Of calamitous leaf springs and Katarzyna Kossakowska’s feminine complaint
At the same time, Katarzyna Kossakowska (née Potocka), the wife of the castellan of Kamieniec, has just entered Rohatyn with her somewhat older lady companion; they are on their way from Lublin to Kamieniec, and they have already been traveling for several days. An hour behind them are carriages with trunks, and in them clothing, bedding, and table settings, so that when it is time to stay the night somewhere, they will have their own porcelain and cutlery, at least. Although messengers are dispatched to alert family and friends on nearby estates to the women’s approach, sometimes safe and comfortable lodgings fail to materialize. Then they are left with wayside inns and public houses, where the food can be quite poor. El?bieta Dru?backa, being a woman of a certain age, scarcely tolerates this. She complains of indigestion, no doubt because every meal gets jolted around in her stomach by the motion of their carriage, like cream in a butter churn. But heartburn is not such a serious ailment. Worse off is Kossakowska—her belly has hurt since yesterday, and now she sits in the corner of the carriage, weak and cold and damp, and so unbelievably pale that Dru?backa has started to fear for her friend’s life. This is why they stop to seek help here, in Rohatyn, where Szymon ?ab?cki is the starosta; ?ab?cki, like just about every person of significance in Podolia, is connected with the family of the castellan’s wife.
It is market day, and the pale orange-pink carriage bedecked in golden ornament with a coachman out front and an entourage of men in vivid uniforms has caused something of a sensation since passing the first tollhouse. Now it has to stop at every moment because the road is obstructed by pedestrians and animals. Cracking the whip over their heads doesn’t help. The two women concealed inside this vehicle on leaf springs with the Potocki coat of arms painted across its doors are borne across the choppy waters of the multilingual, business-frenzied crowd as if protected by a priceless seashell.
In the end, the carriage, as might have been predicted in such a crowd, runs over some sort of drawbar and breaks one if its springs, that latest amenity that only complicates the journey now. Kossakowska falls from her seat onto the floor, her whole face a grimace of pain. Dru?backa, cursing, leaps straight out into the mud and is off in search of help herself. First she tries some women holding baskets, but they giggle and run away, speaking Ruthenian, so then she tugs at the sleeve of a Jew in a hat and coat—he tries to understand her and even responds with something in his language, pointing farther down toward the river. Then, having lost the last of her patience, Dru?backa sees two well-heeled merchants who have just gotten out of their coach and entered the fray; she blocks their path, but they turn out to be Armenian—at least she thinks so—merely passing through. All they do is shake their heads. Then some Turks smirk at Dru?backa—at least that’s how it feels.
“Does anyone here speak Polish?” she finally screams, furious with this crowd all around her and furious that this place is where she is. They say it’s one kingdom, a united Commonwealth, but here everything is completely different from how it is in Greater Poland, where she comes from. It is wild here, and the faces are foreign, exotic, and the outfits almost comical, their sukmanas disintegrating into rags, strange fur hats and turbans, bare feet. Tiny, buckling houses made out of clay, even here, on the market square. The smell of malt and dung, the odor of damp, decaying leaves.
At last she sees, right in front of her, a frail old white-haired priest, his outer garments not in great condition, a bag slung over his shoulder, gaping at her in surprise. She seizes him by his coat and shakes him, hissing through her teeth:
“For the love of God, help me find Starosta ?ab?cki! And not a word of this to anyone! You must keep it absolutely quiet!”
The priest squints at her. He’s frightened—he doesn’t understand if he’s supposed to answer or not breathe a word. Maybe point toward ?ab?cki’s home? This woman tugging at his coat so mercilessly is short, with a somewhat rounded figure, prominent eyes, and a sizable nose; a curly lock of silvering hair pokes out from under her hat.
“It’s a very important person, incognito,” she tells the priest, nodding at the carriage.
“Incognito, incognito!” the priest murmurs excitedly. He fishes some young boy out of the crowd and tells him to lead the vehicle to the starosta’s house. The child, much defter than might have been expected, helps to unharness the horses so that the carriage can be turned around.
Inside the vehicle with its curtained windows, Kossakowska moans.
After every moan comes an emphatic curse.
Of bloodstained silks
Szymon ?ab?cki, married to Pelagia, of the Potocki family, is a cousin—a distant one, but a cousin all the same—of Katarzyna Kossakowska. His wife isn’t there, she’s visiting her family’s estate in the next village over. Overwhelmed by their unexpected arrival, he hurriedly buttons up his French-cut jacket and pulls down his lace cuffs.
“Bienvenue, bienvenue,” he repeats mechanically, as Dru?backa and the servants take Kossakowska upstairs, where their host has given his cousin the finest rooms in the house. Then, muttering something to himself, he sends for Rubin, the medic of Rohatyn. “Quelque chose de féminin, quelque chose de féminin,” he says.
He is not altogether pleased about this visit—or rather, he isn’t pleased at all. He was just getting ready to head to a certain somewhere, a place where cards may, on a regular basis, be played. The very thought of it raises his blood pressure in an agreeable way, as if the best liqueur were taking effect. Yet how much nervous energy does he squander upon this addiction! His only consolation is that more important people, and richer people, and people commanding much greater respect, also sit down to a game of cards from time to time. Lately he’s been playing with Bishop So?tyk, hence this better outfit. He was just about to head out, his vehicle was already harnessed. But of course now he can’t go. Someone else will win. He takes a deep breath and rubs his hands together, as if trying to reassure himself that it’s okay, he’ll get to play some other evening.