In America (11 page)

Within two weeks, however, they were hurrying back to Kraków for Stefan, who, long separated from his wife, was now unable to care for himself at all and had gone home to their mother's flat. The evening of their arrival Stefan closed his eyes and, with a loud sigh, tumbled into a coma. Kneeling by the bed, Maryna touched her lips to his brow and wept soundlessly. The clammy face on the pillow was eerily juvenile, bony, as when she had first seen him on a stage, without recognizing the beloved friend of both Don Carlos and his wicked father; the face of the gloriously handsome young man she had worshipped as a small child. Unbelievable to think that it was now his time to die!

Mother was quite overcome with grief, she wrote to Ryszard, but Adam was there, and Józefina, and Andrzej, and little Jarek. Henryk, who never left us, did what he could, but there was no detaining my precious willful brother. I held him all night in my arms, his body felt dry and light as kindling while the blood came pouring from his mouth, and then he was gone.

Stefan's death was also Maryna's farewell to her family.

*   *   *

BOGDAN, TOO
, had to make a farewell visit: his family were rich landowners, living on large holdings in western Poland under Prussian rule. Maryna had been at the principal Dembowski estate once, in 1870, after she accepted Bogdan's proposal of marriage—but not to stay, for Ignacy, Bogdan's older brother and the head of the family, refused even to meet her, while telling Bogdan that he, of course, would always be welcomed with open arms. They took rooms at a nearby inn.

Before they left two days later, Bogdan brought Maryna into the sprawling white-pillared manor to meet his grandmother, who had sent word to him that she, naturally, did not oppose his marriage. Squeezing his wife's hand, Bogdan had pulled her through room after room over the brightly polished wooden floors (she remembered their shine) as if they were naughty children, fleeing a justly wrathful adult, or children in disgrace, fleeing an ogreish tyrannical adult—so much did he dread coming upon his brother in one of those large, sparsely furnished rooms. Bogdan in a hurry, panting, seemed to have relapsed into a disquieting vulnerability in this house where he'd been a child. Maryna didn't want to feel like a child. It was partly so as not to feel like a child, ever, that she had become an actress.

They gained his grandmother's upstairs sitting room. Bogdan bent his knee as he kissed her hand, then sank to both knees to let her hug his head while behind him Maryna offered a curtsy that was, pointedly, not a stage curtsy, and in her turn kissed the old woman's hand. Then he left them alone.

Maryna had never met anyone like Bogdan's grandmother. Born in 1791, the year before the Second Partition, when the last king of Poland, Stanislaw August Poniatowski, was still on the throne, she was a survivor of a distant, more free-spirited era. She thought her grandchildren, with the possible exception of Bogdan, were fools. Above all, Ignacy, the eldest—as she explained to Maryna at a rapid clip and with a twinkle in her rheumy eye.

“He's a prig,
ma chère,
that's all there is to it. A frightful prig. And don't expect him to soften and come around. The well-being of his younger brother counts as nothing to him compared to some vain idea of the family's dignity. Is this what our bold, virile Polish gentry has come to? Disgusting! I can hardly believe I'm related to this sanctimonious, Mother-of-God-worshipping fool. But there you have it,
mon enfant.
Modern times.
Que voulez-vous?
And he calls himself a son of the Church. As far as I understand, Jesus did look favorably on brotherly love. Now you see the true face of our ridiculous religion. Should not a Christian rejoice that such a charming accomplished woman as you has arrived to make his brother happy?
Mais non.
You do make him happy, I hope. You know what I mean by happy?”

Maryna was more surprised by the old lady's scorn for religion—she had never heard anyone rail against the Church—than by the impertinent question she'd sprung at the end of her tirade. Bogdan had mentioned that his grandmother was reputed to have taken many lovers during her long, contentious marriage to the man with the sword, General Dembowski. Considering that she had a right not to reply, Maryna mustered a becoming, modest blush: she could blush as easily as weep on inner command. But the old lady was not to be put off.

“Well?” she said.

Maryna gave in. “Of course I try.”

“Ah. You try.”

Maryna didn't, wouldn't, answer this time.

“Trying is a very small part of it,
ma chère.
The attraction exists or it doesn't. I would have thought you, an actress, would know all about these matters. Don't tell me that actresses don't in any way deserve their interesting reputation? Just a little? Come now”—she bared her toothless gums—“you disillusion me.”

“I don't want to disillusion you,” Maryna answered warmly.

“Good! Because there's something that troubles me about Bogdan.
C'est un sérieux. Trop sérieux peut-être.
Of course, he's too intelligent to think himself bound to grovel before ignorant priests mumbling in barbaric Latin. Unlike Ignacy, Bogdan has a mind. He has the makings of a free spirit. Which is why he chose you. But still, I've worried about him. He's never had dalliances like his brother or all the other young men in his circle. And chastity,
ma fille,
is one of the great vices. To be twenty-eight and still know nothing of women! You have a great responsibility. It's the one defect for which I reproach him, but you have arrived to correct that, unless of course, which would explain the mystery, for there are men like that, as you must know, being of the theatre, he—”

“He really loves me,” Maryna interrupted, feeling a stab of anxiety. “And I love him.”

“I see that I displease you with my candor.”

“Perhaps. But you honor me with your trust. Surely you wouldn't say these things to me if you did not believe I love Bogdan and intend to do everything in my power to be a good wife to him.”

“Prettily said,
mon enfant.
A charming evasion. Well, I will not press you on this matter. Just promise me you won't leave him when he ceases to make you happy—for he will, you have a restless spirit, and he is not a man who knows how to possess a woman entirely—or when you fall in love with someone else.”

“I promise,” said Maryna gravely. She sank to her knees and bowed her head.

The old lady burst out laughing. “Get up, get up! You are not on a stage. Of course your promise is worth nothing.” A bony hand reached out and seized her arm. “But nonetheless I shall hold you to it.”

“Grand-mère?”
It was Bogdan at the door.

“
Oui, mon garçon, entre.
I have done with your bride, and you may take her away with the knowledge that I am quite pleased with her. She may be too good for you. You may both visit me once a year, and,
rappelle-toi,
only when your brother is traveling. You will have a letter from me when you may come.”

*   *   *

MARYNA WAS FURIOUS
not to be regarded as a worthy wife to Bogdan by his family for … what? Being a widow? They couldn't know that Heinrich had been unable to marry her or that he wasn't dead; having decided to return to Prussia, his health failing, he had given his promise, she believed a sincere promise, never to enter her life again. Having a child? Could they be so base as to suspect that the late Mr. Załężowski, her husband, was not Piotr's father? But he was! No, she was certain the reason was Ignacy's disapproval of his younger brother's lifelong passion for the theatre. Gratifying as it was that the Dowager Countess Dembowska did not share the family scorn of actresses, Maryna knew that until she was accepted by the older brother she would never be accepted by the others. Maryna supposed the distinguished old lady had some influence on Ignacy—but either she didn't or she disdained to use it, and Maryna had never seen her again. Whenever Bogdan was summoned for his yearly visit, Maryna was mid-season in Warsaw or on tour.

They had never accepted her. Eventually she had won the love of Bogdan's maiden sister Izabela, but Ignacy's opposition only hardened with time, and Bogdan ceased to have any relation with his brother, pride dictating even that he decline, out of his income from the various family properties, the portion due him from the estate managed by Ignacy. But Bogdan had no choice except to ask for a proper assignment of this money now. He wrote Ignacy explaining the reason for his impending arrival. An investment, he said. An excellent investment. He wrote to his grandmother asking her permission for an unscheduled visit. Maryna said that she wished to say good-bye to his grandmother, too.

As soon as they arrived and had installed themselves in their rooms at the inn, Bogdan and Maryna hired a carriage and drove to the manor. The chief steward told Bogdan that the Count would receive him in an hour in the estate office, and that the Dowager Countess was in the library.

They found her heaped with shawls in a high deep chair, reading. “You,” she said to Bogdan. She wore a white lace headdress and there were patches of rouge on her seamed, knobby face. “I don't know whether you are late or early. Late, I suppose.”

Bogdan stammered, “I didn't think—”

“But not too late.”

Beside her was a low table with a tall glass of something thick and white that Maryna could not identify until she and Bogdan were brought glasses of their own: it was hot beer with cream and morsels of finely chopped white cheese floating in it.
“A votre santé, mes chers,”
murmured the old woman, and raised the glass to her sunken mouth. Then, looking at Maryna, she frowned.

“You're in mourning.”

“My brother.” Recalling the Dowager Countess's style of impertinent declaration, Maryna added, “My favorite brother.”

“And he was how old? He must have been very young.”

“No, he was forty-eight.”

“Young!”

“We knew Stefan was very ill and unlikely to recover, although of course one is never really prepared for—”

“One is never really prepared for anything.
Ah oui.
But the death of someone is always a liberation for someone else. Contrary to what is usually said,
la vie est longue. Figurez-vous,
I am not speaking of myself. It is very long even for those who don't attain any spectacular longevity.
Alors, mes enfants
”—she was looking only at Bogdan—“here is what I have to say to you: I like your folly,
cela vous convient.
But may I ask why?”

“Many reasons,” said Bogdan.

“Yes, many,” said Maryna.

“Too many, I suspect. Well, you'll find the real one
sur la route.
” Suddenly her head dropped forward, as if she had fallen asleep, or …

“Bogdan?” whispered Maryna.

“Yes!”—she had opened her eyes—“a long life is altogether wasted on most people, who quickly run out of enthusiasm or dreams and still have all those years ahead of them. Now, a fresh start, that would be something. Something rare. Unless, as people usually do, you manage to turn your new life into the old one.”

“I think,” said Bogdan, “there's little chance of that.”

“You aren't getting any more intelligent,” said his grandmother. “What kind of books are you reading now?”

“Practical books,” said Bogdan. “Books on livestock farming, on viticulture, on carpentry, on soil management, on—”

“Pity.”

“He reads poetry with me,” said Maryna. “We read Shakespeare together.”

“Don't defend him. He's an idiot. You're not so clever yourself, at least you weren't when I met you six years ago, and now you're more intelligent than he is.”

Bogdan leaned over and kissed his grandmother tenderly on the cheek. A tiny hand gnarled by arthritis reached up and patted the crown of his head.

“He's the only one I love,” she said to Maryna.

“I know. And you're the only one it distresses him to leave.”

“Nonsense!”

“Bonne-maman!”
cried Bogdan.

“
Pas de sentiment, je te le défends. Alors, mes chers imbéciles,
it's time for you to go. We won't meet again.”

“But I'll be back!”

“And I'll be gone.” Unclenching her right hand, she stared at the palm, then lifted it slowly. “An atheist's blessings on you, my children.” Maryna bowed her head.
“Bis! Bis!”
said the old lady merrily. “And some advice, yes? Don't ever do anything out of despair. And,
écoutez-moi bien,
don't invent too many reasons for what you've decided to do!”

*   *   *

EVERYONE WONDERS
why we are going, Maryna said to herself. Let them wonder. Let them invent. Don't they always tell lies about me? I can lie, too. I don't owe anyone an explanation.

But the others need reasons, or so they tell themselves:

“Because she's my wife, and I must take care of her. Because I can show my brother that I'm a practical man, a virile son of the land, not just a lover of theatre and the editor of a patriotic newspaper that was quickly shut down by the authorities. Because I can't bear always being followed by the police.”

“Because I am curious, that's my profession, it's what a journalist should be, because I want to travel, because I am in love with her, because I am young, because I love this country, because I need to escape this country, because I love to hunt, because Nina says she is pregnant and expects me to marry her, because I've read so many books about it, Fenimore Cooper and Mayne Reid and the rest, because I intend to write a great many books, because…”

“Because she's my mother and she promised me she would take me to the Centennial Exposition, whatever that is.”