be obliged to go to his dukedom of Courland, and that he is
puzzling his brain as to how he shall see me before he leaves.
How long those months will be! But his sufferings are worse to
me than my own. Several guests arrived here from Warsaw, and
spoke about the change that everybody notices in him; he does
not look well, he is sad, and avoids society. People find me
also changed and looking pale. I would not care, but when I hear
the princess explaining that it is on account of the trouble and
care I took of her during her illness, then my conscience makes
me feel miserable.
_Saturday_, July 11.
One moment of bliss, and it is gone; he has been here, but only
for one hour. He left Warsaw last Wednesday, as if to go to
Courland, but as soon as he was out of town, he left his
equipage and turned south instead of going north; now he is
travelling day and night to meet his court at the frontier. I
saw him such a short time, that I cannot realize it was not all
a dream. He came disguised as one of his hunters; nobody
recognized him but the prince and myself, but nobody ought to
have recognized him. He implored me with tears in his eyes to
write to him, and it was perhaps fortunate that he could not
stay longer, for it was hard to resist those tears.
Three months is the shortest time for his stay in Courland; how
many weeks, and days, and hours in three months!
_Thursday_, September 3.
I have not opened my book for two months; they passed as
everything passes in this world, but that they were sad it is
needless to say. One month more to wait. In each letter the duke
assures me he will be here in October. To-day I was so glad at
seeing some dry leaves on the ground in the garden; I thought it
might already be October. We shall go to Warsaw ere long; the
princess has forgotten that she was ever ill.
I had great trouble lately,--a proposal of marriage, and a
splendid match, as they say. The princess, who from the time of
her illness is kinder to me than ever, arranged everything,
acting in concert with my honored Parents, and never a doubt
arose in her mind that I might object. It was extremely painful
to me to destroy her plans, to incur her just anger, to hear her
reproaches, and especially her innuendoes concerning the duke.
It was also very difficult to write to my honored Parents, not
knowing what excuses to make for my refusal. My honored Mother
deigned to answer me. "The Parents who allow their daughter to
leave their guidance," she writes, "cannot be very much
surprised if she does not obey their wishes." Could I ever have
foreseen that what I called the height of happiness could have
thrown me into such a depth of misery!
WARSAW, September 22.
We have been in Warsaw for several days. With what joy I
approached the city! Here I shall see him again; he is coming on
October 1st, that is, in one week. If it was not for that hope,
life here would be intolerable. Those visits and receptions
which seemed so amusing are now a trial. I think everybody is
reading my secret in my eyes, and that all my acquaintances are
laughing at me, especially the women. Yesterday one of them made
me so nervous with her inquiries and her false solicitude that
my tears were quite near,--in the presence of at least fifty
people. But the Prince Woivode took pity upon me and came to my
rescue; he is always so good, only he does not believe in my
sorrow and troubles, and calls them "childishness."
_Thursday_, October 1.
He arrived and is well; I have seen him, but before much
company, and when my heart was leaping to meet him I had to
stand still and wait until he entered and saluted the Prince
Woivode, and then to make the low courtesy as etiquette
requires. No matter; as long as he is here and well, everything
seems more cheerful, and all will be well.
_Tuesday_, October 20.
My God! what a promise have I given one hour ago! The fourth of
November, when will it be? It is the birthday of the duke, and
as a gift he wants my hand. He said that he will doubt my
affection if I refuse. The Prince Woivode also pleaded for him,
and I said "yes," before I realized that I had no right to do it
without the knowledge and permission of my honored Parents. But
I will not marry without their consent; I said that I must write
to them, or otherwise I would rather enter a convent. At last
the duke submitted and promised to add a postscript to my
letter. Here my pride received a shock; is it not the young man
who ought to humbly ask the Parents for their daughter's hand?
Yes, but not a royal prince. For the first time, I felt the
difference in our rank,--that it is he who does me a favor in
marrying me. But it is too late for any regrets; my word is
given.
_Thursday_, October 22.
A chamberlain of the Prince Woivode has gone to Maleszow with
the letters. The duke said that my letter was too humble, but I
thought it was his postscript which was too royal. What will the
answer be? My life is in suspense until then. I had the happy
thought to ask if the curate of Maleszow could not come to give
the wedding blessing; it would at least be somebody from my
home. The Prince Woivode promised to have him come, and he will
also obtain the necessary papers.
_Wednesday_, October 28.
My honored Parents consent and give their blessing, but it is not
such an affectionate blessing as they gave Basia when she was to be
married, and it is just, for I do not deserve it. The duke expected
a separate letter for himself; as there was none, he felt a little
offended and talked with the Prince Woivode about the pride of the
Polish seigneurs. No matter, it is a relief to think that they know
everything; it is as if a stone were lifted from my heart. They
promise to keep the secret until the duke releases them. One sees
in their letter some surprise, even satisfaction at such an
alliance, but there is also, especially in the words of my dear
Mother, a kind of affectionate reproach which pierces my heart. She
writes, "If you are unhappy, you cannot ascribe your misfortune to
us; if you find felicity in your decision, for which I shall never
stop praying the Lord, your Parents will rejoice over you, but not
as much as over their other children, as you have not allowed them
to share in making your happiness." I cried so much over these
words that they are almost illegible.
The curate will come, and in six days I shall be a bride. I
cannot believe it; there are no preparations for the wedding,
everything around me is so quiet and every-day-like.
One week before Basia's wedding, what was there not in Maleszow!
If at least I could see the duke often, but sometimes two, and
sometimes three days pass without my seeing him. He fears to
awaken the suspicion of the king, and still more that of Bruehl;
therefore he avoids me at receptions, and does not appear here
as often. I feel so lonesome with nobody to confide in or ask
for any advice. Even my little maid is to be sent away, and a
married woman, whom the Prince Woivode knows, but I have never
seen, is to take her place. I do not even know how to dress for
the wedding; I asked the prince, and he answered, "As every
day."
What a strange occurrence! I am making the grandest marriage in
Poland, and my shoemaker's daughter will be more dressed on her
wedding day than I on mine.
November 4.
Married! One hour ago, before the altar, before God, we swore to
each other faith and love until death. What a terrible wedding!
At five o'clock in the morning the Prince Woivode knocked at my
door. I was quite dressed, we went out stealthily; at the gate
the duke and Prince Martin were waiting for us. It was quite
dark, the wind blew fiercely; we walked to the church, as a
carriage would have made a noise. It was not far, but I should
have fallen several times, if the duke had not supported me. At
the door of the church the good curate met us. The church was
dark and silent as a grave; at a side altar two candles were
lighted; no living soul but the priest and the sacristan. Our
steps resounded on the flagstones as in a cavern.
The ceremony did not last ten minutes, and then we hastened away
as if pursued. The duke brought us to the gate, and the Prince
Martin had to compel him to go away. I had my every-day dress
on, not even white, only I hastily put a bit of rosemary in my
hair. Yesterday, remembering Basia's wedding, I prepared for
myself, with tears, a golden coin, a piece of bread, and a lump
of sugar, but in my haste I forgot to take them this morning.
Now I am again in my room, alone. Nobody is blessing or
congratulating me, the whole house is asleep, and if it were not
for the wedding ring, which I shall soon have to take off and
hide, I could not believe that I have returned from my wedding,
that I am a married woman, that I am his forever.
SULGOSTOW, December 24.
I was not going to write in this book any more; I saw no use for
it, as the friend I have won for my life had all my thoughts
confided to him. But cruel destiny has separated us, and I open
my book again to relate the sorrowful event. In the days of
happiness, if they ever come, it will be agreeable perhaps to
read over the accounts of the past misfortunes, although I do
not think the most perfect bliss could ever wipe them out of my
memory.
Six weeks have passed since the day of our wedding. Nobody has
guessed what happened. My new maid swore to the Prince Woivode
on the crucifix that she would be silent on whatever she may
know. Our meetings and interviews, managed by the Woivode, were
kept perfectly secret. I was still Mademoiselle la Comtesse
Krasinska to everybody. The duke, in order to be ready for any
sign from the Prince Woivode, pretended illness and did not
leave the castle, but in the end he was obliged to appear in
society, and paid a visit to the princess. It was the first
time I saw him in public; I could not control my emotion, which
was perceived by the princess. After his departure, she
overwhelmed me with reproaches, scoldings, and warnings. Sure of
my innocence, I answered perhaps too boldly, and imprudently
made her understand that it was not a mere flirtation between
the duke and me. On the following day, the princess was very
much agitated; the duke came again, and knowing he could not see
me on that day in private, he had written a short note, which he
discreetly slipped into my work-basket,--but not discreetly
enough for the watchful eye of the princess. As soon as he was
gone, she seized the basket, and when she read the inscription
on the note, "Pour ma bien aimee," her wrath burst forth in the
most dreadful and offensive words. I heard myself called the
shame, the blot on the Krasinskis' name. I heard that I would
send my Father and Mother to the grave. "But now," she added,
"this low intrigue shall be ended. I have written to Bruehl,
telling him that honesty and honor are more to me than my family
ties, and I feel it to be my sacred duty to let him know that
the duke is in love with you, and that he must do what he thinks
best to stop this unlawful affection. So at this moment the king
himself is perhaps informed of your mad scheme, and of your
shame." "There is no shame," I answered, "I am his wife." As
soon as I uttered these words I realized what I had done in
revealing the secret, but it was too late. The princess was
amazed. I fell at her feet and confessed everything; there was
nothing else to be done. I implored her pardon, and begged her
in the name of God to keep the secret to herself. She seemed
surprised, but not soothed; she compelled me to rise from her
feet, saying that it was not a proper position for a lady of my
standing. She asked to be pardoned for having often treated me
not according to my dignity, of which she was unaware; but she
did not allow me to kiss her hand, and under the pretence that
her house was not good enough for a duchess, perhaps the future
Queen of Poland, she gave at once the orders for my departure. I
controlled myself so that not one disagreeable word fell from my
lips, and I shall always be thankful to the Lord for it; the
princess is my aunt, and I shall never forget the care she has
bestowed upon me during so many months.
I did not know at all where I was to go. Fortunately some one
happened to mention Sulgostow. The marshal, who came to take the
orders, heard it, and the news spread in the house that I was
going to spend Christmas with my sister. Glad of the suggestion,
I confirmed it. I wrote a letter to the duke, in care of the
princess, in which I told him about the necessity of letting my
sister know the truth, and in less than two hours, in a closed
carriage with my maid, I was travelling fast, not knowing what
was to become of me. I reached Sulgostow in such a confused
state of mind that when Basia saw me and heard the disconnected
sentences,--that the princess sent me away from her house, that
I was innocent, that the duke was my husband,--she was so
frightened that she wanted to call for help, and to send for the
doctor; she was sure that I was insane. No news yet from Warsaw!
_Saturday_, December 30.
I received a letter from the duke (I think I shall never call
him otherwise). He is in despair about my departure, angry with
the princess, and much afraid of Bruehl discovering everything. I
am leaving Sulgostow; the happiness of my sister makes my lot
still more miserable. I love her with my whole heart, and I pray
God that she may always be as happy, but this comfortable home,
the attention her husband's family pay to her, the many tokens
of affection from our honored Parents, the little Angela who is
so fond of her mother, and of whom her father is so proud,--all
this stabs my heart when I compare her fate with mine. I will
go to Maleszow. When I shall hear the words of forgiveness from
the lips of my honored Parents, and they embrace me, I shall
perhaps feel more tranquil. Perhaps the year begun with them
will be as happy as those that I spent under their roof, when a
gay and careless girl.
IN MALESZOW CASTLE, January 5, 1761.
I have been here for several days, but I am not any happier. My
honored Parents greeted me in such a strange manner. I wanted to
throw myself at their feet, and I would have felt better for it,
but they did not allow it. The Count bowed low to me as if I
were a stranger; even now he will not sit next me, and he gets
up when I enter the room. This homage paid to my new title is
grievous to my heart. At the first dinner he whispered in my
ear, "I could under the pretence of testing, order a bottle of
'Miss Frances' wine.' I am sorry not to taste it at the first
dinner, but the custom requires that the first cup be emptied
by the father, and the second by the bridegroom; any other order
is considered a bad omen. But will that happy moment ever come?"
he added, so sadly that I was hardly able to restrain my tears.
Oh! that dinner was for me a real suffering; everybody seemed to
be under some constraint; even Matenko was not up to his
standard. The Count winked at him to make him tell some jokes,
but they were not a success.
He is a sharp fellow, Matenko. Yesterday he entered my room
mysteriously, when I was alone, and kneeling on both knees, with
an expression which was half droll and half melancholy, he drew
from his vest a little bunch of dried leaves tied with a white
ribbon and a golden pin in it. I could not at first make out
what he meant when he said, "I am sometimes a prophet." Then I
recollected the bouquet from Basia's wedding. I ran after
Matenko, who still on his knees was retreating toward the door,
and put in his coat a diamond pin I had received from the duke.
Neither of us said a word, but both perhaps thought that if it
was strange that his joking prophecy was fulfilled, how much
more strange it was that its fulfilment failed to satisfy my
expectations. When I think how I dreamed about my return to
Maleszow after my wedding! What royal presents and surprises
there would be for everybody! Even each of the peasant-women was
to receive a new cap, the girls bright ribbons, and what
entertainments and banquets were to be given to all! And here I
return to my paternal home after nearly two years of absence,
and bring no gifts to any one. When Basia came home from the
convent she had a little surprise for everybody, although she
had no more money than I; but she had leisure of time and mind,
and with her own hands she prepared the little trifles which
were valued so much. How could I do it?
Here my beloved Mother interrupted my writing. She came into my
room carrying heavy bundles of costly silks, laces, and jewels,
and laying them down on the chairs she said rather timidly: "I
have brought here a part of the things which are destined for
each of our daughters; I would have brought more, but nothing
seems to me good enough. I have been talking to my honored
husband; he will sell a few villages in order that when the
happy moment comes, and the marriage is announced to the world,
our second daughter may receive an outfit in accordance with her
high rank." Moved to tears, I wanted to embrace her knees, but
she did not permit me, and was still making excuses for the
"miserable presents," as she called them.
Oh no! I cannot stand all this. I will return to Sulgostow.
There are too many eyes fixed on me here, too many exclamations
about how pale I look. My dear little sisters are asking
continually, "Why are you not married yet?" or, "When will you
marry?" Even the old servants ask me the same questions.
Yesterday the three girls whom I promised to take to my court,
came to see me. Old Peter brought his daughter himself; it was
so painful to send them away. How astonished they will be if
they hear that am I married, but cannot take them, for my
husband is a son of the king!
SULGOSTOW, January 9.
I found no letter here from the duke. I am dreadfully anxious;
perhaps he is ill, or the king is informed about everything, and
does not let him write. If the Prince Woivode were in Warsaw he
would let me know, but he left a few days before me and probably
has not yet returned.
The farewell of my honored Parents was more tender than their
reception, but the best moments I spent were in Lisow, where I
went to visit our curate. I found him planting spruce-trees in
his garden, and he allowed me to plant one in the cemetery near
the church.[15] I leave a sad souvenir behind me, but I am not
gay myself. I heard kind and comforting words from the good
Father, and went away with more courage. If only I had news that
the duke is quite well!
[15] This tree still shades the old building.
(Note in 1858.)
_Tuesday_, January 15.
New trials and new sufferings during these past days! Will there
be any kind of grief which I have not experienced?
On Saturday when we were going to dinner we heard the
postilion's horn before the palace; the door opened and Borch,
the minister of the king, entered the hall. I knew at once the
purpose of his coming, and I trembled like a leaf, but he
pretended that he wanted to pay his respects to the Staroste and
Madame Starostine, at whose wedding he had the honor to be
present. He played this part during the whole dinner, but when
it was over he asked me for a moment of private conversation,
and then told me at once that Bruehl and he were informed of all
that had happened, but to them the marriage of the duke was a
mere joke; that a wedding without the knowledge of the parents,
and not blessed by the pastor of the parish, is void, and can
be annulled without any difficulty.
In the first moment I believed his words and felt doomed and
helpless, but God had mercy upon me, and suddenly my mind was
cleared. I considered whose representative was before me; I felt
sure that the Prince Woivode would not have countenanced an
illegal marriage; I was aware that upon my firmness in that
moment depended the future of my whole life; and I replied as
follows: "It is wrong of Minister Bruehl, and it is wrong of you
who speak for him, to want to deceive a woman who is not yet
eighteen years old; but I am not so ignorant as you may
imagine," I continued, while he was listening in blank
amazement,--"I know that our marriage is valid; it was
consecrated by the curate of my parish before two witnesses, and
with the consent of my Parents. Yes, there is the divorce, but
the signature of both parties is necessary for it, is it not so?
and neither prayers nor threats will obtain mine or the duke's
signature." Borch was confounded. On the following day,
however, he tried to secure my signature by offering me a large
donation, and when that failed he wanted at least my promise
that, if the duke gave his consent to the divorce, I should not
withhold mine. I gave that promise in writing; I am sure of my
husband's faith and love.
* * * * *
Here ends the journal of Francoise Krasinska. Continual sorrows
and misfortunes took away her strength, and her wish to write
about them any more. The most painful of her trials was the
inconstancy of her husband, and the apprehension of the divorce
with which she was threatened more than once. After the early
death of her parents, the homeless young woman led a wandering
life for several years, between her sister Barbara's, her aunt's
the Princess Lubomirska (who could not remain angry very long
with her favorite niece), and convents in Warsaw and in Cracow.
Her fickle husband returned to her from time to time, but their
marriage was still kept secret, under the pretence of sparing
the old king the shock. Furthermore, the visions of a brilliant
future which the young girl once nourished vanished one after
the other; as Matenko had predicted, the mitre and the crown
both slipped away. Count Biron became Duke of Courland, and
after the death of Augustus III., Stanislaus Poniatowski was
elected King of Poland.
The family of the late king moved to Saxony. Then the Duke
Charles wrote a most tender letter to his wife, asking her
forgiveness for the past, and imploring her to come to Dresden,
where, he wrote, he would publicly call her his wife, and he
would devote his whole life to her happiness, in order to redeem
the years of her beautiful youth spent in wandering and
humiliation. Although she had longed for this moment for years,
she did not yield at once to her husband's request. Her heart
wished perhaps otherwise, but her self-respect commanded her to
await at least a second invitation. She had not long to wait;
letter followed letter, and every word breathed the most tender
affection, and news came that under this suspense, the duke's
health began to give way. Convinced at last of the sincerity of
his re-awakened attachment, the young duchess, surrounded by a
numerous retinue sent from Dresden to accompany her, left her
native country; and from that time she lived in Saxony, not in
the splendor once dreamed of, but in a happy home. Her husband
now clung to her with all the passion of a young lover; her
little daughter, Marie Christine, their only child, promised to
be as beautiful as her mother, and numerous friends, among
others the Empress Maria Theresa, who was very fond of her, and
bestowed upon her the estate of Landscrown, surrounded the
"handsome Pole" with affection and admiration.
But she never forgot Poland and her relatives, nor lost the hope
of living there once again. The numerous letters written to her
sisters, her goddaughter Angela, the Princess Lubomirska, and
others, are still kept by the family and show her deep affection
and solicitude for them and her country. She did not live to a
great age, having died in 1796; and as if to prove his deep
attachment, her husband survived her only a few months.
Their daughter, Marie Christine, married Charles de Carignan, Duke of
Savoy, and had two children,--a daughter, Elizabeth Francoise, married
to the Archduke Regnier, King of Lombardy-Venice, and second cousin
of the present Emperor of Austria; and a son, Charles Albert, the
father of Victor Emmanuel, and of the Duke of Genoa, the latter being
the father of Marguerite, the "Pearl of Savoy." Thus both the King
and Queen of Italy are the great-great-grandchildren of Francoise
Krasinska.
THE END.