As she spoke of the importance in Polish life of making the right alliances, by which she meant important to the magnates who in her opinion constituted Polish life, she asked one of her servants to fetch the pasted-together sheets of paper she had been preparing in her room, and when the first of these was spread upon the table she instructed the young men: ‘One of your most important stops will be at the Granicki castle. A newish family of no historic distinction, but extremely wealthy because of the brilliant marriages the three brothers made in the last generation and the even more excellent ones Kleofas has made during my lifetime. The man is exceptional, and you can learn from him the intricacies of the marriage game.’ Almost proudly she pointed to his remarkable record, commenting upon each element as she went.
‘You must notice carefully several things, Roman and Feliks. The Granickis have always lived on dangerous land in dangerous times. Their men have gone repeatedly to battle, so that many of them have had two wives or husbands, with the mighty Kleofas wearing out his fourth right now. His first wife was my aunt, Grazyna. The second important fact is that these Granickis always had large families, and in building a dynasty, a girl baby is just as valuable as a boy. Look at some of the excellent alliances those girls achieved. But the fact that supersedes all others, and the one my father drilled into me— You know, my brothers and sisters made quite wonderful marriages, but even back in the old days when our Barbara married King Zygmunt the Second, the Radziwills have always married well.
‘What was I saying? Oh, yes … the vital fact is that the Granickis in their many marriages have done well. Look at that parade of distinguished names. Ossolinski of the millions. Czartoryski of the power. And always here and there a Lubomirski to lend wealth and elegance. You know, even when one of the children strayed a little to marry into an upstart family like the German Bruhls, they chose one with new power and new money.’
The countess looked admiringly at the impeccable record of the Granickis, and with a kind of reverence, as if she were blessing them, placed her fingertips on the genealogy and said: ‘To a family like this, it doesn’t really matter what happens to Poland. It’s the family that continues.’ Then, as if to share with them the pragmatic lore which had kept the Radziwills strong through all vicissitudes, she told them: ‘Even when you’ve found your first wife, keep watching, because the probabilities are that one of these days you’ll need a second, and in our family it was often the second marriage that proved significant.’ With that powerful Radziwill forefinger, which in centuries past had so often spotted the good alliance, she pointed to the tenth child of Kleofas: ‘Katarzyna Granicka. She’ll be seventeen this year and well worth anybody’s attention.’
Even if the two young men had not participated, this tour would have been an important one for Count Lubonski, who had not visited his Ukrainian estates for several years and realized that decisions of some importance were required there, since, under the new partition, one of them now lay in Russian territory. So when he rode out of his castle grounds it was at the head of a considerable equipage: thirty servants, six wagons, two carriages, forty-four horses, two tents, a complete kitchen, a barber, a traveling laundry and seven members of the Lubonski private army.
But his major interest on the trip was not his various estates, which would be visited in turn, but the introduction of his two young men into the niceties and the history of Polish life, and as the group approached each new stop he summarized the importance of the family they were about to meet. When the beautiful low towers of Baranow became visible he said: ‘This is an excellent place to start, for it reminds us of what love can achieve. From this little castle Maria Leszczynska left to become Queen of France … Louis XV … He had a score of mistresses at the same time, some of them quite famous, I think, and we Poles didn’t approve. But he always came back to Leszczynska, for she was the woman he loved and the mother of his children. Imagine, from this small place.’
For some days they kept toward the riverbank as it traveled north to the lovely village of Pulawy, and on the evening when they were close enough to see the roofs of the various palaces, the count decided to pitch camp in an area from which they could look down at this formidable spot where so many decisions affecting Poland were being made: ‘These next days could prove the most instructive on our tour. The Czartoryskis are relentlessly striving to make their family the hereditary kings of Poland—through the line of Poniatowski—and each year their efforts grow bolder. You’ll find no girls here available for marriage. They’re being saved for alliances which can strengthen their claim to the crown.’
When servants brought the evening meal the count laughed and told the young men: ‘Perhaps I’m jealous of those brilliant plotters down there. You must judge for yourselves. Listen to them. They’re a clever lot, and although I despise their revolutionary politics, I have to admire the way they’ve magnified the power of their family. We could all learn from them.’
Pulawy was a revelation to the young men, for its great mansions were filled with scintillating members of the family, Czartoryskis and Poniatowskis alike, and it seemed to the visitors that all of them had learned degrees from Padua, or Geneva, or Oxford, or the Sorbonne. They were a dazzling lot, and one entire wing of the palace in which the travelers stayed was filled with artists and musicians from Italy and France. The library in this palace alone contained thousands of books, and Feliks learned that in a large building nearby this influential family conducted what amounted to an informal university.
But the young women of the Czartoryski family overawed both Roman and Feliks, who found many to be attractive but all to be of an intellectual level that was forbidding, and young Roman said one night to his father: They educate the daughters just as they do the sons,’ and Lubonski said: ‘A dangerous process. Never marry a Czartoryska.’
At Pulawy discussion turned sooner or later to politics, and on the last evening one of the Czartoryski men confronted Count Lubonski with a sheet of paper and a question which lay at the heart of Polish life: ‘Laskarz, tell me one thing. Why do you and your old-style friends still seek to revive the liberum veto?’
‘Because the major problem of any free government is how to protect the responsible few from the pressures of the irresponsible many. Plato knew that. So did Cicero.’
‘But look at these figures. Under King Augustus II, eighteen Seyms met, but only eight were allowed to enact any legislation.’
‘I’m sure the other ten deserved to die.’
‘Under King Augustus III, fourteen Seyms met and only one was allowed to function. Your people halted all the rest.’
‘And saved Poland from a flood of bad laws.’
‘In later years nine tried to meet, and all nine were broken up by your men. How can a nation govern itself under such circumstances?’
‘We used the veto to prevent wrong decisions, Czartoryski, and our courage saved men like you from your own folly.’
‘Are you … you handful of magnates … are you wise enough to make all the rules for Poland?’
‘We are, because only we know the value of freedom.’
‘Lubonski, talk sense! Your creatures may have broken up a Seym now and then to protect your freedom, not Poland’s, but what about those that were broken up with the money of some foreign power, to protect their interests, not Poland’s?’
‘That never happened.’
Coldly, bitterly, the facts were set forth: ‘In 1730 France paid the Bishop of Smolen sixty thousand livres to negate all the good work that the Seym had accomplished. A few years later Russia paid Granicki forty thousand rubles to do the same for it. Not long ago Prussia paid Pasek fifteen thousand ducats. And God knows how many thalers Austria paid her agents in the Seym to render it futile.’
Lubonski ignored this terrible indictment, turning instead to one of his and Poland’s strongest points: ‘Look at it this way, Czartoryski. What is the biggest complaint we have right now from our neighbors? That their peasants are flo
oding into Poland, depriving their owners of valuable property. And why do they come to us like an unending plague of locusts? Because they know that Poland is free and their homelands are not.’
From Pulawy—memories of which lingered even as they headed eastward, for in this little village men discussed matters which gnawed at the soul—the travelers proceeded to two of the major Lubonski estates, the mansion at Ostroleka and the name-castle at Lubon, where only agricultural business was conducted. But when they resumed their journey, there was much exciting talk about the approaching halt at the walled town of Zamosc, where the other radical family centered, the noble Zamoyskis. ‘I do not like them,’ the count said as they approached the town, ‘but at various crises in our history some Zamoyski has stepped forward to save the nation, so we owe them respect. Of course,’ he added sardonically, ‘when the danger passed we found that somehow or other the Zamoyski in question had acquired seven more villages and two thousand more serfs. They own most of this part of Poland.’
They stayed eight days with this powerful clan, one much ruder than the cultivated Czartoryskis, but just as Feliks was about to relegate the Zamoyskis to a lower stratum, he learned that two men in the family had been rectors of Italian universities. ‘They’re different,’ the count explained when they were alone one night. ‘I would never want you to marry a Zamoyska … far too unreliable … new ideas all the time. But I think that in a time of crisis like this, they should be listened to.’ Laughing, he added: ‘What I’m advising is, listen to the men but don’t look at the women.’
His counsel was unneeded. There were three Zamoyski girls of marriageable age, but it was painfully obvious that each considered the two young men much too bucolic and uninformed, and what conversation there was centered on the recent partition and was carried on by the elders.
‘Do you think there will be another?’ Lubonski asked.
‘Without question,’ Zamoyski said. ‘Prussia and Russia are rapacious, so for us it’s merely a question of “Will they bring Austria in this time?” and if they do, “Where will we wind up, in Austria or Russia?”’
‘What is your thinking?’
‘Well, I know you’re an Austrian at heart, Lubonski, and I know you feel that Habsburg rule is on the whole congenial, but I tend to think that the future lies with Russia. More excitement … more energy … more … You’ll laugh at this, but I see Russia as having more poetry and music, and any nation which has them in abundance lasts a long time. I hear damned little singing in Austria.’
Lubonski could not accept this: ‘Wait! Wait! Vienna has the greatest musicians in the world—the operas, the symphonies, the little groups.’
‘Paid music, yes,’ Zamoyski agreed, ‘but the music of the soul, no.’
‘If there is another partition, where do you suppose Zamosc … your castles and mine, that is, where will they land?’
‘I … think …’ He paused a long time, obviously not happy with his alternatives. ‘I … suppose … Austria.’
‘I’m relieved,’ Lubonski said, and the wise old man who had charted the Zamoyski course for many years nodded: ‘I was sure you would be. Will you be moving to Vienna?’
‘I doubt it,’ Lubonski said. ‘You know they’ve made me a baron there. But I’m sure my son here will in due course. As soon as he’s married … after he finds his bride, that is.’
In the awkward pause Zamoyski made no attempt to propose one of his granddaughters, for he knew that none would want to ally herself with these reactionary rural men, and two days later the visitors departed, with Roman and Feliks expressing no regrets.
They were excited by the prospects of the next stop, for there they would meet for the first time the mighty Granicki family, including the legendary Kleofas of the four wives and ten children. As they approached the huge, stumpy, thick-walled Radzyn Castle that had withstood half a dozen sieges, Lubonski told them: ‘You saw my wife’s chart. I have nothing to add except that Kleofas has always been strongly in the pay of the Russians, so let’s not speak well of Austria.’
But minutes after they met him, huge, bulky, head-shaven Kleofas growled from beneath his monstrous mustaches: ‘By God, Lubonski, I wish my estates had fallen into Austrian hands rather than Russian. You were damned lucky. Catherine has stolen two of my best lands from me and I’m worried sick trying to protect my other two from her rapacity.’
The young men liked Kleofas from the moment they saw him; he was an epitome of the old Poland, for he dressed in the style of the 1400s in long, sweeping cloaks covered with embroidery and chains, and he talked in that style too, with many round oaths and recollections of battle. Six of his children were sharing the castle with him at the moment, each in his or her own suite of gusty rooms adorned with wall hangings from the past, and one of them was the unmarried daughter Katarzyna, seventeen and charming in her various costumes, also in the style of the 1400s. She was the daughter of Kleofas’ fourth wife, a Lubonska who had the grace which characterized that family and who had passed it along to Katarzyna.
As soon as Feliks saw her he was enchanted, for she was a delightful young woman, her hair in long braids, her smile unusually free and warm. There was, however, a distraction: in the castle at this moment was a young member of the Lubomirski family who had been studying in both Geneva and Paris. He was a year older than Roman, which made him two years older than Feliks and infinitely older in charm and learning. His name was Ryszard—Richard he called himself when traveling abroad—and it was obvious that since he had come to court the charming Katarzyna, Feliks was not going to stand much chance.
But there was a major reversal during the first dinner at the castle, an affair for thirty, because young Lubomirski appeared in the French style of dress rather than the old Polish style favored by the Granickis, and from the moment he entered the large room with the glistening mirrors there was trouble. Kleofas roared: ‘Who brings women’s clothes into this castle?’ and young Ryszard affected not to have heard the gibe. This amused Kleofas, and he bellowed to his wife: ‘Jadwiga, we have an extra woman for dinner tonight.’ At this the various wives snickered behind fists held to their mouths, whereupon Kleofas shouted: ‘Let’s see what she wears underneath!’ And before his wife could halt him, the huge man had leaped from his chair, grabbed Lubomirski from behind, and started shouting for his sons to help him strip away the offensive French clothing.
Two of the Granickis joined their father, who despite the screams of his women ripped away Lubomirski’s jacket and shirt and trousers, leaving him in the skimpiest possible covering. ‘Now,’ roared the head of the Granickis, ‘we have a true Pole at our table.’
Feliks could not keep from staring at his rival and wondering what he would do in such a situation, and he was astonished at how Lubomirski handled it. Flushed, but showing no anger whatever, he resumed his seat at the big table, reached for his glass of wine and half-toasted each of his aggressors, then sat back waiting to be served. Old Kleofas watched the performance, again leaped from his chair, ripped down a drapery from one of the windows, threw it about the bare shoulders of his guest and embraced him, kissing him on both cheeks. ‘By God, you’re a true Lubomirski. You’ll get the first cut of lamb.’ And onto the young man’s plate he heaped a large slab of meat.
Now for the first time Katarzyna spoke, sharply, directly at her father: ‘I have told Ryszard that I am like the women of the Czartoryski and Zamoyski families. I will marry no man who continues to dress in the old style.’
‘Then you will never get married,’ Kleofas roared, ‘for I will have no son in this castle who wears French clothing!’
‘Good!’ Katarzyna snapped, her eyes blazing. ‘You can fit me for a nun tomorrow.’
Kleofas reached over, slapped a chunk of lamb on her plate and growled: ‘Eat it and keep quiet.’ Then he burst into loud laughter, pointing with his carving knife at young Lubomirski: ‘By God, he looks like a Roman senator, but at least he don’t look French.’
; By the time the visit ended, Feliks Bukowski was hopelessly in love with Katarzyna, and the thought of leaving her in the castle with a competitor as attractive as Lubomirski depressed him, but when the Lubonski caravan was preparing to start eastward toward the endless expanse of the Ukraine, Kleofas surprised everyone by announcing that he was moving his own visit forward and would be traveling with them as far as Lwow. To the delight of Feliks, he said also that Katarzyna would go with him, for it was time that she saw her eastern estates.
It was an extraordinary convocation that Kleofas Granicki put together for his regal passage: a hundred and sixty horsemen, tents galore, kitchens, a priest, a tutor for his daughter, and enough servants to staff a major hotel. A German traveler seeing the departure from Radzyn wrote: ‘Granicki has two hundred and thirteen separate stalls for his horses and eleven books. He knows the name of every horse but the title of no book.’
What made the procession memorable was that on his visits to his Ukrainian estates—through marriage he had acquired half a dozen in the other parts of Poland—Kleofas dressed all his horsemen in Tatar costume, and when they reached the great plains he liked to have them charge, shouting and firing their guns and yelling battle cries as they approached any village. It made a brave show, and often he rode along at the forefront, his flowing mustaches making him look like a Tatar on a rampage. Of course, he had terrified the villagers in the old days, and in several cases peasants had fired at him to protect their homes, thinking the invasion a real one. Now members of his entourage slipped ahead to warn the people on the lonely wastelands: ‘Kleofas Granicki is riding again. Lots of noise but no real bullets.’ And when he galloped up to the edges of the villages, women were apt to be waiting there with their children to see the crazy magnate.
The last snow of winter covered the ground when the Granicki-Lubonski expedition approached the ancient town of Przemysl, and once the San River was crossed, Feliks was astounded by what this amazing Kleofas did next: from the direction of Lwow came a camel corps of sixty riders, also in Tatar uniform, also firing their guns and shouting battle cries. They were the honor guard of the Granickis for entry into the Ukraine, and during the entire visit this corps would ride with them.
Poland: A Novel Page 32