Poland

by James A. Michener

  Lubonski dealt constantly with members of some forty different national minorities: the able Hungarians, who were almost the majority; the fractious Croatians; the Italians, whom no one could discipline; the Rumanians, thirsting for their freedom; the Transylvanians, caught in a vise between more powerful groups; the Bohemians, keeping Prague in uproar; the Slovaks, insisting upon their own entity; the Wends; the Ruthenians; the Slovenes; the Montenegrin fragment; the Bosnians; the Germans of Silesia, who felt themselves oppressed; the agitators from Bukovina, from Temesvar, from Teschen, from Carniola and the Trentino. And always, in the back of his mind, the special problems of the Poles, who occupied Galicia; they were in some respects the strongest, ablest members of this amorphous empire, and he had been chosen for this difficult assignment of keeping all in balance primarily because he was a Pole.

  The emperor had advised his councillors: ‘Lubonski is a Pole, and they’re damned difficult, but he’s also a gentleman. Vast estates. I’m told he keeps ten thousand Ukrainians on his fields. He’ll understand minority problems.’ Several of his German advisers had counseled against bringing a Pole into the highest levels of what was still essentially a German government, Austrian style: ‘We’ve made concessions to the Hungarians, and we’re no stronger for it. We’ve granted the Czechs and Slovaks what they wanted, and if we promote this Lubonski …’

  As with the tearing down of the ancient walls, the emperor had his way, and the Pole Lubonski was brought into the government. It was a sagacious move, for every complaining faction of the empire now felt that with a Pole in charge of their affairs, they would get at least a decent hearing: ‘For is he not himself a member of a client state, like us?’

  With a gloved hand, the count slid back a glass partition separating him from the coachman. ‘Karl Peter, if Bukowski is at his coffeehouse, I should like to speak with him.’

  ‘Yes, Excellency.’

  The carriage continued along the Ring past the university, then pulled into the garden of a fine old building housing one of the better coffeehouses of the city—Landtmann’s, a brocaded, chandeliered refuge where hot chocolate, European newspapers and gossip were provided. Karl Peter, going to the entrance hat in hand, inquired of the doorman: ‘Is Herr Bukowski, the young Pole, is he in attendance?’

  ‘He is,’ the doorman said, pointing to a blue-and-cream fiacre whose public driver dozed while his fare disported himself inside. ‘That’s the one he always hires.’

  ‘Please to advise him that Count Lubonski would like to speak with him. In the count’s carriage.’

  At the mention of this respected name the doorman drew himself up to a haughty position, nodded toward the carriage, whose curtains were still drawn, and hurried inside the coffeehouse. In a moment he appeared with a young man of slight build, trim mustache and well-pressed, modish suit. In his hurry to report to the count, the young fellow had merely thrown about his shoulders an overcoat made of English wool, and with bare head he half-ran toward the carriage, whose door opened invitingly as he approached.

  ‘Come in, Wiktor,’ a voice said, and with one continuous, graceful movement the young man entered the carriage and took a seat opposite the count.

  ‘How was Budapest?’ he asked.

  ‘As always. Music good. Food very good. Countesses the most beautiful in Europe. Politics …’ He shrugged his slim shoulders. ‘As always, the worst in Europe.’

  ‘Can I be of service, Excellency?’ Wiktor Bukowski did not work in Count Lubonski’s ministry; he held a minor position in the Ministry of Agriculture, where he was appreciated as an expert on horses, but as a young Pole new to the capital, he naturally fell under the supervision of the count, who utilized him now and then on farming matters and instructed him in the ways of the imperial city.

  ‘The emperor had a message awaiting me when the Budapest boat docked. Seems there’s a gentleman from the Banat with an urgent problem.’

  ‘I’ve met him, Excellency. Man named Pilic. He’s stopping at Sacher’s.’

  Lubonski frowned. It had been his experience that self-important agitators from the provinces always stopped at Sacher’s Hotel near the opera and took their sweets at Demel’s near the Hofburg, and more frequently than he cared to remember, these enthusiastic patriots had tried to lure him to one of those establishments for discussions of pressing problems. It had become a matter of pride with him never to have entered either the hotel or the pastry shop: ‘They are for visitors, not for those who do the work of empire.’

  He could visualize this Herr Pilic from the Banat. ‘You don’t have to describe him, Wiktor. Small, thin man. Heavy suit made from Rumanian wool. Leans forward when he speaks. Has moist hands when he greets you. Thinks he’s in heaven because he’s in Vienna. But desperately wants to take Banat out of the empire.’ He shook his head dolefully. ‘I really do not care to see him.’

  ‘I’m afraid you must, Excellency. He’s come a long distance.’

  Lubonski sighed. Everyone who wished to see him in Vienna had come a long distance, because that was the nature of the Austrian Empire. It was a very long, dusty train ride to Croatia, much longer to the remote corners of Transylvania, and in some ways the longest of all from Vienna to Prague, which was not distant in miles but infinitely separated in ideas.

  The Banat of Temesvar was a small territory wedged into a corner by Rumania, Hungary, Transylvania, Serbia and Croatia, abused by all, defended by none. Herr Pilic, judging by his name, was probably of Rumanian descent and had come, no doubt, to complain against his Hungarian oppressors. His mission must be serious, for the emperor himself had directed Lubonski to listen to his protests.

  ‘Fetch him to my house,’ Lubonski said. ‘Half after six, sharp.’

  ‘Yes, Excellency. You would not care to stop by his hotel right now?’

  Lubonski did not change his expression. ‘I do not stop by hotels.’ And he kicked open the door, indicating that Bukowski was dismissed, but before the younger man could leave, the count reached for his arm and said warmly: ‘The countess and I will be expecting you tonight, after the concert.’

  ‘I shall be honored. I shall be deeply honored, Excellency.’ And while Bukowski returned to the warmth of Landtmann’s and his London newspaper, Lubonski directed his coachmen to take him home.

  Now he pulled aside the curtain on the right-hand side of his carriage, for he was approaching that string of noble buildings which made the Ring so distinctive, and he wanted to see them. As he passed them he experienced once more that inner warmth which suffused him when he reflected that he played a major role in the governance of this city and the empire which it represented. As a Pole he missed the Vistula, and his castle, and his vast estates in Galicia, and the winter visits to Warsaw, but in Vienna there were compensations, and now he approached one of them.

  For after his Lippizaners, noticed favorably by all who appreciated good horses, had drawn him past the splendid museums, they reached the opera, that crystal-pure little heart of the city, loved by all who loved Vienna, and there they turned north into Kärntnerstrasse, and for the first time in his journey from the boat Lubonski saw ahead of him the noble spire of St. Stephen’s Cathedral, seven hundred years old and the beaconlike center of the city.

  A light snow had begun to fall, throwing a blanket of silver over the ancient church, and Lubonski directed Karl Peter to halt the carriage so that he might savor this lovely sight. Then, with a knock on the partition, he indicated that the coachmen should proceed. They drove only four short blocks, then turned right into a small, distinguished, almost private thoroughfare labeled on the corner Annagasse. Had it been a wide street, it would have been called Annastrasse; its present name signified an alley or a very narrow street, and this it was.

  It contained, close to the cathedral, some of the finest small houses in Vienna, three- and four-story affairs, severe in façade, soberly austere in the courtyard, interiors often magnificent in their muted splendor. With quiet satisfaction Lubonski checke
d off the houses in his alley, visualizing the notable families that lived therein, and finally, at the end of the row, on the right-hand side, he came to a modest house, its front occupying every available inch of sidewalk, its stone plaque proclaiming in the style used two centuries before, when street names were not jumbled together:

  ANNA GASSE

  22

  1648

  It had been an old house when King Jan Sobieski marched down from Krakow to save the city from the Turks, and under its cellar there was still a deep cavern dug by the Turkish sappers who had planned to blow up the city with their huge deposits of gunpowder.

  Now came the moment that Lubonski relished whenever he returned from a trip to Hungary or Bohemia or Croatia. Karl Peter rang a bell attached to the carriage. Servants inside the house ran to the two huge gates, swinging them aside. The horses left Annagasse and drew the carriage inside, where a very large square, not visible from the street, was paved with blocks of oak rather than stone, the purpose being to muffle the sounds of hoofbeats.

  Many Viennese houses and minor palaces had such courtyards, with twenty or thirty rooms wrapping around the area, but what distinguished Lubonski’s 22 Annagasse was the wall that faced the visitor when he entered, for during the past hundred years servants had carefully pruned a huge pyracantha bush into a magnificent espalier which bifurcated beautifully left and right as if drawn by some master designer. One set of branches outlined the windows of the first floor, another emphasized the second floor, and a third, high against the wall, crept under the windows of the fourth floor.

  Even in late spring, when the plant seemed rather drab, it provided a grand design, but in autumn and winter, when it produced a multitude of bright orange berries, it was a thing of splendor. Now, at Christmas, with light snow festooning the leaves and the berries, it was stunning, and the count stood in the courtyard for some minutes, appraising it and thinking of how fortunate he was that his great-grandfather had bought this perfect place years ago when the Lubonski part of Poland first fell under Austrian control. His family had owned this house for more than a century; his servants had brought this pyracantha to its present state of perfection; and he sometimes thought that it was this sturdy plant whose roots tied him so strongly to Vienna.

  Leaving the courtyard, he hurried inside, ran upstairs, greeted his wife, Katarzyna, and called for a bath. ‘I’m to meet some dismal fellow from Temesvar. Yes, here. Then we go to the concert. And I hope you’ve invited the musicians for dinner afterward.’

  His wife, a daughter of the great Zamoyski family whose estates since 1815 had been in Russia, enjoyed sitting on a stool in the bathroom while her husband bathed, for then she knew that she could command his unbroken attention, and now she smiled at him and asked if his meetings had prospered in Budapest.

  ‘Famously. If I weren’t a Pole, I’d enjoy being a Hungarian. Robbers both.’

  ‘Who’s the man from Temesvar?’

  ‘A Herr Pilic. Rumanian, I judge.’

  ‘But why here?’

  ‘He’s stopping at Sacher’s, and I refuse to conduct business in hotels.’ He paused. ‘You remember, I’m to wear my Hungarian uniform tonight. To show that in Vienna, I pay them the same respect I do in Budapest.’

  Lubonski, like all members of the imperial cabinet, owned twenty-odd different resplendent uniforms. Some pertained to historic Austrian regiments, but more than half were gold-and-silver-and-bronze-decorated uniforms of foreign governments: Russian, German, French, English and one dazzling affair from Italy. It was international courtesy for an Austrian official to appear in the uniform of any visiting king or prince, and Lubonski always honored this convention, except that he was ill at ease in the Italian uniform, since the northern section of Italy had so recently broken away from Austria.

  More important, in view of his particular responsibilities, were the eight or nine gaudy uniforms of the various components of the empire; if he entertained Polish officials, he customarily donned Polish dress; Bohemians were honored by seeing him in their national costume; and Slovaks were similarly respected. Patrician in all aspects, he graced any uniform he wore, but the one which gave him solid pleasure was the Hungarian.

  As he left his tub his wife withdrew, leaving the dressing of her husband to his servant, and this man toweled his master, powdered his feet, attended his hair, and led him to where a gorgeous assembly of clothing, medals, daggers and swords awaited.

  When his underpants were adjusted, the valet doing the work, he slipped into the skintight suede trousers, then the knee-length woolen socks that would fold down over the calf-length elk-leather boots from Bohemia. He chose a lightweight silk blouse, subtly embroidered in pale-red and blue designs, with a silver clasp at the high ribbed collar. His jacket was of Hungarian peasant pattern, heavily brocaded and rather florid when compared to the tasteful blouse. He wore a cap made in Budapest, a tricorn affair topped by egret feathers, and about his shoulders he draped a leopard skin, beautifully finished and fastened with three silver frogs.

  Resplendent as he was, he was not yet fully costumed, for a wide sash pulled everything together, whereupon his valet slipped into the stocking of his left leg a sheathed dagger ten inches long, while into the folds of the sash Lubonski himself fastened a long sword with a gold-and-silver handle.

  He presented a dashing figure when all parts were given last-minute adjustments by the valet, who said admiringly: ‘The emperor himself will applaud you this night.’

  He received a less enthusiastic welcome from Herr Pilic when he entered the drawing room at six-thirty: ‘My God, Your Excellency! I came all the way to Vienna to protest against the Hungarians, and here you are, a Hungarian nobleman.’

  Lubonski enjoyed such sallies and explained: ‘Yesterday in Budapest, I gave the Hungarians nothing they wanted. Tonight in Vienna, I give them this.’ He pointed to his shimmering uniform, then asked politely: ‘And what can I give you, Herr Pilic?’

  ‘The Hungarians, they treat us like peasants.’

  ‘Sit down, please.’ Lubonski ordered wine, but told the butler: ‘No tokay, please. Herr Pilic does not enjoy things Hungarian.’

  ‘What I don’t like,’ Pilic said, ‘is the way in which the Hungarians abuse your imperial government. Your Excellency, they take everything from you and give nothing to us.’

  Lubonski chuckled. ‘No one has ever said it better, Herr Pilic. The Hungarians badger us day and night for what they call their freedoms. Heavens, they run the empire. But always they want more. Yet they treat their own minorities like swine. Slovaks come to me crying complaints about them. Rumanians, Transylvanians, Croats, Slavonians … it’s always the same: “The damned Hungarians are persecuting us.” What can the emperor do? Tell me, please.’

  ‘The Banat of Temesvar must be an independent unit within the empire.’

  Lubonski called for an atlas, and when its large pages were unfolded he pointed to the Banat, a mere speck within the vast complexity of Austria’s responsibility: ‘Herr Pilic, look for yourself. What you ask is an impossibility. We can’t fragment this great empire.’

  When Pilic started to remonstrate, Lubonski stopped him. Pointing now to huge Galicia, many times the size of the Banat, he said: ‘Look at my Poland. A huge territory. But we exist within the empire.’

  ‘You don’t have Hungarians on your necks.’

  ‘True.’ The count leaned back, keeping the atlas on his knees, and said in the most conciliatory way: ‘Pilic, share with me your honest thoughts. I need your counsel. What do you think should be done?’

  ‘May I speak frankly?’

  ‘You’ve come very far to waste your time, otherwise.’

  Without waiting for the servant, Pilic poured himself a large drink, gulped a good portion of it, and said: ‘A confederation. Each natural nation on its own. The Banat. Croatia. Bohemia. Carniola. Hungary off to itself.’ When he saw Lubonski frowning he added quickly: ‘Poland too. Poland a nation of its own.’

 
Lubonski showed no change of expression, for he suspected that Herr Pilic might have been sent by his German enemies within the government to test his loyalty. Ringing for the servant to pour additional drinks, he said quietly: ‘So far as I know, there is no outcry for a Polish state. Or for one in Carniola. Or Bohemia.’

  ‘There is great unrest in Bohemia, Excellency. You must know that.’

  ‘One out of ten thousand does not constitute great unrest, Herr Pilic’

  ‘If he is the right one, he does.’

  ‘I am not aware of any great demand for a separate state in the Banat.’

  ‘But you must be aware of our anger over the oppression we suffer from the Hungarians. They are not easy people to live with, Excellency. You know that. They are hell to live under.’

  ‘Would the Rumanians be any better masters? Or the Slovaks?’

  ‘Why must we have any masters?’

  Lubonski pondered this difficult question, so common in the empire these days, and replied gently: ‘Because that is the way God has ordained this part of Europe.’ And he placed his left hand on the map so that it covered most of the Austrian Empire.

  ‘When you dress like a Hungarian, Excellency, you talk like one.’

  ‘Tonight I am Hungarian.’

  ‘So my visit is a waste of time?’

  ‘No!’ Lubonski cried, throwing the atlas aside and rising to his feet. ‘Herr Pilic, you shall meet all my subordinates. Right after Christmas. And they shall listen to your complaints, and if justice is required, you will get it.’

  With his leopard skin falling gracefully over his tunic, the count placed his arm about his visitor’s shoulders and walked him to the door, assuring him as he went that he had arranged this extraordinary meeting in his home because the emperor himself had requested it. ‘The Banat of Temesvar may be small, Herr Pilic, but it is never lost in our conscience.’

  ‘It’s an honor to talk with someone who knows where it is.’