It was stern grey November, and Vienna’s pillared palaces and government edifices could barely be discerned against the somber sky. The capital was dense with diplomats, journalists and human-rights activists from all over Europe and North America come to attend yet another international conference. Among them was a throng of diaspora Ukrainians and recent exiles, pleading the cause of Ukrainian dissidents. Packed into presentable quarters at the Marriott on Park Ring, we lobbied the delegations and squeezed into the press conferences, linking up with the Baltic and Jewish lobbies. A famous ex-dissident would drop in occasionally to tell salty jokes while breakfasting on vodka and Gauloises. There was a real Viennese ball at the Rathaus. Sleek, chic Western ladies chatted up fat, fun-loving Russian diplomats. Cassette tape recorder in hand, I thought myself clever for getting a Soviet official to say that every Soviet republic should have its own Helsinki representation. U.S. Ambassador Ronald Lauder hosted a reception at the Pallavicini Palace, and I got a glimpse of George Shultz. It was a time of public protest and private persuasion – of fun, flirtation and freely flowing champagne.
One evening, some of the younger single Ukrainians got together in the hotel lounge under the aegis of the wise Pani Sophia. (All the characters in this account are fictional, and any resemblance between them and any real person, living or dead, is coincidental; some such colloquium, however, did take place.) Naturally the talk turned to love and marriage. Various theories were considered. Mutual attraction, all agreed, was not enough. In those days, “compatibility” was the criterion. But this was hard to define, and even the most “compatible” couple could find grounds for discord and divorce. The same was true of “common interests.” A shared fascination with football, philosophy or foie gras was no guarantee of a happy marriage.
Of course Ukrainians, as an endangered species, felt obliged to try to marry other Ukrainians. Did it matter whether they were Orthodox or Catholic, western or eastern? There was much to ponder and debate. Teodor, a student from America, was infatuated with Areta, the sister of his colleague Teofil. But what really impressed him was her family: one of those solid Old World clans, firm in faith and tradition, prudent and wise, bringing up generation after generation of talented, accomplished sons and daughters. There was no generation gap here, no rebellious teenagers, no leftist radicals or pot-smoking hippies. For me, a product of California, it was unreal. For Teodor, a native of the great North American social wilderness, such families only existed in movies and Victorian novels. And there was much to be said for marrying into one. One would have the guidance and support of countless aunts and uncles, elder brothers and sisters-in-law. One would always know what to do. And family ties meant career advice and support. One’s children would grow up in a healthy, cultivated milieu, their characters formed by the best influences. The charm was irresistible.
Adrian, a young lawyer, opined that the most important thing in choosing a mate was a common world view. It was essential that husband and wife could face life’s greatest challenges, such as death, in philosophical harmony. In everyday life, mutual values would overcome the inevitable differences in habits, manners, opinions, or temperament. For most Ukrainians, that meant a shared faith. Having taken a solemn oath not only to each other, but also to God, in the presence of the parish community, a couple was more likely to make maximum efforts to work out even the greatest conflicts. Such a commitment also created a deep friendship and solidarity between husband and wife that could surmount any obstacle. Moreover, a shared religion provided a structure of agreed-upon values and principles for the resolution of disputes. Pani Sophia agreed with Adrian. That settled, the discussion turned to other things.
All that was long ago and far away. What has become of those ardent young souls? Rumor has it that Teodor’s friend Teofil married a non-Ukrainian co-religionist. After a few years she left him for a wealthier man. Adrian reportedly married a Ukrainian who shared his spiritual and intellectual orientation, and promptly divorced him. He next wedded a woman from Ukraine who shared neither his faith nor his interests, but proved to be a faithful and loving wife. It is said that Areta married a penniless seminarian. As for the lovelorn Teodor – he eventually entered a monastery.
Can we draw any lessons from these stories? Hardly. We cannot know whether they are typical or representative. They may not even be true. But on the occasion of Valentine’s Day, we might consider the following tentative conclusions.
First, no matter how well you plan things, you cannot – contrary to the common wisdom – control your destiny. Second, people do not always follow their own principles. They don’t even always act in their own interests – which is ultimately the same thing. Third, as an aunt of mine once said, marriage is a lottery. Presumably she meant that it’s a gamble. But she may also have meant that there are very few winners. Fourth, if you can marry someone who shares your ethnic heritage (assuming you want to), you are lucky; if you can marry someone who shares your philosophical world view (assuming you have one), you are very lucky. If you can marry someone who shares both, you are positively blessed. But the chances of this happening are infinitesimal. So don’t count on it. Count your blessings instead. For even this doesn’t guarantee happiness. Fifth, if you are a woman and seek stability, consider a seminarian. (It is reported that in North America, Greek-Catholic seminarians, like the Orthodox, may now marry before ordination.) Once he’s ordained, he’ll probably take good care of you, since he won’t get another chance: widowed priests generally may not marry again. Finally, if you really seek perfection, consider the monastery. That, in a sense, is the only ideal marriage.