Poland

  ‘Lukasz, I am so pleased this day that I’ve ordered the butcher to cut away the forequarters of the two hogs for you and Danusia. Make a feast of it in my daughter’s honor.’ When Lukasz bowed, obviously delighted with this unexpected gift of meat, for in his meager quarters this was not often seen, the magnate clapped him on the shoulder, an unheard-of gesture of approval, and said: ‘Of course, we shall expect you and Danusia at the banquet,’ and at this vote of confidence Lukasz bowed once more, caught his lord’s hand and kissed it.

  Then, in a further burst of generosity, Cyprjan said: ‘And I want you to give the haslet, all of it, to this fellow they call Jan of the Beech Trees. He was most helpful during our last hunt.’

  So the butcher made two packages, one of the lean but tasty forequarters for Lukasz, another of haslet for the peasant Jan, and the lord of Bukowo, as petty a one as lived in all of Poland, rode home with his meat and a sense that he had been honored.

  The rich major quarters of the hogs were delivered to the castle kitchens, where an extraordinary woman took charge of them. Twenty years before, Cyprjan had ridden south to the little town of Dukla, where the great Mniszech clan centered, and there he had paid court to Zofia Mniszech, whose famous aunt Maryna had become Czarina of Russia, twice. Zofia had inherited many of the characteristics of her notorious predecessor: headstrong, beautiful in an artless way, daring and extremely capable. At first she had not liked Cyprjan, for he was much too quiet when compared to the robust Mniszech men, those giant brutes whose faces were covered with hair and whose hearts were filled with larceny, but after having rejected him twice, she listened when her uncles told her: This Cyprjan has so many estates across Poland that he can be a leading magnate, if he wishes, and you’re not likely to find a better catch.’

  ‘But he is so rigid,’ she protested. ‘So proper. He might as well be a Frenchman.’

  ‘It will be your job to make him unbend.’

  ‘How many estates does he actually have?’ shrewd Zofia asked, and she listened attentively as her uncles ticked them off: ‘He has the very old castle at Gorka, which he honors as his headquarters, and the new castle near Lublin. He has a huge estate with no castle near Przemysl, but his real holdings are east of Lwow, where he has four or five immense estates worked by Ukrainians. Then, as you know, for you’ve seen them, he has the two small but very nice farms near Warsaw and the two over toward Russia. He is a man of substance, Zofia, and you won’t do better.’

  ‘Still,’ as she told her aunt Eulalia, the one who had left her own husband, the Hungarian Bela, ‘I have dreamed of a man more in the mold of Lubomirski.’

  ‘He’s taken,’ Aunt Eulalia said with a sigh, ‘and what’s left for you is Cyprjan.’

  Reluctantly the headstrong girl had accepted her suitor, and the marriage at Dukla had been a tumultuous affair, nine days of riot, after which Zofia had said farewell to her vigorous family and traveled north to visit her husband’s many estates before determining where she would make her permanent home. She had liked the wildness of the Ukrainian fields and the color of their little villages, but she could see that life there would be bleak, for there were no castles and Polish neighbors might sometimes be no nearer than a score of miles.

  ‘I will always want to come here for a season,’ she assured her young husband, ‘but let’s live somewhere else.’

  They tried the castle near Lublin, but it was too new and smelled of stonemasonry. ‘I like Lublin and would always be happy coming here for vacations, but the castle is not inviting. Let’s see the farms west of Warsaw.’

  She found these much to her liking, especially since the great Radziwill family of Lithuania had established a chain of summer homes in that area, and they would be pleasing to visit. But as with the Lwow holdings, the lands contained no residences of note, and she was perplexed as to where she would prefer to live until they traveled south along the Vistula to Castle Gorka, and once she saw its towers nestling beside the river, she fell in love with it. Whenever her family or distinguished visitors from Krakow asked why she had selected this spot above the others, she surprised them with her answer: ‘Because this fellow Lukasz who lives in the little castle up there is such a remarkable man,’ and on the spur of the moment she would bundle all her guests into a cart and they would trundle off to see a man whose fame had spread well beyond his little village.

  Most visitors, when they first regarded his modest castle from a distance and saw the crumbling tower that had been assaulted by so many raiders, approved of its picturesqueness, saying: This looks like the Poland my mother spoke of,’ or ‘I’ve always wanted to own a castle just like this,’ but when they drew closer and saw that the walls, too, were in disrepair, they often modified their judgment: ‘This place is falling down!’

  But once they crossed the filled-in moat and entered the castle grounds, a small area enclosed by walls and marked by trees, they were apt to gasp, for shuffling forward to greet them was a large female bear, who terrified everyone until she drew closer, leaned forward, and planted a slobbery kiss on each visitor’s cheek. She would now draw back as if judging the merit of the stranger, then hug him in the most friendly manner and kiss him again.

  As soon as the bear decided to let the visitor pass, an otter, long and sinewy, would slither up to give his approval, and then a sly fox would sneak along the path, smelling every footfall, and when at last he sidled up to the stranger and rubbed legs, two huge dogs would come thumping out to jump upon chests and lick faces, at which a pair of tame storks would cackle their delight, and this would bring Lukasz and his wife, Danusia, to the door.

  ‘Welcome to The Ark,’ Lukasz would shout, and at the sound of his reassuring voice the bear would move behind the visitors and nudge them forward, past the otter and the fox and the giant dogs.

  No one who ever visited The Ark of Lukasz and Danusia ever forgot it. Some spoke only of the bear; others, of the otter and the fox playing together; and some, of the tame storks who stalked majestically among the beasts, often nestling their heads on a human shoulder as if to share important secrets.

  Zofia Mniszech loved the animals and she would sometimes spend an entire afternoon wrestling with the bear or chasing the sly otter or trying to trap the fox, who eluded her with devilish cunning, waiting until the very last moment before darting away, then coming running back at her with a leaping kiss. She liked it best when she stood at the entranceway and called to the menagerie: ‘We’re going fishing!’ Then she and Lukasz would walk in front, with the bear right behind, while the otter and the fox, knowing what lay ahead, jumped and frolicked. The storks marched behind, solemn and almost disapproving, and the two dogs ran to wherever they felt they were needed.

  In this way they would descend to the river, where Zofia would take the otter in her arms, and caress it and whisper: ‘I want some fish for supper.’ She would then place him on the bank and watch as he dived into the water, disappearing for a moment, then surfacing with some large fish, which he would deposit gracefully and with obvious pride at her feet.

  ‘One more!’ she would cry, and off he would go, but this time she would say: ‘Well done, otter!’ and he and the fox would dash back to the walled enclosure which was their home.

  Once when the king came to Castle Gorka, and heard that Zofia was absent visiting the menagerie, he cried: ‘I’ve always wanted to see that!’ so Cyprjan drove him up to Bukowo. When the king entered the courtyard quietly he found the bear lying in a curled-up position, with the otter inside one paw, the fox inside the other; the two dogs were stretched out, their heads pillowed on the bear’s flanks, and tired Zofia lay with her head nestled on the bear’s neck. And all were sound asleep. The two storks, each standing on one leg, kept guard.

  For some moments the king studied the pastoral scene, and then the otter wakened and alerted the others, until one by one the animals came to inspect the newcomer, and when the bear approved, he got behind the king and nudged him forcefully right at Zofia, who
was so sleepy she could not recognize who the stranger was.

  ‘I am Jan Kazimir,’ the king said, and when Zofia rose and curtseyed, the otter, who had grown to love her, stood on his hind legs and kissed her left hand at the instant the king kissed her right.

  Later the king asked Lukasz how he was able to tame his animals: ‘A bear and an otter and a fox? They’re never seen together in nature.’

  ‘I find them when they’re young,’ Lukasz said, ‘when they’ve been deserted, with no mother. I give them my love and they give me theirs.’ As he said this the bear nestled close to him, and the king could not tell whether she thought Lukasz was her son or her father, but it was clear that she loved him, and then he looked to where Zofia rested, and on her lap he saw the otter and the fox.

  It was this Zofia who accepted the hog meat when it reached the kitchen: many chatelaines never saw their kitchens, but Zofia enjoyed not only the hurly-burly of an active cooking place but also the creative things that could be done there, and now she was ready to ensure that the pork would be properly presented to the guests.

  She had six cooks, two of whom doubled as waiters, and her instructions were specific: ‘I want the large cuts to be properly roasted, the heavy skin cut into diamond shapes and studded with caraway, the excess fat to be trimmed away but saved for larding. I want the roast to be seasoned with marjoram and a touch of mace, and as it stands over a slow fire, basted every fifteen minutes with a goose feather dipped one time in butter, the next in beer, the last two times with melted sugar. It must be brought to the table in as large pieces as possible, so that all can see the glazing. And I want to supervise the carving myself, because the knife must cut across the grain, so that the chewing is made easy for those with poor teeth.’

  It was not difficult to prepare a good roast if instructions were followed, but it required a touch of patient genius to handle the lesser cuts of pork, and since these often proved to be the tastiest, Zofia wanted her cooks to follow the ancient recipes developed by the Mniszechs: ‘I want the meat to be cut flat, and not lumpy. It is to be well pounded until tender and uniform. Rub it well with garlic and oil, spread it with a generous mixture of onions, sauerkraut and diced apple. Roll it handsomely and tie it with a cord. You know how to watch it while it bakes, basting it with beer and butter.

  ‘I want it served with the best Krakow kasha you have ever made. Soak the kasha in light vinegar, then roast it until each grain is brown and separate and very dry. Then prepare a sauce of eggs and beer and scalded raisins and blanched almonds cut fine, and I want it seasoned as before with pepper and nutmeg and marjoram. Do not stint on the raisins and almonds, for I want each grain of kasha to have its own accompaniment. And you are to serve this great bowl of kasha with eight Easter eggs, brightly colored, around the edges.’

  Each item of her menus for the three-day visit was supervised in this careful way, and it was proper that she take such pains, because this visitor to Gorka was more important to the welfare of the castle than even the king had been. Chancellor Ossolinski, from the vast estates which stood just across the Vistula, was attached to one of the most powerful and richest magnate families in Poland, and he was bringing his nineteen-year-old son Roman to see if a marriage with sixteen-year-old Barbara was feasible. Cyprjan certainly did not need the wealth of the Ossolinskis, but in the unsettled time that loomed and might continue for the duration of Barbara’s life, the Gorka people could profit from the strength and wisdom of the Ossolinskis, which would come to them if the marriage occurred.

  Barbara, of course, was offended by all this: ‘I’m being paraded like a cow at an auction, with everyone looking at me to see if I will give milk.’

  ‘You hush such talk!’ her father cried. ‘Girls have to get married, and there’s no other way.’

  ‘Is he presentable? Has he a chin? Or three ears?’

  ‘Barbara,’ her father said with considerable insight, ‘don’t you suppose he’s asking the same about you? “Do her eyes bulge? Has she a hump?” ’ He broke into laughter and dispatched a servant to fetch his wife from the kitchen, and when Zofia came in, protesting that she was needed elsewhere, her husband cut her short: ‘Where you’re needed is right here with us. Barbara’s worrying about what your Ossolinski will be like. Three heads maybe. And I wanted her to know that all young people have these apprehensions. Tell her what you had heard about me before I reached Dukla to ask for your hand.’

  ‘Oh, that!’ She chuckled and sat close to her husband as she said: ‘All they told me was that this Cyprjan was rich, and of a proper age. That’s all I knew. And I began to speculate on what must be wrong with him for him to come so far—all the way to Dukla, when he could have any girl he wanted in Krakow or Warsaw. And all they would tell me was “If he’s from Gorka, he can’t be too bad.” And I wondered for days about what too bad might cover.’

  She drew back, studied her now-distinguished husband, and said: ‘When I met him I saw what they meant. The Mniszech men were big and bold and hairy and very brave and they drank a lot and they showed their love for women by kissing their wives and pinching the wives of other men, and here comes this stick of wood … Barbara, we were married six months before I saw him laugh, and I thought: Oh my God, what are they asking me to marry? And what were you thinking all that time, Master Cyprjan?’

  He looked at this fiery woman whom he had not understood then, or now, and he confessed: ‘I was filled with fear, Barbara. I had heard about the Mniszechs … uncles to the Czar of Russia … brawlers on the frontier … difficult men at the king’s court. And I tell you, I could not imagine what a Mniszech girl would be like. Halfway to Dukla, I wanted to turn around and run home.’

  ‘Why were you going?’ Barbara asked.

  ‘Because my very wise father had said: “Son, we need stronger blood in this damned family.” And look what we got!’

  He pointed not to his wife, who was a magnificent woman, but to his daughter, who was a dream of unfolding beauty: long blond hair in braids, dark eyebrows, bright and knowing eyes, an excellent figure, dainty feet, and a kind of rhythm in all she did. At sixteen she was more than eligible to take charge of any Polish castle, except for one fault: she still had a modest opinion of herself and sometimes doubted her ability to move with the magnates or their families.

  ‘I shall be terrified when he appears,’ she told her parents.

  ‘And so shall we,’ Zofia confessed. ‘It’s as important for us, Barbara, as it is for you.’

  In the last two days before the arrival of the barges that would bring the Ossolinskis across the Vistula, Cyprjan summoned everyone from three of his surrounding villages to the castle to tidy up the grounds and sweep the entranceways, trim the trees and clean the stables. He warned Lukasz of Bukowo that the chancellor might want to see the bear and the otter, at which Lukasz said with his normal cunning: ‘In that case I’d better take my villagers back home to straighten up,’ and off he went with everyone from Bukowo to work on his menagerie, everyone, that is, except Jan of the Beech Trees, who was kept behind to work on the grounds. When all was polished and the last pruned branches cleared away, Jan went to Cyprjan and said: ‘My wife and I thank you for the haslet.’ He dropped to one knee and kissed Cyprjan’s hand, at which the magnate bade him rise. ‘You’re an excellent workman, Jan, and I wanted to show my appreciation. Tomorrow, will you brush your clothing and stand here to tend the horses I shall be lending the chancellor?’

  ‘I would be proud to do that,’ Jan said, and when the barges arrived he was one of forty servants standing by to welcome the visitors.

  Young Barbara was not visible when the Ossolinskis, father and son, entered the castle, for she was in an upper room being dressed by an elderly retainer of the Mniszechs who had come north from Dukla, and this old woman was not awed by the visitors, not at all: ‘Remember when you go down that you’re not from Gorka. You’re a Mniszech and the blood of great ones flows in your veins. Your great-aunt was Czarina of Russia ?
?? twice. Your uncle was hetman. And you …’ She threw her hands to her face, then dabbed at her eyes to stop the tears. ‘Dear God, was there ever a maiden more lovely than you?’

  And Barbara Mniszech of Gorka was exquisite as she prepared to meet the young man who might prove to be her future husband. She was just a little taller than the average girl her age but much more attractive. She had a grace of movement that was winsome and a hesitant smile which captivated. The old woman had dressed her in a long filmy gown that gathered beneath the breasts, put three small flowers in her hair, and tied a delicate gold ribbon about her left wrist. She looked severely unadorned, which the old woman intended as a means of emphasizing her beauty, but Barbara was of no help, for her face was ashen pale with fright.

  Twice the old woman pinched her cheeks, to no avail, then slapped her sharply. ‘Barbara! You must not dream! You are the fairest child in Poland, and if Ossolinski doesn’t want you, the King of France himself will come riding here one day and shout: “Where is this Barbara Mniszech they told me about?” ’

  But when the girl was ready to descend, with her mother and father waiting at the foot of the stairs to present her to the chancellor and his son, the old woman did not like the three flowers in her hair, and with a rude hand she swept them away: ‘That’s for peasant girls. You’re a queen.’ And from a small chest in an inner room belonging to Zofia, she obtained something that would exactly suit this girl, and her complexion, and her coloring.

  It was a golden chain from which were suspended six amber beads of significant size, not perfectly matched but each complementing the other like six individual flowers in a garden, similar but magnificently individual. When the old woman locked the chain behind Barbara’s neck and bounced the six pieces of amber up and down so that they fell naturally about her throat, lending a sunlight quality to her appearance, she cried with pleasure: ‘Barbara, they were made for you! Go forth, Queen of the Sunrise, and may the world greet you with kisses!’