Garden of Venus (29 page)

The next day, when the breakfast tray was refused and returned to the kitchen untouched, Aunt Antonia called Doctor Farens. ‘Do something,’ she pleaded. ‘This is not right. She might hurt herself.’

After his knocking was ignored, the doctor forced the door open. It gave in with the sound of breaking wood. Her mother was sitting on the footstool, feet bare. The mirror on the wall was covered with the pillowcase her mother had removed from her pillow. Her dress was torn at the collar, threads hanging where the fabric had been ripped open. Her face was scratched. Strands of her mother’s black tresses were lying all over the floor, her shaved head revealing the geography of her scalp. Maman ran her hand over her head and then stared down at the palm of her hand as if it could tell her something she didn’t yet know. Her face, without hair, looked small and bare. Frozen in apprehension, like a captured bird. A razor blade was lying beside her on the bed. She was muttering something Rosalia could not understand.

For years she had remembered it this way. The doctor taking Rosalia gently by her shoulders and leading her to her mother. His taking Maman’s hands in his and checking her wrists were untouched by the blade. His picking the razor and giving it to Aunt Antonia who passed it on to the maid and told her to get rid of it. And his saying: ‘Your child needs you, Madame Romanowicz.’ Then the memory of Maman looking at the doctor’s lips and then at her daughter, blood from the scratches drying on her cheeks in frozen trails. Then standing up slowly, as if each movement caused pain, stretching arms out to embrace her daughter.

And now?

Now she remembers more. She remembers the pitying looks of Aunt Antonia and the words she was not supposed
to hear.
The child will have to pay for it, I suppose Her people, of course, will have nothing to do with them now. To them, they could starve to death
.

That poor girl
, she remembers hearing, cheeks flaming red, her heart pounding.

But most of all she remembers shame at her own betrayal. The thought that if it were her mother who died, perhaps then no one would ever pity her like that.

After their return, Kamieniec is not bad at first. Her father-in-law proclaims Jan the most beautiful and the smartest of all babies he has ever seen in his long life. He has taken to ignoring Joseph all together, and refers to her in all matters. He agrees the fortress is in need of changes, that it needs trained servants and new furniture. In the last few months, the de Witts have moved up in the world, changed their prospects and obligations. Her new friends have not forgotten Madame de Witt. The King is planning a visit, and so is Princess Czartoryska.

How she likes the clack of good china, the sheen of expensive fabric and the cold of the marble; the laughter around the table, the glances of desire. Sometimes she wakes up feeling that there are no limits to what can still happen.

If only Lysander could see her now, she thinks, and even this memory is a triumph. She hasn’t thought of him for a long time now.

She is wearing her Parisian dress, the white gauze with mauve rosebuds, matching her velvet shoes. The dress Diane de Polignac told her looked ravishing on her. Her hair is pinned up. A white ostrich feather brings out the black of her curls. From Vienna a messenger comes with a gift. A basket filled with ripe, red cherries. Emperor
Joseph II wrote a note in his own hand. ‘To
la Belle Phanariote
whose presence is sadly missed in Vienna.’

One is never a prophet in one’s own land, Joseph reminds her. This is not an encouragement. He would like her to settle for memories, for sweet reminders of her triumphs. He is afraid that her success will bring out the worst in those less lucky, that resentment will breed around them. He talks of the power of envy, the wisdom of not seeming to want too much. Someone has already printed a pamphlet that calls her a king’s whore and a woman with a heart of stone. ‘An upstart,’ Countess Josephine Potocka has been reported as saying, ‘who should be shown her proper place.’

‘I don’t believe it for one moment,’ Sophie says. She is ready to believe in the jealousy of a backwater town, the revenge of the petty gentry hard put to provide dowries for their daughters. Such people are best ignored, countered with indifference. But she will not believe that the Potockis think de Witts unworthy of their company.

In Warsaw, in Paris, in Vienna, she called on the best French families and was received with honours. Are the Potockis any better than de Polignacs or the Austrian Emperor? Their Krystynopol palace is but a short ride from Kamieniec. Why should Madame de Witt, having just returned from her journey to the courts of Europe, not pay her neighbours a visit?

Tuesday is the day when Countess Josephine Potocka is receiving and this very Tuesday she will walk into the grand salon of the Potocki palace. She will make sure that her eyes express her silent admiration. She knows how not to cheapen the objects she attempts to praise. It is important to notice expensive tapestries, but it is equally important to compare them to the ones in the Imperial Palace in Vienna, notice their perhaps somewhat finer detail; to admire a picture, and stress that it
would complement the Queen’s
private
apartments at Versailles.

When she is asked to take her place in the Krystynopol salon, she will tell Countess Potocka how Marie Antoinette looked at the Dauphin’s christening. She will mention the sadness of her smile and the migraines the French Queen suffers from each morning. She will describe how beautiful the fireworks were, lighting up the sky over Paris, the sparkling explosions of light. She could also mention the curiously wide sleeves of the Viennese dresses, the music of Monsieur Mozart that thrills her more than anything she has ever heard in her life. And besides, she has greetings to pass on. From Prince de Ligne himself who remembers Countess Josephine Potocka fondly from a certain masked ball in Versailles.

She is with child again. Mana has sent her another red wristband. Little Jan wore his until it turned to tatters. Only then she allowed the nurse to remove it and burn the remains in the fire.
Wear this one yourself
, her mother wrote.
To
avert the ill wishes of those who might envy you
.

Here, in Istanbul
, her mother continues in her shaky hand,
I could be of use, share your joys. My grandson is stretching out his dear little hands, and I cannot hold him in my arms
.

In Krystynopol, four Cossacks in yellow jackets guard the front palace gate. Standing at attention, their eyes are trained on something in the distance, something far behind her.

She has heard stories about the Potockis. Bad stories, stories of cruel pride. She is resolved to pay no attention to them, resolved to be forgiving. The rich and the powerful always attract envy and evil tongues. Who among us is without sin and can cast the first stone?

As her carriage approaches the courtyard of the
Krystynopol palace, she sees the five carriages with the Potocki crest are hitched and ready to leave. Countess Josephine is leaning out of the carriage window and waves at her husband, who is still talking to the butler. The children are in the other carriages, watching eagerly as if they have been promised a rare treat.

This is strange, she thinks. The countess
is
receiving today. It
is
Tuesday.

Her humiliation is planned to the last detail. As soon as her carriage rolls into the courtyard, the Potockis leave. Madame de Witt is not to be spared the sight of the tail of their equipage. Someone must have warned them of her intentions. One of her own servants perhaps. Has she been foolish in her trust?

The approaching footman looks her in the eye with an insolence he doesn’t care to hide.

‘The Count and Countess have just left. They asked to tell Madame de Witt that they never expected the arrival of such an illustrious visitor!’

She does not avert her eyes. The skin on her cheeks does not betray her. Her hands stay steady and she manages a sweet smile. Pride, she chews on the mute word, turns it around in her mouth. The Potocki pride. She
has
been foolish, dazed with the ease of her conquests. She has assumed victory. How thin the shield is with which she has covered herself, with which she has covered her child. De Witt’s name will never be enough. Is it a name or
le bruit
?

‘On behalf of the servants, however, I shall be delighted to offer Madame de Witt her refreshments.’

‘Thank you,’ she says, managing a graceful smile. ‘I wouldn’t dream of causing such trouble. Pray, tell your mistress I’ll come back at a better time.’

At home she rushes into her bedroom, she wants to lock the door, but Joseph is faster than she is. He forces his way in and watches as she throws herself on her bed, sobbing with rage. The bed sags as he sits beside her, and he unpins her hair, and loosens the laces of her corset. There is no I-told-you-so in his voice when he tells her he has never liked the Potockis. Never.

Remember what people say about them, he says. He reminds her how old Countess Potocka ordered a Cossack guard jailed for accidentally touching her gloved hand as he was helping her descend from her carriage. How she whipped her own ladies-in-waiting if they ever dared to exchange a word or a mere look with a man. Whipped them herself, he says right into her ear, having ordered them to strip naked first.

He does make her laugh.

The gossip she once dismissed. There is one story he reminds her of, the story of the first Countess Potocka. The story of beautiful Gertruda who should now be the mistress of Krystynopol palace, a story only a fool would ignore.

It was a bad time.
Szlachta
rose up against the new King brought to the Polish throne by Catherine’s sabres. Brothers fought against brothers, peasants rose against their lords.

Plague had descended on the lands around Krystynopol, where Count Felix lived with his parents. People lit fires to cleanse the air, rubbed their bodies with garlic, carried mercury in their pockets, poured vinegar on hot iron and used the vapour to purify their homes. If one person showed symptoms of the plague, the whole town or village was
forced to abandon homes and possessions and they were burnt to the ground. Crowds of the dispossessed wandered through the countryside. People from villages and towns still unaffected by the plague left food for them outside the gates, but many still died of hunger and illness and their bodies littered the fields.

Sin was spreading like wildfire for, faced with death, people forgot all restraint. All they wanted from this earth before dying was one last sweet moment of pleasure. There was fornication, there was rape and plunder. There was murder. Threats against
Pany
, the lords were uttered without fear. From Ukraine, old blind
dziady
, sang the triumphant songs of the Uman slaughter, and no one dared to stop them from singing.

Count Felix was young then, in the first spring of adulthood. An awkward child for an heir of the great fortune. He was shy and bashful, stammering if he had to speak, his voice breaking, his skin reddening with fright. In the Krystynopol palace his parents were busy with his sister’s wedding to Prince Lubomirski. ‘A great match,’ his mother, Anna Elizabeth said, ‘but not as great as the one I have in mind for my only son.’

The nights were hot, the air in the palace stuffy, polluted with the smoke coming from the fires. Felix was restless and lonely. He asked to be allowed to ride his horse through the neighbourhood, promising to avoid the town and the vagrants. All he wanted was fresh air, the feel of the wind in his hair.

After that he rode every day. His cheeks revived their colour, his steps became sprightly and quick. His proud mother was pleased. She didn’t suspect the real reason for her son’s transformation.

He had seen Gertruda a few months before, in the Krystynopol palace where she had been presented at his parents’ court. The youngest daughter in the Komorowski
family, she had just returned from Vienna. A distinguished family, her father stressed, perhaps no longer rich, but of impeccable lineage, a family of senators, primates, and poets. Beautiful as a doe, her thick brown hair and eyes the colour of hazelnuts, lips like ripe raspberries, sweet and full of warmth.

‘Not worthy to kiss a Potocki’s foot,’ Anna Elizabeth said.

People say the young Count’s first visit to the Komorowskis’ manor was one of chance. He was thirsty, and wanted a drink of water. As son of their mighty neighbour he was welcomed with great warmth, perhaps even hope. Gertruda was a lovely girl, her disposition was sweet, her voice divine. If fate wanted her elevated in this world, who were the Komorowskis to oppose the workings of fate.

That night Count Felix had a dream. Gertruda was holding a metal bucket up to him brimming with water. She had just winched it out of a well. Her eyes were reaching right inside him, making him burn with heat and he couldn’t stop staring at the snow-white skin on her neck. He woke up whispering her name and the sheets in his bed were wet. That day he paid the maid one ducat to wash the sheets before his mother could find out.

Three months later, Jakub Komorowski took Count Felix aside. The matter he wanted to discuss was serious. His daughter was expecting a child, an event he had to accept as the will of God. Human flesh was weak, but he had watched his young guest for a while. He was of the best opinion of his character and the sincerity of his feelings. Besides the happiness in his daughter’s eyes could not deceive him.

‘Am I mistaken, Your Highness, my dear neighbour?’

‘No,’ the young Count replied. ‘You are not mistaken.’

‘The baby will be a Potocki,’ Gertruda’s father said.
Seeing the Count’s knuckles clenched white, he added, ‘I know my daughter’s honour is safe with you.’

The secret wedding took place right after Christmas. The bride was lovely in her white dress, its folds cleverly draped over her growing stomach. Her brown eyes shone without belladonna, her hair pinned on top of her head, cascaded in locks down her shoulders. The few witnesses were asked for discretion on account of the groom’s parents who were hoping for a grand match for their only son. It was better to wait, they were told: to give the young time to plead their case; to give the young Count time to confess his love and his new commitment. After all he had done the honourable thing and he was happy.