Franciszek Wo?owski the younger would like to have Eva. Not because he loves her and desires her, but because she is unavailable. The more impossible it becomes, the more Franciszek’s will to marry Eva Frank is fortified. This is why he has come down with such a serious case of her, the illness also due to his father—who always said that Eva would be his, and that in this way the two families would join, and Franciszek would take over after Jacob. Jacob looked upon it favorably too, but then, when Eva started to see the emperor himself, all hope floated off like a cloud, high, very high, ungraspable now. Eva is different these days, appearing rarely, dressed in gleaming silks, having become as slippery as a fish, impossible to grasp.
Franciszek proposes to her without the knowledge of his father, who is still in Warsaw, attending to the brewery. His proposal is passed over in silence, as if Franciszek had committed a shameful act that can never be mentioned by anyone. There are whispers of it at the court in Brünn for weeks on end, but he does not receive an answer, and slowly he realizes that he has made a fool of himself. He writes his father an embittered letter and asks that he summon him back to Warsaw. As he waits for an answer, he stops coming to the communal prayers and to Jacob’s chats. What seemed so attractive to him when he used to come here—this little crowd of people in the palace on Petersburger Gasse, new faces, a sense of community, as if he had found himself in an enormous family, the flirtations, the gossip, the never-ending jokes and amusements, followed by the prayers and songs—now all of that disgusts him. Perhaps he hates most of all the drills constantly being organized for the young men and boys by his uncle Jan Wo?owski, called—on account of the uniform he insists upon wearing—the Cossack. He drills several of the boys in a Cossack squadron, but there aren’t enough horses for a squadron; the boys have to take turns riding the four saddled ones. The Lord had given his second cousin, Franciszek Szymanowski, the task of forming a legion. This new word appears in all sorts of contexts: uniforms for the legion, the legion’s standard, legion practice, legion songs . . . Franciszek, Shlomo’s son, hears it incessantly, although toward all matters to do with uniforms and saberwaving he feels a profound reluctance, colored by contempt.
And so he travels to Vienna, wanders the streets, and in this uncomfortable situation, he finds consolation in concerts, which in Vienna is not difficult—music is everywhere here. He was quite moved listening to one composer named Haydn, whose music seemed so close to him and so beautiful. He cried discreetly: his eyes grew moist, but he managed to hold back the tears, which flowed inwardly instead and washed his heart. When the orchestra finished playing, and the applause began, he felt that he would not be able to bear the lack of this music, that he needed to have it without interruption. The world became empty. He had learned after the concert, which he had barely been able to afford, that there was something in this world that could raise a person to the height of happiness, and that it was possible not to even know about it, living in constant lack. He was supposed to buy his sisters presents—lace and buttons covered in silk, they had asked for hats and ribbons—but Franciszek would bring them sheet music instead.
He didn’t manage to get into the concert by this young man named Mozart, but he found a place beneath the opera windows where he could hear as though he were inside. He had the impression that the opera had fallen upon him, and the cathedral upon it, and now all of Vienna was cascading onto his head, and he was dumbfounded. This music was as impossible as Eva, becoming a great and peerless dream that could never come true in Warsaw. He is Warsaw, she Vienna.
In the end, the letter he had been waiting for arrived, and his father told him to come back. He reminded him about Marianna Wo?owska, the daughter of Franciszek’s uncle Micha?, whom Franciszek had known since childhood. There was nothing in the letter about marriage, but Franciszek understood that she had been assigned to him now. His heart grew tight, and in that state, he went away to Warsaw.
Saying goodbye, Jacob hugged him like a son—all of them saw it. And—it is true—Franciszek felt like Jacob’s son. He felt he would be given some sort of mission to fulfill, just not the one he had expected. Evidently from where Jacob was, things looked different from how they did to Franciszek. Franciszek bade tender farewells to his friends who were planning to remain at the court, with the Maiden. Finally, he purchased his music and looked through it later in his carriage, trying to play it silently with his fingers on his lap. Deep down he felt a great relief that he was going back to Warsaw, and that from now on that would be his place. He would be the commander of some other legion, in a fortress in Warsaw, following Jacob’s orders there.
As soon as he had crossed the border, Vienna paled, becoming just a black-and-white engraving, and all of Franciszek’s thoughts turned toward Leszno Street in Warsaw, toward his Marianna. He started thinking about her intensely and remembering what she looked like, since he had never before taken a good look at her. When they stopped along the way in Kraków, he bought her—totally innocently—a pair of tiny coral earrings that looked as if someone had deposited little droplets of their common, cousinly blood upon the gold filigree.
A final audience with the emperor
Letting the Lord’s blood is a task Zwierzchowska has mastered; now she can do it with great efficiency. The blood flows into the bowl, a considerable quantity of it. After this procedure, the Lord is weak, unsteady on his feet. Pale. That is good. He will look weak enough.
The carriage is waiting, not as fancy and ornate as the one in which they used to ride to Sch?nbrunn. It is a simple carriage drawn by two horses; it is humble and does not call attention. Three of them climb in—Jacob, Eva, and Anusia Paw?owska, who accompanies Eva, makes a good impression, and speaks wonderful French.
Emperor Joseph spends the summer in Laxenburg with his ever-present ladies, known for their beauty and intelligence. Their pretty hats accompany him like airborne jellyfish, ready to keep intruders away from him. Beneath the hats are the two Liechtenstein sisters, Countess Leopoldine Kaunitz and Princess Kinsky, with whom he is said to be having a romance.
Eva did not wish to go; her father forced her. Now she sits sulking, looking out the window. It is May 1786, the world is in bloom, the hills around Brünn look soft and ripely verdant. Spring has come early this year, the lilacs have long since bloomed, now it is the jasmines and the bulky peonies, and everywhere is the sweet, joyous smell of flowers. Jacob moans and groans; the bloodletting really has weakened him this time. The outlines of his face have sharpened, just like after his hemorrhage. He does not look good.