Push Not the River

by James Conroyd Martin

Zofia’s solicitude suddenly took on a hardened edge. “Well, it would be a futile trip for you. You would only have to turn around and come back.”

  “Why?” Anna asked.

  “Because, Anna, your home at Sochaczew has already been razed.”

  Neither the countess nor Anna could respond before Zofia opened the French windows and bolted from the room.

  Although Zofia had been thinking of ways to rid herself of Anna, her cousin’s scheme to go to Sochaczew alone was unacceptable. The little chill of fear that ran through her at the thought was not fear of Feliks Paduch.

  No, it was fear of Jan Stelnicki. At such a short distance, a morning’s ride from Warsaw, Sochaczew was entirely too close for a husbandless Anna to a stupidly determined Stelnicki. There must be no recurrence of the catastrophe at the Royal Castle.

  If Antoni were at Sochaczew, it would be a different matter. Or if Anna were to join Antoni in St. Petersburg, that would be better yet!

  Telling Anna of the demolition of her home was perhaps impulsive, Zofia thought, but it had given her time. How much time? She was certain that at that moment Anna was scribbling out a letter to Jacob Szraber, asking for verification.

  Zofia sat down to pen her own letter. It should not be hard, she hoped, to find someone in the capital who, for the right price, would go to St. Petersburg on the spot. Anna might get her reply from Sochaczew within the week. Zofia knew she had to do better despite the great distance her correspondence would have to travel.

  28

  THE MORNING WAS RAINY; HEAVY, iron gray clouds pressed down upon the River Vistula. The only customer at the Queen’s Head was Jan Stelnicki.

  Jan sipped at his coffee. The sight of Anna at the Royal Castle played in his head for the hundredth time. The visualization of her sweetly surprised face when she turned to see him had sustained him for days.

  She still loved him, her expression told him. He would never again attempt to lock outside his mind those wide and deep-set green eyes. They were filled with a love that spanned place and time.

  Jan stared at the house across the river through a dirty glass window that threw back at him his own reflection. His hair was mussed. The dark pouches under his eyes betrayed the lack of sleep. He was tired. And he was tired to death of thinking if only: if only Anna had not married; if only she had not been attacked; if only there was not to be a child. Most of all, he thought, if only I had gone back that day to the pond. He had had to assume the responsibility for that. And live with the guilt that came with it. Still, he knew that most of the suffering was Anna’s.

  It was so unfair that one rash decision, one moment of pride and anger, could alter lives forever. But it was so.

  On days when his guilt was too much for him, he wondered about Feliks Paduch. Was he the one who attacked Anna? Was it his child she bore? How was one to find such a man, a man running from the law? Jan fantasized how he might one day confront Paduch and avenge Anna.

  For the present, he admitted to his love for her, to their mutual love. But he would not have the audacity to hope for a future. He would have to live without her.

  And he would marry no one else. He would pursue his politics. He forced his mind onto that path now.

  The general election was coming up in a matter of days. It was imperative that the Third of May Constitution be affirmed by the people as a whole. But he knew that Catherine was busy sowing bribes and threats in order to gather the votes that would overthrow it, or at least enough to reap doubt in the minds of the Polish people. He knew, too, that the most important mind, that of King Stanisław, sometimes was easily swayed. Would he stand by the cause?

  In recent weeks Jan had quickly learned the art of public speaking. He spoke daily, often several times a day. He spoke to every manner of group willing to listen. No potential political pressure group was too small, no single citizen too insignificant.

  Often his speeches evolved into debates with hard-edged characters. Jan enjoyed these best. Responding at the moment to an accusation or philosophy at odds with his own sharpened his mind and enabled him to elucidate his views on democracy in a way more emotional and emphatic than mere oratory. At these times he held his own and relished the pace at which his heart pumped and thoughts ran.

  In such moments, thoughts of Anna, the pains of heartbreak, the image of the thin-moustached Grawlinski, were dispelled. A pervasive sadness clung to him, however, in moments removed from discussion and debate. A sadness which some observers in his political circle might have misconstrued as a quiet pessimism for the cause.

  Jan wondered: Had Anna understood his entreaty to her concerning the Queen’s Head? He doubted that she even knew the Queen’s Head was an inn. Would she ask someone? Would she write?

  In a quick movement, Jan stood, pushing back his chair and reaching into his pocket for a coin to leave the old proprietress. He was shaking his head. He had caught himself at it, he realized: thinking of a future where there was none.

  Anna paced her room, wondering when the letter from Jacob would arrive. She suspected that Zofia had been lying about the destruction of her home. She had to be lying! Little building or demolition took place in winter. Yet, why would she say such a thing?

  Anna would never forgive Antoni if he had razed her family manor house. She grew dizzy thinking that her childhood home might be gone. What was she to do if it were true?

  And as for Zofia, Anna would never forgive her, whether she told the truth and had kept the secret from her, or whether she had lied for some selfish reason of her own.

  If the letter from Jacob affirmed the well-being of her home, she would go there and not look back. She would have her child there. She would deal with Antoni somehow, give up whatever it took—other than home and land—to divest herself of a foolish marriage. As for Jan . . .

  A horse that had been clip-clopping along the cobblestones seemed to slow at the Gronski townhome. Anna rushed to the window. A man carrying a leather letter pouch was dismounting.

  Moving as fast as she dared for her condition, Anna moved out into the hall and to the staircase.

  Halfway down the stairs, she realized that Zofia had been quicker. Her cousin was just closing the door, letter in hand.

  Anna arrived at the bottom of the stairs. She wondered if Zofia planned to hide it, as she must have done to Jan’s letter so many months before.

  “I believe that’s for me,” Anna said.

  Zofia turned it over in her hands. “So it is,” she said, her almond eyes assessing her cousin. “You were expecting one?”

  “Yes, from Jacob Szraber.”

  “Oh?” Zofia smiled. “This one seems to be from St. Petersburg, Anna. Your husband, perhaps?”

  At supper, the Countess Gronska came right to the point. “What does Antoni say in the letter, Anna Maria?”

  Anna glanced at Zofia, who feigned disinterest, yet she must have spoken to her mother about the letter. “He apologized for his behavior.”

  “Did he make mention of your home?”

  “No.”

  “Is he to return soon?”

  “No, Aunt Stella. He says his father is ill again and that they wish me to join them in St. Petersburg.”

  “St. Petersburg?” The countess was surprised.

  “I’m sure he means to patch things up,” Zofia said. “Perhaps you should go.”

  “I don’t want to go,” Anna said. “And there is the baby to consider.”

  “There is that, Anna Maria,” the countess said. “You’re nearly five months along now. Traveling is no easy thing. Still it may save your marriage, dear. Why don’t you wish to go?”

  “Physically, I think I can weather it fine. But I have a bad feeling— ”

  “You know,” her aunt interrupted, “how I am suspicious of everything Russian. I cannot help it. We have always been dealt a crooked hand by Catherine and the ones that came before her. I don’t like that Walter became her mercenary or that your husband has his city residence at St. Petersbur
g rather than here or Kraków. To send my niece there at this politically explosive time is not an easy thing for me to do, Anna Maria. But I think that you and your husband come first. Before there are countries, there are families.”

  Anna flinched. “You think it’s my duty?”

  “I do.”

  “Mother is right,” Zofia said, after the countess had left the table. “Antoni is not inflexible. You will come to terms over your differences, I’m sure. You should not be too inflexible, either. You are a woman, Anna. And a woman with charms. Do not be afraid to use what charms God has given you.”

  “I would rather use my head.”

  “Ah! rightly so. It is the woman who uses both head and charms who achieves. Antoni is, after all, only a man.”

  “Were it in my power, I would wish never to see him again.”

  “Nonsense! Is he expecting a response?”

  “No. He has had the presumption to hire a coach.” Anna fumed at the thought. “It is to arrive in three days.”

  “Well, it’s settled then. If you need any help packing, you can borrow Clarice or Babette.”

  “Am I to take it, then, that I would be unwelcome if I stay here.”

  Zofia smiled and leveled her dancing, dark eyes at her cousin. “Oh, Ania darling, I don’t see that as even an option.”

  On her own, Anna had already decided to go to St. Petersburg. Her decision to do so was not out of any sense of duty to a loveless marriage; rather, it was out of the hope that she might bring her marriage to some conclusion. She planned a final confrontation with Antoni. She wanted her baby, her home and land, and—after the baby was born and given a name—an annulment, if the Church would allow it. Otherwise, a separation would have to do. She could not imagine herself living with Antoni, having to submit to him . . . in every way. She was repulsed at the thought of sharing a bed with him and everything that entailed. She would not do it!

  Anna recalled one of her least favorite tales. A wife was beaten regularly by her husband for such things as not having meals prepared on time. One day, for help and guidance, the woman called on the guardian angel Betojinka, named for the herb commonly known as wood betony. The angel’s advice was simple:

  Don’t cry, don’t holler

  Because it’s your fault.

  When others prepare breakfast, prepare breakfast

  When others prepare dinner, prepare dinner

  Supper must be prepared at suppertime, then

  Your man will not beat you.

  What moral was to be found here? For Anna, Betojinka’s advice for women was no advice. In her own retelling of the tale, the shouting and vodka-infused husband chased his wife from her kitchen, brandishing a heavy spoon. Crying, the woman ran across the dark yard and took refuge behind the well. The drunken man went to leap upon his terrified wife but fell screaming into the deep shaft. His echoing shouts did not last long, however, and it was this story—Anna’s story—that she claimed gave birth to the phrase silent as a well.

  Anna laughed to herself. No, she would not throw Antoni down a well, much as she would like to. She would sacrifice some of her assets, however, to have finished with him. She would give up any holdings—other than the Sochaczew estate—that Lubicki held in trust for her. It was a considerable fortune and Antoni was a greedy man. Perhaps he would take it.

  But Anna worried that the stakes involved in his distillery business were higher. He had hopes of becoming a magnate, and she knew what she could offer him, outside of the estate, would not accomplish that.

  She sat down at her desk to pen two letters.

  The first was to Baron Michał Kolbi, informing him that she could not attend an election day party and that she would be in St. Petersburg for a short while. She confided in him some of her vague fears regarding the trip.

  Her aunt’s words about Russia came back to her and she felt traitorous. Her father had had no kind words for Catherine, either. A chill came over her when she thought that her baby might not be born on Polish soil. She vowed to herself that her stay there would be brief.

  The second letter she addressed to Count Jan Stelnicki. Her hand trembled as she wrote. Would she even have the nerve to send it?

  She had learned from Michał that the Queen’s Head was an inn almost directly across the river from the Gronski townhome. It was frequented by commoners and some political partisans. Her heart quickened at she thought of Jan so close to her at times, with only the current of the Vistula between them.

  Anna sighed. Even if she had known, however—given their circumstances—the river might as well have been an ocean.

  Only the day before she had hired a carriage, asking the driver to take the capital’s riverfront streets. Peering out of the coach window, she saw it for herself, then. It was a dingy first floor tavern in a three-story, red-brick building. No doubt in the summer the business spilled out noisily onto the narrow street. A faded green sign bore the name in red letters. Under the arched lettering was a sketch in black of a queen’s head, amateurish and silly.

  But Anna thrilled to think of Jan sitting behind one of those dirty windows. Out of the opposite coach window she could see across to the Gronski townhome, rising on its little bluff across the river. Had he chosen the place because of its close proximity to her? She dared to think so.

  She now wished that she had had the driver stop the carriage at the inn and inquire whether Jan were there. But her caution had cost her a lost moment.

  Anna finished the letter and read it over. She frowned. Of course, she could not write of her feelings for him. She wrote of her health and asked of his. She mentioned the next day’s election and its importance. Finally, she told him of the trip to St. Petersburg that she would take in three days’ time, providing a little schedule of mundane events leading up to departure. Jan would glean the letter’s purpose: a hint that he could visit the morning after the election, between ten and twelve. Her frown did not abate. Overall, it was an insipid note, but she doubted she could do better and had no time to try.

  What would her aunt think if he visited? she wondered. Or Zofia?

  She was leaving the Gronski home now, so she threw caution to the four winds. Without allowing for second thoughts, she had Babette see that the letters were delivered within the hour.

  I cannot, she thought, as she watched Babette hurry down the walk, spend my life always taking the cautious way. Her father had told her: “Sometimes you must place yourself in the way of destiny.”

  Part Three

  The roots of learning are bitter,

  but the fruit is sweet.

  —POLISH PROVERB

  29

  THE CARRIAGE FOR ANNA ARRIVED on the morning of Election Day, February 14th. It was two days early.

  Anna spoke a little Russian, but she could understand little of the low dialect of the two men who came to collect her. Yes, she was packed, she told them, insisting also that she didn’t wish to leave for two days, as had been planned.

  It must be after Jan’s visit.

  Impossible, they said, with a minimum of respect. They were paid to pick her up and return immediately, allowing no time for a stop-over in Warsaw or on the way back. These were gruff, lowborn men, she realized, little acquainted with the ways of gentility.

  Zofia and the countess were of little support. She would have to go. She retreated to her room.

  Holding back her tears now at the dissolution of her plan, Anna stared at the crystal dove, still debating whether or not to take it on the long and rough journey. Intuition told her to leave it. She packed it away in its box of wood inlay and gave it to the countess for safekeeping. It seemed that, like her dreams, she was always tucking it away.

  Her meeting with Jan had been scuttled. She was certain that he would come, only to find her gone. Twenty-four hours were all she would have needed. If only I could see him one more time, she thought, I could make that visit last a lifetime.

  But it was not to be. She sat down to pen a second l
etter to him.

  Anna went to the side entrance where the ramshackle carriage stood ready. She had said her goodbye to her aunt when she gave her the box with the crystal dove. She had no desire to say goodbye to Zofia. The letter from Jacob Szraber had arrived only that morning, contradicting her cousin’s contention that Anna’s manor home had been razed. Zofia had lied. Relief and disdain coursed through Anna. She wanted nothing more to do with her. After dealing with Antoni, she would return to Sochaczew as soon as possible.

  She was seated within the coach and the two Russians were lashing her luggage to the roof when Babette came running. “Wait, Madame!” she cried. “Oh, please wait!”

  Anna looked out to see the maid hurrying down the driveway, her two children in tow.

  “Oh, Madame, please—” she said, struggling for breath. “If you would be so kind, I wish you to take Louis and little Babette with you as your little servants. You may have them as long as you wish or until they come of age.”

  “What?” Anna’s mouth fell open.

  “I know they like you, Countess Anna. You are such a good influence on them! And they so love your stories. Here they merely get underfoot and Mademoiselle Zofia has so little patience with them. She tells me I must send them away or that I must go myself.”

  Anna stared in disbelief at the young mother. Were her own flesh and blood of such little value to her? How like Zofia she was, so fully self-absorbed.

  Anna trembled to think of the awesome responsibility, but she took the children without a second thought. They were spoiled and unmannered and unloved; Anna hoped to undo some of the damage. Poor little souls. She realized now that Babette had taken her answer for granted because the children’s little satchels were already packed.

  The children climbed into the coach and settled into the seat across from her. Anna stared at their little round faces. Until they come of age? What have I gotten myself into now?