Anna kept her eyes fixed on his desk although she could hear his boot steps moving up behind her.
“I have endured and triumphed because I am clever, Lady Anna, as I am certain, are you.”
Afraid that he was about to touch her, Anna stood and faced him. He was but a step away. “Are you saying my estate is at risk?”
“No, not at all. I am merely saying that in the absence of your husband, you may find you have need of the starosta.”
“I see. Thank you, Lord Doliński. May I go now?”
“I meant to ask after your children.”
“My children? They’re fine.”
“Healthy? All healthy?”
“Yes.” His inquiry seemed more sinister than sincere.
“Good! Now I ask one thing from you—when I next invite you to come into town, I will send a carriage. There will be no need for a companion. Let the governess do what you pay her for.”
Anna’s throat closed up. Invite, indeed. She could only nod and make for the door.
Jan sat in the tent reading over a letter from Anna that had been forwarded from Milan to their camp in what was now an Austrian province—but what had been part of Southern Poland.
He had a daughter! A daughter—a little thrill ran through him as he reread the words. Barbara. He counted the months on his fingers and realized Anna must have known at the time of his departure. His emotions broke away into two pieces. On the one hand, he wished she had told him, and on the other he was touched that she let him go without adding to his reservations. He wished he could snap his fingers and find himself home in Sochaczew, if only for a little while.
And yet he was supremely happy to be where he was. And proud. He was a lancer at last! The lance was Poland’s weapon, it seemed, had been for two centuries or more. His own great-grandfather had carried a twenty-foot lance as part of the legendary Husaria, the winged cavalry that stood at Vienna in 1683, effectively protecting all of Europe from the formidable Ottoman Empire that had declared a jihad against the west. It was a supreme irony, Jan thought, that Poland—the least military power in Europe—dealt the decisive blow in saving Europe—and yet, a little more than a century later Poland was carved up by its neighbors. A bitter irony.
Well, Napoléon would indeed benefit from Polish lancers. They performed well against infantry in square, for their lances—while not twenty feet anymore—were longer than infantry bayonets. They were also excellent in small conflicts, or skirmishes. There was the legend of invincibility attached to them, too, one that threw fear into many an enemy. While lancers no longer wore the wings—impressive wooden arcs of eagle feathers attached to their shoulders or saddle—of his great-grandfather’s day, the sight of the dual color pennant—red over white—on a Polish lance still struck sheer panic into the hearts of the enemy, often enough to rout them without the delivery of a blow.
Paweł entered the tent now. Jan quickly replaced the letter in his leather pouch.He looked up at his friend, anxious to tell him the news of his daughter. But Paweł’s face was dark. He seemed to be searching for words. “My God, man, what is it?”
“Disaster, Jan.—We’re to go back!”
“To Milan?”
He nodded and dropped to the side of his cot. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“France signed a treaty with Austria a few days ago at Campo Formio.”
“Damn the French! Men of straw and sons of bitches—all of them! – What does Denisko say?”
“The man’s dumbfounded, but he got the word from Dąbrowski. He says we’ll go back quietly and bide our time. The opportunity will come again.”
“But we’re here now, damn them! We’re here!”
Later, in fading October light, Jan walked the length of several fields in an attempt to work off his anger. From the time of their arrival in Milan, it had all seemed too good to be true. Too damn good! Yes, they had taken on Italian epaulettes and French cockades, but they kept their Polish cavalry uniforms and marched to a song written by a Pole, Józef Wybicki. They were given strong Turkish horses and addressed by both General Dąbrowski and the commander-in-chief of the Army of Italy, Napoléon Bonaparte. Jan was moved to discover that the motto on the Lombardy epaulettes translated to “Free men are brothers.” It made him think that leaving his family and joining the legion had been the right thing to do.
He and Paweł were currently accompanying Joachim Denisko on an expedition into Austria’s provinces in what had been Southern Poland in order to buttress an underground movement there aimed at overthrowing Austrian rule.
Jan climbed a steep hill and looked out over the River Dniestr. He was so close to his own family estate at Uście-Zeilone that the rose of the sunset and strong whiff of mown fields brought back memories of his happy childhood.
And now he stood not far from the home burned by Russians, the land taken by Austrians. Poland had been left with nothing in ’95 after Austria, Russia, and Prussia divided her up like boys dividing a cache of marbles. A tide of bitterness surged within him. Only his thought of Anna and a new daughter kept his heart from breaking. Some part of him was glad that he would not bear witness to what remained of the house and grounds—this time.
But the day would come. He would be patient. The day would come.
After all, treaties often didn’t outlast the drying of the ink. He wondered who had negotiated the agreement at Camp Formio. France’s Directory? Napoléon? He felt certain that if it was Napoléon, the treaty meant nothing. In the little time that Jan had observed the machinations of Napoléon Bonaparte, he concluded that the man responded to his own inner drive—not to the wishes or boundaries of other countries—or even the orders he received from France’s Directory.
He stayed a while in the fading light, the smell of autumn thick in his throat, thinking of his boyhood home, his parents—long dead now—and a life never to be retrieved. “Napoléon,” he muttered aloud, “whore’s son.”
It was dark when he got back to camp.
12
January 1798
Despite severe winter weather, the prince, Zofia, and their retinue entered St. Petersburgh in mid-January 1798. Zofia was appropriately impressed by the city.
She had gotten her way. Prince Ryszard Podolski had gone to St. Petersburgh the previous October, leaving behind an angry and brooding Zofia. When he returned a month later, she refused to see him or answer his daily messages. But at the theater one night, she put herself in his path in such a way that it appeared accidental. It was only after profuse apologies on his part—as well as the promise she could go along to St. Petersburgh on his next trip—that Zofia forgave him and took him back into her good graces.
On the day after their arrival, Ryszard asked Zofia, “What strikes you most about the city, my dear?”
“Well, there is the architecture, it’s so very distinctive and Eastern—but more than that, there is the huge number of Polish voices I hear.”
“There are many Poles about, I grant you that. I guess it was quite a sight when King Stanisław arrived from Grodno. Every Pole this side of the steppes rallied to see him!”
“Her’s here now?”
Ryszard nodded. “He’s been lent what they call the Marble Palace.”
“Not as a prisoner?”
“Oh, he’s a prisoner, but one treated like royalty. The tsar himself welcomed him to his new residence. He’s a bit of a trophy of war, I think.—How is it you didn’t know?”
“Oh, Ryszard, you know I don’t follow politics.”
Zofia got another wish. It was at court supper that night that Ryszard introduced her to Prince Adam Czartoryski, who sat across from her. She worked at listening to the highly charged political discussions, smiling when his eyes would look her way. Later, after she had consented to a polonaise with him, she told him about her desire to see her family estate returned.
“You know that it’s Austria that controls the Halicz area?”
“Yes, but surely the tsar can do s
omething.”
“And you think I have enough sway with the tsar that I can put your petition forward.”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps I do, Lady Grońska. But I would never allow my relationship with Paul to deteriorate to a gift-giver arrangement.”
The dance was ending. “I don’t understand.”
“The kings of old were known to be gift-givers to their thanes, Lady Grońska. I do not consider myself a common thane. —Would you care to dance again, my dear?”
Through the detailed steps of a German cotillion, Zofia’s mind worked feverishly. How was she to turn this around? She could not play the coquette with this man with Ryszard breathing down her neck—and she had the feeling that Czartoryski was too smart for that. She had thought of nothing by the time he led her off the floor.
But he had. He suggested she meet with the Polish king.
“Stanisław?”
“Yes. You know him?”
Zofia shrugged. “Not really,” she lied.
“Put your request to him. He may be a prisoner of Russia, but he’s highly favored by the tsar.”
“It is an idea.”
“And your best one—unless you want to go directly to the Austrian court—and I don’t recommend that. It so happens I am to dine with the king in a fortnight. I think that I can gain for you and Ryszard an invitation.” Prince Czartoryski’s forefinger lifted Zofia’s face to his. He was smiling. “I could not bear to disappoint you completely, Zofia.”
Count Adam Czartoryski proved successful in his endeavor.
Zofia was struck by the luxury in which King Stanisław and his entourage had been installed at the Marble Palace. It had taken thirteen carriages to bring them here. A host of family members included Michał and Stanisław Grabowski, the sons he had fathered with the married Elżbieta Grabowska, who herself had been given a house nearby. Among a complement of personal servants, his doctor had accompanied him, as well as Paolo Tremo, his renowned chef.
“Zofia!” the king called out, moving toward her. “Zofia Grońska! How marvelous this is!”
Zofia shot a sideways glance at Ryszard, whose eyes waxed large at the king’s show of familiarity. Ryszard bowed and Zofia curtsied. “Your Majesty,” she said.
“Stand up. Let me catch sight of you. Sweet Aphrodite, you’re as beautiful as ever. Why, under enemy rule you’ve flourished like a hot house flower! And is the prince here your latest love? You’ve not married?”
“No, Sire. In that, you and I are alike.”
“Ah ha! You still have that Grońska wit, I see. Lord Podolski, you must watch out for this vixen!”
Zofia had not expected a greeting like this. She looked to Ryszard, whose smile seemed forced.
“And your cousin, Anna Berezowska! What a beauty—and a patriot par excellence!”
“She has married.”
“Good for her! I suppose you think I should have conferred a title on you, too!”
Zofia shrugged, for once at a loss for words.
“Maybe I should have.” He laughed merrily, his little gray eyes glinting. “You might also have found a husband by now!”
Zofia affected a smile, scarcely knowing how to manage embarrassment, an infrequent visitor.
“Come, come, child, let’s take a tour and you can tell me all about what’s transpired since I saw you last.” The king took Zofia by the arm and started moving toward a hallway that served as a gallery for some of his artworks. Zofia cast a look of helplessness back at Ryszard, whose own expression was one of bewilderment.
The supper was elegant. The notable dignitaries sitting at the table with Zofia and Ryszard included the Marquis de Rivière, the English ambassador Lord Whitworth, and the portrait painter Élizabeth-Louise Vigée-Lebrun. It was only after the sumptuous meal that Zofia cast her net, asking to speak to the king alone.
The king ushered her into the library, its shelves filled with Stanisław’s books from home. Zofia didn’t know what to think. It was eerie—here was a king forced to abdicate, who had been able to move the trappings of his monarchy into another country’s capital. And yet—as comfortable as his new residence was, the king was a prisoner.
“I’m afraid I have a petition to make,” Zofia said.
“A petition of me? Oh, my dear, I am a king without a country.”
“You’ve been welcomed here.”
“It would seem so. You know, if there’s anything I can do for you, I will.”
“Thank you, Sire.—It’s the matter of my property in Halicz.”
“Ah, Halicz.”
“Yes, Sire, it’s been in the family for ages. And there is Anna’s husband’s property nearby in Uście Zeilone.”
“Ah, the one lucky enough to marry my little princess with the green eyes!”
Zofia felt a twinge of jealousy. “You have a good memory.”
“Too good sometimes.” The king paused and his eyes grew glassy. “I wish I could help you and your cousin, Zofia. I really do.”
“I thought you could exert some influence with the Austrian Court.”
“With the Austrians! Oh dear Zofia! Influence, indeed. Do you know what’s going on now—at this very moment?—My own properties are being confiscated. The Prussians were demanding that my Ujazdów castle and even the Little White House in the park be sold to them. When we held them off, they declared that my properties were acquired while I was king—and they designated them properties of the Prussian State.” He paused, his hands trembling. “And who knows how long my welcome here will be as it is. The thought of not being able to go somewhere—being so dependent on a tsar.” His voice dropped to a whisper: “A tsar who changes from one day to the next.”
Zofia didn’t know what to say.
“Kings are not meant to be poor, Zofia, and neither are beautiful creatures like you.” He took her hand. He could see that she was crest-fallen. “I am not completely without resources, however. And a little manor house or two may be of little interest to the Austrians. I’ll see what I can do.” The king stood. “I will. Are you ready to dance?”
The king danced with Zofia, then with several others, finishing with the Madame Vigée-Lebrun. Much later, Zofia sat with Ryszard and the other guests after the orchestra had finished. She felt buoyed that there was at least a little ray of hope to win back the estates, but—more than that—she also felt touched by the sad irony of the king’s position. She vowed to herself anew that she would not want for money or position in her twilight years.
The king excused himself, encouraging his guests to stay on. His gout was bothering him, he said. “It is more than gout,” Madame Vigée-Lebrun said in a soft, confidential tone once he was out of earshot.
“What did you say, madame?” Lord Whitmore asked.
“I have painted faces all my life, Lord Whitmore,” she said, “some living, breathing souls—others for their coffin portraits. The look of the latter is on King Stanisław.”
“Surely not!” pronounced the Marquis de Rivière.
“You think he is ill?” Ryszard asked.
The portrait painter nodded. “The king has the mask of death upon him.”
“Dog’s blood,” Zofia muttered.
The little group grew unsettled, conversation strained, and soon they disbanded.
Zofia said little on the way back to the apartment lent to Ryszard by the Czartoryski family. She feared the presage Madame Vigée-Lebrun had pronounced.
Late the next morning word came that the king had suffered an attack. The tsar’s doctors were in attendance, administering medicines and bleeding the monarch. By early afternoon the last rites were given. Tsar Paul stayed by his bedside throughout. Through the day and into the night, the king clung to life; later, some would say he did so with more tenacity than he had clung to holding Poland. But it was to the same end.
Early on the second morning following the supper, King Stanisław died. The death—unexpected by everyone except Élizabeth-Louise Vigée-Lebrun—aroused suspici
on, and an autopsy was ordered. The physicians examining the body declared in due time that the king had died of a stroke. Zofia, however, remained convinced that the stress relating to his displacement and the loss of his homes in Poland had done him in.
As for her hopes for the reclamation of her own estate and Jan’s, the trip to St. Petersburgh had proven wholly unsuccessful.
March 1798
With Michał and Tadeusz in the care of Emma, Anna sat in the reception room nursing Barbara while reading in the Monitor the full account of King Stanisław’ death and funeral. Death had come for him on 12 February.
His embalmed body had been dressed in the Polish cavalry uniform and laid out for view first in the Marble Palace, then, on 22 February, it was placed in a grand public hall decorated in black silk, white crepe, a throne, and Poland’s white eagle. Tsar Paul and two Grand Dukes placed a crown on his head in a solemn ceremonial. For four days mourners streamed past. On the twenty-sixth amidst much pomp and overseen by the tsar himself, the body was placed in a coffin. People—Poles and Russians alike—continued to come for days on end. Finally, on 5 March, in a cortege led by the tsar—walking—and a knight riding in effigy, according to Polish tradition, the coffin was delivered to the Church of St. Catherine. A great and elaborate funeral Mass was held on 8 March, after which the body was entombed in a lower vault of the church.
Anna said a prayer for the repose of his soul—and that one day his body would be returned to his homeland. If only, she thought, Catherine in her lifetime had afforded King Stanisław—and Poland—the kind of respect given him at his death.
Anna heard now a carriage on the graveled drive. It passed the house and moved around to the back. She laid the baby in the cradle, then closed the bodice of her dress. Her heart beat fast with foreboding. In a little while, Jacob entered from the rear. “Lady Stelnicka, the starosta has sent a carriage for you. You were expecting this?”
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