3 May 1830, Sochaczew
On this Monday, the thirty-ninth anniversary of a day Poles were forbidden to remember, the Stelnicki family gathered at Topolostan, their estate in Sochaczew, west of Warsaw, under the guise of celebrating Michał’s thirty-eighth birthday.
As the family began to assemble in the dining hall of the manor home, Michał, body rigid and eyes alert, stood alone at the window of the reception room, peering out at the long avenue that curved down from the main road. He shaded his eyes against the afternoon sun that glinted through the bordering poplars and sent reflections shimmering off the twin ponds situated on either side of the avenue.
The message had arrived that morning and Michał, seldom prescient, could not put to rest the thought that his life was about to change. Interpreting the presentiment as wholly unfounded and unwelcome, he tried to shake it. Nonetheless, his fingers drummed the window sill.
“Michał,” his mother called, “come in to dinner.” At that moment he caught sight of movement in the distance, a rolling cloud of dust coming closer, closer, passing now into the estate’s avenue. He watched as the vehicle came into view. It was a sleek black carriage drawn by four white stallions, a fitting conveyance for Prince Adam Czartoryski.
Michał moved quickly out of the reception room.
“I wondered where you had gone,” Anna said, standing at the doorway to the dining hall. “Come in, Michał.”
“Mother, I have a guest arriving. I’ll join you in a little while.”
“A guest? Now?”
Michał nodded.
“A friend? Then bring him in. I’ll have an extra place set.”
“No,” Michał said, providing a swift kiss on the cheek. A whisper now at her ear: “Please don’t ask questions. We’ll talk later.”
“A mystery?” The amber flecks in her green eyes sparkled with amusement.
Michał’s eyes went to his sister Barbara, younger by five years, and her husband as they assisted seating their two-year-old twin boys. He allowed no time for his fierce emotions regarding his sister’s marriage to surface. Instead, he smiled at his mother. “Later, when everyone’s gone home.”
Before she could respond, he shooed her into the dining hall and pushed closed the mullioned French doors. Behind the glass now, in colorful finery, the diners seemed to him like tropical fish.
Michał hurried to the front portico, hospitality symbol for every Polish manor house, thinking that perhaps he and the prince should converse outside, but he rejected the idea as unworthy of a host welcoming a man of such stature, a statesman and one of Poland’s wealthiest magnates. Later, when he had learned the full details of the prince’s visit and witnessed the curiosity the visitant aroused among the guests, he would regret the decision.
Prince Adam Czartoryski gave him a smile—sincere yet serious—as he climbed the three steps to the portico’s platform. Introductions were formal. The prince was a generation older and had known Michał’s stepfather Jan, but this was Michał’s first meeting with him. All the more reason for the mystery of the occasion. Why had he come?
Michał ushered him into the house, hurrying him past the dining hall, hoping that those seated at table would not happen to glance through the glassed doors and wonder at the guest. They moved into the reception room and, once they were inside the commodious chamber, Michał made quick work of pulling closed the oak doors. Here they would have privacy.
“Please be seated, your grace,” Michał said, already setting up two crystal glasses. “Vodka?”
“Yes, thank you.” The prince would not offend his host with a refusal. He remained standing. “I came at a bad time, I see. You’re entertaining, it seems. A celebration of the Third of May Constitution, no doubt.”
Michał grimaced. “It was to have been, but that was before we knew my brother-in-law was coming. So now, for the sake of appearances we are celebrating my birthday.”
The prince gave a quizzical look. He had an unusually long face, distinctive features, and small, piercing eyes, more gray than blue. Michał took him for sixty, but a handsome man, just the same.
“My sister Barbara married a Russian, you see.” Michał passed a glass to the prince, then held his gaze in a meaningful way, brown on blue. “A civil servant in Warsaw, no less.”
“Ah, I see. Discretion is the best policy. . . . And you were born on the third of May? Truly?”
“Yes, 1792, a year after the Constitution.”
“Those were heady times.”
“And all but gone, Constitution and independence—before I was even three.” Michał took up his own glass. “Regrettable. A national tragedy.”
The prince let out a poignant sigh. “Ah, it does seem as if the Russian interlopers have been with us always.”
But not always at our tables, Michał thought.
The prince raised his glass. “To the Constitution!” The glasses were properly emptied. Michał and the prince seated themselves across from one another. Each took turns at small talk about the weather and the spring planting. When it was played out, a silence ensued.
At last, the prince gave the slightest shake of his head. “I’ve been caught up in politics all of my life, my boy. I still am and it’s politics that brings me to Sochaczew. I’ve come to enlist your aid.”
“My aid?” Michał was thunderstruck. The thought that such a great man had come to see him was more than a mystery. It was a wonder, as was the thought that he could be of some help to the prince. “I just cannot imagine what you could want with me, your grace. I haven’t been involved in the military, if one even calls that politics, since Waterloo.”
“You were there—with his Polish lancers, I know. That Napoleon had chosen Polish lancers for his Imperial Guard speaks volumes. And as doomed as his grand plan was, his Polish Lancers did us proud. I congratulate you.”
“No need. I was one of the few to survive. And I’ve given all that up. I don’t think militarily anymore. I manage my mother’s estate here. I avoid politics. I even avoid going to the capital as much as possible.”
“Out of sight, out of mind?”
Michał forced a smile.
“Lady Stelnicka, your mother, how is she?”
“She puts on a strong front. She misses Father terribly.” A shudder ran through Michał as he recalled his father’s arrest in ’26 for his membership in the Patriotic Society. How they had tried him and others of the club for being sympathizers with the 1825 Decembrists’ plot in Russia against the new tsar, Nicholas, who was so much more the severe autocrat than his predecessor, Tsar Aleksander. How ignominiously his father had been bound and taken from his home and beloved Poland. “It’s as if Russia swallowed him whole.”
“Has there been no word, Michał?”
“None,” Michał said, shaking his head. “If he’s alive, he is most likely in some godforsaken camp in Siberia.”
“What about you, are you . . . content here? After having led a soldier’s life for so long? You had gone to Moscow with the little Corsican, too, yes? And lived to tell about that!”
“I did,” Michał said. He found himself blinking back tears that sprang spontaneously. “But my brother Tadeusz did not.”
“I’m sorry for that, Michał. . . . Forgive me, I am a clumsy conversationalist today to remind you of so much sadness. Perhaps I shouldn’t keep you in the dark any longer about my . . . visit. And . . . what shall I call it?—a mission, pehaps.”
“Mission?”
The prince nodded. “First, a few facts. But before that, I think we should have another vodka. What say you?” He managed a laugh. “The road to Sochaczew is dry and dusty.”
And, Michał thought, the road to the prince’s purpose is circuitous. “Of course, your grace.” Michał went to the table by the window and returned with the decanter. “Good Polish stuff!”
The prince stood to make the toast. “Sto Lat!”
“Ah!” Michał intoned at the birthday toast that called for a century of living. “I appreciate the sentiment, your grace, but I can’t say I wish to live a hundred years.”
“At least not under Russian rule, yes? Your Polish blood is true, young Michał. Well, then, to what shall we toast?” The prince paused only a moment. “I have it. To a brighter tomorrow, free of foreigners’ rule!”
“Now that I’ll drink to!”
The two drank down the vodka at once, in the Polish fashion.
As the prince settled back into the high-winged chair, his expression went dark. “Times have become very dangerous in Warsaw. Dangerous for Poland. While we have been given more freedom than we might have expected under Russian rule—we’ve kept the Sejm and a Polish military—there are always those who yearn for the days of the Constitution and independence, those who wish to throw off Tsar Nicholas’ yoke altogether. I can empathize with such feelings but having seen what I’ve seen, I’ve become a cautious man. Things carelessly done can create havoc.”
Michał sat now. “Like interminable winter marches to Moscow?”
“Exactly. Although the Prussians, Austrians, and Russians have claimed so much of our former nation, we still have this shrunken entity called the Congress Kingdom of Poland, this by the so-called good graces of the Congress of Vienna. It is a ghost of its former self, and insult to injury is suffering a Russian tsar as our king. Ah, but despite these things, Poland remains. It endures. Why, even beyond the new boundaries our people retain our language, our faith, and our heritage.”
“That’s all very well,” Michał said, leaning forward, “but what freedom do we really have? You mentioned the Sejm and the military. You know as well as I that the men making laws in the Sejm are answerable to the Grand Duke Konstantin who is, himself, Commander of the Polish Army.”
“You’re right, of course,” the prince said, one eyebrow lifting slightly.
“And forgive me, your grace, but isn’t it true that old General Zajączek, having been raised to Prince and named Viceroy of Warsaw, has become but a tool of Konstantin? In fact, would I be mischaracterizing things if I were to say that true patriots in all branches of government have been supplanted by Poles who are nothing more than Russian sycophants?”
The prince’s gray-blue eyes seemed to simmer. “You would not.”
“You asked if I’m content here. I was a soldier, bred to the bone, as you correctly implied. I stayed with Napoleon through to the end. He said his Polish Imperial Guard was the best in the world. When I came back from Waterloo, I continued on in my service in Warsaw. But under Konstantin, the army—Polish or no—became a blood brother to the government in its movement to rid our country of any sense of nationalism and make us thralls of Russia. The liberty of the press was denied. Freemasonry was forbidden. Under Tsar Aleksander things had been somewhat tolerable, but when Nicholas succeeded him and the Grand Duke Konstantin—his brother, and Grand Tyrant, I say—arrived in Warsaw, I asked to be dismissed. I found it preferable to the degradation and depression so many other soldiers endured. They say half of the officers and generals asked for dismissal. Many others, among both officers and enlisted men, committed suicide. So, you see, my contentment here matters little. Family is here. The old ways are here. I’m needed.”
The prince sighed. A little nod seemed to validate Michał’s speech. “Allow me to present my case, Jan Michał.” That he employed Michał’s full Christian name presaged a serious turn in the prince’s mood. “It’s our own military that concerns me. You see, there are two young officers at the Officer Cadets School whose careers are stalled. They have become bored with a sedentary military life and—”
“Wait a moment, your grace. Does your visit have something to do with my brother Józef? He’s a cadet there. Of course, you must know that.”
The prince’s eyes held Michał’s. “I do know that.” He smiled tightly. “Please allow me to go on.”
Michał nodded. The mystery was unfolding too slowly—and he was beginning to like none of it.
“The two firebrands I’m speaking of are burning with romantic dreams of personal heroism and patriotic notions of national independence.”
“Typical, yes? The relentless Polish dream of glory?”
“True, Michał, and all too often a false dream. I can tell you that these two have wrongfully fired up the young cadets with their zeal.”
“Like my brother?”
The prince nodded. “Most likely. And it is a dangerous zeal.”
“I don’t think we should allow that dream of independence to die. With all due respect, Lord Czartoryski, are you not aligned with Russia?”
“Touché. If I were you I would be questioning my motives, as well. It is true that as a young man I was a great friend to Tsar Nicholas’ brother. But Tsar Aleksander was a cut of a different cloth. A much finer cloth.”
“You were in his cabinet.”
“Ah, yes. Oh, Aleksander had great plans for Poland in the early days. He was very liberal in his thinking. He agreed with me that an independent Poland, one serving as a barrier to Prussian aggression, was to Russia’s advantage.”
“What happened?”
“Aleksander vacillated. He couldn’t come to decisive action regarding our independence. And then events took over, Napoleon being one of them.”
Michał stared into his empty glass. “And now we’re left with Tsar Nicholas as King of our shrunken kingdom and his brother Konstantin ensconced in Warsaw as Imperial Commissioner and Commander of the Army.”
“Indeed. And although the Grand Duke Konstantin claims to be more Pole than Russian because he has married Lady Joanna Grudzińska and calls himself Polish, you can be sure he is true to Mother Russia. He has a volatile temperament and if given the opportunity, he would walk over his mother’s grave to pluck a candy from a child’s hand.”
“As would Tsar Nicholas—”
“Ah, there is much to fear with him—and in the arm of the secret police here in Warsaw.”
“The Third Department?” Michał asked.
“Yes, overseen by the Imperial Commissioner, General Nikolai Novosiltsev. He and I were two of Aleksander’s three most trusted advisers in the old days. And Nikolai was a friend to me. But the years have corrupted him and turned his thoughts dark against Poland.”
Michał nodded. “They’re known to torture prisoners.”
“Hah! If that were only all.”
“And he has wind of the cadets’ dissension?”
“I’m certain he does.”
“Who are the two you spoke of? The firebrands, as you call them.”
“A second lieutenant named Wysocki and a Colonel Zaliwski. They are putting together a plot, Michał. No doubt a very dangerous plot. They’re too young to know the hardships that came with the dismemberment of the Republic in ‘95, too young to know that the battlefield affords little lasting glory, as you and I know. It affords more blood, bashing of brains, missing limbs, and death than anything. They don’t understand how hard we’ve worked to carve out this Congress Kingdom of Poland, albeit under the aegis of Russia and the eye of Nicholas’ brother. Men such as Wysocki and Zaliwski could lose it all for us.”
“Is it so serious?” Michał asked. “Can two dreamers really do anything? Perhaps they’ve read too much nationalistic poetry, my lord, too many verses from Adam Mickiewicz.”
“It’s not to be made light of, Michał.” The prince leaned forward. “The cadets alone may or may not do any real damage, but their instigation of some big event could muster the voices and arms of the many who have suffered decades of a poorly masked tyranny.”
“What plot, my lord?”
“That’s just the thing, Michał. We don’t know.”
“And—I?” Michał asked although he was certain he had already divined the direction of the prince’s thoughts.
“Józef is your brother. If he is one of the insurgents—or if he merely knows one of the insurgents—he can provide us with needed information.”
“So I’m to be a spy then—on my young brother?”
“There is much at stake here, Michał.”
Michał attempted a smile. “I’m sorry you have come all this way, your grace. Certainly there are others in Warsaw who can infiltrate the Cadets Academy.”
“None that can be trusted.” The prince’s eyes narrowed. “None I can count on.”
“Why me?”
“I know your family by the sacrifices you’ve made. I knew—I know—your father.” He paused, as if he had just played his best card, then continued: “My friends at the capital and I am watched day and night by the Russian secret police. It took no little doing for my driver to shake off a Russian detail following us today. We had to exit the back door of an inn to make our escape. In short, Michał, the fact that you are removed from the activities in Warsaw means that you would not arouse suspicion.”
“Still, your grace, I do have my duties here. And I have no wish to interfere in Józef’’s life.”
“In his interest, Michał.”
“Shhh! Did you hear that?” Michał whispered.
The prince shrugged. “It escaped me. I heard nothing.”
With a finger to his mouth, Michał motioned. “Outside the door,” he mouthed. “The floorboards.”
The prince rose and stood silently while Michał made for the door, pulling it open at once. Nothing. The hallway was empty.
He stepped out, turning just in time to see the dining hall doors being pulled closed.
Someone had been in the hall. The question was, had he—or she—heard anything of his conversation with the prince?
Michał stepped back into the reception room. “Nothing,” he said, shrugging, attempting to ignore a knotting of uneasiness in his stomach.
“I should go. I’ve overstayed my welcome.” The prince retrieved his hat from the table. “It’s probably just a matter of time before the Russian detail ferrets me out even though we took well-travelled roads so as not to leave tracks leading to your door. . . . Michał, I do hope you don’t doubt my motives because of my past associations with Russia. I am thinking only of Poland.”
“”I do not doubt that, your grace.” Michał spoke the truth.
“Ah, well, I’ve made my case, but it was not my intention in coming here to pressure you in any way. You needn’t decide now.” The prince smiled. “I’m certain your judgment is equal to your hearing. Contact me in the capital should you wish to help. Discreetly, of course. I am closely watched.”
Michał nodded. His mind was in a ferment.
“You know my residence?”
“Yes,” Michał replied, suppressing a laugh. Everyone knew the very impressive Czartoryski mansion.
“I’m sure you’re of good use here, Jan Michał, but you may have a higher calling.” The prince shook Michał’s hand, the earnest gray-blue eyes piercing Michał. “A fine man, your father. How proud Jan must be of you, Michał. I’ll shake a few trees. I’ll see what I can find out about his whereabouts.”
“Would you, your grace? My mother and I would be so grateful.”
“No promises, my boy.”
“No, no, of course not. Now if you don’t mind, your grace, please allow me to show you out through the rear of the house.” Michał forced a little laugh. “Forgive me, but discretion starts at home.”
Michał had played the hospitable role expected at the home of the szlachta, the minor nobility, but he was greatly relieved to see the roiling dust from the black carriage of a magnate moving down the estate’s avenue, heading for the main road that would take the prince and his “mission” back to Warsaw. Good riddance, he thought. Prince or no, statesman or no, what nerve had he to arrive on short notice with such a request? Aside from not wishing to interfere in young Józef’s life at the Cadets Academy, Michał had no intention of getting caught up in the old dreams, the old fire of independence, the old disappointments. He had lost too many years in the efforts, in the pains. He turned to go back into the house. Gone were the days of the enemies at the gates—the Swedes, Austrians, Turks, Prussians, Cossacks, Russians. No, the enemy was within now. The man who dared call himself King of Poland was the Russian tsar. Poland, it seemed, would always serve the wishes and whims of others. What was there that he could do about it? He resented the prince’s visit and the tacit sense of patriotism and responsibility it was meant to incite. Hadn’t he done enough for his nation, a nation that, in truth, was no more than a ghost of its former self?
Entering the house, Michał impulsively moved to the reception room where he drank down another vodka. His thoughts stayed with a particular facet of the exchange he had just experienced: namely, the intimation that the prince might be able to find something out about his father’s whereabouts in Russia. How that would please Mother! Might he also be able to do something about freeing her husband? Or—is this a masterful play to engage me in the “mission”?
Torn by the emotion of the moment, he sent his vodka glass crashing into the fireplace. The sheer volume of the explosion startled him enough to clear his mind for the moment. He went directly to the dining hall.
“Michał,” Anna said, watching him enter, “you’ve missed dinner. We’re having our pudding.”
“So I see. Cranberry kissel!” he exclaimed, affecting a festiveness he did not feel. “It’s my favorite. And it’s not even Christmas Eve!”
“Cranberries are plentiful this year,” Anna said. “You’ll have it on Christmas Eve, too, as ever.”
“A great relief,” Michał joked, settling himself across from his sister’s family, in the chair next to Zofia, who was attired in a revealing rose satin gown. “I apologize to you, Mother, and to everyone for my tardiness.”
Anna directed Marcelina to prepare a plate for Michał.
“Was it an important guest?” Zofia asked. In a side glance, Michał saw her wink at Anna, her black eyes glittering. “A woman, perhaps?”
“Would that it were, Cousin Zofia. But, alas, I was not so lucky.” Michał hoped she would drop the subject, but he suspected his mother’s cousin was not about to let it go. Inwardly, he sighed in relief that she evidently had not seen the prince pass the dining hall’s mullioned doors.
“Well, who was it, Michał?” Zofia pressed.
Michał felt his mouth tighten. He stared across the table at the two-year-old twins, bookended by their parents. Handsome little boys. One had been given a Polish name, Konrad; the other, Russian, Dimitri. Which was which?
“Zofia,” Anna asked, “will you have some more pudding?”
“No, Anna, my stomach has been well sated, thank you. It’s my curiosity that has not been satisfied.” She turned back to Michał. “Tell me, Michał. Whisper it in my ear if you must.”
Michał was making much of taking a plate from the servant, attempting to feign composure. “I assure you, Cousin Zofia, it was no one of any importance.”
“No one of any importance?” The irony in the deep male voice rang like an abbey’s bell.
Michał slowly lifted his eyes to the speaker directly across from him, his brother-in-law Viktor, whose comment commanded the attention of everyone at the table. The Russian’s eyes were pale blue, cold, self-assured. The coldness penetrated Michał’s heart. He knew at once that the prince’s visit had not escaped everyone’s notice. He returned Viktor’s stare. “That is correct,” Michał said, his voice flat. “No one of any importance.”
“Perhaps no longer,” Viktor said, “but in his day he carried some weight.”
So the prince had been seen and recognized. Michał dared a fixed look at Viktor. Had he been the one outside the reception room door? Had he heard any of the conversation? Michał said nothing, took a fork, and started to poke at the venison stew Marcelina had laid before him.
“So you know!” Zofia cried, directing herself to Viktor, oblivious to Michał’s discomfiture. “You’ll tell us then, Viktor.”
Viktor smiled. He paused, allowing for the suspense to take hold.
“Well?” Barbara asked, turning to her husband.
Viktor kept his eyes trained on Michał. “It was Prince Adam Czartoryski.” There was smugness in his voice as well as in his unwavering gaze across the table. “His importance may have waned with the years, brother Michał, but I would not say he’s of no importance.”
Brother! Michał fumed at the sarcastic familial term. With just his peripheral vision he sensed his mother was closely watching him with concern that he might create a scene. He felt himself paling. He would not be the cause of ruining his mother’s celebratory meal. His attention was quickly claimed by Zofia.
“Lord Adam Czartoryski!” Zofia cried. “Adam! And he didn’t have the politeness to give greeting?”
Michał turned to her. “It was politeness that kept him from doing so, Cousin Zofia. He didn’t want to disturb our meal which was just starting.”
“You are acquainted with the prince in question?” Viktor asked Zofia.
Zofia was flushing—with what emotion Michał could not decipher.
“He was more than an acquaintance, I daresay.” Zofia said, the slitted black eyes wide now and glinting. “Why, I—I nearly married Adam Czartoryski! It was a few years ago, of course.”
“A few?” Anna chided.
“Why didn’t you, cousin?” Barbara asked.
Zofia needed no further prompting. “You see, the prince had been a close friend and confidant of Tsar Aleksander, and he was completely besotted by the tsar’s wife, Elizabeth. It had been a marriage of convenience, of course, and Aleksander actually sanctioned the budding romance between Adam and the tsarina. Can you imagine! The times we live in! How the gossips wagged about that. Ah, but when Adam suggested his friend divorce her, well, that’s where it ended. A royal divorce, if you please? Not a chance in hell. No, it was Adam’s relationship with Aleksander’s wife that ended—and quite abruptly.”
“As it should have,” Viktor said, his voice almost harsh.
“Does my story of your past tsar offend?” Zofia asked. “I can assure you it’s quite true. And that it broke poor Adam’s heart.”
“But what about you and the prince, Cousin Zofia?” Barbara asked.
“Ah, it would have been a fine match, don’t you think, Basia? Just fine. A magnate like that. But, young as I was, I could tell he was on the rebound, as they say. He was interested, I can tell you, but I chose to put him off until such a time as he would forget his simpering little Tsarina Elizabeth and be prepared for a woman.”
“You,” Anna teased, only to be rewarded with a raised and well-drawn eyebrow.
“And?” Barbara asked.
Zofia shrugged, and though she had finished her cranberry kissel, she made a show of bringing a thimbleful to her reddened lips. “It was a lethal misjudgment on my part, my dear. While I dithered, a ruthless old woman pushed her daughter on to him when my back was turned, and before I knew it his attention had been claimed. Not that he married her, mind you. Then, years later, he did marry. Would you believe it, a child bride twenty years his junior! Once, not so long ago when I met him at a ball, he told me that letting me go was the biggest mistake of his life. Well,” she sighed dramatically, “he lives with his regrets now.”
With that, one of the twins began to make a fuss—Dimitri, Michał thought—and the subject mercifully came to an end.
Michał sat alone at the table. The dishes and silver had been cleared. Nearby he could hear the sounds of the servants going about their kitchen tasks. From outside came the cheerfully excited voices of the twins and the muted goodbyes of adults being made. He had refused to see his sister’s family off. Oh, he had been prepared to bite his tongue and attempt a smile in order to play the polite brother-in-law, but that was before Viktor fired his parting shot. He could feel blood rising into his face anew at the thought. He would never—could never—accept Viktor Baklanov as a member of the family. The thought disgusted him. In the future, he decided, he would avoid him at all costs, even if it meant foregoing family events. He abhorred hypocrisy.
He was still at the dining table brooding and peering into his coffee cup when Anna returned from seeing Barbara and her family to their carriage for the return trip to Warsaw.
“Did Cousin Zofia go with them?” Michał asked.
“She did. And she said you should come for a visit—that it would do Izabel a world of good.”
“Why didn’t she come with her mother?”
Anna seated herself across the table from Michał. Although her auburn hair had silvered of late, her smooth complexion and the amber coruscation in the emerald eyes lent her youth. “According to Zofia, her years in the convent have made her terribly shy.”
“But she’s been out for a year.”
“Still, I think it’s difficult for her to move in Zofia’s sphere.”
Michał emitted a sarcastic laugh. “I can believe that. Did you note her dress? Zofia must be—what? Sixty?”
“Sweet Jesus,” Anna said, her voice a low hiss, “don’t let her hear you say that! She’s fifty-seven and be careful not to slip on your own doorstep, Michał, for I’m but a year behind her.”
“But she still thinks she’s quite the ingénue. What with that rose gown and lime green bonnet, she resembles a great tropical bird.”
Anna laughed, too. “A rare one at that. A bird of paradise, perhaps. And she will be thinking she’s the ingénue well into her dotage, I’m afraid. That is my dear cousin. Quite the coquette. You know that story about the prince?”
“Yes? A fabrication, I presume?”’
“Oh, the facts about the younger Adam’s infatuation with the tsarina were true enough, but he had not courted Zofia. On the contrary, he is one of the country’s many magnates on whom she has set her bonnet—lime green and every other color—over the years. She had done everything to gain the prince’s attention except hit him with a mallet—all to no avail.” Anna laughed. “Isn’t it amazing that one can lie with honeyed lips even while knowing that someone at table had been witness to the real history? But that is my dear cousin.”
“Do you mean puddinged lips?” Michał asked with a laugh. “Sometimes I think we humans start to believe the history we spin out of our imagination. True history or no, she’s an excellent raconteur. I give her credit for that.” Michał was silent for a moment, then turned to his mother, a new heat coming into his face. “Did you hear what he said when he left?”
“Viktor?” his mother asked.” Yes, dear, I heard.”
Michał sat forward, one hand pushing aside the cup and saucer. “Instead of wishing me well on my birthday, he said, ‘Happy Constitution Day, Michał.’ The ass! He knew all along what we were truly celebrating.”
“I know. It would seem so. He was in his cups by then.”
“And, as they say, wine makes a person transparent. So it was all a sham, Mother, this birthday business. He knows as well as anyone we celebrate my name day and not my birthday.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it, Michał. Barbara probably let it slip. You know she does that sometimes.”
“It’s not that that galls me, Mother. It’s that he openly mocks our short-lived constitution and our attachment to it. His comment was an insult to every Pole.”
“I understand your anger, Michał, but—”
“Damn it! Don’t go making excuses for him. He’s Russian to the core—in our house, eating our food, and finding faults. It’s maddening! And what is this civil service job he has? Does anyone know? Does even Barbara know? My God, how I hate the man.”
“There, there. Michał. It makes little difference now. He’s in the family.”
“Are you taking his side, for God’s sake? This arrogant interloper! Has he won you over? Has his gimpy leg worked on your sympathy?”
“No, Michał. And to give him his due, he tries to disguise it as much as possible.”
“Still, you forbade Barbara to marry him. You forbade her to ever bring him here. And yet she defied you on both counts. Admit it, Mother. You hate him as much as I!”
“Ah, Michał. Russians have always brought trouble. But Barbara Anna did marry him. She did bring him into the family. Their children are my grandchildren. Am I to deny them, too? My blood runs through their veins.”
“And so does Father’s blood. Your husband, who sits rotting in some Russian camp!
“Michał!”
Michał drew in a deep breath, at once regretting his words. “I’m so sorry, Mother. Really. That was thoughtless.” He longed to take her hands in his, but the width of the table precluded the gesture. “I guess Barbara isn’t the only one to let things slip. It must be a Stelnicki trait.”
His mother chuckled. “Well, you were tightlipped enough about the prince’s visit. Are you going to tell me what brought him here?”
“Politics. Just politics.”
“An offer of some kind—a position in the capital?”
“Something like that.”
“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
“Not now.”
“Very well, I’ll respect that. But Michał, perhaps you should visit Zofia and her daugther for a week or so. Longer, if you wish. You know we can get on here just fine.”
“Ah ha! You’re thinking I’ll find a place socially. You’re thinking—”
“Michał, you’re thirty-eight. You should be thinking of starting a family. And sequestered here on the estate you’re not about to find someone.”
“I hope you haven’t plotted with Zofia for her to play matchmaker.”
His mother’s smile was indecipherable. “I would not go so far.”
“Indeed? Well, what if I don’t marry? I was off soldiering when men of my generation were finding wives. Look, you have two grandchildren, Mother. Don’t be greedy.”
“Yes, and I love them dearly, but I want some grandchildren who will carry a Polish surname! The Stelnicki name.”
“Well, don’t hate me if I am unable to deliver—or rather that some future bride of mine is long in the tooth and beyond child-bearing! Remember, you always have another bird in the hand. You always have—” Michał stopped mid-sentence.
“Józef? You were going to say ‘Józef,’ yes?” A shadow flickered momentarily across his mother’s face, a darkening that reflected pain and hurt.
“What? Oh, yes—Józef. I’m sorry, I lost my train of thought.” The truth of the matter was that he had no wish to worry his mother about the prince’s speculation concerning Józef. And no wish to remind her further that Józef had defied her by joining the military. Michał bent to kiss Anna. “Mother, I told the stable master I’d discuss something with him after our meal. We’ll talk later.” As he proceeded to make his retreat, his memory checked him and he pivoted toward Anna. “Mother, while I was shut up in the reception room with Prince Czartoryski, someone left the dining hall. Do you recall who it was?”
“Of course, dear, Viktor left for a short while. Now do think about taking Zofia up on her invitation! Warsaw will do you a world of good!”
Princess Anna Maria Stelnicka stayed at her place in the dining hall. All traces of the celebratory meal had been removed from the table, as well as from her thoughts which had turned to her son Józef. If only Michał would visit Warsaw, she thought, he could look in on her youngest at the academy.
Despite her resolve to cultivate Józef’s interest in music and steer him away from the paths of her husband and two older sons, the military had, like some mythical siren, managed to seduce her youngest. She had yet to come to terms with her defeat. Only God knew what dangers he would face as a soldier.
Anna wished Jan were here to lend support. But would he—with his own military ways—have supported her, or Józef? And when she thought of Jan her serious thoughts turned darker.
Anna thought back to the day they came to take her husband away. Oh, she had known he had become active in the Patriotic Society, but who could have imagined that its members would be accused of complicity in a Russian plot to assassinate the tsar in faraway Moscow? Had the Society been involved? Jan had told her that he had not taken part in the conspiracy in any way, and she believed him. But the Third Department—the Russian secret police—cared little for the truth. They were interested only in making examples of men like Count Jan Stelnicki, former military heroes, men of stature and respect. Men of the nobility. He and two others had been sentenced to exile somewhere in the Russian Northern hinterlands. Anna’s heart constricted as she recalled the day the three had been sent off. The families were allowed their goodbyes in the Castle Square prior to witnessing their loved ones’ being hurried into the coach that would take them away. Because no one could recall any convict returning from Russia, such sentences usually meant severing ties forever. Russian soldiers linked hands, holding back a large crowd of Polish well-wishers, many weeping openly. Such a public spectacle for the last memory of her husband. It was the Russian way of making examples. It was their way to continue suppression.
Jan’s hands were bound and hidden beneath the grubby greatcoat he wore so that it was she who had to embrace him. And it was only as Jan turned away and grasped hold of the carriage, pulling himself up into the coach, that she noticed that one of those hands was bandaged. “Sweet Jesus!” she called out. “What have they done to you, Jan?”
Jan turned and gifted her with a smile that said, It’s nothing, dearest. Just a scratch. It was his way.
And then the carriage was wheeling away, taking the man she had thought vain, superficial, mocking—and handsome—so many years before when he had boldly approached her in a summer meadow in Halicz, the man whose character she had foolishly questioned, the man who waited for the duration of her arranged marriage, the man who had married her and become a devoted stepfather to Jan Michał and father to Tadeusz, Barbara Anna, and Józef.
They had had their separations, some lasting years while he fought side by side with Kościuszko and after that with the French in Italy and finally with Napoleon himself on the Eastern steppes. But he had come back. Like the faithful storks returning to their nests in the spring, he had come back. At that moment, though, watching that carriage move through Castle Square and descend toward the River Vistula and the Praga Bridge that would take them east, Anna had not managed to conjure the thinnest thread of hope that she would ever see her Jan again. This time she could not bring herself to believe that he would come back.
Pain had overcome her there in the square, thrumming through her body, her pulse gone wild. This she could not, would not, endure. It was too much for one heart. While she was able to fend off tears, the old habit of tearing at her hair overcame her—until Michał took her hands away from her head. She thought she would pass out. The ground moved beneath her. She wished only for her life to end.
But when she turned to her children—the grown Michał, the nearly grown Barbara, and little Józef—three hearts huddled together, faces streaming tears, she drew herself up, kissed each on the forehead, and said, “Let’s go home. God’s teeth! We’ll not give the cursed Russians any further satisfaction.”
How ironic, Anna thought now, that today she should have to temper Michał’s anger at Viktor and his hatred of Russians. But who could have guessed that Barbara would fall in love with a Russian? Who can ever guess where the heart will lead? What would Jan think—if he has survived the brutal Russian wilds—to know he has half-Russian grandchildren?
Anna’s thoughts reluctantly came back to Józef—her last born—and the searing words of a gypsy woman she had often failed to keep in abeyance for the past seventeen years.
Warsaw
Izabel Gronska sat in the reception room near the window watching a purplish dusk descend on the capital. The Third of May celebrations in the city were small and secreted behind closed doors, but occasionally a bit of rebellious—and no doubt innocent—gunfire could be heard.
She had sat here as a child in this very spot, even into her twenties, those years before cloistered life. Growing up she had watched the outside world from this vantage point, wondering about, anticipating, and if she was honest, fearing the time when she would venture forth and grasp hold of life. So many things had changed, and yet her feelings at this moment were not much different. She was as unsettled now as she had been then, and it gave her pause.
Elzbieta knocked at the open double doors. “Would Mademoiselle wish something?”
Iza turned and smiled. “No, thank you, Elzbieta.”
“The carriage will likely arrive soon. A light supper has been prepared for the travelers, as Lady Gronska ordered.”
Iza nodded and the servant retreated to the recess of the town house. Elzbieta was the daughter of Wanda, who—aside from a few years prior to being widowed—had been in Zofia’s service many years. She was sincere and attentive, but after doing for herself and others for years, Iza found it odd being waited on once again.
How like her mother to have ordered a little late supper in advance. She had probably given explicit menu requests. Iza turned back to the darkening street outside. The day had dragged on tediously. Interminably. Perhaps she should have gone to Sochaczew with the others. After all, she had made numerous visits to Topolostan—Poplar Estate—as a child, when it was owned by Anna’s parents, the Berezowskis. Her mother had expected as much and kept it no secret how disappointed she was that Iza chose to stay home. Her mother seldom minced words. Iza supposed now she should have gone if only to keep peace in the family.
It had been the thought of a journey in a crowded carriage that put her off: three adults, not counting her, plus the twins, who could be a handful in such close quarters. She had not forgotten what it was to go on an enjoyable outing, but she was certain this one would not measure up. Oh, she could have tolerated the children—and even her mother—and would have most enjoyed the time spent with Barbara, her childhood friend and confidante. Since leaving the convent, Iza had spent too little time with Barbara, who now had the added responsibilities of a husband and twin boys. She thought of Viktor now. He seemed an odd sort for Barbara. A Russian government worker and all that. She resolved to be fair, though, telling herself she had had too few interactions with him to set a judgment in stone.
It was just that back in their years together at convent school, Barbara had always seemed so lively and independent, much more so than she. Marrying Viktor seemed to go against the grain. He seemed to lack—what? Warmth? Spontaneity? Iza could not put her finger on it. But something about him had won Barbara over. What was it? She could only trust that her dearest friend had made a wise decision.
Iza had to admit she was curious about the Princess Anna. It would have been good to see her. How had she weathered the last few years? Had she aged? How was her spirit, considering her youngest had gone into the military against her wishes—and her husband Jan had been bound and packed off to Russia on trumped up charges? And Jan Michał, the countess’ eldest. What was he like? Was he still handsome after all these years—and out of uniform? An image of him at nearly forty was hard to conjure. After their youth, it seemed he was always on campaign, and then, of course, it was she who staged a disappearance, not in some remote and romantic place, but within the environs of Warsaw, behind the high convent walls on Wolska Street. Another world, it was.
Yes, she was curious about the princess and Jan Michał, but she also had to admit, if only to herself, that it was more than a crowded carriage that held her back from making the journey to an estate that offered happy childhood memories of summer visits. She had to concede the truth to herself—and a heated blush to her cheeks confirmed it—that she was afraid to be caught on a social occasion with so many people. Afraid. The thought disturbed her, but she did doubt her capacity for conversation, her ability to sustain the interest of others. Or she herself might be too much of interest. Having left the convent, she would be the object of others’ curiosity. Sometimes she felt she had become a curiosity. And, family or no, there would be queries—subtle, polite, and even the unspoken kind that arise in conversation lulls. Others might be brutally direct. If provoked, she might say the wrong thing. When the waters were stirred, she might speak on impulse, as she had on occasion in the convent—to the dismay of her superiors. It was a failing she was attempting to rectify. There might be other guests, too, at the Sochaczew estate. There was that possibility. Strangers. It was too much to imagine. Too much to leave to chance. She had made the right decision in staying home.
Movement outside caught Iza’s eye. She noticed several groups of people walking toward Saint Martin’s Church, which was situated across Piwna Street, just down a bit from the town house. She glanced at the mantel clock. It was time for Vespers.
On Wolska Street, too, the sisters would be leaving their cells and going to chapel. Some of them, Iza knew, would be passing her cell, now bare and empty. Would they think of her, these friends, companions, and sisters of the past few years? Or was memory of her already fading, like the light outside? Perhaps some young postulant had been admitted and assigned her cell. Surely that would facilitate forgetfulness, much as the River Lethe purged the past.
She should have stayed, Iza thought now. She had been content on Wolska Street. She should have stayed. But it had been taken out of her hands. A mere week away from the final vows—when she would change the white veil for the black—came a seemingly innocuous summons to Abbess Teodora’s office that changed everything. Everything.
Now a bustling in the nearby dining hall and muted clamor in the kitchen drew Iza’s attention. The carriage bringing her mother, Barbara, Viktor, and the twins was arriving at the stable to the rear of the town house.
Like quicksilver Iza stood and hurried to the dining hall where Elzbieta was laying the table. “Elzbieta, be so good as to tell my mother I have retired for the night with a headache.” She did not wait for a reply and made for the stairway.
As she climbed the stairs to her rooms on the first floor, she thought—with humor and truth—Look at me, returned to the world, and already telling lies.
Sochaczew
May and June gave way to July and an unusually hot summer with Michał’s thinking very little about Prince Czartoryski’s suggestion. However, a day didn’t go by that he wasn’t reminded in some way that he was not of any real help in the day-to-day operation of the estate. He had been less than truthful to the prince on that subject: he was no estate manager, not really. The Jewish manager, Jacob Szraber, though gaining in years, was fastidious in his dealings with workers and tenants. His longtime loyalty to the family had been proven time and again. Thus, Michał spent much of his days reading, riding, hunting—all the while shutting out memory of the prince’s visit, having assured himself he had answered the call of patriotism in his early years, and that now others must come forward. And the prince made no further overture to involve him in affairs at the Officer Cadets School. Michał’s mother, on the other hand, had begun to make the carriage trip to Warsaw once a month to visit with Józef at the academy. While Michał saw to it that she was well accompanied by a splendid driver, he himself declined to go.
He thought that in some vague way his not going reaffirmed his stance with the prince. He would have nothing to do with the cadets, nothing. Something else kept him at Topolostan, too: his relationship to his half-brother. He recognized this summer that he felt at his core a distance from and even resentment of Józef, younger by so many years. But he was disinclined to plumb the source of his feelings.
August and September—Harvest Home notwithstanding—passed with painful slowness. The winter months loomed: dark, long, uneventful.
In late October, Michał was returning from a ride when he hailed his mother, who had just returned from her monthly visit to Warsaw and was ascending the stairs of the portico. Lady Anna Stelnicka turned about at his call. As Michał drew his horse closer, he saw that she was visibly shaken. “What is it Mother?”
“It’s Józef, Michał. He’s different. He’s changed.” The lively green eyes had dulled, darkened.
“Is that all? He’s become a soldier, I suspect. That’s the change. He’s grown. He’s become a man.”
The countess waved her hand dismissively. “No. Of course, I can see those changes. Any mother would. But there’s something about him now. Something I’ve noted more and more with every visit. Something secret.”
“What about that girl you thought he was smitten with? Perhaps it’s not working out?”
“The Chopin girl? Yes, he had been quite infatuated by her. Come to think of it, he hasn’t mentioned her of late. But—”
“There’s something more?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“Something dark?”
“Not necessarily. But something passionate, something like . . .”
“Mother?”
His mother sighed. “Something like I saw in you and Tadeusz when you both knew you were to follow Napoleon to Moscow. That kind of excitement. That kind of passion. There isn’t another war afoot, is there, Michał?”
“No, of course not.”
Anna attempted a smile and turned to enter the house.
Michał wheeled his stallion about in the other direction but gave it no signal to proceed. His eyes mindlessly scanned the River Vistula tributary not far away. The setting sun reddened the water like a thousand votives dancing and sparkling within St. Martin’s Church, which sat on Piwna Street, just across from Zofia’s town house.
Was Józef involved in the type of movement the prince had spoken of? A little ways off he spied a heron wading in the shallows on her long spindle-shanks, beak poised to collect supper for her fledglings. She would do well, for the water was tranquil today, very unlike Michał’s eddying emotions.