Stanislaw
A Fateful Meeting
Warsaw, 1749
I feel the gentle pressure of my body on the featherbed as if it is someone else lying here and I am floating above, watching. What a foolish young man that is, hating the autumn light that creeps through the window. He has never understood anything, even less now. Educated, yes, learned beyond reason, but true understanding — how can he understand anything when he has never had a real friend. What does all his knowledge and rational thinking gain him beyond a puzzlement with the world that has chased him into this room, this bed. His tutors cannot help him now. His Maman draws the curtains each morning to show him that the world waits outside and each morning he closes his eyes against the light and the world.
“I am afraid for him, Sta
ek,” Maman whispers by the door outside the room, but I can hear. My senses have become acute after endless days of lying here with my eyes shut. “He recovers from one illness and falls prey to the next. And he is not trying any longer. He doesn’t want to get better.”
“He is a strong boy, Konya, do not upset yourself.” His voice is steady, but I know Papa is worried. He is an old soldier and doesn’t allow himself the luxury of showing fear. “He is too much inside himself, Konya. Brooding on philosophy and art makes him melancholy, and melancholy brings him to… this. He would benefit from the company of young men who ride. The air would do him good.”
Maman disagrees wordlessly. It was she who kept me solitary from the beginning of my childhood. My books were my companions. Her duty was to oversee my education and ensure that I grew into a fitting member of the Familia. Other children were foolish and unschooled and would corrupt my forming mind. I cannot say she was wrong. I can say only that my education was joyless, for I was never allowed the time to be a child. It is as if one took the month of April out of the year.
I will not blame my present illness on my upbringing, yet there was another time when I was twelve and on the verge of manhood. By then I was being educated by the very liberal Theatine Fathers in the spirit of the Enlightenment. Count Keyserling, an old family friend, gave me lessons in logic and mathematics, a Freemason taught me military studies, and my spiritual instructor believed in predestination. Was it any wonder that my mind became overloaded with fashionable concepts and I had a breakdown at that tender age, struggling with the basic contradiction: how to resolve the idea of predestination with the question of free will?
If all is decided ahead of time and fate is predetermined, what is the point of trying to do anything? Any action one takes is futile and pointless, and the wise man accepts his lot with resignation. Yet we seem to live our lives making decisions as if they are ours to make. Over the years, my cloud of confusion has floated skywards, and even now at eighteen I sense its presence but it no longer troubles me. Then what is this ennui that has grasped me in its tentacles until I feel I cannot breathe? No, it is not confusion. It is… meaninglessness. What is the point? If I am meant to keep breathing, I suppose I shall. But for what? Despite Maman’s piety, she has not managed to pass her faith on to me. But the idea of fate, a corollary of her religion, has somehow entered my soul and found an unlikely home. Logic seems to be of no avail; no rational word I tell myself will penetrate my childhood lessons.
One evening while I lie here pretending to be dead, I hear a second male voice, Count Keyserling, whispering outside my door. “My dear Count Poniatowski, while I was Minister in Berlin, I made the acquaintance of an exceptional physician, Dr. Lieberkühn. He has worked wonders where others have failed. Send the boy to Berlin so that he can be placed under this doctor’s care.”
“But to go alone to a strange city…” Maman begins.
“I am certain that our mutual friend, Count Bülow, will keep an eye on him while he is away from home.”
What is the point, Count Keyserling, I would say if I could speak. We cannot change anything. Yet perhaps that is part of the plan, that I go to the Prussian capital to search for my destiny.
I imagine Maman looking over at me, sighing that her favourite child should be taken from her.
Dr. Lieberkühn is indeed a remarkable physician, part chemist, part magician. I spend most of the winter and spring in his tender care. Perhaps because he wants nothing from me, I respond. Then to garner his approval, I will my body to heal itself. Even so, I cannot say that in his hands alone lies the secret of my recovery. Escape from home has played its part since it has pulled me out of the tedium of Polish politics that never fails to oppress me whilst in the stern employ of my uncle Michael. But perhaps the greatest credit for my newfound spirits ought to go to a stranger, the British Minister in Berlin, a man I have never set eyes on before.
We have all come to dine at the house of Count Bülow, who presents me to one illustrious guest at a time.
“Sir Charles Hanbury-Williams, this is Count Stanislaw Poniatowski, the son of an old friend.” The Englishman is a large, well-dressed man wearing an expensive wig.
“I recently made the acquaintance of your brother Kazimierz,” he says, “and we became great friends. There is quite a difference in ages between you, I see. You’re more Digby’s age.” He turns to the young man beside him. “Count, I’d like you to meet the nephew of a dear friend, Harry Digby, who is also my secretary. You two will get on famously.”
Both their faces beam at me with such open friendliness that I feel at ease at once. It is the most cheerful reception I have received since arriving in Berlin months before.
When we go to table, Sir Charles sits down on my right, Digby on my left. The older man refuses nothing that is set before him, expressing such exuberant wit at the sight of the soup, the duck, the pudding, that all around him are in high spirits. A prodigious appetite accompanies his wit.
At first he prods me with the usual questions about my stay in Berlin — have I had the opportunity to admire the view of the river Spree, or ride upon the grand alleé of Unter den Linden, the magnificent main avenue lined on both sides with linden trees in full leaf? Have I seen the deer in the Tiergarten? Once he has heard the frankness of my answers — yes, the river, the trees, the deer are all they should be, but Berlin seems a drab place where the men are perpetually absent on active service while the ladies suffer from a surfeit of Voltaire — he begins to favour me with asides that our neighbours are not meant to hear.
“What is your impression of the great Frederick?” he asks, as if my opinion is the one he has been waiting for.
I wonder how far my frankness can go. “His court is not what I expected, though he, himself, is the cleverest of men.”
Draining his wineglass he replies, “Do not hesitate to tell me your true thoughts, young Count — I can tell you have them — for I am bored with insipid, invariably magnanimous opinions.”
Count Bülow and M. Gross, the Russian Minister, are engaged in their own conversation. I must admit I am flattered by Sir Charles’s attention and try to impress.
“I have met with Frederick twice and both times I’ve found him looking haggard and anxious. His eyes are dark from fatigue and his clothes in need of washing. He is always trying to be more brilliant than everyone else and has the embarrassed air of a man who fears he’s failing.”
Sir Charles watches me with interest. “You are an astute observer — your conclusions happen to exactly coincide with my own. I find Frederick the completest tyrant that God ever sent as a scourge to an offending people. His ambition and treachery know no bounds. He thinks nothing of plunging all of Europe into bloody war.” He quickly peers around. “Count Bülow has given us a holiday from the Prussians this evening, leaving them off the guest list tonight.”
Harry Digby adds, “Yet Frederick is held in affection by many of the common people, Sir Charles. They call him unser Fritz, our Fritz.”
Sir Charles sniffs at this but keeps his voice low. “The basest of rulers have their followers. But do not doubt that he is an absolute Prince — his people tremble before him and detest his iron government. Why, no man can sell an estate, marry a child, or go out of this town, without special leave.”
Count Bülow suddenly turns his attention to us. “Sir Charles, I hear you were presented to the Queen Mother last night.”
My table companion delivers a smile. “Charming woman, Her Sacred Majesty, Sophia. I cannot complain of my reception there — to be sure she is our Sovereign’s sister. She welcomed me warmly at her residence, Mon Bijou — indeed a jewel on the banks of the Spree. We spent some agreeable hours walking in the gardens, then she did me the honour of asking me to stay to supper. The lady is adept at cards and won forty florins from me.”
“I hear that you, also, are adept at cards, Sir Charles,” Count Bülow says. “I salute your generosity.”
“I salute your diplomacy,” M. Gross adds with a wink.
“I’m afraid my diplomacy has not won over the son,” says Sir Charles. “It is unfortunate the mother has no influence with him. I hear he resides so much at Potsdam on account of her presence in Berlin. When a son does not love his mother, I cannot expect deference from his court, though King George be his uncle. Did I say? — the Prussian Minister tried to provoke me with an insult to the King, days after my arrival. They have been even worse to poor M. Gross because he represents Muskovy. He is ignored at court, sometimes rudely on account of the enmity between Frederick and the Empress Elizabeth.”
M. Gross shuffles nervously in his seat, but Sir Charles continues.
“His Prussian Majesty cannot bear powerful women since they’re not apt to throw themselves at his feet. Needless to say, the Empress despises him back. As a gentleman I cannot repeat the names that have burst from his mouth when he speaks of the Tsarina.”
M. Gross changes the subject. “Sir Charles, have you encountered any of the Jacobite colony living in Berlin? I hear there’s quite a nest of them here.”
Harry Digby notices my look of puzzlement and whispers, “Those who follow the Prince Charles Edward Stuart, the Catholic heir to King James. They plot to overthrow King George.”
“Indeed,” Sir Charles says, “I have been warned to avoid the Scotsman George Keith for that very reason, and when I met him at the Prussian Minister’s house the other evening, I put on a sullen dignity and ate my pudding and held my tongue.”
“I believe he has a brother James,” Count Bülow says.
Sir Charles gives an ironic smile. “He is a different matter. As Field-Marshal he may be useful company for he must know the whereabouts of the elusive Prince Charles. Once he is said to be in Venice, next someone has spotted him in France. I will spend an evening drinking punch with James and his Livonian mistress. Her home is Riga, and therefore under the ken of Muskovy.”
M. Gross’s eyebrow goes up.
“We would really learn something of the Prince’s movements if the Tsarina could be induced to have the Livonian mistress summoned to Petersburg where —how shall I put it — measures could be taken to make her speak.”
I hear several intakes of breath around the table. Sir Charles takes them in stride, almost relishes the shock, I believe. He continues.
“Such is beyond the realm of diplomacy and I shudder to imagine… But I believe that the fair lady is recipient of all the Field-Marshal’s secrets. What say you, M. Gross? Your Tsarina does not shrink from using spies.”
M. Gross chooses his words carefully. “The internal affairs of sovereign nations are beyond the ken of the Empress,” he says, “and she studiously avoids meddling for fear of embarrassing herself.”
“Yes, of course,” Sir Charles mutters, winking furtively toward Harry and me.
Unhappily, soon after Sir Charles’s arrival in Berlin, it is time for me to return to Warsaw. The Familia is busy preparing for the Polish Diet, which will sit in August. They insist on me standing for election but I find the whole business tedious. There has not been a Diet in recent memory that has managed to rise above party divisions long enough to pass any legislation. So it is with this one. Polish rule of law allows any one man one veto, to dissolve parliament. A fierce jealousy among the nobles has placed foreign kings on the Polish throne for too long. Poles would rather kneel to an outsider than trust one of their own, who would be a rival. The whole business is a travesty and embarrassment on the world stage and the source of my disaffection with any role in government.
The same day parliament is dissolved, Sir Charles and Harry Digby arrive in Warsaw, to my delight.
Though I need no incentive, the Familia has encouraged me to cultivate Sir Charles as the representative of England, a country whose support they covet. It is easy to court Sir Charles because of his wit and generous disposition. I call on him in the mornings and take him to lunch with my uncle August Czartoryski or to dinner with my sister at the Branicki Palace. He has made fast friends with my father, who has impressed him with his energy at nearly four score years.
Sir Charles is called back to Berlin in September. I am very sorry to see him leave and promise to send him regular missives. Soon enough I receive a letter from him, which begins, “Mon cher Palatinello,” a reference to my father’s title as Palatine of Mazovia. He regales me with tidbits of gossip he has collected from his meeting with Voltaire, recently arrived in Potsdam at Frederick’s invitation. I well remember the little palace at Sans Souci where the French poet is now a guest — the splendid architecture, with its central dome and endless terraced gardens, sparkled in the sun, but the royal apartments were scruffy and mean. The King’s greyhounds were allowed to roam at will and tore to shreds any silk upholstery or curtains that put up resistance as they made their rounds. And His Prussian Majesty holds a tight fist on his purse, but I understand Voltaire — whom Sir Charles calls a vain genius — would not budge from Paris before he had received in his hand the money for the journey.
By March 1751, after suffering many indignities in Frederick’s court, Sir Charles is called to Dresden, the seat of Saxony, where he served several years before. It is partly on that account that my family decides to send me there to see the renowned court from which King Augustus rules not only Saxony, but Poland. I set out for Leipzig, where Augustus and his retinue are paying their customary visit to the Fair. The King is good enough to invite me for the hunting season to Huburtsburg, his country palace a few miles out of Dresden.
I wander among the throng of courtiers, foreign ministers, and officers of state. Diffident in such a crowd, I nod and smile at those faces that are familiar. Yet most are strangers to me.
“Count Poniatowski!” a voice bellows out.
Sir Charles, his large form clothed in fine silks, makes his way toward me, his face affable and smiling. I am overjoyed to see him and we embrace like father and son. Harry Digby, who is at his elbow, embraces me with equal warmth.
They take me aside and immediately set me smiling. “Thank heavens you are here, young Count,” says Sir Charles. “Apart from Digby, you are the only other person with whom I can speak frankly.” He peers around with all innocence. “What is your opinion of Augustus’s Queen?” he asks.
I lower my voice. “I have barely seen Maria-Josepha but have heard she is very religious.”
“Indeed. But you must not dissimulate with me, young Count. Her Majesty is very devout, but not a bit the better for her devotions. She does nothing but commit small sins and begs forgiveness for them. She is ugly beyond painting and malicious beyond expression.” This muttered for our ears only.
I find that, for the corpulent Augustus, “hunting” consists of swallowing an ample lunch in the forest, followed by a leisurely carriage ride with his Queen to meet the hunters at the kill. Since I am a less than ardent sportsman, I follow Count Brühl, the First Minister, who, led by clever huntsmen without being at the tail of the hounds, always takes the best paths and is in at the death. Count Brühl, an implacable schemer, does not escape Sir Charles’s pithy observations.
One evening, one of many, Sir Charles, Digby, and I sip some Goldwasser before retiring. I hold up the glass, watching the flecks of gold settle in the drink, a costly vodka made in Danzig.
Sir Charles seems equally entranced by the liquid. “I am told this precious little brew is an infusion of extracts of angelica, gentian, valerian, juniper berries, and on and on and on. Yet all we dullards can see is the gold flakes. We are blinded by the gold. And none, I dare say, so much as Brühl.” Sir Charles takes another swallow. “His vanity is beyond all bounds and his expense has no limits; neither does the King of Poland set any to it, for he permits him to take whatever he pleases out of the revenues of Saxony.”
“He is said to have lost immense sums at play,” says Digby. “And the extravagance of his clothes!”
Sir Charles leans forward and, though we are alone, lowers his voice. “Each morning he selects a different suit which must be worn with a particular watch, snuffbox, stick, and dagger. His abominable taste matches his reputation for insincerity. His answers are usually very obliging, but there is no dependence to be made upon them.”
“But you must admit he makes them in high spirits,” Digby says.
“If you had as many wigs and diamonds in your closet, young Count, would your spirits improve?”
“Do you find my spirits wanting?” I ask, feigning reproach.
“If you will permit me to be honest, as a friend, even as an uncle — you tend toward a melancholy that you are too young to own.”
His eyes show concern, and I cannot be offended.
“You are in the prime of your life,” he continues, “a nobleman with the best connections and education, in a beautiful place in a beautiful season — and in time you will have the power to act.”
“Then you do not believe in fate?” I say. “In predestination of events?”
Sir Charles and Digby exchange glances.
“My dear Count,” he begins, “you must always take matters into your own hands. You must always control your own destiny. That is your fate — to act. The only thing predestined is this.” He pulls from his pocket a handsome silver device with a small round compass embedded within it.
“North is destined always to be north, regardless of what we may do. Imagine at the time of reckoning you stand before God and He asks, ‘What did you accomplish in your life, how did you make the world better?’ Will you answer: ‘I sat and waited for my destiny to unfold’?”
The vodka has dulled my senses and brought a glow into the cheeks of my companions. I wonder if we would have been so frank before the bottle was drunk.
“I’ve struggled with this basic contradiction since boyhood. I’m afraid the battle has affected my spirits and sometimes… a despondency takes hold of me that I cannot control. Do not scold me on this account because at those times it matters little that I am in a beautiful place in a beautiful season. Have you read Paradise Lost where Milton says, ‘The mind is its own place and can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven’?”
“I am always impressed with your education,” says Sir Charles, “but perhaps you have pored over enough books and ought now to turn your attention to the ladies.”
“My mother will not thank you for that assessment.”
Sir Charles dispatches another glass of wine. “Then I will not trouble her with it.”
The six weeks spent in Saxony are among the most enjoyable in my memory. More so due to the friendly company and frivolity of Sir Charles and Digby. Yes, frivolity. A quality sadly lacking in my family.
Alas, we go our separate ways again. The beginning of 1752 finds me in the throes of despondency fuelled by the futility of Polish politics. Only the regular letters from my English friends lift my spirits. In the summer I am elected to the Diet, which is to meet in autumn at Grodno — a primitive, filthy place. But it is well known that King Augustus hates having to go to Lithuania and will find somebody to sabotage the proceedings with a veto so he can go home as quickly as possible. This is, in fact, what happens. No sooner have I made my maiden speech in parliament than a deputy, who has no doubt been given a present by Augustus, stands up and vetoes the session.
The only brightness in my life comes from my cousin Elzbieta, with whom I have developed a close and tender friendship. But my uncle frowns upon our familiarity. It seems that as the power of the Czartoryskis has grown, so too their conception of their own importance. The Poniatowskis are treated as poor cousins, and no longer suitable to marry. Uncle arranges for Elzbieta to marry into one of the richest families in Poland in the spring.
In March 1753 I am compensated for my broken heart by being sent on a long tour abroad. In Vienna, my first stop, I happily encounter Sir Charles, whom I have come to regard as a second father. He and Digby show me another side to the gloomy Vienna I recall on my last visit, a grey, oppressive place on account of the Empress Maria-Theresa, whose court reflects her humourless piety. The presence of friends changes everything. Her court is no less gloomy; it merely has less influence on me.
When we move on to Dresden I am charmed by the city. We walk three abreast through the square of the Altmarkt, where the tall, narrow buildings fit together like teeth. Yellow and green, the Baroque houses glow in the summer evening sun. People are strolling and stopping to chat with neighbours now that commerce has ended for the day.
It is too early for the opera so we head for a look at the Elbe from a sweeping terrace they have named “Brühlsche Terrace” in honour of Count Brühl, who, for all intents and purposes, rules Saxony for King Augustus, who would rather play the ceremonial sovereign. Perched high above the river, we breathe in the smell of summer, a blend of calm water and roses in the nearby garden. From where we stand we can see the massive but graceful span of Augustusbrücke, which bridges the river, joining the two sections of the city.
We turn in the direction of the Zwinger, a monumental Baroque structure that resembles an open-air banquet hall.
“Many an extravagant party has been set here, I’m told,” says Sir Charles. “A young Augustus was married here in legendary pomp and ceremony some thirty years ago. I dare say it’s held up better than he has.”
We can see the palatial wings of sandstone enclosing a central courtyard large enough to parade an army, but filled with lawns and pools and ornamental fountains. Wide staircases lead to galleries of paintings I have only dreamt of.
“I am quite overwhelmed,” I say, gaping at the colossal proportions of the place, everywhere a riot of stone garlands and nymphs.
“Best you do not appear so to any but us,” Sir Charles quips.
I smile foolishly. “I cannot help marvelling at the wealth that has constructed such buildings and bought such collections of art, when my own country is so ignored by the same sovereign. He does not do his duty to us.”
“I am told he does not step into Poland except to attend the Diet,” Sir Charles says.
“He is in and out within two weeks. He pays someone to stand up and veto the session, then he flees the country to come back here, or to Huburtsburg.”
We walk toward the Theatreplatz. “The Magnates in your country do not seem to mind,” Sir Charles says.
“They prefer to quarrel among themselves,” I say, “without the interference of a foreign ruler. They care only about their own fiefdoms. But things must change if the country is to go forward. Things must change.”
“That is what I like to hear!” Sir Charles beams at Digby. “Our young nobleman is ready to assert himself.”
I blush with pride.
We mingle with the wigged and perfumed crowd entering the theatre, all of us eager to see this new opera by Handel, Giulio Cesare.
“You’ve heard about the first act?” I murmur to Digby. He shrugs. “They carry a severed head out on the stage.”
His eyes blink and show interest in opera for the first time. Sir Charles booms out a laugh that startles those around us who turn sideways and purse lips at the disturbance.
We head for the box of the Maréchal du Saxe, Augustus’s half-brother. A large, florid man in dress uniform, he greets us warmly, kissing each of us in turn on both cheeks, then introduces us to his mistress.
As we move away, Sir Charles whispers to me, “See if he doesn’t start a discourse on his campaign in Flanders.”
The two older ladies sitting in the back appear so impressed with the Maréchal in his uniform that they could not flutter their eyelids more if he had conquered all of Europe and not just Flanders.
“Madame de Bouvier, you probably recall the situation in 1745 when I led the French troops in the successful battle of…”
The orchestra begins to tune up and we step toward the front where our seats await us, out of earshot of Flanders. Still standing beside my friends, I am enjoying the sweetly discordant sounds of the instruments before the performance when a flurry of movement distracts me. Before I can turn, I am rudely shoved aside by a tall, expensively dressed young man who nearly knocks me off my feet. I lose my balance, but Sir Charles catches my arm and keeps me from stumbling to the floor.
“There! Wait till you see the beginning,” the brutish young man tells his companion, another fellow. “They’re going to bring a severed head out on the stage!”
My chest swells with rage. I must control my breathing in order to speak. “Do you fancy yourself in a stable?” I cry with indignation. “That you push away gentle folk who had their place before you?”
All the chattering around us stops. Everything goes quiet.
The young aristocrat barely looks at me, only sneers to his friend.
“Answer me this instant, or you are no gentleman.”
Turned toward the stage, he brushes his fair hair aside with a disdainful hand.
“You will answer me, either here or on the field with swords.”
“There is no call for a fit of apoplexy,” he says finally.
“Now look here,” the Maréchal steps up to the fellow. “No need to resort to violence. I saw the whole thing and you owe the Count an apology. Count, this is Prince Wilhelm of Lichtenstein, a young man in need of some manners.”
The handsome offender sighs and shakes his head slightly. “I meant no harm. It was merely the excitement of seeing the head.”
The Maréchal clears his throa,t waiting, as is everyone.
The young man glances at me with distaste. “I regret… any offence…”
He is saved by the opening strains of the orchestra and retreats haughtily to a seat on the side with his friend.
Sir Charles leans toward me. “I admire your fortitude, dear Count. You are ready for anything.”
I am heartened by these words but can hardly speak from anger. My heart is beating in my ears more loudly than the drum, as the curtains slide open to reveal the stage.
We all watch intently when the Egyptian military leader walks on stage carrying a basket. The horror becomes apparent when he informs Cornelia that inside the basket lies the head of her husband, Pompey, Caesar’s partner in government. Amid all the flailing of arms and exuberant arias I come to the disappointing realization that only the horror will be apparent, not the head, which remains provocative but invisible in the basket.
Years later, when I look back on that night, I detect a pattern that has etched itself upon my life while I was looking I know not where: no matter how much energy or fury I bring to living, those events I anticipate the most will get away from me. The things I want most shape my life by their absence. Like Pompey’s head in the opera, they never appear.