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 y
oung 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.
Rebecca Temple Mysteries 3-Book Bundle Page 44
