Push Not the River

by James Conroyd Martin

  After the meal, when most of the guests had retired to other rooms or the gardens, Duke Lubicki presented Anna with a wooden box, its top carved with the Berezowski coat of arms, a half-moon rising above a swan. Anna blinked back her surprise; she had never seen the box before.

  “It was your father’s, Anna,” the duke explained. “Now it belongs to you.”

  Anna opened it to find documents with her father’s signature.

  “These are the complete records of your father’s investments with us.”

  “There seem to be so many—”

  “It amounts to a great deal of money. . . . You are a wealthy young woman, Anna Maria.”

  “I’m delighted. But why are you giving these to me now?”

  “For your signature. I knew that you and your late husband had plans for the money these investments will bring. I assume that you still wish to divest yourself of—”

  “No,” Anna said, “there are no plans. Not any longer. I would like you to continue to see to my financial affairs. You are to take, of course, whatever fees—”

  “There are no fees. Your father repaid me with his friendship.” The duke smiled. “I’ll continue, if that is your wish.”

  “It is.”

  “You and your son should be able to live handsomely on the interest generated by your inheritance.”

  The friends descended the curved staircase, their gowns sweeping across the polished ebony floor of the massive reception room, as silk over glass. They moved toward the clear glass doors to the gardens, Anna’s eyes lifted in distraction by the relief of painted cherubs flying against the azure of the ceiling.

  Outside, groups of lively, loquacious guests stood on and near the huge dance floor, a temporary device of stone squares enameled in red. Birch trees graced two of its sides, forming a living, vaulted roof above the dancers, who were squaring off in the formation of a German cotillion. A cooling breeze lifted the leaves now and then, allowing the jewelry and rich finery of the dancers to sparkle in the mottled sunlight.

  If only Zofia’s parties were like this celebration.

  Leading the cotillion were a striking woman in white silk and lace and a foreign-looking gentleman whose movements were elegant, if somewhat strutting. The woman was the height of style, from her petite, bejeweled slippers to the crown of her great white pompadour. Anna thought her well into her thirties, but she certainly commanded the eyes of the men. Her smile, while serene as the Madonna’s, indicated she was aware of the stir she was creating.

  When the dance ended, the woman hurried over to Helena and Anna, her partner in tow. Helena introduced her as the Marquise Wielopolska. Her dance partner was Guy Mornay, a French count.

  “I’m delighted to meet you,” Anna said to the marquise. “You’re well-known in Warsaw circles.”

  The Madonna smile widened slightly. “And I have heard of you, Countess Grawlinska.”

  The woman’s delicate, feline features were hard to read. Anna was certain, however, there was an undercurrent in the woman’s tone.

  Helena had introduced Anna using her married name. Anna chose not to correct her. It was still her legal name, after all, and that of her son.

  The count stepped up to Anna. “Will the Countess Grawlinska consent to dance?”

  Anna looked into the slightly pinched face. She would not use the bereavement excuse. “I . . . I don’t know how to move to these Germanic dances.”

  The count turned back to the marquise. “The good countess says that she cannot dance to these Germanic dances!” His voice was nasal. Anna thought it an affectation.

  Someone nearby snickered. Anna flushed in embarrassment.

  “Nonsense, my dear,” said the marquise, her tone condescending. “It is one of the easiest. The only way to learn is to do.” The woman took Anna’s hand and gave it over to the Frenchman, who guided Anna out onto the floor before she could protest.

  Anna’s first steps were uncertain and awkward. She felt as if all eyes around her were watching every faltering move.

  She regretted now having put off the black mourning dress, regretted having come to the reception.

  Soon, though, she fell into step and found herself dancing with the count as though they had done so a hundred times, the couple moving gracefully among the quadrilles of dancers.

  “You’re doing wonderfully,” the count said. “It’s almost time to change partners.”

  “What?” But before fear overtook her, she found herself partnered with another. And then another. Surprisingly, she lost not a step and continued to enjoy herself.

  Anna passed near to where Helena and the marquise stood watching. Helena waved. The marquise’s smile seemed unchanged, but her eyes betrayed her surprise.

  Anna was reunited with Count Mornay before the dance ended. His arm went around her waist as they moved off the dance floor. “You are very beautiful, Countess. May I call you Anna?”

  “Let me go,” Anna whispered.

  He didn’t remove his arm. “Zofia is not as lovely as you. Why have you kept yourself out of society for so long?”

  “You know my cousin?” Anna asked, turning to him.

  He smiled wickedly. “Of course.”

  Anna pushed him away and hurried over to Helena.

  “I must leave at once,” Anna announced. “Thank you for your kindnesses. Give my best to your parents and grandmother.”

  “What is it, Anna? What happened?”

  “Nothing. I’m sorry. I’m not well.”

  “That’s too bad,” Helena said. “Don’t you wish to say goodbye to my father yourself? He may have some last caution—”

  “Yes, I should. Where is he?”

  “Duke Lubicki,” Marquise Wielopolska said, “retired to the library not long ago with my husband and some other men.”

  Anna hated the woman’s arrogance. The count was rejoining them now, two glasses of wine in hand. She ignored him, quickly making her move toward the house.

  Inside, Anna heard hastening steps behind her.

  “Anna,” Helena said, “ill or not, that was rude of you to so abruptly leave the marquise and the count.”

  “I’m sorry,” Anna replied without missing a step, “but I don’t care much for the Marquise Wielopolska, nor the French count without manners.”

  “What happened? Did he say something, do something?”

  “It’s nothing,” Anna sighed, stopping before great double doors. “Forgive me, Helena. Perhaps I’m oversensitive today, but I must go home. Is this the library?”

  “Yes.”

  Absently, she knocked and the two hurried in.

  The ten or twelve men in the room were caught in the midst of a heated discussion. The names of several men were being roundly scorned. Anna’s interest was immediately piqued, her irritation with the count and marquise forgotten.

  As the two young women advanced, slowly, uncertainly, the men’s voices died in their throats. The impatient looks in their eyes made Anna feel an intruder.

  Duke Lubicki, seated at a large desk, noticed them now. “What is it, Helena?” He, too, had little patience.

  “I’m sorry, Father,” she said. “We didn’t know—”

  “It’s my fault, your grace,” Anna said. “I merely wanted to say goodbye.”

  The duke smiled. “Then it is no interruption.”

  Anna just wanted out of the room, but the duke insisted on protocol and introduced her and his daughter to everyone present.

  The last man to be named was a frail, elderly gentleman sitting near the desk. Anna had to disguise her reaction when she found out that this was the Marquis Wielopolski, husband to the woman with the Madonna smile—and decades older. If Anna showed her surprise, the Marquis seemed not to notice. His manner was serious, his mind clearly on other things.

  Anna addressed herself to the duke. “Adieu, adieu,” she said, turning to leave. On impulse, she turned back. “Forgive me, Lord Lubicki, but when we entered, I thought I heard the names of s
everal magnates. Has something happened?”

  The old marquis came suddenly to life now. “The names you heard, Countess Grawlinska were Feliks Potocki, Seweryn Rzewuski, and Ksawery Branicki. You will hear of them again.”

  “I see.” Anna nodded, thinking that he spoke with the weight of the mythical Greek seer Tiresias. A chill came over her.

  “They are nobles,” the marquis continued, “that lack even the crudest peasant sense.”

  Anna committed the names to memory as she and Helena made their retreat. Something of the greatest importance was occurring in the Commonwealth, and it had to do with these men. No doubt her patriot friends would know something.

  “What has happened, do you suppose?” Anna asked, once the library doors closed behind them.

  “I haven’t a clue,” Helena said, “but it isn’t good. I’m going to make short work of finding out. Won’t you stay now, until this meeting is over?”

  Anna declined.

  “Friendship is like wine,” Helena called out to Anna as the carriage began to roll down the driveway, “the older it is, the better it is!”

  Anna waved. Helena’s words were ironic. She looked at little Jan Michał, already asleep in her arms. His origin was a secret she had not confided to Helena. Zofia’s behavior was another. No longer did she feel close enough to her friend to unlock her secrets at a moment’s notice. Time and circumstance had come between them.

  Anna realized now that the music had ceased and that the voices from the gardens nearby were charged with excited talk and a sense of alarm. Guests were already streaming out into the driveway toward their carriages. She recognized a few of the men that had been present at the meeting.

  What kind of disclosures had gone on in the Lubicki library?

  52

  ANNA WAS TOLD SHE’D FIND Zofia in the reception room.

  Her cousin lay face up on a fainting couch that had been covered in a fur and placed next to the open French windows so that the sun might warm and lend a pinkness to her skin. She was naked.

  “Come in, Anna! Come in, it’s not for you to be shy, if I’m not.”

  Anna adjusted her line of vision away from Zofia and toward a table with a plate of roast beef and a hand mirror. Eventually, it was drawn back to her cousin.

  “Ohhhh,” Zofia crooned, “isn’t it wonderful to have at last a warm afternoon?”

  Anna moved slowly to the sofa opposite Zofia. She sank back into the cushions, still at a loss for words.

  “Tell me about the feast day party, dearest. Who was there? Was it terribly boring?”

  “No, it was quite nice.” Zofia’s body was perfection itself. What a woman is this, Anna thought, one who lounges unattired and unashamed in the sun, while eating meat from the noon meal or gazing at her reflection in the mirror.

  “Imagine, a name day celebration for a woman eighty years old. A farewell party, more likely!”

  “Zofia!”

  “You know what they say: ‘The young may die, the old will.’ ”

  At Zofia’s insistence, Anna described the Mass and reception, as well as the Lubicki home and guests. She watched for a flicker of recognition when she made mention of the French count’s name, but it went unrewarded.

  “It sounds tedious to me, Anna. Many of the guests you named are dull and stiff-necked nobles who cling wistfully to a by-gone era. But I’m glad if you were entertained by it.”

  “It was lovely, Zofia. But it came to a strange end.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Anna related then in detail what had gone on in the Lubicki library, what had been said.

  Zofia’s interest was fully aroused by the time Anna finished. “The names, Anna, what were the three names? . . . Do you remember? You must!”

  “Yes.”

  “Because I hate politics you and mother think I am a dunce. I know what I must know. . . . Now tell me their names.”

  “Potocki and Branicki and Rzewuski.”

  “Ah, then the time has come,” Zofia muttered.

  “Time? What is it? What’s happened?”

  “Oh, Anna,” Zofia sighed, “you act as if you haven’t a clue as to what you’ve just told me.” She was on her feet now, taking short steps about the room.

  Anna was uncertain whether her cousin was pleased or agitated. “I don’t understand.”

  “Ha!” Zofia laughed, the black eyes appraising Anna. “It is so like you, cousin, to give a flawless account of something you have witnessed firsthand, yet be unable to interpret it. Why, you would be a priceless associate to the king!”

  Anna shrugged. “From those little bits of facts, I could hardly—”

  But Zofia wasn’t listening. “Lutisha!” she screamed. “Lutisha!”

  The servant appeared promptly, opening the double doors. Her eyes bulged at Zofia’s nakedness.

  “That letter, Lutisha, the one that came for me this morning! Where is it?”

  “I left it in your room, Mademoiselle.”

  “Fetch it immediately!”

  The servant made for the rear stairwell.

  Anna thought she detected a buoyancy in Zofia’s attitude.

  But it soured quickly. Through doors that opened into the main hall, Anna could see Marcelina opening the front door to six or seven women who evidently had been sent to help prepare for a midnight supper Zofia was to host that night.

  “Good God!” Zofia shrieked as she ran toward the hall. “Doesn’t one of you have a particle of a brain in those piss-pots on your shoulders?”

  Already in the vestibule, the maids huddled together like does, their eyes dilated at the sight and sound of Zofia.

  “Don’t stand there wiggling like a swarm of maggots! If you can’t enter this house through the servants’ entrance, you can go back to your mistresses.”

  The women scurried out the door.

  “You should know better,” Zofia chastised Marcelina. “Don’t ever let a servant in through the front again!”

  The horrified girl nodded and retreated to the kitchen, her red apron held to her face.

  When Zofia returned to the reception room, she glanced at Anna, down at herself, then at Anna again. A smile played on her lips. She seemed to recognize the farcical quality of her little scene: naked and ranting, she had demanded strict decorum from the servant class. Suddenly, she started laughing aloud.

  Anna could not help but join in.

  Zofia bent to pick up the fur, and she had only just draped it about herself when Countess Gronska came down from her room.

  “What is all this shouting?” the countess asked, her gaze catching on Zofia.

  “It’s nothing, Mother. Merely stupid servants.”

  “Is this some new style of attire?” The countess took her usual chair.

  Zofia left the question unanswered. Anna saw that she was surreptitiously picking up some item from a table. Anna hadn’t noticed it before; it was a piece of blue velvet that encased some small article. With her back to her mother, Zofia sidled near to her cousin, placing it in her hands and whispering something about safekeeping.

  Lutisha appeared with the letter, flushed in embarrassment about her granddaughter’s gaffe. She was about to make an apology, but Zofia was already hungrily tearing open the letter. Anna winked and waved the servant away. Zofia might flare and fume at such an infraction, but it was usually quickly forgotten.

  Zofia devoured the contents of the letter, the impatience giving way to smug satisfaction. “Well! It is done.”

  “What is?” Anna asked.

  “Potocki and those other nobles you mentioned, Anna, have formed a confederacy at Targowica—with Empress Catherine!”

  “No!” the countess cried. “It can’t be true!”

  “But it is, Mother.”

  “What is the aim of this confederacy?” Anna asked.

  Zofia tilted her head arrogantly. “To subjugate the bourgeoisie, destroy the Constitution, and restore the kingdom to what it once was! That is what you fai
led to grasp, cousin. That is what set those weak-kneed nobles at Lubickis to grumbling.”

  “But we stand for the Constitution,” Countess Gronska said, “just as your father did.”

  “Father was wrong, Mother. It was one thing Walter was right about. The Constitution is no friend to the nobility. It allows commoners to own land!”

  “Is that so bad?”

  “Yes, Mother. Through their accumulating wealth, they would finally destroy us. Now, the possessions of the kingdom will remain in rightful hands, in our hands.”

  “And all done with her help, I suppose?”

  “Catherine’s? Indeed. Hail the Empress of Russia!”

  “The Empress-Whore!” the countess spat. “Was it so much to give commoners land, something to sustain them, something in which they could take pride?”

  “Yes, Mother, yes. Tell me, what part of our holdings would you wish to part with?”

  “If needs be, we could do with less. The constitutional reform will ease the kind of tensions that account for travesties like those occurring in France.”

  “Then I am only too glad that I am in charge of the Gronski purse strings. The Constitution created unrest, Mother; it didn’t reduce it.”

  The countess had winced at the reference to the disposition of the estate. Nevertheless, she drew in a long breath to sustain her reply: “The unrest has come from nobles who are disgruntled at giving up anything to the lower classes. Zofia, even if the reform would prove to be the means of our demise, as you seem to think, that does not warrant our asking Catherine for assistance. It is like a trapped mouse asking a hulk of a hungry she-cat for help. She may give it . . . but then what?”

  “Then,” Zofia sang, “there will be no Constitution and no Third of May celebration for the rising of the scum. Only feasts and festivities for the true sons and daughters of kings!”

  “We will be the cat’s supper,” the countess said, “and she will lap us up like rich cream!”

  “Let’s ask Anna her opinion.” Zofia turned to her cousin. “What do you think, Ania?”

  “I agree with your mother, Zofia. It’s wrong to rescind the Constitution by force and doubly wrong to employ Catherine in its undoing.”