Kossakowska’s fever rages all night long; Dru?backa fears her friend may be delirious. She and Agnieszka, the lady-in-waiting, apply cold compresses to her head, and then the hurriedly summoned medic arranges herbs about; now their aroma, which seems to contain anise and licorice, hovers in a sweet cloud over the bedclothes, and Kossakowska falls asleep. The doctor tells them to put cold compresses on her belly and on her forehead. The whole house gets calmer, and the candles dim.
Of course, it’s not the first time Kossakowska is so troubled by her monthly ailment, and it will certainly not be the last. There is no one to blame for it—the reason is most likely the way young girls are brought up on these nobles’ estates, in musty manors, without any physical exercise. The girls sit hunched over their embroidery hoops, embellishing their priestly stoles. The diet in such places is heavy, meaty. Muscles get weak. And on top of all that, Kossakowska likes to travel, whole days spent in a carriage, relentless noise and jostling. Nerves and endless intrigues. Politics. For what is Katarzyna if not the emissary of Klemens Branicki—it is his interests she is pursuing now, after all. She does a good job of it because she has the soul of a man. That’s what people say about her, anyway, and she is treated in accordance with this view. Dru?backa doesn’t see that supposed masculinity. All she sees is a woman who likes to be in charge. She’s tall and sure of herself, and she has a booming voice. People also say that Kossakowska’s husband, who is not exactly blessed by nature—he is shrimpy and misshapen—is impotent. When he was trying for her hand, they say he stood atop a sack of money to compensate for his small stature.
Even if children are not in God’s plan for her, Kossakowska does not appear at all unhappy. The gossip is that when she argues with her husband, when she gets really angry, she seizes him by the waist and sets him on the mantel, and because he’s afraid to get down, he is forced to hear her out. But why would such an attractive woman choose a runt like him? Very likely in order to fortify the family finances, as finances are best fortified by such political stratagems as these.
The two women undressed Kossakowska together, and with every article of clothing the castellan’s wife shed, the being by the name of Katarzyna emerged a bit more from within, and then there was Kasia, moaning and crying as she sank through their fingers, depleted utterly. The doctor told them to place dressings of clean linen between her legs and give her lots of fluids, to force her to drink, particularly his decoctions of some bark or other. How thin this woman seems to Dru?backa, and because she is so thin, how young, though in fact she is already thirty.
When Kossakowska fell asleep, Agnieszka and Dru?backa got to work on the bloodied clothing with its vast crimson patches, starting with her underwear, her petticoats and her skirt, finishing with her navy-blue coat. How many such bloodstains does a woman see over the course of her lifetime, wonders Dru?backa.
Kossakowska’s beautiful dress is made of thick, cream-colored satin, covered here and there with little red flowers, bellflowers, and one little green leaf on the left side and another on the right. It’s a light, cheerful pattern, which suits Kossakowska’s slightly darker skin and dark hair. Now bloodstains have flooded these joyful little flowers, their ominous, irregular contours completely swallowing up any ordered pattern. As if malicious forces had escaped from somewhere, surfacing here.
There is a particular kind of science that exists on these sorts of estates—the science of coaxing out bloodstains. For centuries it has been taught to future wives and mothers. If a university for women ever came about, it would be the most important subject. Childbirth, menstruation, war, fights, forays, pogroms, raids—all of it sheds blood, ever at the ready just beneath the skin. What to do with that internal substance that has the gall to make its way out, what kind of lye to wash it out, what vinegar to rinse it with? Perhaps try dampening a rag with a couple of tears and then rubbing carefully. Or soak in saliva. It befalls sheets and bedclothes, underwear, petticoats, shirts, aprons, bonnets and kerchiefs, lace cuffs and frills, corsets, and sukmanas. Carpets, floorboards, bandages, and uniforms.
When the doctor leaves, both women, Dru?backa and Agnieszka, sleep. They’ve fallen asleep on either side of the bed—one kneeling, with her head resting on her own hand on the bed, leaving a mark on her cheek that will remain for the duration of the evening, the other in an armchair, with her head dropping onto her chest; her breathing sets the delicate lace around her throat in motion, like anemones in a temperate sea.
The white end of the table at Starosta ?ab?cki’s
The starosta’s house looks like a castle. Moss-covered stone standing on ancient foundations, hence the damp. In the yard, a massive chestnut that is already releasing its glistening fruits, sending yellow leaves, too, in their wake. This makes it look like the whole outdoors is covered in a lovely orange-gold carpet. From the great hall, the visitor enters a series of drawing rooms that are sparsely furnished but brightly painted, with splendid ornaments. The floor, an oak parquet, has been polished so that it shines. Preparations for winter are under way—in the vestibule stand baskets of apples that will be taken around the winter bedrooms, to which they will lend their fragrance as they await the Christmas holiday. Outside there is much hustle and bustle, the peasants have carted in wood and are busy making piles. Women bring in baskets of nuts; Dru?backa can’t get over their size. She has cracked one of them, and now she relishes its soft, flavorful meat as her tongue investigates the lightly bitter taste of its skin. The smell of plums simmering for jam comes to her from the kitchen.
The medic passes her downstairs, mutters something under his breath, and goes back upstairs. She has already gleaned that this “saturnine” Jew, as ?ab?cki called him, a doctor trained in Italy who keeps quiet and who is never fully present here, nonetheless commands the full respect of the starosta, who’s spent enough time in France to abandon certain prejudices.
By the following afternoon, Kossakowska has ingested a little broth, after which time she asked that pillows be placed behind her, to prop her up, and paper and ink be given to her.
Katarzyna Kossakowska, née Potocka, wife of the castellan of Kamieniec, whose dominion extends over numerous villages and towns, mansions and estates, is by nature a predator. Predators, even after falling into dire straits, such as into the grips of a poacher’s trap, lick their wounds and go back into battle. Kossakowska has animal instincts, like a she-wolf in a pack of males. She will always be fine. Dru?backa ought rather to worry about herself. Dru?backa ought instead to consider: What kind of animal is she? She survives thanks to the predators, keeping them company, entertaining them with light verse. She is a tamed wagtail—a little bird with a lovely warble—but she will be blown away by any gust of wind, the draft from a window knocked open by a storm.