He seemed simply acquiescent in the fact of his own being, as
if he were beyond any change or question. He was himself. There
was a sense of fatality about him that fascinated her. He made
no effort to prove himself to other people. Let it be accepted
for what it was, his own being. In its isolation it made no
excuse or explanation for itself.
So he seemed perfectly, even fatally established, he did not
asked to be rendered before he could exist, before he could have
relationship with another person.
This attracted Ursula very much. She was so used to unsure
people who took on a new being with every new influence. Her
Uncle Tom was always more or less what the other person would
have him. In consequence, one never knew the real Uncle Tom,
only a fluid, unsatisfactory flux with a more or less consistent
appearance.
But, let Skrebensky do what he would, betray himself
entirely, he betrayed himself always upon his own
responsibility. He permitted no question about himself. He was
irrevocable in his isolation.
So Ursula thought him wonderful, he was so finely
constituted, and so distinct, self-contained, self-supporting.
This, she said to herself, was a gentleman, he had a nature like
fate, the nature of an aristocrat.
She laid hold of him at once for her dreams. Here was one
such as those Sons of God who saw the daughters of men, that
they were fair. He was no son of Adam. Adam was servile. Had not
Adam been driven cringing out of his native place, had not the
human race been a beggar ever since, seeking its own being? But
Anton Skrebensky could not beg. He was in possession of himself,
of that, and no more. Other people could not really give him
anything nor take anything from him. His soul stood alone.
She knew that her mother and father acknowledged him. The
house was changed. There had been a visit paid to the house.
Once three angels stood in Abraham's doorway, and greeted him,
and stayed and ate with him, leaving his household enriched for
ever when they went.
The next day she went down to the Marsh according to
invitation. The two men were not come home. Then, looking
through the window, she saw the dogcart drive up, and Skrebensky
leapt down. She saw him draw himself together, jump, laugh to
her uncle, who was driving, then come towards her to the house.
He was so spontaneous and revealed in his movements. He was
isolated within his own clear, fine atmosphere, and as still as
if fated.
His resting in his own fate gave him an appearance of
indolence, almost of languor: he made no exuberant movement.
When he sat down, he seemed to go loose, languid.
"We are a little late," he said.