover, Petronika’s last statement—unrealized on stage—remains ambiguous. Either she herself does not wish to rule, or she loves Norman and, therefore, wants him to fulfill his dreams, or she is being ironic: NORMAN (broniąc się) Ależ to nie ja. To ona! Ja tylko (z pasją) nienawidziłem! DYREKTOR GENERALNY To nic, to nic! Mąż za żonę odpowiada! PETRONIKA Ależ ja się z radością usuwam! Norman, możesz zacząć nowe życie! Zastąp mnie! No! śmiało! (II–392) (NORMAN (resisting) But it’s not me. It’s her! I just (with passion) hated! // DIRECTOR GENERAL It’s OK, It’s OK! The husband is responsible for the wife! // PETRONIKA But I’m stepping aside with 30. On the “incompleteness” of drama, see Elam 1980.

168 Complicating the Female Subject joy! Norman, you can begin a new life! Substitute for me! Well! Boldly!)

In any case, Baba-Dziwo does not close optimistically. Vrana’s masculinized dictatorship, opposed and abolished by women, is being replaced with a male dictatorship. The text itself raises a number of questions: is male-like power inevitable or is the genuine “product” better than the assumed female version of male power? Or perhaps a confident, nonessentialist woman, such as Petronika, does not care for power? A definitive answer can appear, ephemerally, only in a stage realization.

✻✻✻ We have now considered four plays that deal with male power in a setting other than the estate. Two take place in the present (inter-war) and two in the future. Looking at the two set in the present, one sees that, in Monika’s Case, patriarchal demands are still made on women even in an urban, intelligentsia milieu. For all her strength of character and education, Monika feels that she must dress attractively for her husband and produce a child. Moreover, Szczepkowska presents a biologically based, essentialist duality of mind versus body, valuing the male mind over female emotionalism. Women improve their lives by accepting male traits in order to compete professionally with men. The unexpected twist comes from the fact of presenting the individual male as weak and disposable. In contrast, in “Justice,” Grabowska criticizes societal norms established by men, focusing on presenting the strength of male collusion in upholding these norms. Moreover, given the prisoner’s low social status it is psychologically appropriate that she does not rebel very much. Instead, the author shows how, because of suffering, the protagonist develops as a human being and acquires a moral fiber. Matters do not appear to be much better and/or clearer in the future. In Silent Power, women find themselves in a state of transition. They accept such male values as financial power, free market competition, and the necessity to create social structures. Moreover, they sense that they must hide their femininity, at least partially, in a business environment. At the

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same time, Szczepkowska says that women have transformed existing social structures, emphasizing equality and fraternity. In addition, she repeatedly states that struggle is both natural and beneficially creative for both men and women. In Baba-Dziwo, Jasnorzewska paints a pessimistic picture of a woman in power, who copies traditional male values, norms, and means of governing, and who becomes as oppressive as any male ruler could be. Moreover, the outcome of the rebellion is anything but hopeful. Overall, the norms of the intelligentsia appear to be the same as those of patriarchs on estates. Women should give birth, be obedient, dress attractively. If they want to move beyond that conventional role and succeed in male-dominated society, then in one way or another they must accept male norms and defeminize. In some sense, these four plays are less “destructive” than the majority of plays set on estates—the entire structure does not implode (Egyptian Wheat, The Falling House) or stand on its head (House of Women). These works are more like The Deep at Zimna, the one estate play in which the ending is less explosive, only a single gesture seeming to undercut the system. Here, away from the estate, overall male norms can coopt women even if they discard the individual male (Monika’s Case). Male collusion can be stoically opposed, though in vain, in a moral protest of silence (“Justice”). Women can accept male values and systems while adjusting their structure and interpreting them differently, giving a positive spin about benefit to both sexes (Silent Power). Finally, the ultimate irony, a woman in power can copy male norms with oppressive results, forcing other women to oppose her. In the end, a man returns to power (Baba-Dziwo). Yet, though the gestures are sometimes shocking and strong, in none of these plays does the social structure actually disintegrate or get overturned.

The Myth of Mother-Pole The other extension of the “estate” myth that I would like to consider is the relationship of these plays to the “Matka-Polka” (Mother-Pole) myth. As Agnieszka Graff has noted, in many different countries when a nation finds itself “[w] sytuacji zagrożenia, kryzysu lub wojny kobiety stają się zakładniczkami swoich społeczności, a ekspertami od tożsamości narodowej” (in

170 Complicating the Female Subject a situation of danger, crisis or war women become hostages of their own community, and at the same time experts on national identity).31 This is what happened in Poland after the partitions when culture and literature created a specific image of and function for women. Today most people erroneously associate the origins of the concept with another work by Adam Mickiewicz, his 1830 poem “Do Matki Polki.”32 According to this myth, a woman assumed to be of gentry origin was supposed to be above all a traditional mother. Presented as a figure in mourning, the role of Mother-Pole oscillated somewhat depending on the precise patriotic needs of the moment. During national uprisings, she prepared her sons for a hopeless struggle against a much stronger opponent. In times of peace, she became an active educator and guardian. If the family patriarch were missing, in prison or in exile, then she would run the estate, supposedly relinquishing this job happily once the man returned. Having the responsibility to raise good, patriotic Poles, she was the one to safeguard family heirlooms. She was the family storyteller, who kept alive the patriotic exploits of individual family members as well as the memory of important national events, such as uprisings or prepartition moments of glory.33 “Polska specyfika [tego mitu] polega głównie na tym, że strażnikiem zbiorowej tożsamości i monopolistą w dziedzinie wartości narodowych stał się [. . .] Kościół katolicki, . . .”. (The Polish specificity [of this myth] depends primarily on the fact, that it was the Catholic Church that became the guardian of communal identity and the monopolist in the area of national values, . . .).34 Moreover, Catholic ideology often linked the image of Mother-Pole with a politicized image of the Virgin Mary, whom the Church had already declared “Queen of Poland” during the prolonged wars of the seventeenth century.35 What is important to remember is that nineteenth-century male interpretations of this myth incorrectly 31. Graff 2008, 18. 32. Actually, the concept begins with a poem and a play, Matka Spartanka (Spartan Mother) by Franciszek Kniaźnin. Both works were well known in the eighteenth century and into the first decades of the nineteenth. Meanwhile, Mickiewicz’s poem was considered controversial. Franciszek Dionizy Kniaźnin was a Neoclassical poet and playwright. On this topic, see Filipowicz 2014a, 3, 84–96. 33. For more, see Filipowicz 2001a, 233; Walczewska 1999, 41–46, 53–56. 34. Graff 2008, 15–16. 35. Graff 2008, 234.

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claimed that Polish culture had dismantled the barrier between the public/ male and private/female spheres and that woman in the Polish partitions were much freer than their sisters in Western Europe. 36

✻✻✻ Considering the plays through the prism of the Mother-Pole myth, we see an almost complete rejection or reinterpretation of this myth in all of the works. In The Deep at Zimna, Rylska presents a mother who has accepted patriarchal norms. In practice, that means she has accepted her husband’s philandering. However, the suffering that this entails, and that has led her to put on a mask of conventional dignity, has turned her into a passive and distant parent. Kercz feels that she is responsible for raising the children. Therefore, when Antoś misbehaves, Kercz does not admonish him directly, but asks his wife to do so. Yet, Mrs. Kercz is not capable of actively raising children, much less of instilling any patriotism in them. At most, she corrects their manners: talking too much, approaching a man too closely, and other such trifles. “Powiedz panu Aleksandrowi dobranoc” (Say goodnight to Mr. Aleksander) (16) or “Muszę zwrócić ci uwagę droga Niko, że to jest bardzo niestosowne” (I must correct you dear Niko, this is very improper) (27). Moreover, she refuses to discuss Kercz’s affair with Nika, choosing, in fact, to deny it: “Nie wolno zupełnie tak mówić, ani nawet tak myśleć—Nie wolno ci sądzić ojca.” (You absolutely cannot speak that way, or even think that way—You are not allowed to judge your father.) (32). In other words, she cannot teach the children any morality. Neither can one imagine her running the estate if Kercz had to leave. In the end, the writer shows how traditional patriarchal values have degenerated into hypocrisy and excessive etiquette. The Mother-Pole, who was supposed to be both moral, patriotic, and active—in a traditional way, if not in a feminist one—has become a fossilized, suffering, and passive creature. 36. See Filipowicz 2014a. See also Filipowicz 2001a, 233. Halina Filipowicz gives a more concrete example of how, in popular nineteenth-century drama, the “performative constructions of [. . .] heroines reinforced rather than dispelled existing anxieties and prejudices about gender transgressors” in Filipowicz 2002. For a more historical approach to the division between reality and myth of “Matka-Polka,” see Górnicka-Boratyńska 2000.

172 Complicating the Female Subject

✻✻✻ In Egyptian Wheat, Jasnorzewska presents the issue of motherhood even more radically. Ruta’s child is not an heir to a noble name, while the official heir, Horacy, is, in fact, a foundling, biologically not related to either parent. As long as Ruta lives on the estate, she bears no children, because of a loveless relationship. Unusually for Jasnorzewska, in this play, she presents the appearance of a child as the result of a true love match between Horacy and Ruta.37 There is one caveat, however. Ruta gives birth under sedation without pain. Both Wiktor and his mother are appalled and disgusted by this fact. They both keep emphasizing that there is something unnatural in giving birth without pain. Concurrently, Ruta declares: “O, jakże gorąco kochać będę to dziecko, przez które nie cierpiałam!” (Oh, how wholeheartedly I will love this child because of which I did not suffer!) (I–537). Her painless experience of childbirth is the reverse of the emotional pain suffered with Wiktor, and Ruta declares that she could not love those who hurt her: “Różne są natury. Ja nie umiałam kochać tych, którzy mi sprawiali cierpienie.” (There are different kinds of characters. I did not know how to love those who brought me suffering.) (I–537). We do not see Ruta actually raising her child; the play ends too soon for that. However, if we put together such elements as the painless, out-of-wedlock birth, the ridiculous figure of the patriarch, the emphasis on true, romantic love, as well as the disintegration of the estate, we are left with an image of motherhood far different from the one propounded by the Mother-Pole myth.

✻✻✻ One can find an even stronger rejection of the myth in Szczepkowska’s The Falling House. The writer introduces no mother—the countess is deceased— and no mother-like substitute. The little we learn of Rakuski’s wife suggests that she was, to some degree, another Ludwika in middle age: submissive to 37. As mentioned in Chapter III, overall, Jasnorzewska obsessed about physical aging and saw childbirth as one of the elements that had a very detrimental effect on a woman’s looks.

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her husband, staunchly upholding the patriarchal system, and lachrymose. She followed her husband and son in opposing both the education and marriage of her daughters. Ludwika reminisces about a mother crying on her knees because Ludwika wanted to go to the university: “Tu klęczała przede mną matka i płacząc krzyczała: nie zabijaj nas, nie odchodź! Bo chciałam na uniwersytet, w świat!” (Here mother knelt before me and crying shouted: don’t kill us, don’t go away! Because I wanted to go to the university, into the world!) (31). Ludwika in the present, submissive to father and fate, speaks from a traditionalist perspective: their mother had a lot of trouble with the children because they wanted something besides stagnating on the estate. As if wanting to develop and change, and move on, were negative. Today’s Ludwika says: “. . . matka miała z nami wiele kłopotu, chcieliśmy, zawsze czegoś chcieliśmy” (. . . mother had a lot of problem with us, we wanted, we always wanted something) (28). Szczepkowska shows a gentry family in such a state of degeneration and fossilization, that even the son and heir was not educated. Supposedly, his noble name alone was to be the means to a successful life. Somewhat like Mrs. Kercz in Rylska’s play, the author here suggests a passive, suffering mother, upholding the demands of an ever more despotic husband. Of the young women, none shows interest in children. Passion and physical attraction to Janek govern Jadzia. The nurse Justyna obsesses only about money and a desire to improve her social standing. Ludwika spends her time weeping and reminiscing, while Helena focuses on furthering her independence. The idea of Polish patriotic nationalism as it relates to Mother-Pole simply does not appear in the younger generation. Similarly, the old count’s attitude toward his children is far from that of a benevolent patriarch. He sees them only as “wilki” (wolves) waiting for his death and depleting his financial resources.

✻✻✻ Neither does patriotism make an appearance in House of Women. In contrast to the other plays set on estates, Nałkowska creates a genuine sense of warmth and aesthetically pleasing domesticity. She fills her country house with old-fashioned furniture and vases of flowers (7). The cup of warm

174 Complicating the Female Subject milk, the beautiful garden, and the tender care offered Grandmother are all moments that forge a sense of closeness between the characters. Moreover, Celina is a wise, old mother figure to all her daughters, granddaughters, and daughters-in-law. However, her advice focuses on existential issues: not condemning passion outside marriage, finding one’s own voice, accepting the impenetrability of the “Other,” seeing the need for a community of women without men. None of the matters that Grandmother discusses with Tekla, Maria, Róża, and above all Joanna concern instilling patriotic ideas in the younger generation. The women accept the fact that, outside their enclave, men set the norms and make decisions. Yet, what matters is this withdrawal into a haven away from male norms.

✻✻✻ Meanwhile, Anna in Monika’s Case clearly rejects domesticity. Though her apartment tentatively functions as a safe haven for Monika, Anna sees any attempt at domesticity as an impediment to professional success. More important, though Monika is an empathic pediatrician, she does not treat motherhood as a value in and of itself. Instead, for her, having a child is an extension of her wifely duties, just like wearing makeup or dressing attractively: “Jurek powiedział mi kiedyś, to ojcostwo uczyniłoby go odpowiedzialnym wobec życia. Powinnam mieć dziecko.” (Jurek once told me that fatherhood would make him responsible about life. I should/must have children.) (20). She even risks her health because she feels that Jerzy expects this of her. In the end, having discovered her husband’s infidelity, Monika, like Anna, puts aside the idea of motherhood in order to pursue her professional development. At the other end of the social spectrum, the servant girl Antosia opts for an abortion, realizing very well that a servant girl with a child is unemployable. Even though Monika offers to help her, Antosia sees children as a luxury that the poor cannot afford. In this play, Szczepkowska treats motherhood as a possible wifely duty, but also as an impediment to a woman’s professional success and an impossible burden for lower-class women.

✻✻✻

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In theory, in Szczepkowska’s next play, Silent Power, women are free to be or not be mothers. The women of the XYZ Party all believe in a traditional family structure, in which men work and women are stay-at-home mothers. However, their very active breaking of windows and storming of buildings moves beyond the private sphere of activity that is part of the “Mother-Pole” myth. Rut was very definitely a loving mother, and it was grief over her son’s death that propelled her into political activism. Yet, Rut—as an American— does not fit into the estate model, and there is no mention of a husband. Moreover, her political activism also stands in opposition to the private activism of “Mother-Pole.” Furthermore, her pacifist beliefs contradict nationalist ideology, which includes the possibility of armed struggle for independence and which has mothers preparing sons for a martyr’s death. The one mother–child relationship that the author shows, between Ewa and her son, is far from what tradition would suggest for a “MotherPole.” The nameless son, a seemingly successful architect, has an obsessive attitude towards his mother. Throughout the play, he gives in to Ewa and places their relationship above everything else. When he learns of the existence of his biological father, he rejects him, because he perceives him as an intruder into his relationship with his mother (61). Moreover, Ewa easily manipulates her son psychologically. While pretending to further her son’s independence, she actually binds him closer to her. This is clearly apparent in a scene toward the end of the play: EWA Powiedz mi jeszcze, czy przez cały czas odkąd patrzysz na mnie i widzisz mnie jest rzecz jaka, za którą nie mógłbyś mnie szanować . . . SYN Nie, takiej rzeczy nie ma . . . EWA Którą mógłbyś mi zarzucić . . . przypomnij sobie dobrze . . . SYN Nie, niema, mamo . . . EWA Czy jest taki czyn mój, za który byś się wstydził, któryby ciebie zabolał i zadrażnił . . .

176 Complicating the Female Subject SYN Nie—niema, nic takiego nie ma . . . EWA Czy popełniłam coś, coby ci kazało żałować, że jesteś moim synem . . . SYN Nie, mamo, przeciwnie . . . (58) (EWA Tell me also, during the whole time that you’ve been looking at me and seeing me, is there something that you couldn’t respect me for . . . // SON No, there is no such thing . . . // EWA That you could accuse me of . . . think hard on this. . . // SON No, there isn’t, mother . . . // EWA Is there any action of mine that would embarrass you, that would hurt or irritate you . . . // SON No, there isn’t, there isn’t anything of the sort . . . // EWA Have I committed anything that would lead you to regret that you are my son . . . // SON No, mother, to the contrary . . .)

By overwhelming her son with leading questions that can only be answered by a “no,” Ewa boxes him into a psychological corner, from which he can only assert his exclusive interest in her. At the very end of the play, Ewa openly comes out to proclaim her victory not only over her former lover, but over her son as well: “Ależ przeciwnie, dzień dziesiejszy, to jeszcze jedno z w y c i ę s t w o! (jeszcze jeden uścisk [syna] . . .)” (On the contrary, today is yet another t r i u m p h! (one more hug [of the son] . . .).) (64). The final proprietary hug indicates her triumph over her son. For Ewa, the son is simultaneously a psychologically necessary object of love and one more man that she can subjugate. Selflessness and patriotic upbringing do not enter into the equation.

✻✻✻ Grabowska’s play “Justice” in some ways brings us back to the character of Antosia from Monika’s Case. Both characters are lower-class, unmarried women for whom a child is a disaster in terms of finding a job. Moreover, this play suggests that having an illegitimate child only increases extreme poverty. Antosia, who is a pragmatist, aborts the child. Number 14 is different by nature: much less practical, more emotional. She also could not

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afford an abortion (5). However, once she gives birth and is unable to feed the child, she kills it in an emotional act of desperation. This act, in turn, leads to an overpowering sense of guilt. Therefore, when Number 14 becomes pregnant a second time, she feels that she must keep the child, even though it, too, is illegitimate. The reasons for this decision are personal, psychological, and moral. The character perceives this second pregnancy as a chance for expiation: by having and raising this second child, she can erase the sin of murder: “. . . a może dla tego dziecka, cobym je w więzieniu i w męce urodziła—(płacze) może mi dla tego dziecka ludzie i Pan Bóg przebaczą.” (. . . and maybe for this child, which I would give birth to in prison and in pai—(cries) maybe for this child people and God would forgive me.) (14, 15). Though Number 14 accepts traditional societal norms, including punishment for her crime, Grabowska presents her having or not having a child as a personal, psychological matter, not as a national obligation.

✻✻✻ Finally, Jasnorzewska in Baba-Dziwo is the author who subverts the “Mother-Pole” myth in the most complex way. To begin with, the playwright both conflates the function of the domestic space and expands it. The multifunctionality of the Gondor apartment reflects the multifacetedness of the nonessentialist, female subject, of relationships between men and women, and of contacts between women. First, the domestic space serves as the home hearth at which Petronika appears as a beautiful wife. This is where she pursues her difficult relationship with her husband, through all its moments of anger, despair, passion, and reconciliation. After the government fires her, the apartment turns into Petronika’s laboratory, where she concocts the truth drug that vanquishes Vrana.38 Next, the apartment functions as a haven from police interrogations, where Petronika reflects on numerous issues. When Agatika and her large family settle into one of the rooms, the apartment becomes a place where two very different women meet, develop respect for each other, and eventually 38. For more on changing societal attitudes toward women as expressed through the organization of theatrical space, more specifically the home hearth, see Higonnet 1994 and Scolnicov 1994.

178 Complicating the Female Subject cooperate in saving a third. We should note that, for Norman, Petronika’s cowardly husband, the apartment is a cage in which he feels unsafe, and which constantly reminds him of his disfavor with the regime. Thus, the domestic space serves functions that are personal (Petronika’s relationship with her husband, her moments of reflection), but also those that are political (Petronika refusing to hang a flag on Vrana’s birthday), social (Agatika offering to hide Ninika), and professional (Petronika discovering the truth drug). Jasnorzewska undercuts the “Matka-Polka” myth by interweaving questions of motherhood, beauty, wifely duties, and professional responsibilities. In Egyptian Wheat, the author rejects motherhood for the sake of an heir within the bonds of marriage, showing it rather as the result of a happy union outside of marriage. Moreover, the playwright undermines the idea of suffering as part of motherhood, having Ruta give birth under sedation. In Baba-Dziwo, Jasnorzewska departs significantly from a number of ideas that appeared in her previous plays, as well as in her poetry. First, she does not obsess about childbirth as being detrimental to a woman’s beauty or speeding up the aging process. Petronika, both beautiful and brilliant, does not oppose motherhood. She does not see it as an impediment to her professional work. Petronika simply does not see it as an option in the present oppressive political climate. Her sister Ninika flees from forcible motherhood for the sake of Prawia. For her, it is both a question of oppression and a limitation on the profession of a dancer. Then, there is Agatika, “ridiculous” and steeped in motherhood. She both accommodates herself to the regime and displays an active courage and intelligence. More important, along with Ninika and Petronika, the playwright places her in the aesthetic/poetic opposition to the regime. As Józefacka has noted, in Jasnorzewska’s work, fantastic yet beautiful sounding names are one distinguishing mark of those women who belong to the “poetic camp.”39 Agatika’s name joins with those of Petronika, Ninika, and Halima to oppose the harsh-sounding name of Vrana.40 This 39. Józefacka 1966, 90. 40. Based on her name, Lelika should also belong to this group. Moreover, her devotion to Vrana, as well as her charm (as stated in the stage directions) would also seem to place her within the aesthetic opposition. However, in the end, Jasnorzewska endows her with too

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is a major change for the playwright: a physically ridiculous character, immersed in motherhood, still belongs to the “poetic camp” rather than among the “hags.” For the first time, Jasnorzewska does not present motherhood as negative, nor does she require beauty for a character to be considered positive.

✻✻✻ The analysis in this chapter reveals that both the “estate” and the “Mother-Pole” myths continued to exist as a cultural substratum in inter-war Poland, though the strength of the two does not appear to be equal—at least in these plays. The works suggest that the values, social structures, and expectations of the two myths extended into the milieu of the educated class and of the intelligentsia. When it comes to the estate myth, every author in every play sees patriarchal social norms as an inevitable given. In Monika’s Case, Szczepkowska even perceives the supposedly male predisposition toward the cerebral as positive and better than women’s supposed emotionalism. At the same time, in every work, including Monika’s Case, the writers in one way or another challenge, overturn, reinterpret, or question these male norms. In Egyptian Wheat and The Falling House, the estate disintegrates at the end as the inhabitants leave for a variety of reasons. Moreover, in The Falling House, Szczepkowska questions both essentialism of subject and socially accepted patriarchal moral standards. In The Deep at Zimna, Rylska undercuts the seeming stasis and circularity of the final scene with Nika’s rebellious gesture. Rylska, like Grabowska in “Justice,” also endows socially “nonrecognized” individuals (children, lowerclass women) with a moral fiber. In addition, in “Justice” and House of Women, though male norms control society, Grabowska and Nałkowska offer their female characters a chance to develop into richer human beings. Nałkowska presents an estate where women live together in a matriarchy. Szczepkowska, in Monika’s Case, claims that men and their few positive elements for the audience to perceive her as positive. Among other things, in the final scene, under the influence of the truth drug, even her devotion becomes suspect.

180 Complicating the Female Subject values are superior and that those values need to be accepted by defeminized women, but the play ends with all three heroines dispensing with the male character. In Baba-Dziwo, Jasnorzewska depicts a struggle between women—those who oppose male norms and those who wish to enforce them—while, at the same time, she raises more questions than she answers and presents a wonderful gallery of nonessentialist female characters. Poland had been urbanizing and industrializing since the second half of the nineteenth century. By the inter-war period, traditional life on a noble estate was a dying form of life. The majority of the descendants of the landowning class were living in cities and working. Yet, these plays make clear that there is no difference in terms of norms and values between the rural nobility on estates and the urban intelligentsia. Both groups delimit the role of women in the same way: as meek and obedient wife and mother. In both environments, women must maneuver, question, and challenge existing social rules in order to improve their lives. Overall, the “Mother-Pole” myth seems weaker, easier to reject in these works than the myth of the “estate.” We could have expected such an outcome since women did have more control over their own bodies than over society in general. Even in the inter-war period, women, at least in the more affluent and better-educated class, could avoid pregnancy if they wanted. Most of these playwrights actively participated in the campaign for “Świadome macierzyństwo” (Conscious Motherhood), waged in the press by liberal activists such as Tadeusz Żeleński and Irena Krzywicka, and encouraged women to decide for themselves when and whether they wanted to be mothers, rather than assuming that they should live up to their “social responsibility.”41 Meanwhile, changing and/or challenging societal structures overall is a more encompassing, daunting, and gradual process. Thus, all of the writers either reject, ignore, or treat motherhood as a personal, moral matter, not as a concern for the country. Szczepkowska, in Monika’s Case, wants motherhood put aside for the sake of professional success, while, in The Falling House, she ignores the issue. In between, in Silent Power, she theoretically gives women a choice whether to be mothers or 41. See Babik 2010 and Szpakowska 2012, 132–135.

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not. Yet, the only mother–son relationship that she presents shows a psychologically domineering mother and a lover-like son. Rylska, in The Deep at Zimna, shows how traditional motherhood has degenerated into a passive attention to etiquette, while Jasnorzewska, in Egyptian Wheat, glorifies a painless motherhood outside the bounds of marriage. Nałkowska’s Celina Bełska, in House of Women, is a mother figure who imparts existential wisdom, not patriotic ideals. As different as the two plays are, Grabowska in “Justice” and Jasnorzewska in Baba-Dziwo have their heroines decide why, when, and where to have children. Grabowska’s Number 14 desires to have a second child as a form of expiation. Jasnorzewska’s Agatika has many children, yet engages in political resistance, while Petronika decides to hold off on children because of the political climate. In not one of the plays do the writers depict motherhood along the lines of the “Mother-Pole” myth.

✻✻✻ We have now considered how these playwrights construct and depict women and their situation from two perspectives. Chapters 5 and 6 search for a definition of the human subject, especially of the female subject, through the prism of essentialism and nonessentialism. This chapter analyzes how the writers present women vis-à-vis the cultural substratum of the “estate” and “Mother-Pole” myths. In order to do full justice to how the authors approach the definition of subject and the situation of women, the next chapter looks at how they use the “fissures” inherent in the Western dramatic form to further enrich and complicate their images of women in inter-war Poland.

C H A PT E R 8

Dramatic Fissures

D

ramatic “fissures” play with the audience’s genre expectations vis-à-vis Realist theater and any other type of theater as well. “Fissures” are half-hidden elements of a genre that playwrights can use transgressively in order to emphasize a social issue, for example, gender and/or the situation of women. According to such feminist theoreticians as Alissa Solomon and Elin Diamond, the roots of “fissures” reach back to the very beginnings of Western theater and drama. These thinkers state that we can intimately tie the origins of Western theater in ancient Greece with mimesis.1 Despite the fact that “[t]he connection of art (with its false simulacra, its irrationality) to life is precisely what Plato feared, and what Aristotle sought to regulate,” such Greek plays as Euripides’ The Bacchae or Aristophanes’ Thesmophoriazusae show that the most fundamental of “Western theater’s originary mimetic activity was female impersonation.”2 In other words, as Solomon and Diamond state, from its inception, since male actors were impersonating female characters, drama and theater have closely intertwined the concepts of gender and mimesis. Moreover, Solomon shows how a playwright like Aristophanes was aware both that his theater required female impersonation and that the impersonation was in a way “inadequate.”3 Aristophanes inserted puns and jokes into his plays that reveal his characters’ awareness of this “inadequacy,” that is, the fact that the audience was not deceived into believing that they were seeing actual women. Solomon further writes “impersonation, always incomplete on   1. Other important elements of drama also come out of Dionysian rituals. However, mimesis is the one on which I focus here.   2. The first quotation is from Diamond 1997, xv–xvi; the second quotation is from Solomon 1997, 3.   3. Solomon 1997, 1 and 5–8.

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the non-illusory stage, yet always demanding acceptance if the play is to go on, stands metonymically for theatrical illusion itself.”4 “Double vision,” as she calls it, forms the essence of theater. The audience always sees the character and the actor, the setting, and the stage scenery.5 Compared to later periods, it was easier for the ancient Greeks to accept this double vision because they did not equate mimesis with verisimilitude. Aristotle defines mimesis as a kind of subjective presentation of that which is typical and probable. According to the philosopher, the artist can present objects and/or people as more beautiful or less beautiful than they are in reality, depending on his goals in a given work.6 Moreover, as Elin Diamond writes, mimesis is “fully marked by the political, literary, and gender ideologies of the critic, the artist, the audience, and the social contexts that interconnect them.”7 In other words, behind the mimesis of the ancient Greeks lie Greek philosophical ideas about existence, society, and art. Such an approach to mimesis allows a writer like Aristophanes to exploit the “double vision,” the “fracture” in order to comment on society. The Greek-type “fractures” pertaining to gender and female impersonation by men continue to be an issue of mimesis until women appear on stage—in most European countries in the second half of the seventeenth century.8 However, even later, throughout the Enlightenment, mimesis does not stand for a mirror-like reflection of a particular reality. Thus, Neoclassical mimesis expresses that period’s belief in a universal law and order comprehensible to human reason. In the theater, mimesis becomes verisimilitude only with the coming of nineteenth-century Realism. In turn, this new definition brings about the notion of the “well-made” play. For a better understanding of the   4. Solomon 1997, 2.   5. Solomon 1997, 16.   6. http://classics.mit.edu/Aristotle/poetics.1.1.html   7. Diamond 1997, viii.   8. Scholars have most often studied the implications of this phenomenon in the plays of William Shakespeare. As an example of feminist Shakespearean scholarship, see Solomon 1997, 21–45. She analyzes how Shakespeare’s jokes and expressions widen the “fissure” created by young boys playing women. We should note that there were countries, such as Spain, where women began to act on the stage earlier. I am indebted to my colleague Mary Cozad for bringing this to my attention.

184 Complicating the Female Subject “well-made” play, Patricia Schroeder’s general definition of Realism is a useful one. She writes that a Realist play “reflects a specific social milieu in a particular era; [. . .] develops according to cause-and-effect sequences of actions; [. . .] ends with the resolution of some problem; [. . .] includes characters who react to the environment and action in complex and clearly motivated ways; [. . .] attempts to convince the audience by all available theatrical means that the onstage action is, in fact, real” [my emphasis].9 The underlined phrase points to the fact that the shift to verisimilitude was, in a sense, an attempt to remove theater’s “double vision”—something impossible in practice. Its definition, attributed to the popular French playwright Eugène Scribe, is as follows: the “well-made” play crystallizes a form that begins with an exposition, proceeds with the help of a tight plot to a climax near the end of the play, and ends with a resolution of problems. Though critics immediately attacked the “well-made” play, it nevertheless became the dominant dramatic genre into the twentieth century, in later years thanks to the conventions of television drama. Moreover, not only authors of popular, second-rate fare employed the form. Such great playwrights as Henrik Ibsen and George Bernard Shaw utilized it, went beyond it, and reinterpreted it in order to create their masterpieces.10 Regardless of what they are, the dominant genre(s) of a given historical period shape(s) audience expectations. Both the average person and the critic expect certain things to happen whether they sit down to read a work of literature or go to the theater to see a production. In terms of “wellmade” plays, audiences expect to focus on the plot, to feel moved emotionally by the climax, and comforted by a resolution that restores the values and norms of society. In analyzing the process of reader reception, Catherine Belsey concludes that it is normal for readers to read the dominant genre of a given period “conventionally,” in other words, with certain preconceived expectations.11 Similarly, Anne Cranny-Francis discusses the  9. Schroeder 1996a, 17. 10. Henrik Ibsen (1828–1906) was a Norwegian playwright, considered the father of both Realist and Modernist drama. His work was well known in every European country. George Bernard Shaw (1856–1950) was an Irish playwright strongly influenced by Ibsen, who dominated English-language drama from the 1880s to World War II. 11. Belsey 1985.

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terms “mainstream” or “compliant” reading “which is considered typical of mainstream literacy in any given society.”12 Moreover, these conventional/ mainstream/compliant readings usually “reinforce and reproduce conventional patriarchal practices.”13 We can apply the comments of Belsey and Cranny-Francis not only to the act of reader reception, but also to the reception of staged dramatic works. We might even argue that these ideas apply even more to drama than to prose. Due to the material exigencies of a stage realization and the time constraints that accompany it, drama, more than a novel, tends to safeguard the characteristic elements of a given genre, be it tragedy, comedy, or tragicomedy. In other words, traditionally, drama more strongly than other genres takes into account audience expectations tied to a particular genre. Thus, even sensitive critics may miss certain atypical aspects of a Realist drama because they will automatically focus on what they expect to find in such a work. Yet, what the theory of “fissures” shows is that an author does not have to turn to an experimental form to overcome the audience’s “conventional” reaction to Realist form. An author can undercut audience expectations by playing with the dominant form. Solomon emphasizes that there is no “single answer” as to how this can be achieved.14 Every playwright chooses one’s own elements and strategies. Solomon gives one example of such a “fissure” in her analysis of Henrik Ibsen’s The Doll House, a play well known to Polish audiences at the turn of the nineteenth to the twentieth century.15 She writes that Ibsen was never overtly feminist on the level of the story. Rather, by “[p]ointing to the limits of theatrical [Realist] form, he commented on the limits of middle-class, patriarchal values.”16 For example, in The Doll House, Ibsen fractures the “well-made” play by introducing an element from melodrama, namely, the tarantella. Nora’s wild dance scandalizes not only her husband, but also nineteenth-century audiences. Yet, Ibsen makes sure that “[n]ot only does the dance relate to the plot [. . .] it

12. 13. 14. 15. 16.

Cranny-Francis 2003, 115. Cranny-Francis 2003, 116. Solomon 1997, 4. Solomon 1997, 47–69. Solomon 1997, 54.

186 Complicating the Female Subject structures the action.”17 Eventually, the tarantella becomes a metaphor “for it also marks the ferociousness with which she [Nora] must overstep proprieties if she is, in fact, going to live.”18 Solomon then gives examples of other types of “fissures” in Ibsen’s drama Hedda Gabler, as well as in the plays of William Shakespeare and Bertolt Brecht. I would like to emphasize that there is a difference in the essential character of “fissures” based in the mimetic tradition, with an assumption of “double vision” and “fissures” in a tradition of verisimilitude. With mimesis, the “fissures” are, in a sense, more internal and located in the verbal sphere of the play. In the latter, the “fissures” are more superimposed from the outside and have more to do with the breaking of genre expectations. Before considering the “fissures” in our plays, we need to consider why Realism became the form of choice in women’s drama at the end of the nineteenth century and beginning of the twentieth. At the end of the nineteenth century, revolutionary changes in the form of classic Western drama coincided with women’s struggle for suffrage and access to jobs.19 Women proposed to transgress the dominant patriarchal system and transgression is a gesture that requires an audience, someone who will witness the rebellious act. Done in private, the gesture becomes useless. Thus, what better way to communicate than through theater?20 In turn, the sudden importance of drama for women initiated discussions among them as to the most suitable form for plays, with the question of Realism coming to the forefront as the undoubtedly dominant dramatic form. Initially, many women thinkers, activists, and writers in various countries seemed suspicious of Realism as a viable form for feminist texts because 17. Solomon 1997, 55–56. 18. Solomon 1997, 56. 19. See Braun 1984 and Finney 1989. 20. For more on the Polish context, see Kiec 2003. See also Schlueter 1990 and Gale 1996. What we need to remember about transgression is that “[i]t is not, in itself, subversion; it is not an overt and deliberate challenge to the status quo. [. . .] What it does do, though, is implicitly interrogate the law, pointing not just to the specific [. . .] mechanisms of power [. . .] but also to its complicity, its involvement in what it prohibits.” Quoted from Jervis 1999, 4. This understanding of transgression—interrogating without wholly subverting—will be useful in the discussion of some of these plays. I am indebted to Tamara Trojanowska for suggesting such a perspective.

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they felt that they could not overcome its patriarchal connotations. Moreover, they felt that, by insisting on closure, Realism always supports the status quo. However, over time, many women writers modified their views concerning Realist form.21 In fact, some began to see it as the best form for the disenfranchised. First, nineteenth-century writers developed Realism precisely in order to reflect and comment upon social conditions. Second, its familiarity eased reception.22 Though the purity of genres begins to disappear in Western culture starting with Romanticism, genres, nevertheless, continue to be a valuable and significant element for any writer. They appeal to a communal memory, and writers can use them— even if only as fragments—in order to elicit certain emotional reactions from the recipient.23 Thus, since Realism was the dominant genre in the nineteenth century, it was all the more useful in awakening the audience’s memory and/or associations with various aspects of culture. At the same time, turn-of-the-century women writers wanted the theater to function as a pulpit for the dissemination of their ideas. They feared that the use of experimental forms would alienate audiences, limit their size, and hurt their chances of a stage realization.24 In the end, what these women writers created was Realism, but with a feminist “twist,” a twist resulting from the exploitation of various “fissures.”

✻✻✻ The authors of our plays overwhelmingly chose some variant of Realist form, the one exception being Jasnorzewska’s Baba-Dziwo. By offering their audiences the dominant and familiar Realist form, they could then introduce and play with the “fissures” inherent in this form, emphasizing certain issues and/or ideas. Besides shocking plots, various musings about the nature of the human subject, and playing with national myths, “fissures” were one more element that helped create a complex picture of the situation of women in the inter-war period. Let us start with Szczepkowska’s 21. For a useful synopsis of this opposition, see Hurley 2003, 1–15. 22. Forte 1996, 31; Schroeder 1996a, 36. 23. On this subject, see Elam 1980, 95; Pfister 1988, 26–27, and Snyder 1991, 205–212. 24. Forte 1996, 31; Schroeder 1996b, 164.

188 Complicating the Female Subject Monika’s Case and Jasnorzewska’s Egyptian Wheat. In both works, the playwrights collide a shocking “Zeittheater” type of plot with a traditional ideology and a rather essentialist approach to the subject. In Monika’s Case, the playwright has three women—with different educational levels— move away from the only male character, eventually making him dispensable. This plot irritated even the most liberal inter-war critics.25 At the same time, the author weakens the message of this emancipatory storyline by a clearly stated belief in an essentialist division of subjects into male—associated with reason, wisdom and joy—and female—above all, emotional. Through Anna, her porte-parole, Szczepkowska openly states that men are wiser, know how to take pleasure in life, and understand that one must give other human beings the freedom to act as they please. Initially, Monika attempts to harmonize the body/mind parts of her life, for she is both a professional and a wife. However, the role of wife continually threatens her attachment and dedication to her profession, while her independence and force of character have been secretly destroying her marriage, despite her attempts to play the role of a “little woman.” In the end, she chooses to discard the role of wife, to “elongate,” that is, to defeminize and focus on her profession. Szczepkowska adds a further twist by depicting Jerzy, the only male in the play, as a weak, passive, and immoral individual. Thus, the author juxtaposes a radical feminist plot with a fictional world in which the essentialist male subject and the male sphere of activity are both the default and the goal for women, while making the individual male weak. Similarly, Jasnorzewska, in Egyptian Wheat, constructs a plot in which the heroine shocks audience expectations by breaking up a loveless marriage and departing with her much younger stepson, though, in the end, he turns out not be her husband’s son. Already, inter-war critics remarked on the somewhat outdated Young Poland “flavor” of the play; nevertheless, incest, if only alleged, will shake up the audience. Simultaneously, despite this radical storyline, in Ruta, the author creates a very traditional, essentialist female subject. Some might say that this is a rather extreme essentialism since, at this stage in her career, Jasnorzewska insists that, 25. See, for example, Żeleński 1968, 225 and Irzykowski 1995, 685.

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without the love of a man, a woman does not exist. In the end, the playwright offers no easy answers. She actually shows the boorish husband as genuinely suffering because he has lost his beloved son. Meanwhile, she depicts Ruta as fully aware that her happiness is temporary, since the union with Horacy will eventually have to change, given their great difference in age. In other words, the play does not offer closure, as audiences would expect from a Realist work. The shock value of “Zeittheater” is also an important part of Grabowska’s “Justice.” Even today, many audiences would perceive abortion as a controversial topic. This was the case even more so in the inter-war period. The play is quite Naturalistic, with characters that are types. Grabowska chose the form to further the play’s obvious didacticism, going as far as to make the female characters anonymous. Number 14 and the barely sketched female warden are both in many ways typical, lower-class, passive, and submissive women. Moreover, Grabowska repeatedly emphasizes the similarities between the male characters in order to highlight male collusion and male ill treatment of lower-class women. Yet, the playwright creates unexpected tension when, in a Naturalistic work alongside the typical, she endows Number 14 with traits that undermine the traditional body/mind dualism. She assigns to this meek prisoner intelligence, a sense of irony, and a moral fiber. The socially “nonrecognized” heroine remains silent not through dull stubbornness, as inter-war critics would have it, but through a conscious desire not to collude with the unfair justice of those in power.26 Szczepkowska’s next play, Silent Power, does not exploit “fissures” of form as strongly as the other plays. The work does not offer the expected closure, that is, solution of problems, but that is primarily the result of the transitional nature of this play vis-à-vis essentialism and nonessentialism. The tension that exists in Silent Power stems from the juxtaposition of various existential ideas, values, and social issues. For example, as discussed in Chapters 5 and 6, Szczepkowska maintains a constant pull between an essentialist and a nonessentialist approach to the subject. She contrasts praise for men’s ability to organize society with women’s need to restructure 26. Żeleński 1969, 161 and Miller 1935, 4.

190 Complicating the Female Subject it along lines that are more “sisterly.” She insists that women must accept the male value of financial strength if they want men to respect them. However, she then proceeds to explain capitalist competition in a novel way by insisting that competition releases creative forces in people. In the end, the audience leaves with no clear-cut answers as to how to resolve the various difficulties that women experience. In Szczepkowska’s The Falling House, the “fissure” falls in a different place. Here, the author undermines the image of the patriarchal noble family first by focusing on morality and second by creating nonessentialist characters. The plot fits into the conventions of a Realist social drama, critically presenting life on a decaying estate. Szczepkowska shows the hypocrisy of the heir Janek, ready to sell his family name to the highest bidder, while forbidding his sisters to marry anyone but a fellow nobleman. Instead of criticizing but then reasserting patriarchal values and social order, as many male writers did, Szczepkowska undercuts the dominant personal morality and its double standard in sexual matters. She also compromises inter-war social morality through the character of Barski. Barski claims that the landowning class has lost its right to the lands because it no longer respects it and exploits it only for its own shallow ends. Therefore, Barski proposes to redistribute his family’s land among the peasants who love and care for it. In addition, Szczepkowska undermines long-established social roles within the patriarchal system by creating nonessentialist characters. Count Rakuski, the family patriarch, marries his nurse and literally abandons the estate for her. His heir Janek becomes a small-time entrepreneur selling strawberries in order to buy fashionable clothes. Barski has already made the change from landowner to working intelligentsia, as has Helena. Thus, by introducing “fissures,” Szczepkowska does not offer a remedy on how to improve the landowning class, but rather suggests that their time has passed and with them, the limitations put on women in a patriarchal society. Something similar occurs in Rylska’s The Deep at Zimna. Here, the realism of a social drama focused on an estate begins to crack when the audience realizes that the characters fulfill highly conventionalized roles that over time have degenerated almost into farce. For example, the 35-year-old Tola continues to fulfill the role of a young, innocent ingénue.

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Occasionally, conventions force characters into tragically grotesque roles, as with Mrs. Kercz’s suffering. Furthermore, the authority of the “estate” myth becomes undermined when Rylska makes children, the “nonrecognized” members of this patriarchal society, the guardians of morality. The Deep at Zimna shares with the plays House of Women and Egyptian Wheat yet another “fissure.” In all three works, a Chekhovian mood of poetization and lyricism associated with a garden collides with the brutality and deception of men. As in Chekhov, a sense of lyricism is created first by the fact that the playwrights focus on the emotions of their heroines. In all three plays, the stage directions refer primarily to emotions and help create a filter of “kobiecej wrażliwości i kobiecego sposobu odbierania świata” (female sensibility and a female manner of perceiving the world).27 Nałkowska and Jasnorzewska both emphasize the aesthetic quality of the garden, which brings peace to their respective protagonists. Throughout House of Women, the characters wander in and out of the garden, commenting on its beauty. In Egyptian Wheat, Jasnorzewska situates Ruta in the first act in a garden whose beauty can be appreciated only by the heroine and the androgynous Sziradze. Meanwhile, in The Deep at Zimna, Rylska in her stage directions emphasizes the oneiric charm of the garden, especially in moonlight, and makes the garden the location of more or less romantic meetings. Simultaneously, the playwrights undercut the audience’s expectations of lyricism by colliding it with brutality. It is in the garden that Krzeptowski emotionally abuses his wife and foists his illegitimate child on her. It is to the garden that Kercz departs for his adulterous meeting with Tola. In House of Women, this collision becomes especially ironic, when, at the end of the play, the optimistic but naïve Julia admires the “para zakochanych” (couple in love) (129) against the background of the beautiful garden, not realizing that the scene that she has witnessed is actually very brutal and tragic. We can find yet another kind of tension in Nałkowska’s House of Women. Audiences expect the fictional world of a Realist play to present a convincing reflection of the real world. They feel that onstage characters should be “life-like” enough to be able to walk off the stage into real life. 27. Kraskowska 1999b, 116.

192 Complicating the Female Subject Yet, the playwright undercuts this audience expectation by introducing a “fissure” between these two worlds. Nałkowska creates a fictional world in which an independent sisterhood of women lives peacefully on stage, benignly governed by a matriarch instead of a patriarch. Moreover, the author views women’s essentialism as positive. Even with their “perversion of goodness,” Nałkowska does not ask women to emulate men and become like them. Simultaneously, the author makes it clear that in the real, off-stage world, men with their practical logic rule society. Thus, the independence of these women is exceptional and fragile, dependent on the financial independence of the grandmother. The characters could not walk off the stage into reality (as expected), because the rules governing life on the estate are different from those in inter-war Poland. In House of Women, The Depth at Zimna, and Monika’s Case, one finds yet another Chekhovian element that undercuts Realist expectations, namely, circularity—to a greater or lesser degree. Nałkowska opens House of Women with a group of women living relatively happily together in a place of refuge. After some intrusions and shake-ups, the author circles back to the same group. Yes, Joanna and Ewa have progressed in their development. Nevertheless, the audience feels that life on the estate will continue as it did before Ewa appeared. In The Depth at Zimna, Rylska in her stage directions to the last scene writes “Ten sam salon, ten sam księżyc, [. . .] Obraz jeszcze nosi bardziej wyraziste piętno sennej wizji, niż obraz pierwszy.” (85) (The same drawing room, the same moon, [. . .] The scene/picture carries an even more expressive trace of a dream-like vision than the first scene/picture.). She places her major characters in the same positions as in the opening scene. The ending not only mirrors but also heightens the mood of the opening scene. At the same time, the author shakes up the stasis using the protagonist, Nika. As the curtain falls, Nika prepares to break the oneiric stasis of the scene by going out into the garden with Aleksander Kłosek. In other words, the play forms a circle, but with a break that appears thanks to Nika’s gesture. Yet another situation appears in Szczepkowska’s Monika’s Case. Throughout most of the play, the author gives the audience a cleanly Realist play, without any of the lyricism of Nałkowska and Rylska’s works. The audience, closure and resolution as part of a Realist ending. That was the traditional purpose of

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a Realist work: pose a problem, describe it thoroughly, and posit a solution. Therefore, it would have been more “acceptable” if social norms had been reestablished, Anna had returned to the popularly accepted image of womanhood, and Monika had resolved her domestic problems.28 As German Ritz notes: “Wydaje się, że kobieta autorka [. . .] łatwiej uzyskuje dostęp do zdominowanego przez mężczyzn życia literackiego wówczas, gdy przedstawia kobiecą uczuciowość i psychikę (‘duszę i serce kobiece’) [. . .] oraz wnosi przede wszystkim tematykę kobiecą [. . .] w uproszczeniu” (It seems that a woman author gains access to the male-dominated literary life more easily if she depicts emotionality and psyche (‘women’s soul and heart’), [. . .] as well as introduces primarily feminine subject matter [. . .] in a simplified form).29 Instead of reestablishing norms and resolving issues, Szczepkowska creates a “fissure.” She not only retains Anna’s rebelliousness, but also makes Monika “elongate” and turn away from family life. At the same time, she offers no true closure. Rather, the play has a circular construction: though Monika changes, at the end, Anna and Monika continue to live together, while Antosia’s fate remains unclear. Moreover, the weak figure of Jerzy questions the superiority of male essentialism. The work’s premiere at the Reduta Theater in Warsaw only heightened the “non-Realist” effect. Though the director furnished the stage as a realistic architect’s studio, the traditional division between a box stage and the audience was broken by there being no curtain separating the stage.30 The nontraditional stage shattered the familiar illusion of looking in on the real world. Yet, another kind of “fissure” occurs when Szczepkowska and Jasnorzewska use space innovatively and contrary to Realist expectations. In Monika’s Case and Baba-Dziwo, the use of space makes the “personal political.”31 Both writers give the domestic setting more than one function, 28. The rebelliousness of the figure becomes especially clear when we compare the play to its Hollywood film version, Dr. Monica, which ends with Monika and her husband adopting a child and renewing their family. 29. Ritz 2001, 275–276. 30. Żeleński 1966, 200. 31. For more on changing societal attitudes toward women as expressed through the organization of theatrical space, more specifically, the home hearth, see Higonnet 1994 and Scolnicov 1994.

194 Complicating the Female Subject expanding the events of each work beyond the personal. In Monika’s Case, the author sets the entire play in Anna’s apartment. In keeping with its domestic function, the author depicts it as a refuge for Monika. Monika talks about its coziness and sees it as a place where she can recuperate. Moreover, the home brings out the sisterly bonds between the two women. Concurrently, the apartment is also Anna’s professional studio; its modern and severe character emphasizes the fact that, in the real world, Anna has had to put aside her femininity in order to be successful among male architects. Both Anna’s and Monika’s statements reveal that this is a home devoid of traditional feminine elements: no decorative knick-knacks, no flowers, and no cozy kitchen. The “personal as political” has an even richer presentation in BabaDziwo. Except for the final scene of Vrana’s downfall, Jasnorzewska situates the entire action in the Gondor apartment, assigning numerous functions to the home. As discussed in Chapter 6, the domestic space serves functions that are personal (Petronika’s relationship with her husband, her moments of reflection), but also those that are political (Petronika’s refusal to hang a flag on Vrana’s birthday), social (Agatika offering to hide Ninika), and professional (Petronika discovering the truth drug). By assigning more than one function to the domestic space, both Szczepkowska and Jasnorzewska oppose traditional forms of femininity and the limitations placed on women by society. On the one hand, they underscore that the domestic has social and moral value beyond the immediate task of cleaning, cooking, and raising children. On the other hand, they show that, in inter-war Poland, women have often moved on beyond the domestic and into the professional sphere. Yet another “fissure” appears in Grabowska’s “Justice.” Grabowska subtitled her work a “poważna komedja” (serious comedy) (unnumbered title page). However, we would be hard put to find any humor in this tragic work. We might even ask how Naturalist “Zeittheater” can be a comedy. Here, we need to consider the effect of the two different endings found in the typescript of this play. Originally, for the premiere in Wilno and Warsaw, Grabowska attached a melodramatic finale to a serious, Naturalist work. Piotr slinks out, while the prison director pulls out his hair in desperation. This ending is much more in tune with the didacticism of Realist and Naturalist art in that it holds out a seed of hope. The image of

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the director pulling out his hair, suggests that this fundamental and overwhelming crisis is irreversible and will change the man. This is not a feminist ending since, once again, it focuses on the male subject. However, the ending avoids defeatism and implies better treatment for other Number 14s in the future. At the same time, melodrama and Naturalism appearing together in one work undercut each other. The presence of humor in this play requires a production that stages the ending in an overthe-top manner, melodramatically, emphasizing the scene’s emotional hyperbole: the slinking son, the desperate father, the cynical doctor. Yet, there is a paradox involved here, for a hyperbolic finale would make any hope for the future seem ridiculous, while a serious interpretation would eliminate the humor of a “serious comedy.” Meanwhile, the second ending, written for the Kraków production, is more of an addition to a performance text than a completed ending. It openly leaves some decisions to the director’s vision, for example, the way Piotr is to leave the stage: “wychodzi—krokiem tchórzliwym, cofając się tyłem, albo zdecydowanym, zależnie od koncepcji postaci i stopniowania bezczelności.” (48) (leaves—with a cowardly step, moving backwards, or with a decisive step, depending on the conception of this character and the degree of his impudence.). Moreover, it is a much more cynical ending that reduces the possibility of change for the male half of humanity almost to nonexistence. The doctor tells the prison director that, though a “rysa” (scar) will remain and though he is the principle culprit, he will go on acting just as before for the sake of his children, including that of Piotr. A scar does not hold out much hope of change. Yet, for all its cynicism, this ending is psychologically more consistent. Given this ending’s hopelessness, it is perhaps not surprising that an inter-war critic such as Karol Irzykowski insisted that the play presents a single incident in the provinces, rather than generalizations about all men.32 Moreover, this ending 32. Keep in mind that the inter-war critics knew the play only from performance and that their reactions to the productions of Karol Adwentowicz and/or Józef Karbowski influenced their reactions. For example, it seems correct to suppose that, in the Warsaw performance, Number 14 proudly refused the money offered by the prison director. Both Żeleński and Miller in their reviews present it as such. In the extant text, the woman meekly takes the money. Similarly, Grabowska’s suggestions of male

196 Complicating the Female Subject eliminates any possibility of humor, thus erasing the particular “fissure” associated with the subtitle. At the same time, it creates a new “fissure,” since a Naturalist work should offer a solution to the problem posed in the text. This ending does not do that. Finally, let us consider the “fissure” of genres that appears in Jasnorzewska’s Baba-Dziwo. Here, the playwright creatively employs the tension between a grotesque and a Realist form. Inter-war critics overall responded positively to the play’s experimental form, seeing it as a progressive step in the development of a grotesque style inspired by Stanisław Ignacy Witkiewicz.33 In her earlier plays, Jasnorzewska uses the grotesque only as an aesthetic technique that favors bizarre, exaggerated, fearful, and/or deformed forms.34 She applies the technique to her depiction of hag-like matriarchs and, occasionally, to the presentation of oppressive husbands. In Baba-Dziwo, the playwright, like many other twentieth-century writers, inclines towards the grotesque as a worldview.35 Maria Józefacka was the first to describe in detail the wholesale use of the grotesque in this play, calling it a “złowrogi krąg stale się rozszerzający” (an evil circle ever widening).36 At the center of this structure stands Vrana, an innately ugly woman in military outfits, seemingly good-natured and pleasantly ribald, but disgusting in her mannerisms and seething with a combination of hatred and suffering. In a strange reversal of a misogynous application of the grotesque to the female body by a male author, Jasnorzewska, a woman playwright, applies it to the body of another woman.37 Moving outwards, the grotesque world consists of the cruel orders that Vrana issues and of the speeches that she broadcasts, masterpieces of hypocritical warm-heartedness combined with self-aggrandizement: (czyta z zapisanego arkusza, głosem silnym i pełnym zapału, udając, że improwizuje, a patrząc na rękopis) Kobiety Prawianki! Posłuchajcie mnie, Validy, poświęcającej wam dzisiejszą audycję z collusion as a general phenomenon may have been deemphasized in the performance, though Żeleński did not see it that way. 33. See Kot 2004. 34. For a definition of the grotesque as technique, see Quinn 1999, 142–144. 35. For a discussion of the grotesque as worldview, see Green 1986, xiv–xviii and 267–269. 36. Józefacka 1966, 90–91. See also Morawska-Borysewicz 1996. 37. On the subject of the misogynous use of the grotesque, see Russo 1995, 1–6.

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serca wprost płynącą. (patrzy w papier zapisany) Od niedawna koszary żeńskie zapełniają się wielotysięczną rzeszą kobiet i dziewcząt poborowych. [. . .] Kobiety! Istotnie na przeciąg dwu lat przestajecie być paniami swojej woli, ale za to ileż szczęścia da wam ta myśl, żeście pożyteczne! [. . .] A zresztą powiedzcie sobie: dopust Validy. Jak dawniej mawiałyście: dopust Boży. (II–374) ((reads from a written sheet, with a loud and enthusiastic voice, pretending that she’s improvising while looking at a text) Women of Prawia! Listen to me, Valida, who dedicates to you today’s broadcast flowing straight from the heart. (looks at the paper). Recently the women’s barracks have been filling with a multitude, several thousand strong, of conscripted women and girls. [. . .] Women! It’s true that for the duration of two years you cease being mistresses of your wills, but think how much happiness you’ll get from the thought that you’re useful! [. . .] And besides, just tell yourself: Valida’s will. Just as you used to say: God’s will.)

Here, as is common in constructing the grotesque, an inanimate part, Vrana’s voice, substitutes for the entire human being. Elsewhere, various institutions and a depersonalized staff, identified only by position (Policeman, Commissar, and Administrator) represent Vrana. These functionaries control even people’s intimate life, dismissing from jobs and jailing at will. It is within the context of this authoritarian government that the playwright shows us Norman Gondor and the psychological mechanisms by which acute fear leads to growing servility, while actually concealing immense hatred. Jasnorzewska forms the next circle of the grotesque, as described by Józefacka, through lesser, often nonsensical and bizarre inanimate elements: special flags displayed on Vrana’s birthday; the nonpublication of newspapers on certain days; the fascist-like salute used by the inhabitants of Prawia. The unseen chanting crowds that keep surging through the streets—sometimes hailing the dictator, sometimes cursing her—solidify the atmosphere of oppression and danger. Nevertheless, Jasnorzewska never goes as far in her experimentation as her mentor Witkiewicz. Determined to remain a popular playwright, she did not want to alienate the average inter-war audience. Therefore, grotesque

198 Complicating the Female Subject scenes intertwine with Realist, lyrical, and comedic ones. It is within these Realist scenes that the relationship between Petronika and Norman is developed. The author convincingly shows the difficulties that appear in a marriage when the woman is educated and has a strong character. For example, in the two opening scenes, with their foundation in a realistic comedy of manners, a husband and wife argue—politely, though also at times ironically, even sarcastically. The argument always remains civil and fit for the “drawing-room” as it moves through the various twists and turns of the characters’ emotions and ideas. After Petronika’s arrest (Act II, scene 3), the writer gives the audience a brief lyrical scene tinged with tragedy as Norman succumbs to utter despair. Likewise, at the very end of Act II, Jasnorzewska offers an emotionally laden moment of realistic intimacy between Norman and Petronika. These Realist scenes also show the relationship between Petronika and Agatika. For example, in Act II, scene 12, comedy combines with lyricism: Agatika offers to help Petronika in saving her sister, against the background of constant interruptions from the frightened Norman. Furthermore, characters from the grotesque sphere, Valida and Lelika, mix with characters from social drama and comedy of manners, Petronika, Norman, Ninika.38 At times, Jasnorzewska even breaks the grotesque characterization of Valida with the real tragedy of her innate ugliness, an ugliness that determines her attitude toward family and motherhood. The author’s clever dialogues strengthen the emotionally familiar mood of these Realist scenes. Thus, throughout the work, Jasnorzewska constantly pushes away the audience with the grotesque and then pulls it in emotionally with the Realist. The “pulling in” allows the author to present personal relationships in a more complex and convincing manner.

✻✻✻ All of these “fissures” introduce friction between the depiction of traditional society and the attempt to break out of a traditional framework. 38. One must note that the names of these realistic characters come from Jasnorzewska’s theory of naming, and not from social drama. On the theory of names, see Józefacka 1966 and Czaplajewicz 1981.

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They help show the complexity of relationships and sometimes suggest how to create new ones. They complicate the attempt to depict a nonessentialist subject. There are no easy answers here. If the female subject is essentialist and primarily emotional and bodily, then how can a woman compete professionally with a rational man? If male norms govern the real world, then how is a woman to find her own voice? How does one break the double moral standard in sexual matters, without breaking up with one’s own patriarchal family? Why when women gain power, do they defeminize and take on male values and norms? These plays depict a society in transition and crisis, at least when it comes to women. Yet, as we shall see, they are not defeatist, offering suggestions and solutions, not all of them feminist, but still solutions. However, before discussing the possibilities of a brighter future, let us first consider in detail how inter-war critics responded to these plays and why they responded as they did.

CH A PT E R 9

Inter-War Critical Reception

A

s mentioned in the introduction, the inter-war critical reception of these plays comes from newspaper reviews of theatrical performances, not from scholarly analysis. The inter-war generation was extremely interested in theater as an art form and wished “nadać poznaniu ulotnych zjawisk sztuki teatralnej racjonalne podstawy oraz stworzyć dla nich celową organizację badań.” (to give a rational foundation to our knowledge of the ephemeral phenomena of theatrical arts and to create for them a purposeful research organization.).1 However, at the time, theater studies were in their infancy.2 Moreover, there was a general recognition that Poland suffered from a complete lack of “fachowych znawców” (professional specialists) who could produce theatrical criticism.3 On the margins, there were artists at the time, such as the Polish Futurists, who wrote about experimental theater and drama.4 Stanisław Ignacy Witkiewicz both demanded a different theater in his theoretical writings and wrote plays that constituted the first examples of Polish drama of the absurd.5 Overall, however, the major critics, the ones that I consider here, were typical representatives of the intellectual, more liberal, class   1. Udalska 1977, 275.   2. Udalska 1977, 276–278.   3. Stefania Podhorska-Okołów, “O nową rasę krytyków teatralnych,” Scena i Sztuka, 1936, nr 1, quoted in Gajcy 2003, 38.   4. Polish Futurists, like those in other countries, demanded a break with tradition and a completely new form of writing and theater. However, as elsewhere, their work remained on the margins of cultural productivity. For Futurist opinions, see MarczakOborski 1973, 95–114, 128–137, and 148–151.   5. For the theoretical statements by Witkiewicz, see Marczak-Oborski 1973, 157–169.

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that had reached adulthood during Young Poland, before World War I. It is enough to look at their birth dates: Karol Irzykowski, born in 1873, Tadeusz Żeleński in 1874, Adam Grzymała-Siedlecki in 1876, Jan Nepomucen Miller in 1890, and Antoni Słonimski in 1895. In a sense, then, the reviews considered here serve as a good example of what the educated—and more liberal—audience thought of these plays.6

✻✻✻ Let us briefly consider the four critics from whose reviews I will most often quote. Karol Irzykowski saw himself as a thinker with a serious approach to both literary and theatrical criticism. Besides criticism and reviews, he wrote prose, poetry, plays, and radio plays. He also worked as a translator. In his theoretical writings, he repeatedly states that the goal of art is to present “wartości poznawcze” (cognitive values) and to function as a means of obtaining knowledge about human beings.7 Moreover, he feels that literary criticism is itself an art form and he calls it “poezja w innym stanie skupienia” (poetry in a different state of focus), that could bring greater awareness to literary problems.8 Among his favored playwrights are Friedrich Hebbel, Heinrich von Kleist, and William Shakespeare.9 Even though none of these playwrights was a Realist, Irzykowski demands realism in drama and attacks what he calls the “bzik antyrealistyczny” (anti-realist craze).10 He states that, as a critic, it is his duty to suggest how to improve a given play. In his suggestions, he focuses above all on the word, the text, writing “[d]ziedziną istotnych eksperymentów teatralnych może być tylko to, so robią autor i aktor—sama gra i samo pisanie.” (the area of important theatrical experiments can only be what the author and

 6. Literary criticism was rarely the only occupation of various intellectuals throughout the inter-war period. Yet, many wrote theatrical reviews: Jan Lorentowicz, Jerzy Stempowski, Wilam Horzyca, Kazimierz Wierzyński, Maciej Szukiewicz, Kazimierz Czachowski, Tadeusz Sinko—to name just a few.  7. Quoted from Bukowska-Schielmann 1992, 55. See also Markiewicz 2010, 227.  8. Głowala 1994, 57.  9. Głowala 1994, 59. 10. Irzykowski 1995, 117.

202 Complicating the Female Subject the actor do—play itself and writing itself.).11 Yet, his comments about acting are primarily limited to demands that the actors produce their lines loudly and clearly.12 In dramatic texts, he does try to distinguish between different levels of composition. In practice, this sometimes leads to such contradictory statements as “dobra, choć źle zrobiona” (good, though badly made), or “oryginalna mimo naiwności” (original despite naiveté).13 Unfortunately, he is not above resorting to shallow attacks and digressions on occasion.14 Nevertheless, he is the only one of the critics who attempts to write theoretically on theater, though his ideas often tend to be too abstract and to leave the reader with a sense of inadequacy.15 Despite these shortcomings, he was sensitive to innovation and quality, expressing appreciation even for some experimental plays. The critic who kept trumping Irzykowski in popularity was Tadeusz (Boy) Żeleński. As Marta Piwińska writes: “Na Boyu [. . .] inteligencja polska w swej masie [...] wychowywała się w dwudziestoleciu międzywojennym.” (During the inter-war period the greater part of Polish intellectuals were educated by Boy.).16 This popularity resulted from Żeleński’s taking on the role of the “inteligentnego dyletanta” (intelligent dilettante), the perspective of an average theatergoer.17 Moreover, he is an excellent writer, penning reviews characterized by a jocular irony combined with the juxtaposition of colloquial expressions with literary language.18 His reviews seem fresh even today. Like Irzykowski, he is more than just a theater critic. First and foremost, he was a translator of French literature and, though not an academic, he was a true specialist in French medieval literature. In addition, along with Irzykowski and Antoni Słonimski, Żeleński was part of the liberal group associated with the newspaper Wiadomości Literackie (Literary News), a group that saw as its goal the modernization of Polish society, the struggle against various obsolete 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18.

Irzykowski 1995, 120. Głowala 1994, 59. Quoted in Bukowska-Schliemann 1992, 65. Markiewicz 2010, 250-251. Markiewicz 2010, 251. Quoted in Szpakowska 2006, 23. Markiewicz 2010, 265. See also, Krasuski 1992, 90. Markiewicz 2010, 263–268.

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taboos and traditions.19 Probably, Żeleński’s training as a medical doctor led him to become involved in the campaign for “Świadome macierzyń­ stwo” (Conscious motherhood) that included family planning and sex education.20 With such views, Żeleński treats theater as an “instytucja usługowa” (service institution), or as Małgorzata Szpakowska writes, he “traktował teatr trochę jak kronikę wydarzeń bierzących” (treated the theater a bit like a chronicle of current events).21 That means that aesthetic criteria are less important than social content. A work could be mediocre dramatically, but still fulfill a useful social function.22 Thus, Żeleński uses reviews of plays as a means of commenting on various social issues. Yet, he was a sensitive critic who clearly valued quality. Though he prefers Realist theater and decries Romantic “szlachetczyzna,” he is also fascinated by the clash of realism and the grotesque, therefore, praising a play, such as Stanisław Wyspiański’s Wesele (The Wedding).23 Antoni Słonimski, above all a great poet, definitely preferred Realist plays, though not all of his favorite writers are exactly Realists since, besides Gabriela Zapolska, they include Friedrich Schiller and Tadeusz Rittner.24 The one non-Realist that Słonimski acknowledges is Adam Mickiewicz and his Romantic plays.25 Though he sometimes claims that “funkcją sceny jest popularyzowanie poezji” (the function of the stage was to popularize poetry), overall he definitely prefers “dramat wyraźnych 19. Krasuski 1992, 76. The Literary News was a sociocultural weekly and one of the major newspapers from 1924 to 1939. Though it did not support a clear political agenda, it was liberal in terms of social issues. Many inter-war writers published in it on a regular basis. 20. The campaign supported a rational planned approach to motherhood left in the hands of couples. It led to the opening of the first Polish planned parenthood clinic that gave information on available contraceptives. 21. Krasuski 1992, 78 and Szpakowska 2006, 12. 22. Krasuski 1992, 79. 23. The quote comes from Szpakowska 2006, 13. See also Markiewicz 2010, 264. The Wedding, written in 1901, is a classic of Polish dramaturgy written by Stanisław Wyspiański (1869–1907). It is a Modernist play, which undercuts the Romantic idea of Polish messianism with elements of the grotesque. The word “szlachetczyzna” gives a negative connotation to the totality of traits associated with the Polish gentry. 24. Friedrich Schiller (1759–1805) was a German Romantic playwright. Tadeusz Rittner (1873–1921) was a Modernist playwright of German-Polish extraction, who wrote most of his plays in two versions: in German and in Polish. 25. Szpakowska 2006, 38–39 and 44.

204 Complicating the Female Subject racji” (a drama of clear reason).26 Like Żeleński, he is in many ways a typical representative of the group connected with Wiadomości Literackie: liberal, antitotalitarian, rational, pacifist. However, he differs from him by being less interested in immediate social problems, and more focused on the need to defend a certain permanent system of moral beliefs. He battles everything that he considers to be “przejaw moralnego i artystycznego nihilizmu” (an expression of moral and artistic nihilism).27 This includes “rubbish,” “hubris,” “demagoguery,” as well as the overuse of national themes. Słonimski could be a merciless critic.28 In his reviews, you can find sentences like “Jeden z jej przyjaciół, kretyn, stara się temu przeszkodzić, ale mu się to nie udaje, ku radości matki, idiotki.” (One of her friends, a moron, tries to stop this, but doesn’t succeed, to the joy of the mother, an idiot.), and “Nie warto chodzić. Jeżeli się już pójdzie, nie warto słuchać” (It’s not worth going. If you do go, it’s not worth listening to.).29 His reviews are running monologues that function as an expression of opinion, monologues that sometimes reveal little about what actually happened on stage.30 Moreover, fascinated by movies, Słonimski often looks at stage performances through the prism of cinematic visual effects.31 Adam Grzymała-Siedlecki had a long and distinguished career as a critic, playwright, novelist, memoirist and theater director.32 Of the critics presented here, he is the most conservative in his political views. However, though politically close to the nationalists of Roman Dmowski, he was not a member of the party.33 Moreover, he was a well-educated, intelligent, and intuitive person who could move with the times, accepting both the “modernity” of the inter-war period and the social changes of the Polish 26. Szpakowska 2006, 39. 27. Szpakowska 2006, 39–41, quote p. 41. 28. Szpakowska 2006, 38 and Krajewska 1981, 113. 29. Quoted in Szpakowska 2006, 41 and 45. 30. Krajewska 1981, 110. 31. Krajewska 1981, 103–105. 32. Konieczny 1976, 3 and Malinowski 1970a, 9, 18. 33. Konieczny 1976, 21 and Malinowski 1970a, 15. Roman Dmowski (1864–1939) was the founder and theoretician of the National Democracy Party, Poland’s nationalistic, right-wing party during the inter-war period.

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People’s Republic.34 Grzymała-Siedlecki knew the practical side of theater productions, having worked as a theatrical director several times. In terms of his ideas on literature and drama, we find inherent contradictions in them. On the one hand, he wants literature to teach and “[p]ielęgnować i rozwijać [. . .] pierwiastki rodzime” (to [n]urture and develop native elements).35 On the other hand, he repeatedly criticizes the lack of emphasis on aesthetics in Polish literature.36 He also writes plays that function as light entertainment, far removed from the historical themes that he recommends.37 Grzymała-Siedlecki took the role of critic seriously, defining it as that of intermediary between text and reader, and criticism itself as another art form.38

✻✻✻ Let us now consider the actual reviews that these critics wrote about the plays. The first thing that strikes one is how uncomfortable and defensive they often sound. As liberal as they are, they clearly have a hard time experiencing plays that focus on women and their issues. Take, for example, Antoni Słonimski’s reaction to Zofia Nałkowska’s House of Women, assuredly the best of these works from a dramatic standpoint. The critic seems almost traumatized by the maleless household when he writes that: [j]est to ponury dom lalek seksualnych, wycofanych z obiegu, wyrzuconych na strych. [. . .] Gdy jednego wieczoru słyszy się tak wiele o byłej kobiecości i tak mało o człowieczeństwie, musi to wywołać wstrząs fizyczny. [. . .] Pomyśleć jeszcze, że te, które pokazała Nałkowska—to wyjątkowo schludne i słodkie staruszki.39 (this is a gloomy house of sexual dolls, withdrawn from circulation, thrown into the attic. [. . .] When during a single evening one hears 34. Malinowski 1970b, 67–70. 35. Konieczny 1976, 20. 36. Konieczny 1976, 36. 37. Konieczny 1976, 26 and Dubowik 1970, 28. 38. Konieczny 1976, 27, 30. 39. Słonimski 1982, 170–171.

206 Complicating the Female Subject so much about former femininity and so little about humanity, it must provoke physical shock. [. . .] And to think, that those shown by Nałkowska—are exceptionally neat and sweet old ladies.)

Similarly, Karol Irzykowski often seems both uncomfortable with and sarcastic about feminist issues. He dismisses Szczepkowska’s very popular Monika’s Case by writing that “Sprawa Moniki Marii MorozowiczSzczepkowskiej mimo powodzenia zaliczona została do tej klasy literackiej, od której oficjalna literatura odgradza się trzaśnięciem drzwiami.” (Maria Morozowicz-Szczepkowska’s Monika’s Case, despite its popularity, was placed into that category of literature from which official literature separates itself by slamming the door.).40 When reviewing Grabowska’s “Justice,” Irzykowski seems to feel obliged to discredit the author as much as possible. He opens his review by writing: Zawsze mnie bezbożny wewnętrzny śmiech nachodzi, gdy widzę, jak ta lub owa autorka “poruszy” “ważne” zagadnienie społeczne. [. . .] I zdaje mi się, że dziś się już nie “porusza”, lecz rozstrzyga zagadnienia, już się je przecina tak czy owak.41 (I am always seized by a blasphemous laughter when I see that one or another authoress “broaches” a “serious” social issue. [. . .] And it seems to me that today we no longer “broach,” but solve issues, we cut through them in one way or another.)

The latter part of his statement sounds like willful obtuseness from a socially aware writer, who in other circumstances would never have claimed that the issues presented in this play “were being solved.” Moreover, Irzykowski appears to feel threatened as a man by the work. He first raises questions about any guilt even accruing to the prison director, then tries to insist that Grabowska is not presenting a picture of general male collusion, but rather “tylko zmowa kilku biurokratów” (only the conspiracy of several bureaucrats).42

40. Irzykowski 1995, 685. 41. Irzykowski 1997, 103. 42. Irzykowski 1997, 104.

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A very similar tone is sounded in Irzykowski’s review of Jasnorzewska’s Egyptian Wheat. Writing about the Kraków production, he dismisses the play with condescension, though, as so often happens in his reviews, also with a certain amount of defensiveness. He pretends that the problem of infertility is one that a husband would not dare to broach in inter-war Poland—a statement that clearly exaggerates female emancipation in order to poke fun at it. He then adds that the work is popular with what he calls “neoemancypantki” (neo-emancipationists): . . .normalna, rodzinna komedia [. . .] . . . ma ładny, czasem zręczny, czasem poetyczny dialog, ale na ogół zalatuje—Kiedrzyńskim, przez to, że zbyt serio traktuje marne zdarzenia i marnych ludzi. Jest też pewien rys niby satyryczny: mąż zarzuca żonie że jest bezpłodną! W dzisiejszych czasach takiego męża chyba trudno spotkać.43 (. . . a normal, family comedy [. . .] . . . has a nice dialogue, sometimes artful, sometimes poetic, but in general smells—of Kiedrzyński in that it treats too seriously petty events and petty people. There is also one allegedly satiric element: the husband accuses the wife of infertility! In current times such a husband is probably hard to find.)

Yet another example of this defensiveness and sarcasm can be seen in the reviews of Adam Grzymała-Siedlecki. When writing about Szczepkowska’s Silent Power, he does not criticize the work’s problems with dramatic effect, which would have been valid. Instead, he focuses on the play’s content, writing ironically about the “oppressed class” and about women organizing themselves into an international union and introducing a “moral matriarchy”: rzecz dotyczy kobiety jako “klasy uciśnionej”—autorka wychodzi z głębokiego przekonania, że na to przebywanie w niewoli u mężczyzn nie ma innego lekarstwa, jak tylko zorganizowanie się kobiet w międzynarodowy związek, który nareszcie zniesie wojny, usunie nieprawości świata, skoryguje sumienia, zaprowadzi moralny matriarchat i w ogóle, co chcecie.44 43. Irzykowski 1995, 519. Stefan Kiedrzyński (1888–1943) is a reference to the most popular playwright of inter-war Poland, dismissed by critics for his mediocre talent, but a favorite of audiences. 44. Grzymała-Siedlecki 1972, 203.

208 Complicating the Female Subject (the thing concerns women as an “oppressed class”—the author is deeply convinced that for this existence in male captivity there is no other medicine except for women to organize themselves into an international union, which will at last abolish war, remove the iniquities of the world, correct consciences, introduce a moral matriarchy, and in general do whatever you want.)

Likewise, when reviewing the Warsaw production of Jasnorzewska’s Egyptian Wheat, Grzymała-Siedlecki, in a patronizing tone, calls Jasnorzewska an “autorka-kobieta” (authoress-woman), and criticizes both the form and the content. He claims that the play is full of mistakes, that the characterization is strange and funny, and that such “ohyda” (disgusting stuff) should not be shown in plays: . . . roi się od wad45 (. . . swarms with weaknesses) Dziwacznie nam postawiono atmosferę obyczajową46 (The moral atmosphere has been bizarrely drawn for us) . . . szczerze zabawne—ale ponad intencje autorki—jest, jak sobie autorka-kobieta wyobraża mężczyznę w roli rywala-gentlemana.47 (. . . genuinely funny—though not intended by the authoress—is how the woman-authoress imagines a man in the role of a gentleman-­ rival.) W sztuce zaczyna być już duszno. [. . .] W życiu najgorszą nawet ohydę roztapia odmęt innych zjawisk: w sztuce z natury rzeczy zajmuje ona ponad-proporcjonalny obszar.48 (It begins to be stuffy/airless in the play. [. . .] In life the maelstrom of other phenomena dissolves even the worst monstrosity: in art it naturally takes up a super-proportional space.)

45. Grzymała-Siedlecki 1972, 212. 46. Grzymała-Siedlecki 1972, 212–213. 47. Grzymała-Siedlecki 1972, 213. 48. Grzymała-Siedlecki 1972, 214.

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Grzymała-Siedlecki also opens his review of “Justice” with sarcasm that is illogical to the point of absurdity. He begins with: “’Sprawiedliwość’ napisała kobieta, więc, dramat jest feministyczny.” (“Justice” was written by a woman; therefore, the drama is feminist). Next, he writes that feminism takes its arguments from “walki klas określając stosunki męsko-damskie jako ‘wyzysk’” (class warfare, defining male–female relations as ‘exploitation’). He pokes fun at the criticisms directed at men: “dowiadujemy się, że mężczyzna 1) uwiódł, czyli skrzywdził ją, to jest pierwszy zarzut, 2) przestał ją krzywdzić, to jest zarzut następny” (we learn that the man 1) seduced, that is harmed her, that’s the first accusation, 2) stopped harming her, that’s the second accusation).49 Even the most sympathetic of liberal critics, Tadeusz Żeleński, reacts with some frustration and defensiveness when he reviews Szczepkowska’s Silent Power: “Ot, mężczyzna—istota pod każdym względem zbyteczna” (Look, a man—a creature dispensable in every way).50 At the same time, one sees in these critics a definite sense of comfort when dealing with what they thought was a male author. Zofia Rylska’s The Deep at Zimna, appearing under the name of her son Zbigniew, was a case in point. Rumors were swirling in theatrical circles about the identity of the author. Yet, Antoni Słonimski opens his review by unequivocally referring to “pan Rylski” (Mr. Rylski).51 Karol Irzykowski is even more categorical, writing that he has guessed correctly that the author is a man: “Mogę się pochwalić, zgadłem: mężczyzna, w wieku od lat 30 do 40.” (I can boast, I guessed: a man, aged between 30 and 40.).52 Moreover, he insists that only a man could do such a good job in creating a character. Even less logically, he claims that when a man delineates the figure of a heroine so well, that means that he is in love with her. Perhaps an even more telling example is Żeleński’s reaction to Szczepkowska’s work The Falling House. Żeleński had always tried so hard 49. Grzymała-Siedlecki. Z teatru. Sprawiedliwość. Kurier Warszawski, 172 (1935), quoted in Hernik-Spalińska 1996, 156. 50. Żeleński 1968, 225. 51. Słonimski 1982, 363. 52. Irzykowski 1997, 399.

210 Complicating the Female Subject to accept and praise plays by women in general and feminist works in particular. It was part of his liberal, humanistic agenda and agreed with his social work on behalf of “Conscious Motherhood.” Yet, when Szczepkowska produces a play on the familiar topic of the disintegration of a landowning family, Żeleński lavishes praise by calling it “masculine”: “sprawia przy tym niespodziankę męskością w ujęciu tematu” (surprises with the masculinity of its presentation).53

✻✻✻ Nevertheless, despite their defensiveness and sarcasm, critics like Irzykowski, Żeleński, or Słonimski had a well-developed sensitivity for the dramatic and/or literary quality of a work. Thus, despite themselves, they often praise what they consider to be the “good” elements in these plays. This produces reviews that are contradictory in character, occasionally to an almost ludicrous degree. In some instances, the very positive comments directly follow negative ones. Let us start once again with Słonimski’s response to House of Women. The very same critic who writes about the “physical shock” of seeing “a gloomy house of sexual dolls” goes on to praise the play in lavish terms: . . . wyszła z tej próby zwycięsko. [. . .] dialog brzmi pełnią prawdy, słowa nie straciły na swym oszczędnym i rozsądnym wdzięku. Sztuka wytrzymała próbę teatru, co więcej, zadziwia wręcz kunsztownością sceniczną i zręcznością rozplanowania efektów, [. . .] Akcja ani na chwilę nie staje się martwa, . . .54 (. . . she has passed this test triumphantly. [. . .] the dialogue rings with the fullness of truth, words haven’t lost their laconic and rational charm. The play has withstood the test of the stage, what is more, it astonishes with stage artistry and the dexterity of the planned effects, [. . .] the action doesn’t become dead even for a moment, . . .)

53. Żeleński 1970, 223. 54. Słonimski 1982, 169–170.

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In a similar vein, when Irzykowski reviews “Justice,” he starts by claiming that he is “seized by a blasphemous laughter” when women attempt to write about issues that are already supposedly resolved. He then proceeds to a very reserved praise, calling the play “niezła” (not bad), and from there moves to an expression of outright surprise at the subtlety of a debutante playwright: . . . sztuka jest niezła, lepsza od swej reputacji. Dlatego niezła, że niezbyt natrętna. [. . .] Bo zresztą dialog w III i IV akcie płynie takimi “ogródkami”, tzn. napomknieniami, zatajeniami, że można się dziwić, skąd takie wyrafinowanie u debiutantki.55 (. . . the play isn’t bad, it’s better than its reputation. It’s not bad, because it isn’t too importunate. [. . .] Because after all the dialogue in acts III and IV moves in such a labyrinthine manner, that is, with such hints, concealments, that one wonders, whence such subtlety in a debutante.)

Similarly, when writing about The Falling House, Irzykowski begins by criticizing the derivative symbolism of the “falling house” that goes back to Henrik Ibsen, Edgar Allen Poe, and Young Poland.56 He also complains that a peace-loving character in the role of the porte-parole is not dramatically effective.57 Yet, he then turns around and states that “czuć w jej sztuce ból i żal i to ‘cementuje’ też tę sztukę wewnętrznie” (one feels in her play pain and sorrow and this “cements” the play internally.).58 A somewhat different example is Irzykowski’s review of The Deep at Zimna. Convinced that a man wrote the play, the critic shows none of his usual defensiveness and sarcasm, instead lavishing praise. He likes the work’s dramatic compactness, as well as the author’s ability to paint scenes. In other words, according to the critic, the play shows a talent for “dramatic metaphor”: Ma sekret oszczędności dramatycznej, nie rozprasza się w szczegółach epickich ani lirycznych, od razu „idzie na całego”, tj. uderza w rzecz główną. A mimo to maluje: wieś, woda, staw, rybołówstwo, 55. Irzykowski 1997, 103. 56. Irzykowski 1997, 355. 57. Irzykowski 1997, 356. 58. For a more positive reaction, see Irzykowski 1997, 355. For a negative reaction, see Hernik-Spalińska 1996, 153.

212 Complicating the Female Subject niebezpieczeństwo—to wszystko bierze udział w akcji. Nazywam to umiejętnością metafory dramatycznej. 59 (He has the secret of dramatic compactness, he doesn’t dissipate himself in epic or lyric details, immediately “going the whole length,” that is, hitting the main issue. Yet he still paints: village, water, pond, fishing, danger—all of that takes part in the action. I call this the ability of dramatic metaphor.)

Grzymała-Siedlecki, who derides the feminism of “Justice” in his opening lines, concludes by writing “słucha się z zainteresowaniem tego debiutu dramatopisarskiego i nie odchodzi ochota nad nim rozmyślać” (one listens with interest to this dramatic debut and one doesn’t want to stop thinking about it).60 Likewise, after condemning Egyptian Wheat for its “swarms of weaknesses” and “disgusting content,” Grzymała-Siedlecki goes on to state that audiences can expect a lot in the future from Jasnorzewska as a playwright: Scena Krzeptowskiego z aktu ostatniego daje zapowiedź, że po p. Jasnorzewskiej literatura nasza sceniczna może się spodziewać dzieł o wcale pięknej skali twórczej. [. . .] Ze wszystkich dzieł zadziornych (“rewolucyjnych”), jakie przez piśmiennictwo nasze przeszły, sztuka ta największym stosunkowo może się wykazać taktem w operowaniu tematem, programowo brutalnym.61 (Krzeptowski’s scene from the last act presages that our dramatic literature can expect from Ms. Jasnorzewska works of quite a beautiful, creative range. [. . .] Out of all the edgy (“revolutionary”) works that have moved through our literature, this play exhibits relatively the greatest tact in dealing with a subject that is consciously brutal.)

✻✻✻ As one reads the various reviews of these inter-war critics, one notices that the aesthetic parameters by which they judged the plays are clearly rooted in Realist aesthetics. Irzykowski’s roots in this aesthetic come 59. Irzykowski 1997, 400. 60. Quoted in Hernik-Spalińska 1996, 156 61. Grzymała-Siedlecki 1972, 215.

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out most strongly when he reviews Jasnorzewska’s play Baba-Dziwo, the author’s last play, in which she goes furthest in incorporating the grotesque. It is also generally considered to be her best play. Yet, Irzykowski only piles on the negative criticisms, without adding anything positive. His choice of vocabulary clearly reveals his dislike of the grotesque: . . . broni postulatu świadomego macierzyństwa i chce dokuczać już nie teściowym, lecz totalizmom. (. . . defends the demand for conscious motherhood and wants to be nasty not just to mothers-in-law, but to totalitarianism.) . . . w satyrze posługuje się hiperbolą groteskową, gwałtownie przekraczając granice realizmu. (. . . in the satire she employs grotesque hyperbole, violently crossing the boundaries of realism.) . . . ujemna apoteoza rozpasanej baby-dziwo, [. . .] kłębi się także osobliwym życiem dramatycznym. (. . . a negative apotheosis of an unbridled hag, [. . .] swarms with a strange dramatic life.) . . . zbytnie uproszczenie zagadnień politycznych, także psychologia bohaterki jest zbyt gruba i drastyczna.62 (. . . an oversimplification of political issues, also the heroine’s psychology is too crude and drastic.)

A preference for realism is also revealed in Żeleński’s much more sympathetic review of Jasnorzewska’s Egyptian Wheat. Żeleński states that this play is a “teatr miłości” (theater of love) and “teatr poetki” (the theater of a female poet). It is not, according to him, a realistic work, but an imaginative fable reflecting the mind and heart of a poet: To nie jest teatr realistyczny ani obyczajowy, to jest swobodna igraszka główki, po której igra sobie wiele bystrych i zuchwałych myśli, oraz serca, które czasem ma ochotę skląć świat od cholery.63 62. Irzykowski 1997, 684–686. 63. Żeleński 1968, 452.

214 Complicating the Female Subject (This is not realistic or social theater, this is the free play of a little head, in which there gambol many bright and bold thoughts, and of a heart, which sometimes wants to damn the whole world.)

Yet, it is precisely for its poetic qualities that he ends up criticizing the work. He feels that the playwright should “przezwyciężyć w teatrze moment liryczny” (overcome the lyric moment in the theater), and develop a more objective view of life.64 He finds the lyrical characters Ruta, Horacy, and Sziradze to be unconvincing, and praises the characterization of Krzeptowski, his mother, the nurse, and the gardener, all characters that belong in a satirical social drama. In fact, it is for her ability to write satire that the critic lauds Jasnorzewska: “ma niepospolity zmysł obserwacji i satyry, ma bezlitosne ironie i odwety.” (she has an uncommon talent for observation and satire; she has merciless irony and revenge.).65 He then goes on to describe how Jasnorzewska viciously takes her revenge on Krzeptowski, presenting him as a “perwersiak pieluszek” (diaper pervert).66

✻✻✻ It is also in Egyptian Wheat that we can see how Żeleński treats performances as a means of commenting about social issues. In almost all of his reviews, he moves from a discussion of the actual play to various reflections about the need to reform this or that in society. In this case, he focuses on relationships between men and women in the real world, advising the audience to listen closely to what a woman has to say about love. He states that a man must love a woman for her own sake, accepting fatherhood as a wonderful “episode.” However, for Żeleński, it is criminal and unforgivable to treat a woman as a means to fatherhood, as a means of reproduction: Mężczyzna [. . .] powinien kobietę kochać, a ojcostwo przyjąć jako cudowny epizod tego kochania; dziecko kochać przede wszystkim dlatego, że jest dzieckiem jej i dzieckiem ich miłości, ale palić się 64. Żeleński 1968, 454. 65. Żeleński 1968, 450. 66. Żeleński 1968, 454.

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do jakiegoś abstrakcyjnego bębna i jego pieluszek, traktować ukochaną jako matrycę do reprodukcji, nie jako cel, ale jako środek—to zbrodnia nie do darowania.67 (A man [. . .] should love a woman, and accept fatherhood as a wonderful result of that love; should love the child above all because it is her child and the child of their love, but to long for some abstract tot and his diapers, to treat the beloved woman as a reproductive matrix, not as a goal, but as a means—that is an unforgivable crime.)

He generalizes in a similar way when reviewing Monika’s Case, writing that the work “wydobywa tragiczne rozdarcie nowoczesnej kobiety” (exposes the tragic fracture of the modern woman).68 According to the critic, the play shows that the modern woman “wyrównała odwieczny przedział płci; zadała kłam rzekomej swej niższości; pokazała, że umie pracować jak mężczyzna, nieraz lepiej, wytrwalej.” (has equalized the eternal division between the sexes; has belied her supposed inferiority; has shown that she knows how to work like a man, often better, more persistently.).69 However, she has not stopped being a woman and “do brzemienia, które włożyła jej natura, dorzuciła inne; dźwiga podwójnie.” (to the burden which nature has put upon her, she has added another one; she carries doubly).70 Moreover, he states that, by learning the male values of loyalty and honesty, women have lost their “female weaknesses,” that is, guile and subtlety, traits that are actually strengths for women when dealing with men. The loss of femininity leads the critic to a somewhat condescending comment about the character of Anna: “Oto genialny architekt w spódnicy, nagrodzony na konkursie, zaciska zęby, aby się nie rozpłakać; cóż warte to wszystko, kiedy nie ma obok ukochanego mężczyzny, nie ma kołyski i dziecka . . .” (Here a genius of an architect in a skirt, awarded at a competition, grits her teeth so as not to start crying; what is all of this worth, if there is no beloved man, crib or child next to her . . .).71 67 Żeleński 1968, 453. 68. Żeleński 1966, 200–201. 69. Żeleński 1966, 201. 70. Żeleński 1966, 201. 71. Żeleński 1966, 201.

216 Complicating the Female Subject Żeleński is similarly direct in his comments about Polish society when reviewing “Justice.” With this review, I have the feeling that the performance is just an excuse for writing social commentary. The critic points out that the play’s justice, in quotation marks, refers to the injustice encountered by the poor and uneducated in general and even more so by women. He emphasizes that hypocrisy always accompanies the topic of sexual matters. Moreover, he sees the work as depicting the moral standards of all of Poland and not just of one particular province: Sprawiedliwość. Cudzysłów tytułu dość jasno wyraża, o jakiej sprawiedliwości mowa, o tej, która gnębi biedaka, a pobłaża uprzywilejowanym. Jeszcze wymowniejszy staje się cudzysłów, gdy ofiarą „sprawiedliwości” pada kobieta. [. . .] To pewna, że fałsz życia seksualnego najskuteczniej zasila statystyki kryminalne.72 (Justice. The quotation marks of the title express clearly enough about what kind of justice we’re talking, about the kind that oppresses the poor man, and indulges the privileged. The quotation marks become all the more significant when a woman becomes a victim of this “justice.” [. . .] It is certain, that the falsehood of sexual life most effectively replenishes criminal statistics.)

✻✻✻ The critics reveal their Realist aesthetic foundations by overwhelmingly focusing first on characters and then on plot. Their comments about characters tell us whether they are convincingly lifelike. Occasionally, they might note if a character fits the plot or not. When it comes to the plays under consideration here, we can say that Żeleński never writes a review in which he does not comment on the characters, either approvingly or disapprovingly. Thus, for all the social importance of a play like “Justice,” he describes it as more journalism than true drama because “[r]ysunek figur nie zawsze jest tu na wysokości zadania.” ([t]he delineation of the figures does not always rise to the occasion).73 Similarly, when reviewing Monika’s Case, he writes that 72. Żeleński 1969, 159. 73. Żeleński 1969, 159–161.

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the play suffers from tendentiousness because it contrasts three strong women with one weak male, a “kłamliwa i wątła istotka, ptak niebieski i myślący wciąż o pięknych krawatach i modnych garniturach, no i o pięniądzach, których jedyną dostarczycielką jest kobieta” (deceitful and frail little creature, a lighthearted sponger thinking constantly about beautiful ties and fashionable suits, and also about money, whose only purveyor is a woman.).74 However, his comments about The Deep at Zimna are overwhelmingly positive, and he devotes most of the review to a chronological description of the psychological and emotional changes in Nika. He feels that the author has excellently drawn not only the figure of Nika, but also that of the other characters: Jako studium psychologiczne rola Niki przeprowadzona jest świetnie, inne zaś figury—również dobrze postawione—potraktowane są z rozmyślną dyskrecją, pod kątem reakcji bohaterki.75 (As a psychological study the role of Nika is excellently delineated, while the other figures—equally well set up—are treated with a conscious discretion, from the perspective of the heroine’s reactions.)

Żeleński does not even criticize the fisherman Łuka. He does notice in him echoes of the mystical theater of Stanisław Przybyszewski, but insists that differently than in Przybyszewski, Łuka is not turned into a symbol of “death” or “conscience”—all in capitals.76 Rather, he praises the author for remaining in control of her material, avoiding an overindulgence in “atmospherics,” breaking up the serious with the comedic, and making the fisherman an actual character: Jest w sztuce jeszcze jedna postać, która jak gdyby wiąże ten dramat z odległą dla nas epoką teatru Przybyszewskiego. To stary rybak, Łuka, dźwigający od lat na barkach ciężar własnej zbrodni, wiele widzący i wiele wiedzący. Ale autor nie daje się wciągnąć „głębi na Zimnej” młodopolskich „nastrojów”; nie zrobił swojego 74. Żeleński 1966, 202. 75. Żeleński 1975, 196. 76. Stanisław Przybyszewski (1868–1927), a member of Young Germany, Young Scandinavia, and Young Poland, was also respected by Russian Modernists. He is best known for plays and novels filled with Maeterlinckian-like mood and symbolism.

218 Complicating the Female Subject Łukasza ani „śmiercią”, ani „sumieniem”. Panuje nad swym materiałem; zmienia nieoczekiwanie tonacje, komediowymi dysonansami przezwycięża pokusę łatwizn dramatu.77 (There is in the play one more character, who seemingly ties this drama with the for-us-distant era of Przybyszewski’s theater. This is the old fisherman, Łuka, who has for many years carried on his back the burden of his own crime, and who sees much and knows much. But the author does not allow the “depth at Zimna’s” Young Poland “moods” to pull him in; he hasn’t made his Łukasz either a “death” or a “conscience.” He controls his material; he unexpectedly changes the tone, overcoming the temptations of dramatic shallows with comedic dissonances.)

Żeleński similarly praises characterization in The Falling House. He likes the long exposition in which each character describes the situation and associates it with her or his own point of view: “z wielkim kunsztem splatając własną swoją charakterystykę ze swoistym oświetleniem wypadków.” (with great artistry intertwining his/her own character traits with his/her own peculiar vision of events.).78 The critic especially admires the figure of Janek Rakuski: Zwłaszcza opowiadanie młodego Janka jest znakomite: cały nieświa­ domy cynizm, prostactwo, chamstwo tego królewiątka, wciąż jeszcze przeświadczonego w nowej Polsce o swoich prawach do wszystkiego, . . .79 (Especially excellent is young Janek’s story: the entirely unconscious cynicism, commonness, boorishness of this princeling, still in the new Poland convinced of his rights to everything, . . .)

The critic’s most detailed and nuanced description of characters appears in his review of House of Women. He begins by praising the playwright for being brave enough to present a work with seven women, and succeeding: Postawić sobie na pierwszy debiut zadanie trudne, niemal karkołomne—sztuka bez mężczyzny, w siedem kobiet, z których 77. Żeleński 1975, 196. 78. Żeleński 1970, 221. 79. Żeleński 1970, 221.

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cztery w podeszłym wieku! [. . .] . . . i wyjść z niego zwycięsko—to samo zawiera już w sobie wszelkie pochwały. 80 (To set yourself for your debut a difficult task, almost impossible—a play without a man, with seven women, of whom four are elderly! [. . .] and to fulfill it triumphantly—that in itself contains all possible praise.)

He then spends almost the entire review, and it is one of his longer ones, in discussing the behavior and moods of the various characters. In a departure from his tendency to view plays through a prism of socially minded realism, he actually is sensitive enough to grasp that this is a psychological work focused on memory. Except for the figure of the grandmother, who he feels is too Maeterlinckian and too much of a porte-parole, he states that the author did a wonderful job of presenting memory, without being unnecessarily “metaphysical”: Bez aparatu nadprzyrodzoności, bez Maeterlinckowskich refrenów, ta sztuka, rozgrywająca się w biały dzień, w letnie popołudnie, jest mimo to ‘dramatem o duchach’, [...] Każdy niby to wie, co znaczy ‘pamięć’, ‘wspomnienie’, ale sztuka Nałkowskiej bardzo kunsztownie dramatyzuje te codzienne, a tak mało zrozumiane zjawiska.81 (Without the apparatus of the supernatural, without Maeterlinckian refrains, this play, set during the day, on a summer afternoon, is despite this a “drama about ghosts,” [. . .] Everybody supposedly knows what “memory,” “reminiscences” mean, but Nałkowska’s play very artistically dramatizes these everyday, yet little understood phenomena.)

He even grasps the “relationality” that occurs in this work between the living women and deceased men, the fact that both sides can change. He writes that the essence of the work is “’zmiana osobowości cienia’” (‘a change in the shadow’s personality’), “shadow” here referring to the deceased.82 80. Żeleński 1965, 238. 81. Żeleński 1965, 241–242. Maurice Maeterlinck (1862–1949) was a Belgian playwright and poet, known throughout Europe for his Symbolist, pessimistic, mood-evoking dramas. 82. Żeleński 1965, 241.

220 Complicating the Female Subject We see a similar focus on characters in the socialist critic Jan Nepomucen Miller and his review of “Justice.” He sees the various male characters as representing the differences in morality between the different generations.83 However, with his leftist leanings, he writes that the playwright should have filled in the social background more. Though Irzykowski pays attention to form more than most inter-war critics and frequently compares these plays with those of other authors, he too usually comments on the characters. For example, though overall he dislikes House of Women, he acknowledges that the opposing characters of Julia and Tekla are “po mistrzowsku narysowane” (drawn in a masterly fashion).84 Likewise, when reviewing The Deep at Zimna, Irzykowski has nothing but praise for the author’s characterization, which he sees as not being overburdened with various ideological agendas: . . . posiada rzadką w dzisiejszych czasach umiejętność “stawiania” bohatera, tj. w tym wypadku bohaterki. Dziś dramat jest tak zaśmiecony społecznikowaniem, skrupulatnością środowiskową, pomniejszaniem jednostek, że aż dziwne jest, skąd się wziął autor z taką „wolą do bohatera”. 85 (. . . has the rare—at the present time—ability to “set up” a hero, that is, in this case, a heroine. Today drama is so littered with socializing, milieu scrupulousness, diminution of the individual, that it is strange from whence there came an author with such “a will for the hero.”)

Słonimski also often focuses on characters. Like Irzykowski, he praises the author’s characterization of Nika in The Deep at Zimna: Dobrze w Głębi na Zimnej przeprowadzona jest rola dziewczyny, która w wieku dojrzewania przeżywa ciężko romans ojca z nauczycielką.86 83. Miller 1935, 4. 84. Irzykowski 1997, 203. 85. Irzykowski 1997, 400. 86. Słonimski 1982, 363.

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(The role of the girl—who during adolescence has a hard time seeing her father’s romance with a teacher—is well executed in The Deep at Zimna.)

Meanwhile Grzymała-Siedlecki, in general critical of Egyptian Wheat, writes affirmatively about the figure of Krzeptowski. He feels that, in the last act, the presentation of this character’s pain is so forceful that it reduces the behavior of the lovers to the level of animals: Krzeptowski w finale sztuki drga tak przejmującym bólem, wychodzi z sytuacji tak głęboko po ludzku, cierpienie ustawia go tak wysoko, że w zestawieniu ze wzrostem moralnym tego, przez poprzednie akty poniewieranego człowieka—Ruta i Soter [Horacy], nadaremno opromieniani poezją, schodzą na poziom bliski zoologii.87 (In the finale of the play Krzeptowski quivers with such penetrating pain, comes out of the whole situation so deeply human, suffering places him so high, that in comparison with the moral development of this man, who had been held in such contempt in the earlier acts, Ruta and Soter, vainly lit up with poetry, almost descend to a zoological level.)

✻✻✻ Plot, its absence, and/or quality is the other element most noticed by the critics, though they do not always agree on quality when reviewing the same play. For example, Słonimski finds that, in House of Women, the “[a]kcja ani na chwilę nie staje się martwa, pulsuje powolnie i łagodnie tętnem ludzi starych. Nie ma tam burzliwych oddechów piersi wznoszonej namiętnością, ale prawdziwe wzruszenie nie opuszcza sceny.” ([a] ction doesn’t become dead even for a moment, it pulsates slowly and gently with the pulse of old people. There are no stormy breaths of a chest heaving with passion; yet true emotion never leaves the stage.).88 In other words, 87. Grzymała-Siedlecki 1972, 214. 88. Słonimski 1982, 170.

222 Complicating the Female Subject according to the critic, the author is able convincingly to capture life on the estate among seven women, most of whom are not very young. Karol Irzykowski writes a very different kind of review about the same play. He sees this work as a bold formal experiment that did not quite succeed. He places House of Women within the sphere of dramas by Anton Chekhov, Henrik Ibsen, August Strindberg, and even Maksim Gorki, all plays with a thesis presented as a poetic vision.89 The critic writes of “dramaty powieściowe” (novelistic dramas) that “na pozór—nie miały akcji” (seemingly— had no action), but in which “życie dramatyczne tli w nich pod popiołem.” (the dramatic life smolders under the ashes.).90 Yet, Irzykowski then states that the realization of these very interesting and ambitious plans unfortunately does not succeed. He writes that, instead of composing a plot, the playwright chooses to create strings of parallel scenes that run alongside each other, without intersecting. Her goal in doing so is to force upon the audience a certain vision: Żeby za pomocą nagromadzenia takich jednorodnych równoległych scen rozpamiętywania przeszłości—przeważnie o nieboszczykach mężach, w jednym wypadku o mężu rozwiedzionym—zasugerować słuchaczowi niejako atmosferę swej myśli—wizji, narzucić mu ją przez powtarzanie.91 (to suggest to the listener, force it on him through repetition—by means of accumulating such homogeneous parallel scenes of reminiscences about the past—most often about deceased husbands, in one case about a divorced husband—as if the mood of her thought-vision.)

However, Irzykowski concludes that this method is dangerous even “u Szekspira” (in Shakespeare)!92 It “nie wywiera [. . .] dużego wrażenia, jest 89. Anton Chekhov (1860–1904) was a Russian playwright and short story writer, who merged Realist techniques with Modernist ones. August Strindberg (1849–1912) was a Swedish novelist and playwright, experimenting with Naturalist techniques, monodrama, Expressionism, and even Surrealism. Maksim Gorky (1868–1936), a Russian playwright and novelist, was politically engaged, joining the Communist Party early in life. His writing can be characterized as late Realist with Naturalist elements. 90. Irzykowski 1995, 72. 91. Irzykowski 1995, 68–69. 92. Irzykowski 1995, 69.

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właściwą raczej dla powieści” (does not make a big impression, is rather suitable for novels.).93 Żeleński overall tends to focus more on characters than on plot. However, he does notice a weak plot, as in his review of The Falling House. Though he praises the “masculinity of the work” and the characterization, he expresses unhappiness with the impoverishment of the plot and the lack of proportion between the exposition and the rest of the storyline. He complains that the author presents all of the interesting conflicts in the exposition and that they happen in the past. The rest of the plot is less interesting and presented too melodramatically: “To, co wypełnia dość późno zawiązującą się akcję, jest już mniej charakterystyczne i nieco przejaskrawione.” (That, which fills a late-developing intrigue, is already less distinctive and somewhat exaggerated.).94

✻✻✻ Realist expectations notwithstanding, all of these critics were aware of developments in theater throughout Europe. Many of the most avantgarde works were being staged in Poland during this time.95 The playwrights to whom these critics refer most often are Henrik Ibsen, Anton Chekhov, Maurice Maeterlinck, and Poland’s own Stanisław Przybyszewski, a seminal figure not just in Polish literature and theater, but also in the movements of Young Germany and Young Scandinavia. When Irzykowski compares these plays to those of the aforementioned modernists, he does so in order to comment on the given work’s formal qualities. For example, in his review of The Falling House, he complains that the play’s symbolism is derivative, going back to Ibsen, Edgar Allen Poe, and Young Poland.96 As stated earlier, in his comments about House of Women, he writes about the weaknesses of poetic vision in drama, as in Chekhov, Ibsen, Strindberg, even Gorky.97 Not only does 93. Irzykowski 1995, 69. 94. Żeleński 1970, 221. 95. For a survey of the repertoire in inter-war Poland, see Marczak-Oborski 1984. 96. Irzykowski 1997, 355. 97. Irzykowski 1995, 72.

224 Complicating the Female Subject he criticize the lack of plot, but he also states that the characters are trivialized by producing monologues, rather than genuine dialogue: “One [bohaterki] wszystkie strzelają w siebie wzajemnie swoimi smutkami, nie czekając nawet na pokwitowanie, i to im wystarcza. [. . .] Mówią—pięknie, ale są—trywialne” (They [the female characters] all shoot their sadnesses at each other, without waiting even for acknowledgment, and that’s enough for them. [. . .] They speak—beautifully, but are—trivial.).98 Irzykowski’s attitude was rather different when he wrote about The Deep at Zimna. First, he notes the influence of such Young Poland playwrights as Stanisław Przybyszewski, Tadeusz Rittner, and Jerzy Szaniawski.99 Next, he places the work within the tradition of such monologic plays as Hamlet and King Lear.100 Except that, in this instance, he expresses himself positively about Nika’s monologues, praising them for presenting the adolescent’s psyche and turning it into “żywioł dramatyczny” (dramatic force): Jedną trzecią sztuki wypełniają słowa Niki, ale to nie jest retoryka, to są rewelacje, decyzje, rozpacze, szaleństwa, borykanie się z przeszłością, przyszłością i teraźniejszością, więc żywioł dramatyczny. 101 (One-third of the play is filled with Nika’s words, but this is not rhetoric, these are revelations, decisions, despairs, madnesses, and struggles with the past, future and present, in other words, dramatic force.)

Irzykowski does criticize the philosophical content as being shallow: “Lecz mózg tej nadzwyczajnie muskularnej sztuki nie jest równie nadzwyczajny.” (But the brains of this outstandingly muscular play are not equally outstanding.).102 Moreover, he sees the comic effects as weakening the overall effectiveness of the scenes, making them trivial: 98. Irzykowski 1995, 69. 99. Irzykowski 1997, 399–400. Jerzy Szaniawski (1886–1970) was a Polish short story writer and playwright whose plays intertwine realistic comedy with dreams and reflections. They contain irony, subtle suggestions, and frequent changes of mood. 100. Irzykowski 1997, 400. 101. Irzykowski 1997, 401. 102. Irzykowski 1997, 401.

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. . . autor ma skłonność stworzone przez siebie tragiczne s­ ytuacje obracać w komizm, i to nie żeby przez ten kontrast potęgować. Lecz żeby je osłabić i zbliżyć do codziennej ­trywialności. 103 (. . . the author has a tendency to turn the tragic scenes he created into comic ones, and that, not in order to strengthen through this contrast. But to weaken them and bring them closer to everyday triviality.)

However, overall, the critic ends on an unusually strong and positive note of praise: “Jak miło chwalić—z czystym sumieniem, bez pobłażliwości.” (How pleasant it is to praise—with a clear conscience, without condescension.).104 It is hard to say how much of the praise is due to Irzykowski’s genuine sensitivity to the undoubted merits of the play, and how much to his belief that he is reviewing a work produced by a male author. Słonimski, in his review of The Deep at Zimna, also compares the play to other Young Poland works, but in a negative sense. Like Irzykowski, he complains about the lack of philosophical depth, even lack of logic, claiming that the playwright confuses obligation with expiation. Moreover, he ironically states that he is tired of seeing old fishermen employed as voices of wisdom, an element recurrent in earlier modernistic plays, such as those of Stanisław Przybyszewski or Tadeusz Rittner. Instead, he would occasionally like to see a fisherman-idiot, since presumably such also exist: . . .nie odznacza się istotną głębią. [. . .] Filozofia autora reprezentowana jest przez starego rybaka. Przywykliśmy do tego, że prosty stary rybak mówi na scenie rzeczy mądre i głębokie. Warto by choć raz na scenie pokazać rybaka-idiotę, bo i tacy są na pewno. [. . .] Nie można ratowania tonącego, to znaczy obowiązku, traktować jako czynu wyrównywującego zbrodnie.105

103. Irzykowski 1997, 401. 104. Irzykowski 1997, 402. 105. Słonimski 1982, 363.

226 Complicating the Female Subject (. . . it’s not characterized by essential depth. [. . .] the author’s philosophy is represented by the old fisherman. We’ve gotten used to the fact that a simple old fisherman says wise and deep things on stage. It would be worthwhile at least once to show on stage a fisherman-idiot, because that kind also exists for certain. [. . .] One can’t treat saving a drowning person, a responsibility, as an act that cancels out a crime.) He then goes on, like all the other critics, to praise the characterization of Nika. Finally, he closes by predicting a successful future for Mr. Rylski as the author of comedy, rather than of “psychological-mysticism.” Słonimski, himself the author of Realist satirical comedies, clearly prefers that genre: . . . jeśli wolno wróżyć o przyszłości młodego autora, sądzę, że dziedziną p. Rylskiego stanie się raczej komedia niż dramat psychologiczno-mistyczny. Parę próbek humoru i doskonale narysowana postać Niki usprawiedliwia te nadzieje.106 (. . . if one can foretell the future of this young author, I believe, that comedy rather than psychological-mystical drama will become Mr. Rylski’s specialty. Such hopes are justified by the few examples of humor and the excellent creation of the figure of Nika.)

✻✻✻ Let us now examine for a moment how critics respond to Baba-Dziwo, the only play in this group that is not overwhelmingly Realist in form. Given historical events, inter-war critical reception is based on the Kraków production. In general, the comments are positive, but limited to two directions. First, critics place Baba-Dziwo within the group of anti-fascist plays that had been appearing throughout the 1930s. “W klimacie narastającego zagrożenia faszyzmem i umacniania się dyktatur, pisarze polscy, śladem twórców całej postępowej Europy, usiłowali podejmować te 106 Słonimski 1982, 364. Słonimski was the author of such satirical comedies as Murzyn warszawski (Warsaw Negro), Lekarz bezdomny (Homeless Doctor), Wieża babel (Tower of Babel).

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zagadnienia” (In a climate of the growing threat of fascism and the strengthening of dictatorships, Polish writers, following in the footsteps of all of progressive Europe, tried to take up these issues).107 Reviewers also see BabaDziwo as the next step after Ants in the writer’s continuing and serious development of a grotesque style inspired by the avant-garde playwright Stanisław Ignacy Witkiewicz. Tadeusz Sinko is one of those who moves beyond the anti-fascist vision, writing that Baba-Dziwo is not just a political satire. Instead, when describing the staging, costumes, and props, he comments that “wszystko jakby według opisu w scenariuszach St. I. Witkiewicza” (everything as if based on descriptions in the scripts of St. I. Witkiewicz.).108 In a departure from their usual practices, the majority of critics “[s]kupiali się głównie na walorach artystycznych—pisali o znakomitej reżyserii Radulskiego i olśniewającej scenografii Frycza i Orłowicza, a także o świetnym aktorstwie—[. . .] Natomiast, nieco na marginesie, krytycy [. . .] odnotowali nowe wątki w sposobie przedstawienia tematyki kobiecej.” ([f]ocused mainly on the artistic merits—writing about the excellent directing of Radulski and the brilliant stage design of Frycz and Orłowicz, and also about the outstanding acting—[. . .] However, somewhat on the margins, critics [. . .] noted new themes in presenting the topic of women.).109 A number of reviewers feel that the play tries to fit too many themes into one work. Zdzisław Jachimecki’s comments are representative of this point of view: Czy nie za dużo tego wszystkiego w ramach “tragikomedii” o potwornej babie? Nagromadzenie rozbija akcję na drobne cząstki, mechanicznie tylko ze sobą złączone. Wskutek tego sztuka nie ma konstrukcyjnej zwartości, jest za długa. 110

107. Hurnikowa 1999, 324. Hurnikowa then lists some of the plays written within the anti-fascist current. These include Antoni Słonimski’s Rodzina (Family), Jan Zawieyski’s Dyktator On (Dictator He), and Leon Kruczkowski’s Przygoda z Vaterlandem (An Adventure with the Vaterland). 108. Quoted in Hurnikowa 1999, 329. 109. Poskuta-Włodek 2006, 54. 110. Quoted in Hurnikowa 1999, 330.

228 Complicating the Female Subject (Isn’t there too much of everything within the framework of a “tragicomedy” about a terrifying hag? The accumulation breaks up the action into small parts that are only mechanically tied to each other. As a result the play lacks a structural compactness, is too long.).

Only Stanisław Witold Balicki feels that the work is feminist in nature: przecież kreacja postaci—odwagą, sercem, mądrością odznaczają się kobiety, a mężczyźni to ludzie słabi i karierowicze—przema­ wiałaby za tym, że autorka Baby-Dziwo właśnie jest feministką 111 (after all the creation of the characters—women are characterized by courage, a heart, wisdom, while men are weak and careerists— would indicate that the author of Baba-Dziwo really is a feminist.).

No one notes the fact that Jasnorzewska intertwines a grotesque and a Realist style, nor that she creates nonessentialist female characters

✻✻✻ What I would like to emphasize is that the most intelligent inter-war critics correctly recognize both quality and dramatic defects. Some acknowledge merit grudgingly, expressing surprise that a woman can write so well. Irzykowski, in his review of “Justice,” can serve as a case in point. He starts with “blasphemous laughter,” then moves to calling the play “not bad,” and finally ends with surprise at the work’s “subtlety.”112 Żeleński is a much more sympathetic critic, going out of his way to emphasize the merits of each play. At the same time, he is not blind to the dramatic weaknesses of some of these works. As mentioned earlier, in Monika’s Case, he criticizes the weakness of the male character and in “Justice” what he perceives to be the poor construction of the characters. He spends almost the entire review discussing the undisputable dramatic 111. Quoted in Hurnikowa 1999, 330. 112. Irzykowski 1997, 103.

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defects of Silent Power. He starts by saying that the work’s supposed “futurism” is undermined by the fact that it is “ujęte są modłą bardzo staroświecką” (expressed in a very old-fashioned way).113 The playwright should have chosen the style of George Bernard Shaw, rather than melodrama à la Alexander Dumas.114 He then describes the different themes (women’s independence, their personal life, international organizations, pacifism), concluding that so many themes lead to a “ogólniemiędzynarodowa sztuka” (generally international play).115 However, according to the critic, social conditions in countries have now become specific and characterized by unique national traits. Therefore, Szczepkowska’s abstractness gives the work an old-fashioned flavor. Finally, he mentions the play’s subtitle “dyskusja sceniczna” (scenic discussion) and states that for a discussion you need partners, not just the triumphal progress of one character.116 Unfortunately, he does not notice the exciting juxtaposition of ideas, as well as reinterpretation of certain concepts and values that appear in this work. In general, these critics do not consider the (non)essentialism of subject, the “fissures” of genre, or the contrasting ideologies in any of the plays. Reviews in general do not leave the critic much time to analyze. Nevertheless, if one compares today’s theatrical reviews in the best newspapers—given that these critics were writing for the best inter-war papers—then one concludes that in inter-war Poland it was acceptable to avoid details and nuances in reviews. Often, the critics feel and/or mention the quality or lack thereof of a given work, yet they almost never fully explain their feelings, just state them. They criticize the most grievous faults or bestow general praise, often avoiding any details. The question then remains whether they do not articulate nuances because of the genre constraints of reviews, whether they are unable to articulate them in 113. Żeleński 1968, 223. 114. Żeleński 1968, 224. Alexandre Dumas (1802–1870) was a popular French playwright and novelist. He is best known for his historical novels, such as The Three Musketeers and The Count of Monte Cristo. 115. Żeleński 1968, 225. 116. Żeleński 1968, 225–226.

230 Complicating the Female Subject critical language, or whether they simply did not notice many of the nuances. If we consider the theoretical writing that some critics produced, then we will agree with Eleonora Udalska’s conclusion that theater studies in Poland were just developing during the inter-war period.117 Moreover, it is clear that both because of their masculinist assumptions and their Realist aesthetics, all the critics miss important elements in these pioneering works. They respond most strongly to shocking plots. Repeatedly, the more shocking the plot, the more uncomfortable they are with the work. Even Żeleński, for all of his genuine sympathy and support for women writers, is not immune.

117. Udalska 1977, 276–278.

CH A PT ER 9

Conclusion . . . współczesny polski teatr staje się z wolna konfesjonałem maltretowanych kobiet; . . . 1 (. . . contemporary Polish theatre is slowly becoming a confession box for abused women) Dramaty rodzinne. Ich spoiwem tematycznym jest przekonanie o kryzysie rodziny jako instytucji kulturowej.2 (Family dramas. Their thematic glue is a conviction of a crisis when it comes to family as a cultural institution.)

These quotations, referring to plays written by women after 1989, evoke a sense of déjà vu, since they appear to summarize the plays analyzed in the preceding chapters. After the fall of communism, women playwrights once again grappled with issues relating to women’s role within society and family. These women writers also experienced the same difficulties getting their works staged as the inter-war playwrights.3 This historical recursion makes positioning the plays from the 1930s within a continuum of women’s playwriting all the more imperative. As shown in the previous chapters, all of the inter-war plays display key dualities in a number of areas. On the one hand, the plays present certain social elements as inevitable, unchangeable, traditional, and patriarchal. On the other, for individuals, the plays reveal the possibility of change, nontraditional lives, and feminist outcomes. The overall pattern is clearest when we consider each play separately,   1. Duniec 2006, 57.   2. Czubaj 1997, 119.   3. On post-1989 plays, see Grossman 2005.

232 Conclusion for each author in each individual work weaves this duality in her own way. The four plays set on estates share this duality but differ in particulars, in what each one emphasizes. Egyptian Wheat, a comedy of manners, presents a patriarchal ideology of strongly essentialist characters, where wives exist to give birth to heirs. Comedy traditionally restores social norms, but Jasnorzewska disrupts this conservative outlook with a plot that leads to the breakup of the estate. Further, on the level of ideas/content, she supplants the ideal of noble mother by giving a younger lover to Ruta. The image belies the Mother-Pole myth with its element of suffering, since Ruta gives birth to their child— under sedation, without suffering. Similar undercutting occurs in The Deep at Zimna, which constructs a Chekhovian, oneiric vision of patriarchy with the pater familiae very much in control of his little kingdom. On the level of plot, Rylska then undercuts this traditional vision with Nika’s final, rebellious gesture. On the level of ideas, she strips patriarchy of its moral righteousness and assigns a sense of morality to children—beings who have not yet fossilized into a hypocritical essentialism, yet who are ignored and not recognized as important by society. Going further in this direction, Szczepkowska’s The Falling House offers a conventional family drama critical of life on the estate: a genre that usually criticizes an individual family, without questioning the entire patriarchal system. However, Szczepkowska claims that the landowning class has lost its moral right to the land and that the existing double standard in sexual matters is unfair and obsolescent. Far from restoring social norms, the play’s ending shows estate life in tatters. Finally, in House of Women, Nałkowska creates a seemingly realistic psychological drama that posits the immutability of patriarchal norms, an essentialist approach to the subject, a traditional strength that comes from owning land. Yet, in performance, the audience sees the strength of a landowning matriarchy and a lyrical sisterhood of women who evolve and find their own voice. The cyclical composition reinforces both the lack of real-life solutions and the continuation of the peaceful matriarchy on the estate. Four other plays appear to contrast with the “estate plays” by setting their action among the intelligentsia. Yet, these four plays show

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the intelligentsia as the heirs of the patriarchal nobility, with the same set of values. Thus, Szczepkowska, in Monika’s Case, creates a Realistic drama that posits essentialist male traits and patriarchal values of motherhood as immutable and even superior. She undercuts this view with a radical plot in which women dispense with men, the only male character is weak, and there exists a tentative sisterhood between educated women. The circularity of composition offers no real-life solutions, but suggests the possibility of improvements for individual characters. Of all the plays, Szczepkowska’s Silent Power uses “fissures” of genre the least. Instead, it interweaves numerous opposing ideas, some taken from Monika’s Case and some anticipating The Falling House. The female protagonist finally dispenses with traditional marriage, despite the lack of clear-cut ideological solutions. Grabowska’s “Justice,” a Naturalist play, paints a damning picture of female passivity and male immorality and collusion, while introducing the shocking topic of abortion. The author “fractures” the Naturalist notion of characters as types by making the downtrodden, lower-class female protagonist a nonessentialist individual and the true representative of morality. The manuscript of the play, containing two endings, allows for further “fissures” and possibilities of juxtaposing the seriousness of the subject matter with the work’s subtitle “serious comedy.” Finally, in Baba-Dziwo, the most experimental of the plays, Jasnorzewska uses grotesque elements to parody and criticize patriarchal values, including the sanctification of motherhood. She supports the criticism by creating negatively essentialist male characters. Then, she introduces a rich variety of nonessentialist female characters and realistic scenes—lyrical and comedic—that emphasize positive values, such as love, friendship between women, and the female protagonist’s determination to continue her research at home if need be. While each play demonstrates a different pattern of interweaving the various contrasting elements, together they form a group that contrasts the traditional and the nontraditional. All of the authors define female subjects against the background of male ones, whom they portray extremely negatively. To a greater or lesser degree, these playwrights create male subjects that are stereotypical and essentialist. At the same time, all

234 Conclusion of these writers—consciously or unconsciously—present women as much more complex beings. Moreover, they portray the female subject as a mixture of essentialism and nonessentialism. When presenting nonessentialism in the female subject, all of the playwrights connect change to “relationality” in some form. We see numerous permutations, varieties, and degrees of “enmeshment” with the “Other.” It can take the form of grief, a reaction against someone, sisterhood, social “nonrecognition,” or activism. When it comes to the “estate” and “Mother-Pole” myths, every author in every play sees patriarchal social norms as an inevitable given. At the same time, in every work, the writers in one way or another challenge, overturn, reinterpret, or question these masculinist norms. Moreover, these plays make clear that there is no difference in terms of norms and values between the rural nobility on estates and the urban intelligentsia. There are no easy answers here. If the female subject is essentially emotional, not rational, then how is a woman to compete professionally with a man? If men govern the real world with their reason, then how is a woman to find her own voice? How does one break the double moral standard in sexual matters, without breaking off with one’s patriarchal family? If women who come to power take on the trappings of males and oppress other women just as much as men, then why should we give women power? Despite the lack of definitive answers, this group of plays avoids defeatism. All of the works offer suggestions for an improved life on the individual level, though broader social reforms remain elusive. To understand why the solutions offered remain personal, we must situate the plays, and their criticism, in historical context.

✻✻✻ Because of theatrical expectations, the critics’ own agendas, and the state of theater in 1930s Poland, contemporary critics miss crucial elements when reviewing these plays. First, and most important, the critics’ base their expectations on Realism; this is the usual genre of the time, used by most of the women playwrights. Thus, the critics tend to apply “conventional readings” focused primarily on plot and characters. When the plot

Conclusion 235

is shocking, the critics become uncomfortable and automatically accuse the work of “feminism.” At the same time, they may miss a traditional, essentialist approach to the subject or the perception of patriarchal social norms as inevitable. Second, the critics have their own agendas that influence how they view a work. For example, in his review of “Justice,” Tadeusz Żeleński, involved as he was in various social campaigns for the improvement of women’s situation, sees in Number 14 only a passive, defeated lower-class woman, and not an individual who embodies moral values. Third, theatrical criticism and theory in Poland are in the initial stages of development during the inter-war period, while reviews in general do not leave the critic much time to analyze. Moreover, these critics are themselves formed by the myth of the “dworek” (estate) and the myth of “Matka-Polka” (Mother-Pole), both of which continue to exist as a cultural substratum in inter-war Poland. Despite everything, the 1930s critics do give credit where credit is due and criticize shoddy work. Sometimes, they do so grudgingly, overcoming their own discomfort with the plot. Yet, it is understandable that these critics could not do justice to the complexity of these plays’ presentation of the female subject and the issues facing women in inter-war Polish society. To appreciate the plays’ response to the tradition of women’s playwriting, we must go back to the 19th century, when the majority of women writing plays, especially in the second half of the century, link their work to patriotic and patriarchal educational activity, overwhelmingly in a Realist form. The dissemination of these works is mostly limited to print form and amateur performances. In general, family constitutes the main topic of drama, regardless of the sex of the author. Surprisingly, both in plays written by women and in works by such popular male authors as Aleksander Fredro, Michał Bałucki, and Kazimierz Zalewski, the family tends to be presented as somehow incomplete. To give just one example, in Aleksander Fredro’s very famous play Zemsta (Revenge), two families are both deprived of a mother. In the end, however, this is not a case of having alternative families or of questioning the value of the patriarchal triad: mother–father–child. Rather, as Dariusz Kłosiński writes: “. . . dramaty tego czasu, choć na powierzchni mogły ukazywać alternatywny obraz rodziny—na przykład córkę pozostającą poza władzą ojca—to

236 Conclusion dzięki strukturze głębokiej, wpisanej w schemat organizacyjny zespołu teatralnego, przekazywały konsekwentnie patriarchalną normę opisującą i definiującą właściwy sposób realizacji podstawowej misji, jaką jest zapewnienie przetrwania rodzinie nie tylko w wymiarze indywidualnym, ale także instytucjonalnym.” (. . . dramas of that period, though on the surface they might show an alternative image of the family—for example, a daughter beyond the power of her father—thanks to a deep structure written into the organizational scheme of the theatrical troupe, consistently passed on a patriarchal norm that described and defined how to realize correctly the task of safeguarding the continued existence of the family, both in an individual and in an institutional dimension.).4 The surface “incompleteness” serves to criticize the weaknesses of families in various social classes. However, authors always imply that if Polish society can correct these weaknesses, it would restore a normal social order and traditional family. Moreover, these works overwhelmingly present the female subject as traditionally essentialist. Following this idea into the future, women playwrights in the period after 1989 share an even stronger and comprehensive conviction that the Polish family is in a state of crisis. The issue appears in philosophical and sociological works, but also in literary criticism, including works about contemporary drama.5 For example, already in 1997 Marian Czubaj writes about the latest plays that “[i]ch spoiwem tematycznym jest przekonanie o kryzysie rodziny jako instytucji kulturowej” (the thematic bond between them is the conviction of a crisis of the family as a cultural institution).6 Similarly, in 2009, Krystyna Duniec, writing about the most recent literature, and especially about drama, concludes that the plays show ”zdumiewające zderzenie rodzinnego piekła bohaterów z przeświadczeniem, że za wszelką cenę należy do niego wstąpić przy dźwięku weselnych fanfar.” (an astonishing clash between the protagonists’ familial hell and a conviction that at any cost one must enter it [this hell] to the accompaniment of a bridal fanfare.).7 From a woman’s point   4. Kłosiński 2009, 73–74.   5. Szpakowska 2003 and Graff 2008.   6. Czubaj 1997, 119.   7. Duniec 2009a, 131.

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of view such a negative evaluation of family relationships seems justified because, as Halina Filipowicz has written: “what emerged from the Quiet Revolution of 1989 in Poland was a highly traditional culture, rooted in religious fundamentalism, nationalist ideology and patriarchal practices.”8 Nonetheless, a large number of women began writing plays after 1989. It is enough to list such names as Krystyna Kofta, Izabela Filipiak, Aneta Wróbel, Ewa Lachnit, Lidia Amejko, Anna Bojarska, and, from the younger generation, Magdalena Fertacz, Marzena Broda, and Iwona Ruszkowska-Pawłowicz. Comparing these new plays with those of the inter-war period, we see that, in both groups, the authors create subjects that range from essentialist, through some kind of combination, to nonessentialist. In Monika’s Case (1932), Szczepkowska gives us the most complete and negative essentialist female subject and in Aneta Wróbel’s Co się dzieje z modlitwami niegrzecznych dzieci? (What Happens to the Prayers of Disobedient Children?; 1999), all of the characters are even more two-dimensional, essentialist, and generalized than Szczepkowska’s. Grabowska in “Justice” (1934) offers a somewhat tentative nonessentialist female subject: still not fully developed and somewhat mechanical. Similarly, Ewa Lachnit, in such plays as Złodziejki chleba (Bread Thieves (female); 2000), Człowiek ze śmietnika (The Man from the Garbage Dump; 1996), and Obrażeni (The Offended; 1997) “generally observes conventional divisions of gender roles within the community and relationships, she deconstructs traditional ‘femininity’ and ‘masculinity’. [. . .] [S]he defies stereotyping, but often comes too close to representing only their reversals.”9 In other words, there is a tendency toward a rather mechanical simplification of the subjects. Simultaneously, in both the inter-war and the post-1989 plays, there appear very developed examples of nonessentialist female subjects. Such is the case with the beautiful, yet brilliant, chemist Petronika in Jasnorzewska’s Baba-Dziwo (1938) and the aristocratic, but artistic, Maria in Anna Bojarska’s Meeting (1992). Their “contradictory” nature   8. Filipowicz 2001b, 4–5.   9. Grossman 2005, 113.

238 Conclusion reflects the perspective of dominant masculinist ideology, not their own self-perception. The post-1989 women writers struggle with the same issues of essentialism as the earlier playwrights. However, the two groups diverge in their forms; an enormous divergence in form is immediately noticeable. While inter-war drama is predominantly Realist, in drama of the 1990s both in Poland and in the West, the grotesque dominates, along with “odindywidualizowanie postaci, [. . .] porwana, epizodyczna struktura, antykonwersacyjność, gorączkowy język, przeplatanie monologów telegraficzną wymianą komunikatów” (a de-individualization of characters, [. . .] a broken, episodic structure, unconversational, frenetic language, interweaving of monologues with a telegraphic exchange of communiques).10 The grotesque and Expressionistic qualities of the plays alienate audiences and, despite great linguistic virtuosity, these works do not incline us toward any real reflection. Though presenting the most general problems of contemporary life, the more recent plays lack depth; as a result they “nie czynią wyłomów w [...] światopoglądzie” (make no breach in [. . .] the worldview) of the audience.11 They function more as a metaphor of family relationships, than as a realistic reflection of everyday life.12 These dramas portray families as locked in toxic struggles, experiencing brutality, persecution, and, at best, alienation and boredom. Yet, in the deep structure, the archetypal family still dominates as the yardstick against which one measures one’s personal success.13 Only in the last decade can we observe a change in drama, including plays by women. Brutality and metaphor are beginning to give way to works grounded in current reality.14 While unmasking the patriarchal model of family, the protagonists of these latest plays “negocjuj[ą] granice społecznego przyzwolenia na własną odmienność” (negotiate the boundaries of social consent for their own otherness), and try to rebuild family ties on new principals.15 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15.

Cabianka 2004, 37. Duniec 2009b, 123. Duniec 2009b, 96. Duniec 2009a. Duniec 2009b, 199–228. Duniec 2009b, 218.

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Despite the changes in acceptable social norms concerning family relationships and sexual mores, both the inter-war plays by women and contemporary post-1989 drama present the family and women as being in a state of crisis. The differences lie in mood and point of view, rather than in any fundamental ideological divergence. Both groups demonstrate a conviction that the family is in crisis and that women have not found a good role for themselves within the family, while affirming in the deep structure the archetypal family as a value guaranteeing personal happiness. In the post-1989 plays, no solutions seem to exist, even on the personal level. However, in the inter-war drama, we see glimmers of hope and some positive elements. Despite defeatism in the depiction of the current situation and the acceptance of male social norms as inevitable, always they sound a stronger or weaker note of optimism about the future of individual women. First, many inter-war works show a tendency toward didacticism, which, in itself, presupposes the possibility of change, and even suggests that the characters are responding to changes that have already occurred. Anna, in Monika’s Case, insists that “pionem moralnym jest poczucie własnej wartości. Gubi go i depce kobieta zatracając się w mężczyźnie” (the backbone of morality is a sense of one’s own worth. A woman loses and tramples it when she loses herself in a man) (45). Uncle Barski, in The Falling House, sermonizes that since Janek does not care about the land, he has lost his right to it (37). Grandmother Celina in House of Women keeps repeating in simplified form the author’s philosophy of life: “pomiędzy człowiekiem i człowiekiem jest ciemność” (there is darkness between human being and human being). She tries to help the other women to change, develop, and find their own voice. Second, though these inter-war dramas do not offer any social solutions, they nevertheless suggest certain positive possibilities for improving the situation of individual women. In Monika’s Case, the heroine, Monika, having lost her husband, switches her empathy to her patients, in the process becoming “wydłużoną” (elongated), that is, better and stronger. She moves away from her innate “bodiliness” and learns male “wisdom.” The process also shows a psychological flexibility: Monika is not doomed to

240 Conclusion emotional sterility, but finds another outlet for her empathy. That seems like a good thing, even perhaps tentatively a feminist thing. From today’s perspective, the resolution is not clearly feminist; yet, undoubtedly, the possibility of improving upon women’s nature makes the overall message of the play more optimistic. Though Grabowska in “Justice” does not expect any change from the men, she depicts a lower-class woman who has acquired the male traits of intelligence, irony, and a sense of morality, traits that make her a more complex human being. Again, as in the previous play, the writer shows the possibility of women “improving” by becoming more like men, that is, acquiring traditionally masculine virtues, but perhaps in the process making these virtues more unisex. In The Falling House, the house-prison finally bursts and the inhabitants-prisoners scatter. The audience feels hope that at least Helena has learned to combine femininity with “masculine” independence. Ruta, in Egyptian Wheat, begins an unconventional life with her beloved and their child. Such happiness may not last; I agree with Arleta Galant that “Ruta wkrótce wróci na leżak i zamknięta w prozaiczności małżeńskiego związku znów chorować będzie na brak miłości” (Ruta will soon return to a lawn chair and, locked in the humdrum reality of marriage, she will again be ill due to a lack of love). This conclusion, in a sense, comes from Ruta’s own lips when she emphasizes the difference in age between herself and her beloved.16 Nevertheless, the play still shows how to capture a moment of happiness—perhaps all that is possible in the modern age. In House of Women, Nałkowska presents a group of women, who compose a kind of alternative family. Moreover, 30 years before Luce Irigaray, these characters act as Irigaray suggests that women should: having found a haven away from men, they find their own voices and identities, developing into richer human beings. Therefore, it is difficult to agree with Arleta Galant when she writes that “los kobiecy” (women’s fate) in this play is only “różna skala bólu” (a gradient on a scale of pain), without any hope.17 Barbara Smoleń’s opinion is more convincing. She compares Nałkowska’s play with Federico Garcia Lorca’s House of Bernarda Alba, and emphasizes that in the former the house functions as a 16. Galant 2009, 83. 17. Galant 2009, 81.

Conclusion 241

refuge in which the women can rest and find themselves.18 Finally, Jasnorzewska’s Baba-Dziwo both abolishes the dictator and allows Petronika’s marriage to survive, despite Norman’s struggles with Petronika being simultaneously a beautiful, attractive wife and a brilliant chemist. Every work ends with individual women either improving their personal situation in society or evolving into richer, more complex human beings.

✻✻✻ Comparing this group of 1930s plays by women to plays written by women both in earlier and later periods brings to light the distinctive characteristics of these dramas and reveals the transitional nature of the Polish inter-war period. In contrast to nineteenth-century works written by women, the main purpose of the 1930s authors is not patriotic and pedagogical activity. Rather, these plays focus on questioning family relationships, the double moral standard, as well as traditional female roles. The authors of the inter-war period share with the women writers of the earlier period a preference for Realist form and didacticism. In turn, the use of a Realist form differentiates these works from plays written by women after 1989, as the latter most often favor the grotesque. Moreover, contemporary drama shows no tendency toward didacticism. What links the inter-war and post-1989 dramas is a search for new roles for women within the framework of the family, as well as reflections on the nature of the female subject. In both groups, subjects cover the whole range from completely essentialist to completely nonessentialist. Contemporary dramas show alternative families more often; yet, even among the inter-war works, there appear initial, tentative suggestions of alternative families. In the end, the tone of the 1930s plays by women is more optimistic than the recent ones, since in very different ways—feminist and traditional—they show how the situation of individual women can be improved, or at least mitigated. The sweep of history from the nineteenth through the twentieth centuries contributes to our understanding of women’s emancipation 18. Smoleń 2001b, 62–86.

242 Conclusion movements in Poland and underlines the longevity of women’s struggle: the slow, gradual nature of change regarding sex/gender. My study shows that women’s writing, including drama, continually engages with important cultural issues, reaches contemporary audiences, and must be considered if we want to understand fully literary and, more broadly, cultural history. The similarities that exist between inter-war and post1989 drama suggest similarities in the political and cultural dynamics of national conquest and liberation across historical eras and a pattern of using women and their “traditional” gender roles as tools for establishing national identity and social stability. This expectation that women be the ones to shoulder the maintenance of cultural identity and tradition is very common across the world in situations of change and instability in patriarchal societies. The inter-war drama that I considered here is one moment in the sweep of Polish history, but an important moment. Through their playwriting, these women tried to describe Polish society during a period of liberation, to establish their own place in this society and to find their own voice. Inter-war society, including its major literary critics, heard them and reacted in one way or another to their dramas. We need to hear them again today, so that we may fully understand the development of present-day Polish culture.

C HAPTE R 6

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Index A

Actresses Franchise League, 9 Adwentowicz, Karol, 9, 30, 34, 37 Aristophanes, 182 Aristotle, 183 Austin, Gayle, xiv

B

Belsey, Catherine, 184–185 Bergson, Henri, 22, 91 Bernstein, Elsa (Ernst Romer), 3, 17 Blok, Aleksandr Balaganchik (The Puppet Booth), 5 bodily/emotional essentialism, 31, 43–45, 50–57, 59, 66, 71, 75, 77, 80, 82–83, 89, 96–99, 101, 103, 111, 116, 119, 122, 127, 129–131, 136, 153, 156, 158–159, 163, 166, 168, 176–177, 179, 187–188, 195, 198–199, 234 body/mind duality, xvi, 40–41,74, 111, 151, 153, 156, 188–189 body vulnerability, 86, 134 Brach–Czaina, Jolanta, 54 Bujwidowa, Kazimiera, 11 Butler, Judith, 41, 91 Bodies that Matter, 40 vulnerability of the body, 85

C

Cabinaka 238 capitalism, 160, 190 Chekhov, Anton, 222 Cranny–Francis, Anne, 184–185 critics on plays, 200–230 Czubaj, Marian 236

D

Darwin, Charles, 86 Darwinian Theory, 39 Diamond, Elin, 182–183 domesticity, 91 Drama League, 9 dramatic fissures, xvii–xix, 4, 181–199, 229, 233 break out of a traditional framework, 198–199 Grabowska’s “Justice,” 189, 194 Jasnorzewska’s Baba–Dziwo, 187, 194, 196 Jasnorzewska’s Egyptian Wheat, 188–189, 191 mimetic tradition, 186 Nałkowska’s House of Women, 191–192 Realism and, 186–187 Rylska’s The Deep at Zimna, 190–192 Szczepkowska’s Monika’s Case, 188, 192–193 Szczepkowska’s Silent Power, 189–190 Szczepkowska’s The Falling House, 190 “dramat kobiecy” (women’s drama), viii dramaturgy for feminist criticism, xiv dualism of inter–war plays, xvi, 39–40, 168, 189, 231–232 Duniec, Krystyna 236, 238 “dworek” (estate) myth, xvii, 124–127, 146–149, 169 “dworek szlachecki” (little gentry manor), 125 Jasnorzewska’s Egyptian Wheat, 133–138, 144–145, 150–151, 164–165, 169

Index 263 Nałkowska’s House of Women, 142–145, 150–151, 153–154, 164, 169 Rylska’s The Deep at Zimna, 127–134, 136–137, 144–145 Szczepkowska’s The Falling House, 138–142, 150, 158, 162, 169

E

élan vital, 91 England, “feminist” dramas, 7 essentialism, 95 “experience” theory, 53–54 female protagonists, 77–84 grief, 90 Jasnorzewska’s Egyptian Wheat, 56–61 Nałkowska’s House of Women, 46–56 “possibility of change,” 41, 55 Rylska’s The Deep at Zimna, 67–77, 83–84 Szczepkowska’s Monika’s Case, 41–46, 66–67, 77–80, 83–84 essentialist dualism, 39 Euripides, 182

F

Felski, Rita, xv femininity of women playwrights, 2 feminism, xv, xvi, xix, 15, 27n24, 44, 156, 209, 212, 235 feminist writers groups, 40 through an essentialist lens, 39–41 Filipowicz, Halina, 10, 154, 171, 237 fin–de–siècle, 21, 137 Finland, 8 fissures 182–186, 199 Greek philosophical ideas, 183 Foltyniak 50 Française, Comédie, 2 Francis, Kay, 28

G

Gippius, Zinaida, 3, 17 Glaspell, Susan, 5, 9 Gorki, Maksim, 222 Główna Komisja Badania Zbrodni Niemieckich (Central Committee for Studying German Crimes), 24

Górnicka–Boratyńska, Aneta, 12, 14, 50 Grabowska, Marcelina, 20 Amerykańska walka (Free–style Wrestling), 29 cultural/social practices toward women, 64–67 Dzieci nie chcą żyć (The Children Don’t Want to Live), 29 female characters, 64 heroine Number 14, 35, 62–67, 84, 98–101, 146, 148–151, 176–177, 181, 189, 195, 235 issue of “body vulnerability,” 62 Kobieta Współczesna (Contemporary Women), 29 Koniunktury głupoty (A Boom for Stupidity), 29 leftist leanings, 30 male characters, 61 Naturalism, 194–195 “ Sprawiedliwość” (“Justice”), 29, 34–35, 61–65, 78, 90, 98–99, 146–151, 168–169, 176–177, 189, 194, 211–212, 233, 237, 240 Ucieczka z Kemeth (Escape from Kemeth), 30 Graff, Agnieszka 170 Greek plays, 182 grief, 88–90, 93–94, 96–98 Grosz, Elizabeth, 40–41, 86 Grzymała–Siedlecki, Adam, 201, 204–205 Grabowska’s “Justice,” 209, 212 Jasnorzewska’s Egyptian Wheat, review of, 208, 221 Szczepkowska’s Silent Power, review of, 207–208

H

Haraway, Donna, 86 Hegel, Georg, 22, 85–86 Hernik–Spaliñska, Jagoda, viii

I

Ibsen, Henrik, 7, 184, 222 A Dollhouse, 64 The Doll House, 185

264 Index Hedda Gabler, 186 The Independent Theatre Society, 8 Intelligentsia, xii, xviii, 14, 61, 100, 111, 121, 125, 126, 136, 146, 149–151, 164, 168–169, 179–180, 190, 232–234 Polish intellectuals, 14 inter–war plays critics on, 200–230, 234–235 dualism of, xvi, 39–40, 168, 189, 231–232 family relationships and sexual mores, 239–242 myths in. see “dworek” (estate) myth; “Matka–Polka” (Mother–Pole) myth nonessentialist female subjects, 237–238. see also essentialism; nonessentialism realism in, 238–239 inter–war society, 87, 95, 99, 242 Irigaray, Luce, 86, 92, 94 Irzykowski, Karol, 201–202, 222 Grabowska’s “Justice,” review of, 206, 211 Jasnorzewska’s Baba–Dziwo, 212–213 Nałkowska’s House of Women, 220 Rylska’s The Deep at Zimna, review of, 211–212, 220–221, 224–225 Szczepkowska’s Monika’s Case, review of, 206 Ivanov, Viacheslav, 2 Iwasiów, Inga, xiv, xv

J

January Uprising (1863–1864), 10–11 Jasnorzewska, Maria, viii, xix, 17, 20, 24 Baba–Dziwo, xi, 4, 26, 36–37, 81–84, 105, 107, 122, 146, 163–168, 177–179, 181, 187, 194, 196, 213, 226–227, 233, 237, 241 Egipska pszenica (Egyptian Wheat), xi, xx, 26, 32–33, 56–61, 86–87, 98, 100, 104, 133–138, 144–145, 150–151, 164–165, 169, 172, 178, 181, 207–208, 213–214, 221, 232, 240 female characters, 58–59 influence of Witkiewicz’s ideas on, 26 life on an estate, 136–138

Mrówki (Ants), 26 Niebieskie migdały (Blue Almonds, 1922), 24 nonessentialist approach to the subject, 105–110 Ostatnie notatniki (Last Notebook), 25 Szofer Archibald (The Chauffeur Archibald), 26 theatrical career in inter–war Poland, 25–26 woman’s identity, 25–26 Józefacka, Maria 196–197

K

Karbowski, Józef, 34 Karbowski, Juliusz, 32 Kłosiński, Dariusz 235–236 Komissarzhevskaia, Vera, 9 Kościuszko, Tadeusz, 30 Kossak clan, 24, 26 Krzyżanowski, Julian, 6 Krzywicka, Irena, 14, 93, 180 Kuczalska–Reinshmit, Paulina, 11

L

Laboratorium Dramatu (Drama Laboratory), 30 Lorca, Federico Garcia, xix House of Bernarda Alba, xix–xx

M

Marrené–Morzkowska, Waleria, 17 materiality, 87 “Matka–Polka” (Mother–Pole) myth, xvii, 12, 124, 169–181 Catholic ideology, 170 Grabowska’s “Justice,” 176–177 Jasnorzewska’s Baba–Dziwo, 177–179, 181 Jasnorzewska’s Egyptian Wheat, 172 Nałkowska’s House of Women, 173–174 Rylska’s The Deep at Zimna, 171, 181 Szczepkowska’s Monika’s Case, 174 Szczepkowska’s Silent Power, 175–176 Szczepkowska’s The Falling House, 172–173 Meierkhold, Vsevolod, 9 Mellerowa, Zofia, 2, 16 Mickiewicz, Adam, 12, 18, 170 Miller, Jan Nepomucen, 220

Index 265 Ministry of Religious Creeds and Education, 15 modernism, xii Modrzewska, Zofia, 9, 33 Młody Teatr (Young Theater), 30 Morozowicz–Szczepkowska, Maria, xx, 20, 27–29 female essentialism, 44, 158–159 film scripts, 28 grief, 96–98 issue of class differences and feminism, 44 male essentialist traits and power, 98, 102, 122, 151–152, 155–157 Milcząca siła (Silent Power), ix–x, 28, 33–34, 78, 101, 104, 157–163, 166, 175–176, 180, 189–190, 207, 229 nonessentialism, 101–104 nonessentialist approach to the subject, 111–122 patriarchal system, 111–122 personal relationships, 151–152 Sprawa Moniki (Monika’s Case), 29, 41–46, 66–67, 77–80, 83–84, 90, 96, 98, 100–101, 103, 121, 151–153, 157, 159, 166, 168, 174, 179–180, 188, 192–194, 206, 215–216, 228, 233, 239, ix, xiii Walący się dom (The Falling House), 28, 35–36, 78, 81, 83 232, 84, 101, 111–122, 138–142, 144, 150, 158, 162, 169, 172–173, 179–180, 190, 209, 211, 218, 222–223, 240 Wyrok życia (Life Sentence), 28 Z lotu ptaka (From a bird’s eye view), 29

N

Nałkowska, Zofia, 20, 90–91, viii, xix, xx ambiguous view of contacts, 22–23 awards, 20 Bergsonian “realizations,” 91 Chekhovian influence, 51 definition of women, 55 “domesticity,” 54–55 Dom kobiet (House of Women), ix, xix, 20, 28, 31–32, 46–53, 90, 93,

95–96, 142–145, 150–151, 153–154, 164, 169, 173–174, 181, 205, 218, 221, 232, 240 female essentialism, defined, 50–51 female heroines, 21 Granica (The Frontier, 1935), 23 Hrabia Emil (Count Emil, 1920), 21 human beings as essentialist and rationalist, 49 images of women, 21 Kobiety (Women, 1906), 21 Książe (Prince, 1907), 21 male power and male control, 46–47 Narcyza (1911), 21 Niecierpliwi (The Impatient Ones, 1938), 23 “Other,” 55–56 Romans Teresy Hennert (The Romance of Teresa Hennert, 1923), 21 vision of emancipation, 93 weaknesses of female characters, 47–48 Węże i róże (Snakes and Roses, 1914), 21 worldview, 93 writings during inter–war years, 23–24 Nałkowski, Wacław, 20 Naturalism, 17, 19, 194–195 naturalist satirical comedies, 2 “neo–Romantyzm” (Neo–Romanticism), xii British Drama: An Historical Survey from the Beginnings to the Present Time, 6 nonessentialism, xviii–xix, 4, 39, 41, 58, 77, 84, 101, 111, 122, 133, 137–138, 138n11, 145, 151, 157–158, 177, 181, 189, 199, 234, 241 nonessentialist characters, 81, 83, 105–110, 122, 164, 168, 180, 190, 228, 233, 237 “non–recognition,” 68, 99–101, 132–133

O

opaqueness, 91 Orzeszkowa, Eliza, 11 “Other/Otherness,” 55–56, 87–88, 160

P

Poland, 9 emancipation movement, 11–12, 241–242

266 Index family, marriage, and sexual matters, 15–16 film industry, 16 inter–war Poland’s cultural and social situation, 10. see also inter–war plays; inter–war society myths part of a Polish national mythology, 12–13, 124. see also “dworek” (estate) myth; “Matka–Polka” (Mother–Pole) myth nineteenth century, 10–11 patriarchal system, 4, 12–14, 16–17, 37, 40, 58–59, 68, 76, 80, 84, 86–87, 94, 109, 111, 114, 117, 122, 125, 127, 129–130, 133–135, 137, 139, 142–145, 151–154, 164–165, 168–173, 179, 185–187, 190–192, 199, 231–238, 242 self–imposed censorship, 15 status of women in, 8–9 theatrical context in inter–war years, 18–19 women in movies, 16 women’s playwriting in inter–war years, viii, 16–17 Popiel, Jacek, 18 Positivism (Polish Realism), xii, 3–4, 11, 18 possibilities of change, 41, 55, 85–86, 96 Provincetown Players, 8 Przybyszewski, Stanisław, 217, 224–225

R

Realism, 4, 6n25, 11n5, 53, 70, 183–184, 186–187, 190, 201, 203, 213, 219 relationality, 85, 95 Rittner, Tadeusz, 203, 224–225 Ritz, German 13, 193 Romantic historiography, 126 Romanticism, 13, 19, 50 Russia Russian women playwrights, 8 status of women in, 7–9 Rylska, Zofia, 20, 30 depiction of children, 68, 132 essentialism of children, 67–68 essentialist character trait, 72, 74–75

female physical attributes, 72–73 Głębia na Zimnej (The Deep at Zimna), xi, xiii, 37–38, 67–77, 83–84, 87, 93, 127–134, 136–137, 144–145, 171, 179, 181, 190–192, 209, 211, 217, 220, 224–225, 232 patriarchal system, 127, 129–130 picture of life on the estate, 127–133 psychological realism, 70 use of grief, 88–90 Rylski, Zygmunt, 30

S

Samozwaniec, Magdalena, 24 Schiller, Friedrich, 203 Schroeder, Patricia, xv, 184 sexual binarism, 39 sexual essentialism, 39 Shakespeare, William, 201 Shaw, George Bernard, 184, 229 Skamander group of poets, 13, 24 Smoleñ, Barbara, xix Solomon, Alissa, 182 Słonimski, Antoni, 201–203 Nałkowska’s House of Women, review of, 205–206, 210, 221–222 Rylska’s The Deep at Zimna, review of, 209, 225–226 on visual effects, 204 Słowacki, Juliusz, 18 Słowackiego, Juliusza, 4, 27, 30, 32, 34, 36 Strindberg, August, 222 “Świadome macierzyństwo” (Conscious Motherhood), 180, 203 Symbolism, 4–5 Szaniawski, Jerzy, 224

T

Teatr im. Juliusza Słowackiego, 32, 34, 36 Teatr Kameralny, 9, 30, 34, 37 Teatr Mały, 35 Teatr Miejski, 34 Teatr na Woli (Theater in Wola), 30 Teatr Nowy, 36 Teatr Nowy (New Theater), 29 Teatr Polski, 33 Teatr Reduty, 33 Teatr Wybrzeże

Index 267 Genewa Paquis numer 10 (Geneva Pacquis number 10), 29 Theater of the Absurd, 36

femininity of, 2 in Italy, 3 Russian, 5–6 in Scandinavia, 3 Symbolist elements of style, 4–5 turn–of the–century feminist, 3–4

U

Udalska, Eleonora, 230 Union of Equal Rights for Women, 8 United States emancipation movement, 7 women’s rights, 7

V

Volatile Bodies: Towards a Corporal Feminism (Elizabeth Grosz), 40

W

War and Revolutions of 1917/1918, 5 Warsztat Teatralny (Theatrical Workshop), 29 Wiadomości Literackie (Literary News), 202 Witkiewicz, Stanisław Ignacy (Witkacy), 25–26, 36, 200 Wolska, Maryla (Zawrat), 3 women, 7–9, 16–17, 92 cultural/social practices toward in inter–war period, 64–67 in movies, 16 Nałkowska’s definition of, 55 social “nonrecognition,” 75, 95, 98–104, 122, 133, 238 women playwrights, 1–2 explosion, 3, 5

Z

Zapolska, Gabriela, 2, 6, 203 Zeittheater, x Żeleński, Tadeusz (Boy), 9, 15, 19, 180, 202–203, 209–210, 213–214, 216, 223, 228, 230 Grabowska’s “Justice,” review of, 216 Jasnorzewska’s Egyptian Wheat, review of, 213–215 Nałkowska’s House of Women, 218–219 reviews of, 204 Rylska’s The Deep at Zimna, review of, 217 on social issues, 203 Szczepkowska’s Monika’s Case, review of, 215–217 Szczepkowska’s Silent Power, review of, 209 Szczepkowska’s The Falling House, review of, 209–210, 218, 223 Żeromski, Stefan, 34 Zinovieva–Annibal, Lidia, 2, 4 Pevuchii osel (The Singing Ass), 5 Związek Syndykalistów Polskich (Association of Polish Syndicalists), 30