Mariana's right. Maybe she was always right. You swing the door open, knowing it'll cause a bit of theater but wanting to avoid such completely; you can't quite help yourself, you suppose. "Sir Andrzej Marszowski," you say, as if about to issue orders, which you do: "I want to throw dice with you." "What?" he says, looking up from his flagon of gorzała. "Ah, well, certainly, Your Serene Highness, eh… What shall we play?" "You have your set with you, no?" you ask, not looking for an answer. "Ehm, yes, cards and dice, an Italian set of cards." "Then let us play primus! Not dice, primus. Teach me," you say, turning your mind instead to cards at his mention of them. "Well… We ought to have van Gistel and one of the manservants in here," says Marszowski. "But it can be just Your Serene Highness and I," he says, removing twelve cards from the deck. "Roman rules." "Alright…" "So, we'd place our bets and then the dealer gets the first card," he says, placing one down before himself, and then one to you. "We do this til we've both got four cards." He finishes dealing. "Now, check your cards." Wow! All four are of the suit of coins. You tell Marszowski such. "Ah! Wow. A fluxus. Got me beat. What's your high card?" "Queen of coins," you reply. "Absolutely got me beat." He furrows his brow. "Hey now, I can't help but ask, Your Serene Highness: it's been years since we've thrown dice together, and we've never played cards." "I…" what are the words? "I'm trying to rediscover old things, but in a more godly and healthy way."
"But this is a sin."
"But do you think it's a sin?"
Marszowski swishes his tongue around his closed mouth, crimping his brow. "You know I'm not a praying man…"
"Don't dodge the question."
He plaps his hands down onto his thighs. "I don't know. I don't know anything," he says. "We walk this beautiful Earth and are told that a sip of liquor, the touch of a woman, the thrill of a dice game – that is all sin. Now, I don't think that we all sprung up out of nothing but…"
"You wonder why God has decreed such things?"
"Frankly — yes. Especially when we live in such coldness, with illness and death and murder all about." Whatever liquor in him has likely left his system suddenly, and he doesn't break eye contact with you. "I've killed at least eight or ten men in my day, Your Serene Highness—"
"'Lord prince,' again, please."
His face betrays nothing. "Lord prince. But, yes, a good many kills to my name, and, well…" Now he shows something. "I suppose it's already over me. I was raised Reformed, you see, and so…"
"You're not electus, you reckon?"
"No. No, I'm not, so I'm here for today before I suffer, should the Pit be real."
You were always a little too young to talk to him on these matters. Then, when you were older: too busy. "You're not even sure if the Lord is real?"
"I have yet to be satisfied with any churchman's answer for the existence of suffering in the world. I believe we have souls, I suppose, for how are we different from animals unless…"
You exhale through your nose, trying to be subtle. This rejection of Grace and its cultivation, an unwillingness to fight against the tide of evil through good works, invocation of the Saints, and lots of prayer. Even people of other confessions can be pious, in their way. And yet you feel not as if you have a duty to try and bring him to the Holy Church — or to any kind of faith for that matter — only to understand, and listen to your old fencing master for the first time in what feels like years.
"So, then, you believe in what?" you ask. "I don't mean that as an accusation."
Marszowski hums. "Love, I suppose, but not God's love, frankly. Love between brothers in arms, love between lord and master, man and woman. I once even knew a man who loved a man!"
Like a, a… "A sodomite?"
"Oh yes, lord prince," he says, unperturbed. "Whatever Hell they may be bound for, whatever it does to their manhood — they love as anyone else. And that's something I can at least respect." He leans back in his seat. "See, I reckon if God's turned a blind eye to it all, then all we've got is each other."
You swallow. "I don't know if I can agree," you say, "I think there are very, very defined rules. I think we have a sacred duty to try and understand the will of God and put it into action. It's the work of the Church Fathers and the scholar-Saints," you say, thinking of Aquinas and Benedict and Augustine. "Venerable work, but… maybe I understand your position."
You tell him of your excursion with Mariana, of the closeness you feel now, long-dormant, of the coexistence of faith in God and faith in the world. Marszowski nods along.
"She died, you know, when you were in France," says your fencing master, almost deadpan.
A flash passes through you; you almost tense up at the realization. Lady Marszowski! They were never fond of each other, but… "I'm sorry." You splutter a bit. "Good God, I'm sorry, I never—"
"It's nothing, lord prince. We were near-separated anyways," he sighs. "I haven't had a lady in I don't know how long. Not even paying for one."
That's a shock. "Why not?"
Marszowski shrugs. "Suppose a bit of the melancholia?"
"I can understand that!" you chuckle.
"It's just hard, I suppose. You reach a certain age and you get a want for heirs. Not for bloodline or patrimony or being fruitful and multiplying or anything like that."
You feel your voice soften. Your face, too. "But you raised me up, Sir Marszowski. Papa Chevalier, remember?"
He shrugs again. You've never seen him so… sheepish? "And now you're grown, and I'm merely a lieutenant — and I never expected anything more, I don't think, but…" He smiles a wry smile. "Sneaking you gorzała, bopping you with the training swords — 'balance on that bucket, little prince!'"
"I suppose things change a good bit," you say, struggling for words for a reason you can't quite explain. "We're not like serfs, living in the same place with the same people until we die. No rhythm to our seasons," you muse. You see the face of old Tatjana the maid. Your gaze casts down to the tabletop, unplayed cards before you. That's why you came here, you remember. You look up at Sir Marszowski; he looks tranquil, almost, or like he's daydreaming.
"We should go hunting," you say. "Falconing with Mariana the other day was the first time I've let myself have fun outdoors in a long, long time."
"The Princess is a fine young lady," replies Marszowski. "But you didn't enjoy your garden at Orsza?"
"I did, I did. But that wasn't fun. That was more of a necessity."
"What… dare I ask, lord prince…"
You extend a hand: please.
"Have you lost your faith all of a sudden?"
"No. Not at all," you say. Did you say that too quickly? Nevermind. "It just turned into a matter of pride — itself Sin, of course — I wanted to prove to myself that I could give up everything for God." You smile. "But I didn't take some sort of vow, now did I?"
You explain it to him, carefully yet with expressive hands: "this pity! Such pity! Bring the inside outside!" as Mariana said, still etched upon your mind. How you'd give up meat and forget to give alms, how you'd wear wool undergarments as you politicked. "I was being like a Pharisee," you conclude, "it takes more than mere zealotry to make it to Heaven. I must be myself, and put the words of the Lord and His Saints into deed. I can't just ape something I'm not."
Marszowski grins. "So now you want to learn how to play primus?" he teases. "I remember how we used to shoot dice at Wilno, back when you enjoyed a good drink."
Back when I was out of control.
"Alright, firstly, I wasn't going to play with stakes," you laugh. "I'm deviating from Benedict's Rule somewhat, it's true, but here's the thing: with my title and my money, I can do much more than keep a little garden." You snort, amused with this mental image: "I reckon that it's alright to add some weight to the sinful end of the scale so long as I counterbalance it with nothing but lead on the side of piety and virtue."
You tell him your ideas, like buying printing presses for proper Latin bibles, converting Reformed peasants, or funding a Jesuit college once Father is gone (or somehow permits it). "And I realized: what's the harm with some ludes, as Saint Benedict would call them, when I can also do all of that? Truly, truly change the world in the name of God."
Marszowski shakes his head. "I wish I had your faith, lord prince. It must be a soaring sensation to know that you're saved, and that there's yet more you can do to perfect yourself, save others."
"It's never too late, Sir Marszowski, even within the bounds of your confession can you cultivate faith and spread it, however misguided I may find Reformation." You think a little. "It's about loving our fellow man, looking out for each other's souls. I hate that I've killed and maimed," you say.
"And that does not make you a craven," says Marszowski, almost fiery. "Man was born to be merry, says I, and to hold each other close through the night."
"And that way we may be more similar than different, even if it comes from different places," you grin. "Now — shall you teach me primus?"
"With pleasure, lord prince."
