Religion of Poland.--Sunday in Warsaw.--Baptized Jews.--Palaces of
the Polish Kings.--Sobieski.--Field of Vola.--Wreck of a
Warrior.--The Poles in America.--A Polish Lady.--Troubles of a
Passport.--Departure from Warsaw.--An official Rachel.--A
mysterious Visiter.
SUNDAY at WARSHAW. Poland is distinguished above the other nations of
Europe as a land of religious toleration. So late as the latter part of
the tenth century, the religion of Poland was a gross idolatry; and,
mingled with the rites of their own country, they worshipped, under
other names, Jupiter, Pluto, Mars, Venus, Diana, and others of the pagan
deities. During the reign of Mieczylaus I. of the Piast dynasty, the
monks introduced Christianity. The prince himself was proof against the
monks, but received from woman's lips the principles of the Christian
religion. Enamoured of Dombrowska, the daughter of the Duke of Bohemia,
a country which had then lately embraced Christianity, who refused to
accept his suit unless he was baptized, Mieczylaus sacrificed the
superstitions and prejudices of his fathers on the altar of love. But
the religion which he embraced for the sake of Dombrowska he afterward
propagated for its own; became an ardent champion of the cross; broke
down with his own hands the idols of his country; built Christian
churches on the ruins of pagan temples; and, in the ardour of his new
faith, issued an edict that, when any portion of the Gospel was read,
the hearers should half draw their swords to testify their readiness to
defend its truth.
In the reign of the "famous" John Sobieski, the annals of Poland, till
that time free from this disgrace, were stained by one of the most
atrocious acts of barbarity recorded in the history of religious
persecution. A Lithuanian nobleman, a religious and benevolent man, but
sufficiently intelligent to ridicule some of the current superstitions,
and very rich, on account of a note made in the margin of a book,
written by a stupid German, was tried for atheism by a council of
bigoted Catholic bishops, and found guilty, not only of "having denied
the existence of a God, but the doctrine of the Trinity and the Divine
maternity of the Virgin Mary." Zaluski, one of the villains concerned in
the torment, writes, "The convict was led to the scaffold, where the
executioner, with a red-hot iron, tore his tongue and his mouth, _with
which he had been cruel toward God_; then they burned his hands,
instruments of the abominable production, at a slow fire. The
sacrilegious paper was thrown into the flame; himself last; that monster
of the age, that deicide, was cast into the flames of expiation, if such
a crime could be atoned."
In seventeen hundred and twenty-six the Jesuits, making a public
procession with the Host in the streets of Thorn, the young scholars of
the order insisted that some Lutheran children should kneel; and on
their refusal a scuffle ensued between the Jesuits and townspeople, most
of whom were Lutherans, in which the enraged townspeople broke open the
Jesuits' college, profaned all the objects of worship, and, among others
an image of the Virgin. The Catholics of Poland, assembled in the diet,
almost infuriated with fanatic zeal, condemned to death the magistrates
of Thorn for not exercising their authority. Seven of the principal
citizens were also condemned to death; many were imprisoned or banished;
three persons, accused of throwing the Virgin's image into the fire,
lost their right arms, and the whole city was deprived of the freedom of
public worship.
This was the last act of religious persecution in Poland; but even yet
the spirit of the reformation has made but little progress, and the
great bulk of the people are still groping in the darkness of
Catholicism. On every public road and in all the streets of Warsaw stand
crosses, sometimes thirty feet high, with a figure of the Saviour large
as life, sometimes adorned with flowers and sometimes covered with rags.
As in all Catholic cities, a Sunday in Warsaw is a fete day. I passed
the morning in strolling through the churches, which are very numerous,
and some of them, particularly the Cathedral Church of St. John and that
of the Holy Cross, of colossal dimensions. The scene was the same as in
the Catholic churches in Italy; at every door crowds were entering and
passing out, nobles, peasants, shopmen, drosky boys, and beggars; the
highborn lady descended from her carriage, dipped her fingers in the
same consecrated water, and kneeled on the same pavement side by side
with the beggar; alike equal in God's house, and outside the door again
an immeasurable distance between them.
At twelve o'clock, by appointment, I met my travelling companion and
another of his friends in the Jardin de Saxe, the principal public
garden in Warsaw. It stands in the very heart of the city, in the rear
of the Palais de Saxe, built by the Elector of Saxony when called to the
throne of Poland. It is enclosed all around by high brick walls,
screened by shrubs, and vines, and trees rising above, so as to exclude
the view of the houses facing it. It is handsomely laid out with lawns
and gravel-walks, and adorned with trees; and as the grounds are
exceedingly rural and picturesque, and the high walls and trees
completely shut out the view of all surrounding objects, I could hardly
realize that I was in the centre of a populous city. It was then the
fashionable hour for promenade, and all the elite of Warsaw society was
there. I had heard of this Sunday promenade, and, after making one or
two turns on the principal walk, I remarked to my companions that I was
disappointed in not seeing, as I had expected, a collection of the
highborn and aristocratic Poles; but they told me that, changed as
Warsaw was in every particular, in nothing was this change more manifest
than in the character of this favourite resort. From boyhood, one of
them had been in the habit of walking there regularly on the same day
and at the same hour; and he told me that, before the revolution, it had
always been thronged by a gay and brilliant collection of the nobility
of Warsaw; and he enumerated several families whose names were
identified with the history of Poland, who were in the habit of being
there at a certain time, as regularly as the trees which then shaded our
walk; but since the revolution these families were broken up and
dispersed, and their principal members dead or in exile, or else lived
retired, too proud in their fallen state to exhibit themselves in public
places, where they were liable to be insulted by the presence of their
Russian conquerors; and I could well appreciate the feeling which kept
them away, for Russian officers, with their rattling swords and nodding
plumes, and carrying themselves with a proud and lordly air, were the
most conspicuous persons present. I had noticed one party, a dark, pale,
and interesting-looking man, with an elegant lady and several children
and servants, as possessing, altogether, a singularly melancholy and
aristocratic appearance; but the interest I was disposed to take in them
was speedily dispelled by hearing that he was a baptized Jew, a money
broker, who had accumulated a fortune by taking advantage of the
necessities of the distressed nobles. Indeed, next to the Russian
officers, the baptized Jews were the most prominent persons on the
promenade. These persons form a peculiar class in Warsaw, occupying a
position between the Israelites and Christians, and amalgamating with
neither. Many of them are rich, well educated, and accomplished, and
possess great elegance of appearance and manner. They hate most
cordially their unregenerated brethren, and it is unnecessary to say
that this hate is abundantly reciprocated. It was with a feeling of
painful interest that I strolled through this once favourite resort of
the nobility of Warsaw; and my companions added to this melancholy
feeling by talking in a low tone, almost in whispers, and telling me
that now the promenade was always _triste_ and dull; and in going out
they led me through a private walk, where an old noble, unable to tear
himself from a place consecrated by the recollections of his whole life,
still continued to take his daily walk apart from the crowd, wearing out
the evening of his days in bitter reflections on the fallen condition
of his kindred and country.
We dined, as usual, at a restaurant, where at one table was a party of
Swiss, here, as at Moscow, exercising that talent, skill, and industry
which they exhibit all over the world, and consoling themselves for the
privations of exile with the hope of one day being able to return to
their native mountains, never to leave them again.
After dinner we took an open carriage, and at the barrier entered one of
the numerous avenues of the Ujazdow, leading to Belvidere, the country
residence of the late Grand-duke Constantine. The avenue is divided by
rows of old and stately trees, terminating in a large circular octagon,
from which branch off eight other avenues, each at a short distance
crossed by others, and forming a sort of labyrinth, said to be one of
the finest drives and promenades in Europe, and on Sundays the
rendezvous of nearly the entire population of Warsaw. It was a beautiful
afternoon, and the throng of carriages, and horsemen, and thousands of
pedestrians, and the sun, occasionally obscured and then breaking
through the thick foliage, darkening and again lighting up the vista
through the trees, gave a beauty to the landscape, and a variety and
animation to the scene, that I had not yet found in Warsaw. Passing the
Belvidere Palace, my companions described the manner in which the
students had made their attack upon it, and pointed out the window by
which Constantine escaped. Turning from one of the splendid avenues of
the Ujazdow, we crossed a stone bridge, on which stands the equestrian
statue of John Sobieski, his horse rearing over the body of a prostrate
Turk; it was erected to him as the saviour of Christendom after he had
driven the Turks from the walls of Vienna. Beyond this we entered the
grounds and park of Lazienki, formerly the country residence of
Stanislaus Augustus, situated in a most delightful spot on the banks of
the Vistula.
The royal villa stands in the midst of an extensive park of stately old
trees, and the walks lead to a succession of delightful and romantic
spots, adorned with appropriate and tasteful buildings. Among them, on
an island reached by crossing a rustic bridge, are a winter and a summer
theatre, the latter constructed so as to resemble, in a great measure,
an ancient amphitheatre in ruins; in it performances used formerly to
take place in the open air. I am not given to dreaming, and there was
enough in the scenes passing under my eyes to employ my thoughts; but,
as I wandered through the beautiful walks, and crossed romantic bridges,
composed of the trunks and bended branches of trees, I could not help
recurring to the hand that had planned these beauties, the good King
Stanislaus.
"Dread Pultowa's day,
When fortune left the royal Swede,"
hurled Stanislaus from his throne; and as I stood under the portico of
his palace, I could but remember that its royal builder had fled from it
in disguise, become a prisoner to the Turks, and died an exile in a
foreign land.
From here we rode to the chateau of Villanow, another and one of the
most interesting of the residences of the kings of Poland, constructed
by John Sobieski and perhaps the only royal structure in Europe which,
like some of the great edifices of Egypt and Rome, was erected by
prisoners taken in war, being constructed entirely by the hands of
Turkish captives. It was the favourite residence of Sobieski, where he
passed most of his time when not in arms, and where he closed his days.
Until lately, the chamber and bed on which he died might still be seen.
The grounds extend for a great distance along the banks of the Vistula,
and many of the noble trees which now shade the walks were planted by
Sobieski's own hands. The reign of Sobieski is the most splendid era in
the history of Poland. The great statue I had just passed presented him
as the conqueror of the Turks, the deliverer of Christendom, the
redoubtable warrior, riding over the body of a prostrate Mussulman; and
every stone in the palace is a memorial of his warlike triumphs; but if
its inner chambers could tell the scenes of which they had been the
witness, loud and far as the trumpet of glory has sounded his name, no
man would envy John Sobieski. The last time he unsheathed his sword, in
bitterness of heart he said, "It will be easier to get the better of the
enemies I am in quest of than my own sons." He returned broken with
vexation and shattered with wounds, more than sixty years old, and two
thirds of his life spent in the tented field; his queen drove his
friends from his side, destroyed that domestic peace which he valued
above all things, and filled the palace with her plots and intrigues. He
had promised to Zaluski an office which the queen wished to give to
another. "My friend," said the dying monarch, "you know the rights of
marriage, and you know if I can resist the prayers of the queen; it
depends, then, on you that I live tranquil or that I be constantly
miserable. She has already promised to another this vacant office, and
if I do not consent to it I am obliged to fly my house. I know not
where I shall go to die in peace. You pity me; you will not expose me to
public ridicule." Old and infirm, with gray hairs and withered laurels,
a prey to lingering disease, the deathbed of the dying warrior was
disturbed by a noise worse than the din of battle; and before the breath
had left him, an intriguing wife and unnatural children were wrangling
over his body for the possession of his crown. A disgraceful struggle
was continued a short time after his death. One by one his children
died, and there is not now any living of the name of Sobieski.
The next day I visited the field of Vola, celebrated as the place of
election of the Kings of Poland. It is about five miles from Warsaw, and
was formerly surrounded by a ditch with three gates, one for great
Poland, one for little Poland, and one for Lithuania. In the middle were
two enclosures, one of an oblong shape, surrounded by a kind of rampart
or ditch, in the centre of which was erected, at the time of election, a
vast temporary building of wood, covered at the top and open at the
sides, which was called the zopa, and occupied by the senate; and the
other of a circular shape, called the kola, in which the nuncios
assembled in the open air. The nobles, from a hundred and fifty thousand
to two hundred thousand in number, encamped on the plain in separate
bodies under the banners of their respective palatinates, with their
principal officers in front on horseback. The primate, having declared
the names of the candidates, kneeled down and chanted a hymn; and then,
mounting on horseback, went round the plain and collected the votes, the
nobles not voting individually, but each palatinate in a body. It was
necessary that the election should be unanimous, and a single nobleman
peremptorily stopped the election of Ladislaus VII. Being asked what
objection he had to him, he answered, "None at all; but I will not
suffer him to be king." After being by some means brought over, he gave
the king as the reason for his opposition, "I had a mind to see whether
our liberty was still in being or not. I am satisfied that it is, and
your majesty shall not have a better subject than myself." If the
palatinates agreed, the primate asked again, and yet a third time if all
were satisfied; and, after a general approbation, three times proclaimed
the king; and the grand marshal of the crown repeated the proclamation
three times at the gates of the camp. It was the exercise of this high
privilege of electing their own king which created and sustained the
lofty bearing of the Polish nobles, inducing the proud boast which, in a
moment of extremity, an intrepid band made to their king, "What hast
thou to fear with twenty thousand lances? If the sky should fall, we
would keep it up with their points." But, unhappily, although the
exercise of this privilege was confined only to the nobles, the election
of a king often exhibited a worse picture than all the evils of
universal suffrage with us. The throne was open to the whole world; the
nobles were split into contending factions; foreign gold found its way
among them, and sometimes they deliberated under the bayonets of foreign
troops. Warsaw and its environs were a scene of violence and confusion,
and sometimes the field of Vola was stained with blood. Still no man can
ride over that plain without recurring to the glorious hour when
Sobieski, covered with laurels won in fighting the battles of his
country, amid the roar of cannon and the loud acclamations of the
senate, the nobles, and the army, was hailed the chosen king of a free
people.
I had enough of travelling post, and was looking out for some quiet
conveyance to Cracow. A Jew applied to me, and I went with him to look
at his carriage, which I found at a sort of "Bull's-head" stopping-place,
an enormous vehicle without either bottom or top, being a species of
framework like our hay-wagons, filled with straw to prevent goods and
passengers from spilling out. He showed me a couple of rough-looking
fellows, who would be my _compagnons de voyage_, and who said that we
could all three lie very comfortably in the bottom of the vehicle. Their
appearance did not add to the recommendation of the wagon; nevertheless,
if I had understood the language and been strong enough for the rough
work, I should perhaps have taken that conveyance, as, besides the
probable incidents of the journey, it would give me more insight into
the character of the people than a year's residence in the capital.
Returning to my hotel, I found that a Polish officer had left his
address, with a request for me to call upon him. I went, and found a man
of about forty, middle sized, pale and emaciated, wounded and an
invalid, wearing the Polish revolutionary uniform. It was the only
instance in which I had seen this dress. After the revolution it had
been absolutely proscribed; but the country being completely subdued,
and the government in this particular case not caring to exercise any
unnecessary harshness, he was permitted to wear it unmolested. It was,
however, almost in mockery that he still wore the garb of a soldier; for
if Poland had again burst her chains, and the unsheathed sword were put
in his hands, he could not have struck a blow to help her. Unfortunately,
he could not speak French, or, rather, I may say fortunately, for in
consequence of this I saw his lady, a pensive, melancholy, and
deeply-interesting woman, dressed in black, in mourning for two gallant
brothers who died in battle under the walls of Warsaw.
Their business with me was of a most commonplace nature. They had lately
returned from a visit to some friends at Cracow, in a caleche hired at
the frontier; and hearing from the peasant who drove them that a
stranger was looking for a conveyance to that place, out of good-will to
him desired to recommend him to me. The lady had hardly finished a sort
of apologizing commencement before I had resolved to assent to almost
anything she proposed; and when she stated the whole case, it was so
exactly what I wanted, that I expressed myself under great obligations
for the favour done me. I suggested, however, my doubts as to the
propriety of undertaking the journey alone, without any interpreter;
but, after a few words with the major, she replied that she would give
full directions to the peasant as to the route. As the carriage could
not go beyond the frontier, her husband would give me a letter to the
commissaire at Michoof, who spoke French, and also to the postmaster;
and, finally, she would herself make out for me a vocabulary of the
words likely to be most necessary, so as to enable me to ask for bread,
milk, eggs, &c.; and with this, and the Polish for "how much," I would
get along without any difficulty. While she was writing, another officer
came in, old and infirm, and also dressed in the Polish uniform. She
rose from the table, met him almost at the door, kissed him
affectionately, led him to a seat, and barely mentioning him to me as
"_mon beau pere_," resumed her work. While she was writing I watched
attentively the whole three, and the expression of face with which the
two officers regarded her was unspeakably interesting. They were
probably unconscious of it, and perhaps it was only my fancy, but if the
transient lighting of their sunken eyes meant anything, it meant that
they who sat there in the garb and equipment of soldiers, who had stood
in all the pride and vigour of manhood on bloody battle-fields, now
looked to a feeble and lovely woman as their only staff and support in
life. I would have told them how deeply I sympathized in the misfortunes
of their suffering country, but their sadness seemed too deep and
sacred. I knew that I could strike a responsive chord by telling them
that I was an American, but I would not open their still bleeding
wounds; at parting, however, I told them that I should remember in my
own country and to their countrymen the kindness shown me here; and as
soon as I mentioned that I was an American, the lady asked me the fate
of her unhappy countrymen who had been landed as exiles on our shores,
and I felt proud in telling them that they had found among our citizens
that sympathy which brave men in misfortune deserve, and that our
government had made a provision in land for the exiled compatriots of
Kosciusko. She inquired particularly about the details of their
occupation, and expressed the fear that their habits of life, most of
them having been brought up as soldiers, unfitted them for usefulness
among us. I did not then know how prophetic were her forebodings, and
was saved the necessity of telling her, what I afterward read in a
newspaper, that an unhappy portion of that band of exiles, discontented
with their mode of life, in attempting to cross the Rocky Mountains
were cut to pieces by a party of Indians. Under the pressure of their
immediate misfortunes they had not heard the fate of the exiles, and a
ray of satisfaction played for a moment over their melancholy features
in hearing that they had met with friends in America; and they told me
to say to the Poles wherever I found them, that they need never again
turn their eyes toward home. She added that the time had been when she
and her friends would have extended the hand of welcome to a stranger in
Poland; that, when a child, she had heard her father and brothers talk
of liberty and the pressure of a foreign yoke, but, living in affluence,
surrounded by friends and connexions, she could not sympathize with
them, and thought it a feeling existing only in men, which women could
not know; but actual occurrences had opened her eyes; her family had
been crushed to the earth, her friends imprisoned, killed, or driven
into exile, and yet, she added, turning to her husband and father, she
ought not to mourn, for those dearest to her on earth were spared. But I
could read in her face, as she bent her eyes upon their pallid features,
that she felt they were spared only for a season.
Reluctantly I bade them farewell. A servant waited to go with me and
show me the caleche, but I told him it was not worth while. I was in no
humour for examining the spokes of carriage-wheels; and, if I had been
obliged to ride on the tongue, I believe I should have taken it. I went
to my hotel, and told my friend of my interview with the major and his
lady. He knew them by reputation, and confirmed and strengthened all the
interest I took in them, adding that both father and son had been among
the first to take up arms during the revolution, and at its unhappy
termination were so beloved by the people of Warsaw that, in their
wounded and crippled state, the Russian government had not proceeded to
extremities with them.
I spent my last evening in Warsaw with my Pole and several of his
friends at a herbata, that is, a sort of confectioner's shop, like a
_cafe_ in the south of Europe, where, as in Russia, tea is the popular
drink. The next morning, as usual, my passport was not ready. My valet
had been for it several times, and could not get it. I had been myself
to the police-office, and waited until dark, when I was directed to call
the next morning. I went at a little after eight, but I will not obtrude
upon the reader the details of my vexation, nor the amiable feelings
that passed my mind in waiting till twelve o'clock in a large anteroom.
In my after wanderings I sometimes sat down upon a stump or on the sands
of the desert, and meditated upon my folly in undergoing all manner of
hardships when I might be sitting quietly at home; but when I thought of
passports in Russia and Poland, I shook myself with the freedom of a son
of the desert, and with the thought that I could turn my dromedary's
head which way I pleased, other difficulties seemed light. Ancient
philosophers extolled uniformity as a great virtue in a young man's
character; and, if so, I was entitled to the highest praise, for in the
matter of arranging my passport I was always in a passion. I do not know
a single exception to the contrary. And if there was one thing more
vexatious than another, it was in the case at Warsaw, where, after
having been bandied from office to office, I received my passport, still
requiring the signature of the governor, and walked up to the palace,
nursing my indignation, and expecting an accumulation, I was ushered in
by guards and soldiers, and at once disarmed of all animosity by the
politeness and civility of the principal officers of government. I was
almost sorry to be obliged to withhold my intended malediction. I
hurried back to my hotel. My friend, with three or four of his Warsaw
acquaintances, was waiting to see the last of me; my caleche was at the
door, and I was already late for a start. I took my seat and bade them
farewell. I promised to write to him on my arrival in Paris, and to
continue a correspondence on my return home. Most unfortunately, I lost
his address. He lived in some town in Poland, near the frontiers of
Prussia, and probably at this moment thinks of me unkindly for my
apparent neglect. Possibly we may meet again, though probably never; but
if we do, though it do not happen till our heads are gray, we will have
a rich fund of satisfaction in the recollections of our long journey to
Warsaw.
I was again setting out alone. My guide or _conducteur_ was a Polish
peasant. Without having seen him, I had calculated upon making ordinary
human intelligence, to some extent, a medium of communication; but I
found that I had been too soaring in my ideas of the divinity of human
nature. When I returned to the hotel I found him lying on the sidewalk
asleep; a servant kicked him up and pointed me out as his master for the
journey. He ran up and kissed my hand, and, before I was aware of his
intention, stooped down and repeated the same salutation on my boot. An
American, perhaps, more than any other, scorns the idea of man's
debasing himself to his fellow-man; and so powerful was this feeling in
me, that before I went abroad I almost despised a white man whom I saw
engaged in a menial office. I had outlived this feeling; but when I saw
a tall, strong, athletic white man kneel down and kiss my foot, I could
almost have spurned him from me. His whole dress was a long shirt coming
down to his feet, supported by a broad leathern belt eight inches wide,
which he used as a pocket, and a low, broad-brimmed hat, turned up all
round, particularly at the sides, and not unlike the headgear of the
Lebanon Shakers.
Before putting myself out of the reach of aid, I held a conversation
with him through an interpreter. The lady of the major had made out a
chart for me, specifying each day's journey, which he promised to
observe, and added that he would be my slave if I would give him plenty
to drink. With such a companion, then, I may say most emphatically that
I was again setting out alone; but my caleche was even better than the
Polish officer represented it, abundantly provided with pockets for
provisions, books, &c., and altogether so much more comfortable than
anything I was used to, that I threw myself back in it with a feeling of
great satisfaction. I rolled for the last time through the streets of
Warsaw; looked out upon the busy throng; and though, in the perfectly
indifferent air with which they turned to me, I felt how small a space I
occupied in the world, I lighted my pipe and smoked in their faces, and,
with a perfect feeling of independence toward all the world, at one
o'clock I arrived at the barrier.
Here I found, to my great vexation, that I was an object of special
consideration to the Emperor of Russia. A soldier came out for my
passport, with which he went inside the guardhouse, and in a few minutes
returned with the paper in his hands to ask me some question. I could
not answer him. He talked at me a little while, and again went within
doors. After sitting for a few moments, vexed at the detention, but
congratulating myself that if there was any irregularity it had been
discovered before I had advanced far on my journey, I dismounted and
went inside, where, after detaining me long enough to make me feel very
uncomfortable, they endorsed the vise and let me go. I again lighted my
pipe, and in the mildness and beauty of the day, the comfort of my
caleche, and the docility and accommodating spirit of my peasant, forgot
my past, and even the chance of future difficulties. There was nothing
particularly attractive in the road; the country was generally fertile,
though tame and uninteresting. Late in the afternoon we stopped at a
little town, of which I cannot make out the name. Like all the other
towns on this side of Warsaw, in the centre was a square, with a range
of wooden houses built all around fronting on the square, and the
inhabitants were principally Jews. My peasant took off his horses and
fed them in the square, and I went into a little kukernia, much cleaner
and better than the town promised, where I had a cup of coffee and a
roll of bread, and then strolled around the town, which, at this moment,
presented a singular spectacle. The women and children were driving into
the square herds of cows from the pasture-grounds in the unenclosed
plains around; and, when all were brought in, each proprietor picked out
his own cow and drove her home, and in a few moments opposite almost
every house stood the family cow, with a woman or child milking her.
After this the cows strolled back into the square to sleep till morning.
A little before dark we started, and, after a fine moonlight ride, at
about ten o'clock drove into a sort of caravanserai, being simply a
large shed or covered place for wagons and horses, with a room
partitioned off in one corner for eating and sleeping. There were,
perhaps, fifteen or twenty wagons under the shed, and their wagoners
were all assembled in this room, some standing up and eating off a board
stretched along the wall, some drinking, some smoking, and some already
asleep on the floor. In one corner was a party of Jews, with the
contents of a purse emptied before them, which they were dividing into
separate parcels. The place was kept by a Jew, who, with his wife, or
some woman belonging to the establishment, old and weatherbeaten, was
running about serving and apparently quarrelling with all the wagoners.
She seemed particularly disposed to quarrel with me, I believe because I
could not talk to her, this being, in her eyes, an unpardonable sin. I
could understand, however, that she wanted to prepare me a supper; but
my appetite was not tempted by what I saw around me, and I lighted my
pipe and smoked. I believe she afterward saw something in me which made
her like me better; for while the wagoners were strewing themselves
about the floor for sleep, she went out, and returning with a tolerably
clean sheaf of straw under each arm, called me to her, and shaking them
out in the middle of the floor, pointed me to my bed. My pipe was ended,
and putting my carpet-bag under my head, I lay down upon the straw; and
the old woman climbed up to a sort of platform in one corner, where, a
moment after, I saw her sitting up with her arms above her head, with
the utmost nonchalance changing her innermost garment.
I was almost asleep, when I noticed a strapping big man, muffled up to
the eyes, standing at my feet and looking in my face. I raised my head,
and he walked round, keeping his eyes fixed upon me, and went away.
Shortly after he returned, and again walking round, stopped and
addressed me, "Spreechen sie Deutsch?" I answered by asking him if he
could speak French; and not being able, he went away. He returned again,
and again walked round as before, looking steadily in my face. I rose on
my elbow, and followed him with my eyes till I had turned completely
round with him, when he stopped as if satisfied with his observations,
and in his broadest vernacular opened bluntly, "Hadn't we better speak
English?" I need not say that I entirely agreed with him. I sprang up,
and catching his hand, asked him what possessed him to begin upon me in
Dutch; he replied by asking why I had answered in French, adding that
his stout English figure ought to have made me know better; and after
mutual good-natured recriminations, we kicked my straw bed about the
floor, and agreed to make a night of it. He was the proprietor of a
large iron manufactory, distant about three days' journey, and was then
on his way to Warsaw. He went out to his carriage, and one of his
servants produced a stock of provisions like the larder of a
well-furnished hotel; and as I had gone to bed supperless, he seemed a
good, stout, broad-shouldered guardian angel sent to comfort me. We sat
on the back seat of the carriage, making a table of the front; and when
we had finished, and the fragments were cleared away, we stretched our
legs on the table, lighted our pipes, and talked till we fell asleep on
each other's shoulder. Notwithstanding our intimacy so far, we should
not have known each other by daylight, and at break of day we went
outside to examine each other. It was, however, perhaps hardly worth
while to retain a recollection of features; for, unless by some such
accident as that which brought us together, we never shall meet again.
We wrote our names in each other's pocketbook as a memorial of our
meeting, and at the same moment started on our opposite roads.