He had no clear concept at this time of who Tadeusz Kosciuszko might be, but the several things he had heard about the man excited him: he was a patriot who opposed the partitions; he had acquired fresh new ideas in France and America; and he seemed to support the kind of freedom for which Tytus had died. ‘I think I would like Kosciuszko,’ he told Roman, and the young man replied: ‘Better not tell Father so.’
But the day after Feliks formulated these tentative evaluations the men at table spent more than an hour extolling the Golden Freedom, and they made such a good case that Feliks was confused. Count Lubonski reminded his listeners: ‘When France was burning the Albigensian heretics, no fire was ever lit in Poland. When England crucified Jews, they lived free in Poland. When religious wars swept over Germany, one horrible decimation after another, Poland remained a bastion of freedom. My father, may God grant him respite, did authorize the beheadings at Torun, but even he was ashamed and they were never repeated. Freedom did mean freedom for all.’
‘It was a remarkable contribution to European government,’ Baron von Eschl agreed. ‘A nation without a large standing army. A parliament in which the freedom of the intellectual few was protected against the rule of the mob. The constant cultivation of the best families, who ruled with supreme wisdom. Small wonder Russia and Austria and Prussia have always rallied to protect that freedom.’
‘When I studied Polish history at the time Austria gained these territories,’ Von Starhemberg said, ‘I concluded that Poland offered the finest democracy since ancient Athens. The people ruled, not the king. You allowed no dictatorship, no savage rule. In its day your Golden Freedom lit a beacon for the world, and that’s why Vienna has always been first to protect it.’
On and on the encomiums went, until Feliks gained the impression that it must have been Poles who had organized the two partitions, because obviously Austria, Prussia and Russia had fought constantly to defend her.
But one afternoon when he was looking for Elzbieta, who was spending more and more of her time with Roman, he passed an open door and heard the four men—Von Eschl, Von Starhemberg, Mniszech and Lubonski—arguing heatedly, and like any inquisitive young man, he lingered. Mniszech was saying: Tyodor Kuprin came to me at my estate in west Russia and assured me that his Catherine was now reconciled to terminating Poland. Wiping it out altogether and forever.’
‘Will she back Prussia if we make the first move?’
‘She will if Austria joins us.’
‘We cannot trust a vague promise like that,’ Von Eschl said, at which Mniszech flared: ‘Are you doubting my word?’ and Von Eschl said: ‘I am doubting Catherine’s. She has lied to us too often in the past.’
Feliks could not follow what was said next, for everyone spoke at once, but finally Von Eschl’s cold, clear voice, always cutting to the heart of the matter, asked: ‘Von Starhemberg, tell us in the simplest possible terms, will Austria join us in a final partition?’
Before the Viennese count could reply, Lubonski said in a voice so low that Feliks could scarcely hear him: ‘Horvath Janos assured me on the day I came that he had representations from Vienna promising immediate military support if Russia and Prussia chose to make a final move.’
‘And you have Catherine’s and Kuprin’s promise that Russia is ready to take the leap.’
Von Eschl said: ‘Throw that door shut. Someone might overhear us, and I do not want Horvath to know what we’re deciding.’ And the door was slammed.
In great confusion of spirit Feliks dropped his speculation about Poland’s freedom and directed his whole attention to the courtship of Elzbieta Mniszech; for two weeks Roman had enjoyed a fairly free field, but Feliks now proved himself a formidable contestant. He was not shy; he spoke well; each day he was acquiring additional sophistication, and although he was somewhat shorter than Roman, he was more pleasing in overall appearance. He was also infatuated with Elzbieta and had reason to believe that she was attracted to him.
Twice she referred to the sleigh ride at which he had performed so ably and several times she allowed herself to be trapped in corners of the castle, where they kissed passionately. Once when they lingered there for the better part of an hour, caressing each other, she broke into tears. ‘Oh, Feliks, you’re going to be a man any girl would be proud of.’
He did not know how to interpret this, but the more he talked with her the more convinced he became that she was a rare creature: beautiful, compassionate, gifted in four languages, and wise. For one rich and glorious week he imagined himself married to her, and when he wakened from this dream he found her waiting for him in a corridor leading to one of the battlements, and they went out into the wintry air, where snow made the mountains and the gorges one gleaming beauty. Rarely could young people have been in love in a setting more conducive to wild feelings and bold imaginings, for the entire world seemed to lie at their feet.
‘I am going to ask Pan Ignacy for your hand,’ Feliks said, whereupon Elzbieta kissed him ardently, but then she began to tremble as if the cold had attacked her, and he asked if she wished to leave the exposed spot and the whistling winds.
‘Oh, no!’ she cried, clutching at his arm. ‘It’s … well, we don’t know what Father will say.’
‘I think he likes me.’
‘He does. He’s told me so.’
‘He did?’
‘But I think … I’m afraid, that is … I think he has hoped I would marry Roman.’
Once she uttered this fear, Feliks understood how real it was; Count Lubonski had come to Niedzica not only to discuss Poland’s future with the executioners but also to find a family alliance for his diffident son Roman, and with the Granicki girl already married, Elzbieta became not only an attractive prospect but perhaps the sole one. Roman, with his distinctive lineage as a real magnate, was a formidable opponent and Feliks thought it best to confront the situation openly: ‘Are you in love with Roman?’
‘I’m in love with you, surely you know that.’
‘Will you marry me?’ he blurted out.
She blushed, held his hand tightly, and then kissed him as they leaned against the battlement. Very carefully she said: ‘I think, Feliks, you had better let me speak to Father about that.’
‘It’s my duty to speak,’ he said, feeling the ardor of her hand loosen into fear. ‘It’s always the man’s duty.’
‘The Mniszechs are different,’ she warned. ‘If Father is angered …’
‘I would not be afraid,’ he said with sharp finality, and she shrugged her shoulders and said: ‘Speak to him, then.’ So they descended from the tower to seek him out, and from the manner in which she stayed close to Feliks, it was apparent that she intended supporting him in his supplication.
They found Ignacy in deep consultation with Baron von Eschl, the two men leaning over a map and drawing lines which now and then they scrubbed out, and although Feliks was loath to interrupt, Elzbieta went right up to her father, saying: ‘Can we speak with you, please?’ Von Eschl smiled coldly, as if he could guess what they wished to speak about, for he had been watching the young people and knew fairly accurately what had been happening. Folding the map four times and placing a heavy book upon it, he left the room.
‘Father, we wish to ask you a question,’ Elzbieta said, reaching out for her lover’s hand to lend him support, but as Feliks stepped forward to make his speech, Ignacy Mniszech moved forward too, and he seemed enormous, a giant that leaned forward like the cliffs of a river gorge, with a stare so intense that Feliks feared he might lash out with his huge fists.
Instead, his huge face broke into a warm, compassionate smile, and before Feliks could utter a word, he felt his two hands being caught in Ignacy’s and clasped with passionate warmth. ‘You were wise to come to me, Feliks. It’s what a gentleman should do, and I appreciate your courtesy.’ Dropping the hands, he threw a bearlike paw about the young man’s shoulders and eased him out of the room without allowing him to have said one sentence, and as soon as the coup
le were at the door they could hear him bellowing: ‘Von Eschl! Find the Austrian and let’s get back to work.’
‘I think he accepted the idea,’ Feliks said hopefully as he led Elzbieta along the stony corridors of this historic castle, and she agreed with him: ‘There’s hope.’
‘But he said nothing,’ Feliks reflected, and with these words he could feel Elzbieta grow curiously distant, a sensation which intensified when they met Roman coming in from a morning hunt. In some unstated way she had dissociated herself from Feliks and moved closer to Roman, and it was then that Feliks began to suspect that there might be some arrangement between his two friends and between Elzbieta and her father, so that words between the latter pair had been unnecessary.
Seeing this excellent girl in morning light, detached from him as it were, he realized what an exceptional person she was, how exquisitely ordained to be a wife: she was lively and brave, as she had shown at the sleigh ride; she was warm and affectionate, as her kisses had amply demonstrated; and she had strong character, as when she summoned her father from his work with the German baron; and she was as beautiful as a fawn in early summer when every meadow is an invitation to leaping and exploring. Elzbieta, he whispered to himself, if the answer is no, I think I shall die.
Ignacy Mniszech himself went into the kitchen to supervise preparation of the soup, a task at which he spent most of that day, absenting himself from the noontime meal so that he could avoid responding to Bukowski’s implied proposal of marriage. He spent that time slaughtering a young pig and carefully catching all its blood in a ewer, which he brought back to the kitchen, where he added vinegar and salt to the blood and set the ewer aside.
Asking the cooks for what meat stock they had, he added to it bits of cooked pork and chicken, two large handfuls of chopped vegetables, three heavy soupbones and six large dried mushrooms that he and his daughter had gathered that autumn.
‘Prunes!’ he called, and cooks hurried up with a large handful. ‘Cherries!’ and they came with a cupful of dried delicacies, which he tossed into the brew.
He tended the soup all afternoon, tasting it now and then and soliciting advice from his professionals: ‘I want this to be the best. More salt, do you think?’ When it was done to everyone’s approval, a distinguished golden Polish soup, he stirred in a large helping of crumbled honey cake to bind the various elements together.
‘An excellent soup,’ he said before the evening meal, and when he heard the guests assembling in the dining hall he divided his soup into two portions, one extremely large, the other so small that it would serve only one person, and into this latter helping he stirred the dark blood and vinegar, keeping it over the fire until it turned an ebon black.
‘Dinner!’ he shouted as he left the kitchen, and behind him came four servants bearing soup bowls for the guests, who sniffed approvingly as their rich portions of amber-colored soup were placed before them. Ignacy took the final bowl from the fourth servant and walked silently, ceremoniously to where Feliks Bukowski sat. Deftly, using both his big hands, he placed the bowl of black soup before the impetuous suitor, and when Feliks looked down at it and saw the terrible blackness he knew that his proposal of marriage had been rejected, and so did everyone else at the table.
Convention required that he make no comment, betray no emotion. Like a soldier assigned to hateful duty, he ate his black soup, cruelly aware that the soup of the others was a rich golden brown, and after Feliks had finished his bitter dish, Ignacy Mniszech, big and bald and brazen, rose and announced to his guests: ‘On this day my daughter Elzbieta is announcing her engagement to Roman Lubonski, son of my dear friend—Count Lubonski in Poland, Baron Lubonski in Austria. Wedding’s to be at the Mniszech palace in Warsaw, and you are all to attend.’
Now convention required that Feliks, his black soup obediently consumed, felicitate the engaged couple, which he did with solemn grace, raising his glass and speaking in a voice from which emotion had been excised: ‘May you enjoy unending happiness.’ But when he resumed his seat and looked dispassionately at the guests, a terrible confusion of images hovered about the long oaken table: the sleepy bear routed from his wintry cave became Poland, driven to extremity by the hunters converging upon her; the first robber whose head had to be hacked off with many blows became the map over which the other executioners pored; and lovely Elzbieta, the fairest girl he would ever know, climbed onto the narrow sleigh, holding Roman Lubonski by a silken string as if she were playing with him.
Then the images dissolved and he realized that he had been used both at the Granickis’ and now at the Mniszechs’ as a foil: the spirited young man whose courtship of the castle princesses would awaken the interest and the jealousy of the future count. He had prepared the way for Roman; his kisses had alerted Elzbieta to the important task at hand, a union of Mniszech and Lubonski.
Ignacy was speaking: ‘A century and a half ago Zofia Mniszech left Dukla to marry Cyprjan Lubonski, one of the happiest alliances in our family history. Inspired by Zofia, Count Cyprjan went on to defend Czestochowa against the Swedes and Vienna against the Turks. May this marriage with our Elzbieta encourage Count Roman, in his time, to similar braveries.’ The guests cheered and started to discuss their preparations for the wedding in Warsaw, and Feliks learned with dismay that the procession would not visit the grandest of the Lubomirski walled castles, the one at Wisnicz, on the way home. He remembered that this branch of the family had two marriageable daughters and was eager to see them on the chance that he, too, might take home a bride, but when he asked: ‘Shall we not halt at Wisnicz?’ Count Lubonski said abruptly: ‘We have much work to complete in Warsaw,’ and Feliks thought: He found a bride for his son, so to hell with me.
The Lubonski-Mniszech wedding had to be speeded, or Warsaw might disappear as the capital of a nation which no longer existed. The precise timing of Poland’s demise would depend upon the plans of the Romanoffs in Russia, the Hohenzollerns in Prussia and the Habsburgs in Vienna, but the design was so remorselessly set—like Lubonski’s and Mniszech’s design for the marriage of their children—that no reversal was possible. Poland’s future and Feliks Bukowski’s hopes were doomed.
Count Lubonski was so pleased with the way Feliks had functioned in the courtship of his son Roman—exciting Roman’s interest in Elzbieta and more or less goading him into proposing to the Mniszech girl—that he insisted upon Feliks’ attending the wedding. Following a three-week layover at Castle Gorka, the grand expedition was assembled again, with an entourage of seventy, and started for the capital.
As before, the riders left Austrian Poland and crossed the border unimpeded into old Poland, but this time there was a major difference: Feliks was taking with him his peasant Jan of the Beech Trees, a man slightly older than himself and one very wise in rural ways. This Jan had also been pondering many of the questions which had assaulted his master during the latter’s tour of luxurious palaces; he, too, wondered why his village should have been organized for the benefit of only one man, Count Lubonski, who happened to be a gentle soul but one without any feeling whatever for his peasants, and very little, so far as Jan could discern, for his various gentry like Bukowski. Jan had never seen a really sumptuous establishment like Lancut, but he had worked often at Castle Gorka and could see the vast difference between how a count lived, with his fifty horses and forty servants, and how his peasants lived, with meat once a year, a new suit of clothes once every ten years, little medicine and less education.
Therefore, when, on the way north, Feliks dropped a word here or there concerning Poland and its future, Jan listened carefully, and gradually became aware that his master was concerned about many of the problems that troubled him, and after they had passed Pulawy, where the Czartoryskis had expressed vivid hopes for a new Poland in which even peasants would have rights, Jan felt bold enough to ask: ‘When will these good things begin to happen?’ and Feliks had to confess: ‘Never. I think that soon there will be no Poland.’ And for many miles, as
ice thinned in the beautiful valley of the Vistula, these two discussed the impending fate of what had once been their homeland, and Feliks laid forth his anxiety:
‘I think Poland will be destroyed by her protectors. I think that in these days, when we’re building a fine new state marked by real freedom and not the Golden Freedom of a few, we will be engulfed by a new deluge and erased forever. The other nations hate us not because we’re backward but because we lead the procession. Every good thing we do imperils them and they will have to strike us down.’
Jan, lacking Bukowski’s education and sophistication, could not appreciate much of his master’s thinking but he certainly comprehended the basic argument, which he expressed forcibly in his own terms:
‘It isn’t right, Pan Feliks, that I should work so hard and get so little. The Austrian king takes two weeks. The bishop takes two weeks. Count Lubonski takes six weeks. And you yourself take most of the rest. A man from Krakow came running through our village while you were gone, looking over his shoulder for the police, who followed after him three days later. He told us: “A general named Kosciuszko will bring an army to free the peasants. Be ready to join him when he comes.” I think, Pan Feliks, that if he comes, I will join him.’
Discussion along these dangerous lines halted as they approached Warsaw, and many local citizens who watched the colorful parade, with its men in ancient costume and its horses caparisoned in the old style—seventy of them to attend one bridegroom—must have thought that they were witnessing a funeral procession honoring the burial of past custom, for this kind of display was now rarely seen in the capital, which was apprehensive about its very existence.