A BOOK
OF
DEAR DEAD WOMEN
A BOOK OF DEAR DEAD WOMEN
BY EDNA WORTHLEY UNDERWOOD
“_Dear dead women with such faces_”--BROWNING
BOSTON LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 1911
_Copyright, 1909, 1911_, BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
_All rights reserved_
Published March, 1911
THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.
I wish to acknowledge my indebtedness to _The Smart Set_ for permission
to reprint “The Painter of Dead Women,” which appeared in the issue of
January, 1910.
EDNA WORTHLEY UNDERWOOD.
CONTENTS
PAGE
ONE OF NAPOLEON’S LOVES 1
THE PAINTER OF DEAD WOMEN 64
THE MIRROR OF LA GRANJA 92
LISZT’S CONCERTO PATHÉTIQUE 133
SISTER SERAPHINE 144
THE SACRED RELICS OF SAINT EUTHYMIUS 158
THE OPAL ISLES 194
THE HOUSE OF GAUZE 257
THE KING 286
ONE OF NAPOLEON’S LOVES
FROM THE DIARY OF THE COUNTESS TATJANA TSCHASKA
“_Polonus sum, Poloni nihil a me alienum puto._”
ESTATE MIODUSCHWESKI, NEAR WARSAW ON THE VISTULA, June 8, 1806.
Never did spring come so early. In April, when the country is as white
as the coverlet on my bed, fields were dotted with black rings at the
base of trees which glistened with moisture.
Returning birds twittered under the eaves. Rivers awoke and became
merry. In the distance rose the smoke of melting snow. Even in the
North--in White Russia--so travelers tell, the ice broke. Now the
country is wonderful.
I have seen the foam-edged waves of the Baltic come rolling in by
the mouth of the Niemen, just as spring rolls northward its foam of
flowers--to rescue us from the grasp of winter. In the same way, I
wonder, will the army of France come northward to rescue Poland from
the grasp of Russia? That is what every one talks about. That is what
every one hopes. I hope it, too, but somehow I do not believe it. I
have no faith in France. Yet it would be no act of generosity on her
part. We Poles have bled for her on every battlefield of Europe. It
is little that in return she should give the nation life. France may
intend to do this. It is hard to tell now. No trustworthy news reaches
us. The Prussians suppress and burn the mail lest we take heart and
rebel. They say, however, that the Great Napoleon has conquered Italy
and is now making plans for the North.
* * * * *
_June 12, 1806._ The country is lovely! The avenue of poplars that
leads to the house is enveloped in lustrous gauze. The birches and the
willows and the lindens are green flames that shake in the light.
In the fields I can see the white head-kerchiefs of women who are
working, and beyond, the white spire of the church. Those two white
objects symbolize Poland--hard work and hope--the effort for something
beyond and, perhaps, unattainable.
I love this country with its fine distances and long levels where the
eye is not impeded. Yet it has affected our natures, and not always
advantageously. It has made us think that great things are too near and
too easy to get.
Small wonder that others have coveted Poland!--the Swedes among their
rocks, where they have only fish to eat; the barbarous Russians, buried
in winter and snow; Prussia for the trade facilities of the Vistula;
and Austria because she is greedy of everything.
The armies of the Continent have swept across Poland. It is the highway
that leads to war.
Here on our estate and southward to the boundaries of Little Poland,
there is not now such devastation and ruin. Perhaps it is because
spring is here and I do not see it. With the spring there comes a
sensation of expectation. Is it merely the unrest that beautiful things
bring? I do not know. It seems to me that it is stronger this year than
usual; that all Poland feels it; that Poland is waiting for something.
It is the feeling I have in the Grand National Theater in Warsaw,
before the curtain goes up on a new tragedy. Perhaps that is what
Poland is waiting for now--the curtain to go up on a new world-tragedy,
whose stage is to be our country or Russia, and the chief actor the
French Colossus.
* * * * *
_June 20, 1806._ Spring makes my heart glad, and for the silliest
reason. I fancy that the dead of the Massacre of Praga are not so
miserable and are a little happy. Is not spring a sort of forgiveness?
In the nights of winter, when the wind and the white snow sweep down
from the north, I suffer torments. The wind mimics and multiplies their
cries of agony, their pain. I lie awake and listen and tremble.
At the time of the massacre I was a child. We were in Warsaw at our
town house, which is situated near the suburb of Praga. The windows
were shattered by the musketry. To save our lives we hid in the
cellar--men, women, children, servants--an entire day. At night, when
we crept back to our chambers in the upper story, every breath of wind
brought the groans of the dying. The air was sickening and thick with
dust and smoke and the scent of blood. Nine thousand Poles lay dead
upon the field, slain by that Russian butcher, Suwarow.
When the news reached Petersburg, the people rushed into the streets
and shouted: “If Suwarow is with us, who can be against us!” Was
not that blasphemy such as God is sure to punish! Then we named
Yek-Katarina[1] “The Fury of the North.”
What will eventually become of Poland? Who next will be greedy of it?
I have a presentiment--which I dare not whisper to any one--that in
years to come it will be only a name, a great and glorious name, that
signifies, in a world whose patriotism and fineness commercialism has
dulled, the impossible dream of freedom.
* * * * *
_June 30, 1806._ My honored mother came to me this morning and broached
the subject of my marriage. Since I had heard nothing for several days,
I hoped it had been laid aside for the present.
“You are past your twenty-first birthday, an age when girls of your
rank have been married three years. Soon you will be an old maid. Have
you no interest in the matter?”
“I hoped you would permit me to enjoy myself in the country. It may be
the last summer that I shall be at home,” I ventured.
Here my honored mother brushed away a tear, but soon returned valiantly
to the subject.
“You have read too much. You want a story-book life.”
“That is not it. I do not want to marry until--”
“Until what?”
“It is settled.”
“What is settled?”
“The fate of Poland.”
“What have you to do with that?”
“Nothing; but I feel that I might do something. There is in me the
power to do something--”
“And you are going to sit and waste your youth for that? Marry, raise
up sons for Poland! That’s the thing to do!”
“I do not wish to offend you, my honored mother, but I wish you would
drop the subject until late summer--”
“Look at your friends--how well they are married! There is the Countess
of Tisenhaus, who has married a Frenchman of birth, a peer of the
realm, Count de Choiseul-Gouffier. Anna Tyskiewicz has become Countess
Potocka; Princess Czartoryska has married the Prince of Wirthemberg;
Anna Lapouschkine, by her marriage with Prince Paul Gavrilowitsch
Gargarin, is one of the beauties of the Court of Russia. I should think
you would want to play a part in the world! Do you not owe it to your
family?” exclaimed my honored mother in such exasperation that she was
unable to continue the discussion. This is the way these scenes end.
They grieve me and vex her. And what good comes of them?
* * * * *
_July 5, 1806._ My honored mother has submitted to me a list of names
which have received her approval and that of my honored father and
grandfather. This is merely a conciliatory formality. They will choose
whom they please. Since I have met none of them and know only their
families, it makes little difference. The thing nearest my heart
is that the marriage be deferred. Therefore I considered those at
a distance from Warsaw. I picked up the list, read it through with
a show of interest, and checked Count Krasinski[2] and Prince Adam
Czartoryisky; the former is in Paris, and the latter is attached to the
Court of Russia. The names pleased my honored mother. There are none
nobler in Poland. Peace is restored--for a time.
* * * * *
_July 10, 1806._ Yesterday we attended a reception in Warsaw given
by the Countess Stanilas Potocka for her new daughter, the Countess
Anna. My honored mother was in high spirits because of my apparent
acquiescence to her plans, and happily pictured me settled more
splendidly than is the Countess Anna.
The Countess Anna, while not pretty, is charming and girlish.
She told us about the country place which is being built for her
outside of Warsaw. She has named it Natoline. The old Count Stanilas
Potocki--who is now in ill-health because of years of exposure
endured in the Ukraine--is helping with the decorative scheme. He is
a great connoisseur of art. They say his taste is respected abroad.
His art gallery is the finest in Poland, except that owned by the
Czartoryisky--the Prince General--in the “Blue Palace.”
While he was escorting the ladies, my honored mother and myself among
the number, through the hall where the pictures are hung, I made
an unfortunate remark for which my honored mother reprimanded me
severely. We came to a picture, purchased recently (I cannot remember
the Italian painter’s name), which has caused comment. It represents
a band of horsemen going at full speed through the streets of an
ancient city. They come to a river bridged only by one board. Across
this foaming chasm beckons an impossibly beautiful sprite, half-hidden
in whose enveloping gauzes is a skeleton, the symbol of death. The
skeleton holds out a crown.
“Ah!” I exclaimed, “above that fleeting phantom, whose possession is
death, should be written Poland.”
There was a dreadful hush. Eyes looked into eyes. Every one knows that
with his Cossack warriors of the Ukraine Count Stanilas wanted to wrest
the crown from the Commonwealth.
It is the talk in Warsaw, too, that negotiations are going forward for
my marriage with a Czartoryisky, who likewise coveted the crown of
Poland.
I wonder if I have an unfortunate tongue! I must remember not to say
everything I think.
Countess Waleweska was present. She wore a red velvet dress. She did
not look so well as usual. We are called the two prettiest women in
Warsaw. She is tall and blond; that is why the red did not become her.
I am plump and petite, with dark eyes, dark skin, and blond hair.
Later I forgot my chagrin. I met Pan Kasimir Brodzinski.[3] He is
entertaining. He has written some interesting things of late, too,
about Polish literature. At once I asked him, “Why are there never any
new Polish novels? We stopped on our way at a book-seller’s to get
something to take back to Mioduschweski. Is no one doing anything?”
“Unfortunately that is the case, Countess Tatjana.”
“The only Polish novel I found was _Valeria_, by Baroness Krüdener.”
“Your honored mother will object to that, Countess Tatjana.”
“Why, Pan Brodzinski?”
“It is a _chronique scandaleuse_ of the writer’s life in Venice and
Copenhagen.”
“I found the last volume of Walter Scott. They say Her Imperial
Majesty, the Empress, reads nothing else. You will laugh when I tell
you that I bought two books just for the interest they have aroused in
the Great Napoleon--_Corinne_ and _Werther_--which he has carried with
him for months at a time.”
Here Pan Brodzinski leaned forward and his face became eloquent:
“Let me tell you something: the writer of that book, Goethe, and
Napoleon, and an Englishman whom you have not read--Byron--rule the
minds of the age. The entire civilized world is in raptures over them.
Do you know, a friend of mine lately returned from Russia told me that
Russian soldiers stationed in the lonely regions of the Caucasus are
learning the English language just to read Byron.”
Just as I was getting ready to ask Pan Brodzinski the latest news of
the Grande Armée, our hostess summoned us to the drawing-room to hear
some recitations by Adam Mickiewicz.[4] He is a remarkable child--not
more than seven and he declaims like an orator. The strange part about
it is he will give only Polish pieces. Nor indeed will he answer if you
address him in French. The Mickiewicz belong to the old _schlachta_
(nobility) of Lithuania. I have seen their ancestral home. It is like
the palace of a king.
* * * * *
_July 11, 1806._ The post horn awoke us, blowing furiously. We jumped
up and dressed without crossing ourselves or saying a “Hail Mary.”
In the yard was a messenger from Warsaw to tell us that Napoleon had
defeated the English in Italy and was striding northward like a giant
in seven-league boots. I wonder what he is like, this world-hero who is
writing his name in blood across the face of Europe. They say that he
is handsome. Heroes, of course, are always handsome.
* * * * *
_July 18, 1806._ My honored grandfather, who is eighty and an adherent
of our ancient customs, came in this morning while I was reading a
French book to my sister Mischa. He flew into a rage because I was not
reading Polish.
He is worth seeing. He attracts attention on the streets of Warsaw. He
still wears the _zupan_ and the _kontusch_, and when he goes abroad,
the _burka_ fastened across his breast with silver clasps whereon are
the arms of the Tschaski.
“You are just like the rest!” he exclaimed, but in so grieved a tone
that my heart went out to him. “And I hoped better things of you! There
are no more Poles in Poland! We are a French race now. We speak French,
read French, follow French modes in thought and dress. When you enter
the home of a person of rank, it is as if you entered a drawing-room
in the Faubourg St. Germain. There is nothing to be seen that is
characteristic of us. It is right that we should cease to be a nation
when we have ceased to be ourselves.
“Why do not the Germans dress like the Italians, or the Spaniards
like the Russians? Would it not be just as reasonable? In the houses
of fashion we see the same gilt furniture upholstered in silk, the
same mirrors in frames of decorated Saxon porcelain, a profusion of
frail ornaments made of china, tables inlaid with marble or bordered
with delicate plaques of Sèvres, picture galleries, tapestries,
silk-hung walls--all the things that create effeminacy and a luxurious
forgetfulness.”
I could not answer, because I know that it is true. Yet why should we
not love beautiful things! Is it our duty to live in huts in the wild
forests of Lithuania just because we are Poles and belong to the North?
* * * * *
_July 26, 1806._ Things are in a sad state. Everywhere uncertainty,
indecision. Here no one dares do anything. Some are under the
protection of Austria; some under the protection of Russia; others
found their hope on France, and others vacillate in indecision. Was
there ever such a state of things! Truly _Polonia confusione regitur_.
* * * * *
_August 6, 1806._ At dinner last night, my honored grandfather regaled
us with stories of his youth. He was in Paris at the time of the
second “partition.”
One night at a _soirée_ some one said: “How it will grieve the Poles to
see their country cut up again! What will they do?”
Quickly the answer came: “Give balls and masquerades in Warsaw. When
I think of Poland, I know that they are dancing--always dancing in
Warsaw.”
I do not know why I write this, or why it impressed me so. If the
French were the best dancers in Europe, would they not be proud of it
too? They are jealous. We are more French than they.
* * * * *
_August 17, 1806._ My new frocks have come from Paris. I am glad that
my honored grandfather was not present when they were unpacked. There
are a number of gauze ball dresses made with shirred over-skirts caught
up with little flowers, and several _robes rondes_. They are the
_dernier cri_ of fashion.
* * * * *
_August 27, 1806._ I have had a splendid day. Pan Anton Malzweski[5]
called. It has rained for a week, and we have had no guests. I was so
glad to see him I greeted him in the Polish manner: “Praised be Jesus,
the Christ.”
He answered quickly in that impulsive way I like: “In all eternity.”
We are of an age and great friends. He has been everywhere and seen
everything. He has seen Prince Adam Czartoryisky in Imperial Russia. He
told me all sorts of things about him. He is one of the most notable
figures in the court set and the desire of all the ladies.
In the course of the afternoon, when we were quite alone, he confided
to me his ambition. What do you suppose it is? To be a poet! I gravely
answered: “All Poles are poets.”
“But I am going to be a great one in the English manner. As soon as
the wars are over and I have time, I am going to set to work. It was
Lord Byron who discovered to me my talent. The name of the first book
is chosen: _Maria, An Heroic Tale of the Ukraine_. In it there is to be
a song--partly written down now--called _The Carnival of Venice_, which
is what Byron and I thought of the Venetian nights.”
He talked with such fury, such disconnected haste, that I could only
gasp: “You have seen Lord Byron!”
“Yes, and I gave him the subject for a poem--_Mazeppa_--which will be
translated for us.”
* * * * *
_September 5, 1806._ We have just heard that the Grande Armée has
crossed the borders of Prussia. Prussia tried to put herself on a war
footing secretly. In return, Napoleon has seized Wesel, a fortress by
the Rhine. Is he so near, and we did not know?
* * * * *
_September 11, 1806._ The harvest is under way. The fields are dotted
with grain stacks that are for all the world like round towers. I look
at them and dream of Napoleon and the fortress by the Rhine. Could
anything be sillier!
* * * * *
_September 21, 1806._ My honored grandfather had company to-day. Count
Severin Rzewuski, Count Stanilas Potocki, and the Prince General. The
Prince General is feeble and ill, although he conceals it bravely. He
still keeps up the elegant courtly life he knew in his youth, although
it is evident he cannot last long. Every one says that he will die some
night at the card-table, dressed in the stiff, formal evening dress of
a century ago, his courtiers gathered about him.
Little was talked of save the political situation. We are upon the
eve of world-changing events. There is evident the ominousness that
precedes the storm. The old gentlemen talked freely. They are of one
political faith and have deeply at heart the welfare of Poland.
It must have been a great life that was lived in their youth. The
Prince General says that there will never be anything to equal the old
aristocracy of Poland. Their life was the most sumptuous and luxurious
in Europe. Mischa and I listened. It was like a romance. Count Rzewuski
says that it is our own fault that we are where we are to-day. In the
old days each was too great to acknowledge a greater.
“You are right,” replied Count Potocki. “He who will not obey his own
king will be forced to obey the king of others. ‘After feasting follows
fasting.’”
Our grandparents tell only of wars and bloodshed. In other countries, I
wonder, are there other memories?
* * * * *
_October 6, 1806._ Napoleon is in Prussia. Terrible things are
happening. We do not know just what, because little news reaches us.
* * * * *
_October 12, 1806._ The excitement in Warsaw cannot be imagined. Every
few hours a messenger arrives with a blowing of trumpets. Why should
not we tremble when the Czar of Imperial Russia trembles on his throne?
Yet Warsaw rejoices--_and dances_.
* * * * *
_October 18, 1806._ My engagement to Prince Adam Czartoryisky has been
announced. I had no word in the matter; I was not consulted.
I have received a letter from Prince Adam and as betrothal gift a
_kanak_--an antique Polish necklace of wrought silver set with round
disks of ivory upon each of which is carved an eagle--the white eagle
of Poland. I ought to be proud and happy. Prince Adam is Minister of
Foreign Affairs at the Court of Russia. My honored mother says that my
position will be better than that of the Countess Anna Potocka.
* * * * *
_October 25, 1806._ Last night there was a celebration at the Prince
General’s in the “Blue Palace,” in honor of my betrothal to his son
Prince Adam. Prince Adam could not be present. He was represented by
his dearest friend, M. Novosiltzow, likewise attaché of the Russian
Court.
He brought with him a gift from His Imperial Master, a miniature of
the Empress Elizabeth surrounded with diamonds and strung upon blue
riband. M. Novosiltzow attached it to my shoulder in the presence of
the guests. I am now a _dame de la portrait_.
We made merry in the good old Polish way. First we danced the
Polonaise, going through nearly every room in the house and up and
down all the stairs. Then the Prince General made a speech, as was the
custom in his youth, at the end of the Polonaise. Next, toasts were
called for. Mine was drunk from one of my jeweled slippers, which every
one present declared to be smaller and shapelier than those worn by
the Archduchess of Austria, Marie Louise, who has the prettiest foot
in Europe. It was splendid and solemn, but some way my heart was not
in it. My honored mother, however, was gay and happy enough for two.
I kept thinking--I wonder if outside through the night he is marching
toward Warsaw, _the man who has the face of an antique god_.
* * * * *
_October 12, 1806._ The expected has happened. There has been a
terrible battle at Jena. Prince Louis fell. A new sun has risen over
Europe. Napoleon is master of Berlin, and Queen Louise is kneeling at
the feet of a soldier of fortune. I wonder if he is greater than all
other men, or if it is only that he knows one game better--the game of
war. He moves armies as if they were pawns upon a chess-board.
* * * * *
_November 12, 1806._ Autumn is upon us. The harvest has left the fields
bare and brown. In the poplars there is a shiver that tells of winter.
The leaves are a faded yellow, which is the color of the things of
yesterday. To-morrow we go to Warsaw for the winter.
* * * * *
_November 25, 1806._ St. Catherine’s day. This was to have been my
wedding-day. St. Catherine is the patroness of happy marriages. It is
altogether impossible for Prince Adam to leave Russia. The only hope of
Polish freedom is his friendship with the Emperor. Now is a momentous
time. He must be at his ear to estimate his moods, that he may whisper
at the propitious moment, _memento Poloniæ_! He writes: “We Poles who
have lost the right to fight upon the field of battle, must, as a last
necessity, resort to the coward’s weapons--cajolery and diplomacy.”
* * * * *
_November 27, 1806._ Napoleon is in Posen!
* * * * *
_December 18, 1806._ I received a letter from Prince Adam to-day which
brings us nearer together than any he has written before. He has taken
me into his confidence. He has a plan for saving Poland. It is this; to
use his influence with the Emperor to bring about a defensive union of
Russia and England, each of which alone is strong enough to check the
advance of France. Then it will be to the advantage of each that Poland
be independent, the future’s formidable barrier against continental
aggression.
“I shall make Alexander see,” he writes, “that the partition of Poland
was foolish.”
This is the object of his life. For this he is sacrificing his youth
and his happiness at the Court of Russia.
My honored mother says, in case he succeeds, a king will be chosen for
Poland, and it is sure to be either Prince Adam or Prince Poniatowski.
Nothing can make me believe that personal motives enter into his
ambition. He is the most disinterested of men. All this time that he
has been Minister of Foreign Affairs for Russia, he has received no
salary. He refused to accept money, orders, or insignia of rank from
the nation that oppressed his race. He said that he considered it his
duty to free Poland, since it was his own family, the Czartoryisky, who
in ancient days first invited the Russians into the country.
He has no faith in Napoleon. He hates him. It is his desire to be the
instrument of his downfall. He writes: “Napoleon is the scourge of
Europe. It is the duty of nations to unite and make an end of him.”
As for Poland, no time is to be lost, because the nature of Alexander
is undergoing a change. He no longer has Utopian dreams of presenting
nations with their freedom. As far as his weak nature will permit, he
is being Russianized. Now, when the subject of Poland is mentioned,
there must be some other object--and that for Russia’s good.
Then he wrote of life and people in St. Petersburg. He went to the
first night of the new opera, _Il Barbiere di Seviglia_. It was
written by Signor Paisiello, a protégé of the Great Catherine.
There has been a new play brought out by a Russian at Knipper’s
Theater--_Roslaw_ by Kniazin. Prince Adam did not care for it. However,
as soon as it is put on sale at Glosunow’s, he will send me a copy that
I may judge for myself.
* * * * *
_December 21, 1806._ Napoleon is in Warsaw! The joy of the people is
beyond description. It must have been like this when our own king, Jan
Sobieski, returned with conquering arms. We have greeted him as if our
freedom were assured. But he has said nothing. He has made no promises.
The streets are gay with colors. Side by side are the gold eagle of
France and the white eagle of Poland. The soldiers are banqueted
everywhere. The people have gone mad and dance and sing without knowing
why.
* * * * *
_January 5, 1807._ We have not given Napoleon a chance to ask for
soldiers. They are rushing to him in such numbers it is as if the
nation threw itself at his feet and cried: “_With the forehead! With
the forehead!_”
Prince Poniatowski has raised a legion. Yesterday the consecration of
their arms took place in Zielony Plac. When I looked at the youths
kneeling at the altar, it seemed to me not a Christian consecration,
but a pagan sacrifice of blood in honor of the modern Moloch--Napoleon.
* * * * *
_January 9, 1807._ My honored grandfather has returned from inspecting
the French troops. He says that, in comparison with them, our old
armies looked like a merrymaking at a country fair.
* * * * *
_January 11, 1807._ _I have met Napoleon!_ It was last night. I am
still so excited that I do not know how to tell about it. The ladies
of Warsaw have been vexed that he did not arrange for a presentation.
Yesterday the invitation came. At nine-thirty we were assembled. We
waited a full hour, standing in nervous expectation. At last the door
by which we knew he would enter opened, and Talleyrand appeared. It
seemed minutes before he spoke. Then he bowed and announced--“The
Emperor!” The word had the voice of the thunders and filled all space.
I can hear it now. “_The Emperor!!_”
He looked like a god who in haste had been made a man and made too
small. By some accident his eyes met mine. For an instant it was as if
we two were alone, unconscious of the crowd that swayed between.
As the ladies filed past and were presented, I felt that he was waiting
for me. Then a terrible nervousness seized me, which expressed itself
in a sort of exaltation, a wild and reckless daring.
When my turn came, he stepped forward eagerly and asked my name. “The
Countess Tatjana Tschaska.”
He beckoned me to him. “I am sure now that I shall meet in Poland the
only ruler whom I fear.”
“And whom may that be, Sire?”
“The Queen of Beauty,” bowing gallantly.
I retorted: “One of our Slav poets said long ago: ‘One need not fear
a Russian Czar so greatly as a Polish woman.’” Then I courtesied and
moved on.
As soon as the presentations were over, I saw him making his way toward
me. On the instant I was the observed of all. The crowd fell back,
seeing that it was his will, and left us alone. I was conscious of a
sensation then which I hope will never be repeated in the course of my
life. It was as if upon the instant all my ideals, all my standards of
living, had been shattered. It was as if I had never lived before. It
is in such moods that we do things that we regret and wonder at ever
after. There was something within me that rushed to meet him, that
swept barriers before it. Outwardly, however, I was calm.
When he came near enough to speak, he asked jestingly: “Are there
really none but nobles in Poland?”
In an instant I was on my mettle, defiant and scornful. “Sire, it
is easier to be a sovereign prince in France than a petty noble in
Poland.” Then I read such admiration in his eyes I regretted the answer
and hastened to make amends by inquiring, somewhat awkwardly: “Are you
not home-sick for Paris, here in the North?”
“How could I be, when in Warsaw I have found another and a gayer Paris?”
“Why is it that it fascinates the foreigner so?”
“Because here the East and the West meet. The streets--how
interesting--a scene from an opera; turbaned Mussulmans, Janizaries,
Hungarians, Russians in pointed caps, Poles, Tartars--”
“And what of the people--people such as are here?”
“I do not care so much for the men, but I never saw such pretty women.
In them, too, the East and the West meet. They unite the intelligence,
the fine presence of the West with the fire and the languor of the
East.”
I do not know what else we said. We talked with merriment and
unrestraint. Then he bowed, spoke a few words with some of the others,
and retired. He has gray-blue eyes that deepen and darken when he
talks. He is very small for a man, but so exquisitely proportioned
that he gives the impression of stateliness and height. His voice is
beautiful. It makes the heart vibrate.
* * * * *
_January 12, 1807._ To-day the Emperor sent one of his aides to inquire
for my health and to bring me a book--_Comte de Comminges_. An enclosed
note says that this is his favorite book and that every time he
reads it he weeps. Strange man who can see his fellows slaughtered by
thousands, and weep over the mimic passions of a book!
* * * * *
_January 14, 1807._ At the Assembly last night, I was commanded to the
Emperor’s whist table. No sooner had I sat down than he turned to me
with the greatest unrestraint of manner. “What stakes shall we play
for, my little Countess?”
“When one plays with the King of the World, Sire, it should be for
nothing less than a kingdom.”
“Well, then, what shall it be? Name it!”
“The freedom of Poland, Sire.”
You cannot imagine the consternation. Every one was so frightened that
I began to be frightened, too. He was not in the least vexed. No one
knows better how to value bravery.
“Granted, my little Countess! And I will play for the heart of the
bravest of Polish women.”
Then the game began. I cannot tell how furiously we played. It was as
if the fate of the world hung in the balance. I never lived such an
exciting hour. People crowded around to learn the result. Bets were
made. Excitement rose to fever heat. I lost. He leaned across the table
and grasped my hands. “Now you are mine. I have won you fairly, you
little rebel!”
Then some one cried out,--Prince Murat I think it was: “Sire, I never
thought to see you grasp the hand of Russia.”
“What do you mean?” was the somewhat startled answer.
“The Countess Tatjana, Sire, is the affianced bride of Prince Adam
Czartoryisky, the real ruler of Imperial Russia.”
“It is my custom always to defeat my enemies,” he answered, but I saw
that his face clouded.
“Wait!” I exclaimed. “Prince Adam and I may yet defeat you!”
* * * * *
_January 20, 1807._ In a letter received from Prince Adam to-day was
this sentence: “Do not trust the French Emperor. He will deceive the
Poles. He will make them promises he has no idea of keeping, and in
return they will shed their blood for him by thousands. The people of
the South, remember, are light of tongue.”
* * * * *
_January 26, 1807._ Warsaw is still wild over the Emperor. He possesses
a strange magnetism. It is as if, like Prometheus, he had stolen the
fire of the gods. He is mortal. It cannot last. I wonder if, like
Prometheus, he will atone for his temerity by being chained to a rock
in the sea that the vultures of envy may eat his heart!
* * * * *
_January 30, 1807._ Again last night I was commanded to the Emperor’s
whist table. He had forgotten about our little unpleasantness and
was unfeignedly glad to see me. As I entered, he was talking with the
Prince General about Goethe, whom he met in Weimar. The Prince General
moved away to make place for the players, and the Duke of Bassano came
up.
“I must quote for our little Countess, Duke, that saying of Goethe’s
which proves him to be a warrior like myself: ‘Women and fortresses
were made to storm and take.’”
“When Goethe wrote that, Sire,” I answered, “two exceptions were
understood--Russian fortresses and Polish women.”
Then you should have heard the laughter, which he took good-naturedly,
replying: “I like spirit in a woman. It indicates race.”
After the game was over, we found ourselves alone. He insisted upon
driving me home. We managed it without the others knowing; otherwise I
should not have dared. When we were in the sleigh he said, as if he
thought I would be greatly interested: “I am going away to-morrow--or
the next day, my little Countess.”
“Where, Sire?”
“To White Russia.”
I started as if some terrible thing had been communicated to me, then
replied: “Do not seek the wind in the open field.”[6]
The answer did not please him. Some minutes passed before he spoke.
Then the conversation took an intimate turn. We drove for two hours
at a furious pace, the horses’ feet striking diamonds from the snow.
When we reached the white levels of the country, silent and cold in
the silver night, I suddenly realized that in the nature of the man
beside me were the same great spaces of cold and silence--like the
steppe--which nothing could reclaim. For a moment fear rose in my heart.
He said a thousand fond and foolish things and at last asked me if I
loved him.
I replied: “One worships the gods, Sire; one does not love them.”
When we reached home and got out of the sleigh, he stood looking at me
in silence. His face looked paler than usual and more stern. Suddenly
a sort of rage convulsed it. He drew me to him, held me close, and
kissed my hair again and again. Then he leaped into the sleigh and was
off without a word. For an instant the stars in the winter sky and the
sparkling snow-stars upon the earth were one. A noise as of whirling
waters dulled my ears. In love as in war he is fierce and furious.
* * * * *
_February 10, 1807._ There has been another battle. We do not know much
about it, except that it must have been in the neighborhood of Eylau.
I have not heard from Prince Adam. I wonder if he was there. I fancied
him on one side and Napoleon on the other, with the black thundering
cannon between.
* * * * *
_February 14, 1807._ Every day comes news of an engagement in which
the French are successful. To-day a messenger came to me from the seat
of war, bringing a small box. In it there was an ornament of diamonds,
with a slip of paper, upon which was written: “Russian fortresses may
be taken!”
* * * * *
_February 19, 1807._ The French have defeated the Russians at
Ostrolenko.
* * * * *
_February 27, 1807._ Despite the war and the sad news that reaches us
daily, the carnival has been merry. We do always dance in Warsaw. There
is no denying it.
Last night being Tuesday before Ash Wednesday, we celebrated at the
Prince General’s in the good old-fashioned way. We wore the Polish
costume in compliance with the Prince General’s request. The ladies
were resplendent in antique flowered court gowns of old English
gilt-brocade; the gentlemen in gorgeous uniforms with all their
decorations, long blue and white plumes tossing from their hats.
We began by dancing the Kracoviak, each with a glass of wine in
his hand. At the turns of the dance, where the ladies whirl, half
kneeling, and their full skirts spread out around them like the petals
of a flower, each gentleman made the sign of the cross above his
partner’s head with a glass of glowing wine. Then came a gavotte, then
a Polonaise, and last the old-fashioned dance where we sing, “Oh, we
love one another, yes, we love one another!” Thus we kept it up without
once pausing. At midnight the Prince General’s chaplain entered and
made a little talk upon the necessity of keeping the fast days. We
followed him to the chapel, where mass was said. When he came to the
place in the service where he reads, “_Cum jejunatis nolite fieri sicut
Pharisæi_,” the men leaped to their feet, flashed their swords from
jeweled scabbards, and set their plumed hats high upon their heads to
signify that they would fight and die for the faith. It was a splendid
and imposing sight--those solemn courtly figures glittering with gems
and gold, under the fretful light of tapers in the pale winter dawn. I
shall not soon forget it.
* * * * *
_April 20, 1807._ This has been a sad Lent, a veritable season of
gloom. I do not know why. I have heard nothing from the Emperor.
* * * * *
MIODUSCHWESKI, NEAR WARSAW ON THE VISTULA.
_June 1, 1807._ Spring is here. Even spring is sad. Not even the birds
are merry. Our peasants have sung their saddest songs at the planting.
I have heard nothing from the Emperor.
* * * * *
_July 10, 1807._ The Peace of Tilsit has been signed. Prince Adam was
there. France won her point, made alliance with Russia and left England
out. Prince Adam is broken-hearted. Had Alexander been less weak,
Poland would be free. An attempt to influence the mind of Alexander is
like writing one’s name on water. There is a Russian proverb that says,
however: “You must not expect a cuckoo to be a falcon.”
How discouraging has this long diplomatic battle been to Prince Adam!
To it he has sacrificed his youth. Alexander has made use of his talent
for ten years by luring him on with the hope of a free Poland. He says
that at the Peace of Tilsit Napoleon jested and made all manner of fun
of the Poles. Since he is no longer the champion of the people, he has
degenerated into an ambitious knave, to whom the god of luck gave a
touch of genius.
“Napoleon,” he writes, “is not a man of knightly honor with the blood
of kings in his veins. He is merely an adventurous usurper eager for
power. He is the first exponent of a modern commercial world whose
dawn is just at hand--a world wherein everything will be negotiable,
everything will have its price. The chivalric spirit of the past will
exist no longer; nothing comparable will exist again after the sword of
Napoleon has passed over it.”
(Here the loss of a number of leaves from the diary causes an
interruption in the story. It is taken up again with the year 1812).
* * * * *
ZAOZAIMA, NEAR WILNA IN LITHUANIA.
_June 15, 1812._ I have just reached Zaozaima to oversee for the summer
one of our Lithuanian estates. My honored mother was unable to come.
I received a letter from Prince Adam to-day. He is no longer Minister
of Foreign Affairs, but he still stays on at the Court of Russia
because of his influence and friendship with Alexander. He still hopes
to effect the freedom of Poland. And I am waiting. How many women are
there in Poland to-day whose fate, like mine, is bound up with the fate
of the nation!
* * * * *
_June 27, 1812._ A messenger just came post-haste from Prince Adam with
this letter: “By the time this reaches you, Napoleon will have crossed
the Niemen with the great army of France. Diplomatic relations, as you
know, have been severed between France and Russia. Again I have hope of
the old alliance of Russia and England.
“Word has been sent to Napoleon that you are in Zaozaima in Lithuania,
on the direct route to Russia. His love for you is well known. He will
send you word. You can help us. While I have the ear of Alexander and
you the heart of Napoleon, something may yet be done for Poland. This
is the plan--not to let Napoleon see the army of Russia until after he
has left Wilna. When he does see it, it will feign fear and retreat. In
case an engagement cannot be avoided, it is our plan to give him the
victory and then retreat again. In this way we can bring him into the
heart of the country. With you to help, we will lure Napoleon, who is
now drunk with success, to a banquet of death in the heart of White
Russia.”
* * * * *
_July 18, 1812._ A messenger came from the Emperor to-day and an escort
of Lithuanian soldiers. I am commanded to go to Witepsk to the Convent
of Our Lady of Good Council and there await him. I did not think it
would come so soon.
* * * * *
_July 20, 1812._ All night we rode through the great pine woods of
Lithuania. The soldiers sang, alternately, with answering voices, one
of the strangely modulated _dainos_ of the country:
“But when shall we go from the Russian land
Back again to the Memel strand?
When posts and stones to blossom are seen
And trees in depth of the sea grow green.”[7]
Poor fellows! There is little probability that they will come back to
the Memel.
* * * * *
_July 25, 1812._ Witepsk is a gloomy city filled with cloisters. There
are twenty-four here. They look as black and as forbidding as the black
pines of Lithuania.
* * * * *
_July 27, 1812._ I found the strangest manuscript in the convent
to-day! It is unsigned and ancient. No one knows of its origin. I copy
a part which mysteriously refers to the present:
“For I say unto you that the balance must always be kept. Great things
will be weighed and estimated by great things. But in the end that
shall prevail that is fullest of joy. Joy, alone, is life. Joy, alone,
can create. That which is effort is of a baser fiber.
“Out of the gloom and the fog of the North the barbarians came and
destroyed the land of joy, the cities of white marble, the gladness of
the pagan world. They destroyed the altars whereon the incense smoked
and the sacrificial doves slumbered.
“In the ages of ages, when the time shall be ripe and the world shall
have forgotten its ancient joy, retribution will fall upon the North.
“Out of the South will come a Cæsar and a god, who, like them of
old, shall know not fear, but joy. He will be wise with the wisdom
of the sleeping centuries. He will be a Bacchic god, in whose honor
for incense cities will burn and the smoking blood of slaughtered
nations rise. He will be a Titan, who believes that the only crime is
littleness and impotence. A new age will begin with him.”
As I read I saw the white cameo-like face of the Great Emperor framed
in the gold of a burning city.
* * * * *
_July 29, 1812._ The Emperor came yesterday. He brought two suits such
as are worn by the Polish cavalry, one for me and one for my _dame de
compagnon_. I had to cut my hair. Now it is in little yellow curls.
He said I must look like the women who lead the armies of the Great
Catherine.
We are on the road to Moscow.
* * * * *
_July 30, 1812._ What is so inspiring as the call of trumpets! They are
the instrument of courage and high deeds.
* * * * *
_July 31, 1812._ Pan Brodzinski, Pan Anton Malzweski, and Prince
Michael Radziwill are with the army. I have not seen them.
* * * * *
_August 1, 1812._ This army is a wonderful sight. In it are people of
all nations. The faith of the soldiers in Napoleon is fanatical. In
just this way do the Moslems worship Allah. They think he is superior
to death. As the days go by and I learn to estimate his power, I, too,
can say “_Allah il Allah_.”
* * * * *
_August 10, 1812._ No mortal was ever adored like this. Surely there
must be good in his heart.
* * * * *
_August 11, 1812._ It is just as Prince Adam wrote. The Russians feign
fear and retreat. I cannot be a party to this murder, this luring him
on to death. I must find some means of escape. I must find some means
of saving him that will save Poland too.
* * * * *
_August 12, 1812._ Napoleon disguised himself as a chasseur and we rode
together all day. I made the most of the opportunity.
“Sire, before we reach the boundaries of Old Poland, I pray you, take
this precaution for your safety--make Poland free. Then you will have a
safe ally behind you. Then you can conquer Russia.”
“Why take the trouble! Do you not see how they fear me, how they
retreat?”
“That is only a ruse, Sire; they are the subtlest of races.”
“They fear me; that is why.”
“No, Sire, I know them better. It is a ruse. I beg you to listen and be
not angry. Only a man whom the too great favors of destiny had made
drunk would lead an army into the heart of Russia. It means death--to
them--to you.”
“That is for cowards. _Audaces Fortuna juvat, timidosque repellit._”
“Sire, make Poland free!”
“If I did, what good would it do the Poles? They could not remain free.”
“Why, Sire! Do you not admire my race?”
“I admire them, but I do not respect them. Your Polish aristocracy has
received a foreign education. In art, in letters, they have become
_demi-savants_, which has unfitted them for practical affairs. No
people were ever more fitted to please. No people ever so loved the joy
of life--music and the tossing of plumes. _But_--no people ever had so
little talent for the conquest of life. They were not made for care,
work, for a commonplace thing like discipline. That is why they are
famous for their cavalry. They are good only for the impetuous rush of
an inspired moment.”
“Sire, make an end to this crucifixion of my country! It will mean
safety to you on your return. _Make Poland free!_”
“It would be useless. You Poles have no genius for affairs. You have
always acted like children.”
“Sire, we are grown now. Sorrow has made us wise.”
“It is useless, I tell you. You do not belong to the present. You
belong to other centuries. You are the last defenders of the bulwark of
the Middle Ages, where chivalry ruled. Now a modern world is here that
does not care for things that are merely fine; an age without ideals
but with great practical sense; an age which money and success alone
can rule,--money and success, won at any price, for not even honor
will stand in the way. Soon the old chivalric days when men loved one
another will be merely a dream.
“The wars of the time to come will not be like these of mine. They will
be bloodless wars fought at expense of men’s souls and nerves, and
they will be crueler and more deeply destructive than any that have
desolated Poland.
“If I should make Poland free, it could not remain free. It is the age
that is at fault. You have not grasped modern life. Another age has
come over Europe. And because the Pole cannot accommodate himself to
it, the nation will be destroyed. It will pass under the rule of others
who have in abundance what he has not. _Polonia delenda est._”
I can do no more. He must go on to ruin. _I dare not show him the
letter of Prince Adam._
* * * * *
_August 16, 1812._ We are under the walls of Smolensk, the city which
the Cossack Hetmans wrested from the Commonwealth. This is on the
borders of Old Poland.
I said to the Emperor in one last attempt: “There is Russia, Sire.
Do you remember how it looks upon the map? A wilderness bounded by
a river of blood and by blue and frozen seas. Those, Sire, are God’s
awful prohibition.”
He looked toward it thoughtfully for a time, then turned and walked
silently away.
* * * * *
_August 18, 1812._ Yesterday the French took Smolensk. Again I saw
the policy of Russia. It was garrisoned by thirty thousand men. They
gave us the victory that Napoleon may push on into the heart of the
country. There, when winter comes, the snow and the frost will do what
arms can not. There he will contend with a new army--the army of the
elements. I saw the battle. It was terrible beyond description. The
Emperor commanded in person. He was here, there, everywhere, all at
once. He was the incarnate demon of joy. Bullets dared not touch him.
Screaming, they fled past. It was frightful in that he really seemed to
be protected by a superhuman power.
After it was over, he rode to where I sat.
“Was a woman ever entertained as I have entertained you? I do not amuse
you with stupid balls, operas, soirées, but with the play of the best
armies of Europe.”
His joy filled me with terror.
* * * * *
_August 20, 1812._ The soldiers are wild with hope. They see themselves
master of the East. I alone know what awaits them. They are uplifted by
such a burning desire of the future that the present is annihilated.
Along the way are the dead and dying. No one seems to care.
* * * * *
_August 22, 1812._ I am becoming infected with the general joy. Yet I
know that the Russians have prepared their revenge.
* * * * *
_August 28, 1812._ The Russians are still retreating. Yesterday and
the day before there were slight engagements in which the French were
successful.
The Russians retired to Borodino. Now the invincible Kutusow is in
command. The Emperor is delighted. He is eager to meet him.
* * * * *
_September 8, 1812._ Yesterday they fought by Borodino. Kutusow retired
to Moscow.
* * * * *
_September 12, 1812. We can see Moscow!_
Imagine a yellow, barren plain, over it gold-dust haze, brightening
and darkening as the wind sways it, through which rise a multitude of
green and red and blue and silver domes, surmounted by gold, lace-work
crosses. It floats in the air. It is the creation of a magician. At
the same time it is very real, and touched with mystery and age--the
immemorial age of the East.
* * * * *