Anna had no idea what to say or how she could comfort her aunt. She felt foolish in her silence.
It was the countess who spoke next. “Somehow Leo and I failed in our parentage. We produced a man with the soul of a barbarian and a woman with the spirit of a wanton she-dog.” Her eyes sought out Anna’s. “How I envy my dead sister to have a daughter like you. And to think we said at the time she was making a poor match! I’d like to think of you as my own daughter, Anna Maria, because I have no children, not really.” Then, like water from a newly opened sluice gate, the pent-up tears were released, rushing down her aged cheeks.
Anna squeezed her hand. “You are my mother now, Aunt Stella.”
The countess smiled and her face seemed to glow. “Only you, my little Ania, have taken all the seeds of the beautiful swamp lily and flourished.” She wiped at her tears. “But the wetlands are now being drained and the hoards of weeds are spreading their own hearty seed. You, dearest, must learn to be a lily who can adapt, who can live despite the weeds. Though they sprout up all around you and threaten to choke the very breath from you, you must survive.”
Anna found herself staring at her aunt.
“I speak in parable, Ania, but do you understand?”
“I . . . I think so.”
“I am old. It matters little for me. But you are young and have the time to change. To adapt to the maelstrom that Poland has become.” Countess Gronska studied Anna’s expression and seemed to read it like words on a page. “Oh, you needn’t become like Zofia to change, Anna. Don’t think I mean that.”
“How am I to change then, Aunt Stella? And, more importantly, how is Jan Michał going to survive what is happening and what yet might come?”
“You must marry, child. It’s the only thing you can do, for yourself and for your son. God help us, but perhaps Zofia can be helpful in this way. But this time you must be certain that the man you marry wants you only for your own sake.”
“I desire only one man, Aunt.”
“Count Stelnicki?”
“Yes.”
“Listen to me, Anna. Life isn’t often as one imagines or dreams. My own marriage was arranged. It was not my choice . . . oh, there was another young man I loved desperately! But it was not to be. I have no regrets. My marriage to Leo was a good one even if our children have not lived up to our expectations.”
“I intend to wait for Jan.”
“Is he still with Kościuszko?”
“I don’t know. I thought perhaps he has sent some word here.”
“To my knowledge, he has not.” The countess sighed. “So we don’t know whether he has survived. You know, if the Russians maintain their grip, and if Jan returns home alive, he will come back a poor and titleless man, Anna. He would have little to offer a wealthy woman of the aristocracy as you.”
It was not Anna’s aunt’s suggestion that she consider marriage or her reminder that Jan would be stripped of title and possessions that cut her like a blade; rather, it was the genuine doubt in her voice when she said if Jan returns home alive.
“Marriage to another,” the countess was continuing, “one who hasn’t so openly supported the patriots’ cause, will assure you of your rightful place in the aristocracy.”
“You’ve changed in the past year, Aunt. I remember the outrage you displayed when Zofia informed us she had affixed our names to the Confederacy of Targowica. And at our last meeting with Jan you showed great admiration for him because he had the courage of his convictions.”
“My loyalties haven’t changed. Don’t think less of me, Anna Maria. Of course, I still support Kościuszko and his forces. God knows, I’ve helped to fund him with money and even jewelry. But I worry for your future and for that of Jan Michał. I wouldn’t presume to pressure you into marriage—”
“No, Aunt Stella,” Anna interrupted, “you will not pressure me. Let’s not forget what my marriage to Antoni led to. Jan is alive, I know he is. And whether he comes back as a nobleman or merely a citizen, I would stand by a Count Stelnicki just as I would a Pan Stelnicki.”
The countess sat stunned into silence, as if she had been slapped. Tears brimmed again in the suddenly vulnerable eyes.
Anna immediately regretted her words. To hurt her aunt was to break a butterfly on the wheel. “Oh, Aunt, I’m so sorry. I—”
“No, Anna,” the countess said, giving a little wave of a hand mottled with age spots, “your words ring true. If only you could know the remorse I feel over imposing upon you your marriage to Antoni Grawlinski.”
“You didn’t impose it.”
“Oh, I most certainly did! I was a crazed woman for months after Leo’s death, but I make no excuses for myself and will not shirk from my responsibility in the matter.”
Anna assured the countess that she held nothing against her, but even as she spoke she realized she had held closeted feelings against her, feelings which, once aired, vanished like vapors freed from a long-sealed jar. “One must settle with the past, Aunt Stella, settle and then let go.”
The countess looked with love on Anna. “I thought,” she said, “it was my place to give advice to the young. Come here and give me a hug. ‘Wiser the egg than the hen!’ ”
Anna knelt at her aunt’s chair and embraced her, holding her quietly.
“Since we are settling with the past, may I ask about my home at Halicz? Is Hawthorn House completely gone?”
Anna looked up at her aunt, but her words failed her. She could only nod.
“I see,” said the countess with resignation.
“We’ll build another!” Zofia exclaimed.
Anna stood up quickly. Her cousin still had that way about her of appearing unannounced.
“We’ll build one more magnificent than any mere szlachta manor house,” Zofia continued. “We’ll build a palace! I’m becoming wealthy enough to build both here in the city and in the country. Once this threat of war dissolves.”
Anna sat down. “Then you plan to build even if the Russians control us?”
“If the Russians are victorious, I shall build. If the Poles are successful, I shall build.”
“Zofia,” the countess said, exercising deliberate control, “if you think that erecting magnificent buildings is establishing something of worth and substance, you are wrong. Our families do not live on in splendid buildings, as so many magnates might think. Our ancestors live on, we will live on, Jan Michał and those who come after us live on through what is in our houses, no matter how humble. The many portraits that overflow our dining hall into the library filled with ancestral books do honor to those of our house who have passed. The cutlasses, swords, sabers, and guns arranged about our family coat of arms on the walls of our reception room celebrate the courage of the house. And the icons found in both servants’ and master’s rooms reflect not only a faith bred in blood and bone that salvation awaits us, but also a faith that Poland will be freed of its oppressors, no matter how long it takes.”
The three sat in silence.
After a little while, however, Zofia made her own little speech. “Oh, I know you both criticize me with your silence. You don’t or won’t understand. Mother, our estate at Halicz has been destroyed. And I ask you both: What is there to ensure the safety of this roof above our heads? We’re surrounded by the Russian serpent who can lower his conquered women into his pit at his slightest whim. The only way to keep him from devouring us is to dance before him so that he can spit gold at us, rather than his venom. It is clear to me that you are united in your disapproval of my dance.”
Zofia stood now and studied her mother’s face, then Anna’s. “But if I were to stop my dancing, so too would our breathing. And Mother, you would die quickly because you are set in your ways and your manners and customs are what they are. If I dance, our safety will be assured, and we will be able to rebuild at Halicz, making it a grand place to bring your paintings and swords and books and icons of the Virgin. A place peaceful and pleasurable for your last years, Mother.”
“I understand that your dance is but a euphemism.”
“Oh, I suppose you think I speak the words of a whore, but I can see where my fortune lies, and I would rather ride the whirlwind and direct the storm than lead a long life.”
Zofia’s words reminded Anna of Doctor Kurowski, the physician in whose carriage she had arrived in Praga. He, too, saw the Russians as his main chance.
“Anna,” Zofia said, coming to stand before her cousin’s chair, “the time will come when you must assist me in my dance.”
Anna stared at her cousin as if she had started speaking Dutch. She was spared from formulating some response when her aunt, who seemed not to have heard her daughter’s last comment, broke her silence with a brittle voice. “Zofia, your brother Walter is dead.”
Zofia stood motionless. The countess’ words seemed to hang in the air.
Slowly, Zofia turned to her mother, then back to Anna, her face blanching, her eyes becoming remote. She was genuinely startled.
But the moment was a brief one. Zofia regained her composure, squaring her shoulders and fastening her gaze on Anna. “I’m sure that you can’t overly mourn my brother, cousin, considering what costs he has exacted from you. Perhaps if you remember he’s given you little Jan Michał, whom you love so dearly, your hatred will not follow him to the grave.” Without waiting for a reply, she turned to the countess. “You, Mother, you must mourn for both of us, as I have no such energies to spend on the dead and the past. I must see to our futures.”
Turning on her heel, Zofia whisked from the room, never even inquiring as to the circumstances of her brother’s death.
At the first opportunity, Anna asked Zofia whether any word had come from Jan. Anna thought her cousin stiffened slightly, but her demeanor remained cool, her face a mask. “No, darling, he hasn’t written a word.”
62
IN THE MUSIC ROOM AT the Gronski townhome, Anna was reunited with many of her patriot friends. For appearances’ sake, they were there for a recital and Anna did play the piano for a short while, but the latest news to reach Warsaw, if not completely surprising, was nonetheless shocking.
The Queen of France was dead, and as many opinions of her were voiced in Anna’s political group as there were people. She was described as a woman of many faces: a heroine, a vixen, a martyr. No one could deny, however, that she was a victim. Only ten days before, on the sixteenth of October, she followed her husband’s steps to the guillotine. Reports had it that she went to her death nobly, head held high, much to the consternation of her detractors who had hoped to see her stooped and cowering on the bloody scaffold.
Anna had initiated the meeting of patriots. Several of her friends were absent, like Baron Michał Kolbi, who had followed Kościuszko, but there were new additions to the little collection of gentry, bankers, artisans, men of business, wives, and simple townsmen. With Michał gone, however, Anna was the only member of the szlachta; at one time the distinction of her title among the untitled might have made her uncomfortable. Now, nothing mattered, other than the cause.
It was not only France’s fate that confounded the group that day. Conversation moved inexorably to recent events in Poland. For appearances, the king was said to rule, but policy was now created at the Russian embassy. Russian garrisons policed the entire country. And, on the fifth of the month, as a result of a new treaty, what little territory Stanisław and the Sejm had not already conceded to the aggressors the previous August fell into Russian hands.
“Do you know,” Anna asked the group, “that this may be to our advantage?”
“Our advantage, Countess?” a merchant asked.
“Yes,” Anna said, “perhaps it’s the motivation we need to demonstrate to those Polish fence-sitters that appeasement will only lead to slavery.”
“And to inspire a groundswell of support for Kościuszko,” a merchant added.
“Exactly!” Anna said.
“Another advantage Catherine might not have counted on,” one townsman said, “lies in the 30,000 Polish soldiers she has discharged. These restless men have gravitated toward Kraków and Warsaw and are the kind of men who hunger for revolution. No Russian dares walk the streets of Warsaw alone without fear of being beaten bloody.”
“But unless our magnates take decisive action and risk losing the silks they sit upon,” another predicted, “our fate is sealed.”
“Those who have turned traitor by signing the Confederacy of Targowica will not lift a finger,” the townsman said. “They are a lost cause. Living high off the hog, they are, accepting graft from the Russians while landless szlachta and idle peasants swarm hungry in the streets.”
However varied were the opinions of the group members toward Marie Antoinette, their assessment of Catherine was spoken with one clear voice of hatred. She had seen to it that Poland was reduced to a loaf of bread over which Russia, Austria, and Prussia vied like hungry animals. But the group also held to the hope that the concerted effort of the Polish people, noble and non-noble alike, could still stage a successful campaign for liberty.
Anna’s friends assured her that theirs was but a small patch on a quilt that covered Praga and Warsaw, that there were many other such groups—drawn together by their desire to be free—who held other such secret meetings. With prayers and hope, they watched and waited.
While the weeks slipped into winter, Anna came to know her child and a bond was formed as Jan Michał learned to accept her as the most important person in his little sphere of experience. Anna often gladly did things for him a servant routinely did in such households, and he took to calling her “Mat-ka” after his own fashion. He was a happy and healthy child, forever curious, always moving, touching, tasting, listening.
On Christmas Day of 1793, however, Jan Michał lay gravely ill. Anna had had his little bed moved down to her room, so that she could watch his progress moment to moment. He hadn’t eaten for four revolutions of the clock; everything that was fed to him was immediately expelled. His bedclothes were continuously wet with perspiration and his forehead raged with fever. He cried very little, and this worried Anna as much as if he cried perpetually. She fought off sleep in order to stay at his side. Mysterious fevers like this were not uncommon, and they were often fatal. Would he pass away at some quiet moment when her exhaustion had overcome her? Would she wake to find her son dead? Was their happy reunion to end in tragedy?
On the first day of his illness, Anna had gone to Countess Gronska to ask about a doctor. The family doctor, however, was not in Warsaw; he had, like so many good men of every profession, followed Kościuszko. He was using his talents to tend to the wounds of the patriots.
When the child’s condition only worsened, a tearful Anna went in to see her aunt again.
Countess Gronska was preparing to go to Mass at the Cathedral. “Is he no better?”
Anna shook her head. “Oh, Aunt Stella, what can we do?”
“I don’t know, Anna, although there is one person who may have an answer.”
“Who?”
The countess seemed to hesitate.
“Aunt, tell me! Who is it who might help?”
The countess sighed in resignation. “Zofia.”
“The physician has arrived,” Marta announced in a whisper.
“Thank God!” Anna cried, leaping up from her place at her son’s side. “Stay with Jan Michał, Marta, until I bring the doctor upstairs.”
Anna hurried down the staircase. Somehow, Zofia had been able to secure a physician—and on Christmas Day of all days. God bless her, Anna thought, and God bless the doctor!
The physician stood in the hallway, his wide back toward Anna as she reached the bottom stair. He had removed his heavy cloak and was shaking it free of a smattering of snowflakes.
“It’s so good of you to come across to Praga, Doctor,” Anna said. She was buoyed by his very presence.
“And in such inclement weather. I’m so relieved . . .”
Anna’s words trailed off because he had turned around to face her. She stood staring in surprise. It was Doctor Kurowski, the physician who had reluctantly shared his coach with her.
The doctor could not help but notice Anna’s reaction, and his little dark eyes, set under fleshy folds and bushy eyebrows, studied her for a few moments.
“Ah!” he sighed in recognition, his eyes twinkling. “It is the countess who worries over street children.”
Anna’s distaste for the man was still fresh. “It’s my own child that worries me now,” she said, assuming the felicity of an actress who must disguise her personal dislike for a fellow player. “Will you see him?”
The large man harrumphed. “It is the reason Zofia—Countess Gronska—sent for me,” he said, picking up his brown satchel. “Take me to him.”
He asked only one question as he followed Anna up the stairs. “How old is the child?”
Anna had to think for a moment. “Nearly twenty months.”
Both Marta and Lutisha were with Jan Michał when Anna and Doctor Kurowski entered the room.
The doctor, huffing from the stairs, approached the bed, drew back the covers.
Anna stood to his side, her eyes intent on his expression. His grizzled beard, however, seemed to cloak any reaction.
“This room is not nearly warm enough,” he announced brusquely.
Push Not the River Page 47
