but we do know how much courage and faith and constancy was required of
the first settlers of New England. We picture Priscilla as the daughter
of such people, devout, simple, and from force of the rude life about
her growing more and more self-reliant from the day when Mary Chilton
and she first set foot on Plymouth Rock. History does not tell us of
Priscilla's wooing, but the romantic story has been so wonderfully put
in poetry by Longfellow that when we hear Priscilla Alden mentioned we
think first of all of "The Courtship of Miles Standish." It is a story
which ought to be true, if it is not.
We know that Captain Standish and John Alden were friends at a later
time, for when the Captain married his second wife he built his house
over on Duxbury Hill, near where John Alden's stood, and his son
married the daughter of John and Priscilla. So the blunt, brave Captain
did not die of a broken heart.
Such is the story of this girl of the Pilgrims and of the brave days
when the foundation stones of our land were being laid.
IX
Catherine the Great
The Girl of Stettin: 1729-1796
"Come with me," whispered a small boy to a little girl who was
standing, looking rather lonely, in one of the long corridors of a
house in the North German town of Eutin.
"Come along," he added, still in a whisper, and tiptoed down the hall.
The girl followed and saw him stop at a doorway and peep into the room
beyond. Apparently satisfied he entered, and she, her curiosity roused,
went into the room after him.
It was a bare apartment, with walls once white but now gray, small
barred windows, a ceiling supported by rough timbers, and a wooden
floor, uneven and uncarpeted. On a bench at one end stood a large round
tub of water and from pegs in the wall hung caps and coats. It was the
place where the few soldiers who were supposed to guard the house
lounged when off duty, and used as a dressing-room. It was unoccupied
now, and the boy, still on tiptoe, ran across the bare floor to the tub
of water.
Pulling some paper from his pocket the boy tore it into many pieces and
dropped three or four of them into the water. Then taking a stick that
lay on a bench he began to poke the papers. The girl stood beside him.
"See, Figchen," he whispered, "those are boats, sailing on the great
Baltic Sea. This one's heavy laden, see how she rocks. That's her port
over on the other side. Here comes a storm," and he stirred the water
with his stick and sent the paper boats tossing to the rim.
"That's not much of a pond, Peter," said the girl disdainfully. "We've
one in Stettin twice that big with live fish in it, and when we want to
have a storm we throw a stone into it."
But the little boy was too busy with his boats to listen to her. He
threw the rest of the papers into the tub and leaned so far over its
edge that he could see his fat cheeks and blue eyes mirrored in it.
"Look, Figchen, look," he cried excitedly, "there's a whole war-fleet
going over to the other side."
The girl, forgetting her disdain, bent over the rim and began to blow
down at the water.
Before they knew it there were quick steps on the floor behind them and
a man had seized Peter by the collar and jerked him back from the tub.
"Didn't I tell you not to go near that water again?" the man demanded,
his face and voice showing his anger. "What do you think you are?
You're a soldier, and a soldier's first duty is to obey orders. For
this you go to your room and do without dinner to-day."
The little boy stood with his back to the wall, looking much
frightened. "Oh, Herr Brummer----" he began.
"Not a word," ordered the man. "You've heard what I've said."
The girl had looked on in amazement. Now she took a step forward.
"You're a simpleton, Peter Ulric," she said. "Afraid of your tutor. Why
don't you send him away?"
Herr Brummer turned as if he had noticed the girl for the first time.
He bowed, smiling sarcastically. "Ach so; it is the Princess Sophia of
Zerbst who speaks? And you would advise Prince Peter of Holstein to
disobey his tutor?"
The girl's eyes met the man's defiantly. "I would," she answered. "At
home, in Stettin----"
"Well, we're not in Stettin," broke in the man, turning back. "Go to
your room, boy, and stay there till I come for you. And if I find you
playing here again I'll make you kneel on dried peas till you can't
stand up."
The boy, used to being treated in such fashion, went out of the
guard-room, his face surly and white.
"As for you," said Herr Brummer to the girl, "the sooner you go home
the better. You'll find Peter Ulric a dull playmate." With that he
turned on his heel and followed the little Prince of Holstein, and heir
to the thrones of Russia and Sweden, from the room.
Figchen, which was the nickname given to the Princess Sophia of Zerbst,
waited a moment and then went out into the garden at the rear of the
house. She was used to being left to her own devices, but in her home
town she could go out into the city squares and play with other
children, and here in Eutin she had been forbidden to leave the house
and its garden. She wished she were at home again, and could not
understand why her mother was so fond of traveling about to visit her
relations. She thought this particular court of Holstein the dullest of
them all, and little Peter Ulric the stupidest boy she had ever met. He
was stupid, there was no doubt of that, but no one had ever cared
enough about him to try and make him more intelligent.
Children of rank had a dull time at the courts of the little German
duchies in those days. The Princess Figchen was better off than Peter
Ulric because she was a girl and did not have to be moulded into a
soldier, but she had little enough fun. Her father was very fond of
her, but he was a general in the army of Frederick the Great of
Prussia, and away from home most of the time. Her mother was vain and
capricious. The family were poor and only used the left wing of their
palace at Stettin. Here Figchen had three rooms, and her bedroom was
close to the bell-tower of the church, so that she was wakened early
every morning by a deafening peal of bells. She played in the streets
with the town children, none of whom called her "Your Highness," and
the children's mothers treated her just like any other little girl.
Most of her time, however, she spent with her governess and teachers.
French was the fashion then and children were taught the language, the
manners, and the gallantry of Paris. The Princess was bright but
wilful, if she was interested she would learn quickly, if she was not
the teachers might storm and she would only laugh at them. Her
governess told her that her chin was too sharp, and that by sticking it
out she was always knocking against everybody she came across. Figchen
laughed and stuck her chin farther out. But in her own way she was fond
of her French governess and read a good many French books with her.
Even though Figchen did like the girls of her own town better than
those she met elsewhere, her mother, who was restless and eager for
excitement, found Stettin very dull, and was continually traveling. She
had relatives in all the little German cities, and liked to visit them
at Hamburg, Brunswick, or Berlin, and hear the latest gossip. So
Figchen met most of the Grand Dukes and Duchesses of her time, and was
presented at Berlin to the powerful young Frederick the Great, who was
just beginning his remarkable career. This visiting also gave her
mother a chance to see the young Princes who might be eligible for her
daughter's hand, for it was the first concern of a young German
Princess to find a husband who would some day wear a crown. But Figchen
herself was not interested in these boys with long titles to their
names. Most of them seemed very stupid to her, much like Peter Ulric of
Holstein, taught to be a soldier instead of being taught to be a
gentleman.
Then, suddenly, when this little Princess of Zerbst was twelve years
old, strange events occurred in Europe. To the northwest of her home
lay the mighty country of Russia, still almost savage, but of enormous
size and of unknown strength. Only a short time before Peter the Great
had been Czar of Russia and had built up a great Empire that
overshadowed the little German duchies that lay along its borders. One
of Peter's daughters had married the Duke of Holstein, and been the
mother of the small Peter Ulric. Another was the Princess Elizabeth,
who had not married. Peter the Czar had a half-brother Ivan, and Ivan's
granddaughter was ruling as regent in Russia for her little son named
Ivan. Then on December 9, 1741, the Princess Elizabeth, filled with her
great father's ambition, suddenly seized the throne, and threw the
regent and the little Czar Ivan into prison. The child's reign ended,
and the unscrupulous woman took the crown as the Empress Elizabeth. She
was strong and could hold it and that was all that counted in Russia
then. The Empress looked about for an heir and her eyes lighted on
Peter Ulric, the son of her sister. The regent in prison had always
called him "the little devil," because she was afraid he might some day
set aside her own Ivan. "The little devil" disappeared from his home
and reappeared at St. Petersburg, and all the world learned that
Elizabeth had proclaimed him the Grand Duke Peter, her adopted son and
heir to the crown she wore. Figchen heard the news and wondered how
such a stupid boy could ever be Czar of Russia.
The Empress Elizabeth, like a fairy godmother, waved her wand again,
and this time it rested on Figchen herself. The Empress ordered the
little girl's portrait sent to her, despatched presents to her and to
her father and mother, and finally invited the Princess of Zerbst to
visit her in Moscow and to bring her daughter with her. The ambitious
mother knew what that meant. The Empress meant to marry Figchen to the
Grand Duke Peter. That was a more dazzling destiny than she had ever
dreamed of.
Mother and daughter started out for Moscow. They were poor and did not
need many boxes to carry their wardrobe. Traveling was hard, and, it
being January, the cold was so bitter they had to wear masks to protect
their faces. There were no hotels and they had to stay at
posting-houses, poor shacks where the landlord's family and his animals
often slept under the same roof. There was no snow but the four
carriages in which the Princess and her suite traveled were so heavy
they required twenty-four horses to pull them. Sledges were fastened to
the backs of the carriages to be used later, and these made their
progress slower.
But when they crossed the frontier to Russia everything changed. Troops
met them, with flags flying and drums beating. Gallant officers joined
them and paid them compliments. Castles opened to them and the ladies,
shining with diamonds and silks, quite overwhelmed the simple German
Princess and her daughter. When they reached St. Petersburg ladies of
the court were ready to stock their wardrobes with magnificent
toilettes. The travelers were glad of that, for they knew their own
clothes would look shabby enough in the presence of an Empress who was
said to have 15,000 silk dresses and no less than 5,000 pairs of shoes.
When they left St. Petersburg on their way to Moscow the Princess and
Figchen traveled in a magnificent sleigh, built like a great couch with
curtains of scarlet and gold, and lined inside with sable. The ladies
reclined on what was really a feather bed, with coverings of satin and
fur, and supported on springs so that the sleigh could pass over the
roughest road without disturbing the passengers inside. Here they lay
and looked out through the windows at the snowy barren country all
about them. Figchen was impressed. Used as she was to the simplicity of
the little German duchy, she could not help wondering at so much
extravagance and luxury, or thrilling at the sight of the great Cossack
soldiers and the Imperial grenadiers who rode as her escort. So she
began to realize the might of this great northern country.
The Empress Elizabeth welcomed them warmly at her palace in Moscow, and
at once Figchen found herself surrounded by fawning courtiers,
ambitious women, and all the pomp and ceremony of a court. Generals and
statesmen struggled to kiss her hand, ladies to compliment her on her
complexion, for they all knew now that the little German maiden was to
marry their Grand Duke Peter. She knew it now also, but although she
remembered how stupid and timid he had seemed at Eutin, she made no
objection, because her eyes were dazzled with the wonders of this new
life.
Peter Ulric had not improved since Figchen had last seen him. Herr
Brummer's iron hand no longer held him in check, and he had run
absolutely wild. His health was ruined, he was dissipated beyond
belief, cowardly, and as ignorant as his poorest soldier. He kissed
Figchen's hand, and said he was glad to see her, and then left her, to
drink himself stupid with vodka. The marriage promised to be about as
tragic as it well could be. But Figchen had more interesting things to
think about than Peter Ulric. She had to study a new religion, so that
she might enter the Russian Church, she had to have prepared a great
trousseau, and she had to try and learn in a short time some of the
things she had refused to learn at Stettin. Then she fell ill, and was
sick for days, while her mother and the Russian doctors struggled as to
the best way to cure her. The doctors advised blood-letting but the
Princess was very much opposed to it. They agreed to refer the matter
to the Empress, and found that she had gone on a five days' visit to a
distant convent where she had shut herself up in one of her strange
spasms of religion. Finally she appeared and ordered the blood-letting.
Poor Figchen suffered, but recovered. When she regained consciousness
she found herself in the arms of the Empress, and in her hand a gift of
a diamond necklace and a pair of earrings worth 20,000 roubles. Figchen
began to realize that the Empress Elizabeth was a very singular person.
As soon as she was well again she finished making ready to enter the
Russian Church, and in June, 1744, when she was fifteen, she made her
new vows. She was a handsome girl, and her youth, beauty, and modest
manner made a charming picture as she entered the imperial chapel. She
wore what was called an "Adrienne" robe of red cloth of Tours, laced
with cords of silver, and about her unpowdered hair was bound a simple
white fillet. Her voice did not tremble and she did not forget a word
of the long Russian creed. Then the new name of Catherine was added to
her other names and it was announced that henceforth that would be her
official title. The next day she was betrothed to Peter Ulric.
Peter's health was so bad that the wedding had to be put off from one
date to another, but finally, in August, 1745, when Peter was
seventeen, and Catherine sixteen, they were married with the greatest
pomp and ceremony. Figchen became a Grand Duchess and wife to the next
Czar of Russia, and her mother went home to Stettin and left the girl,
surrounded by her own court, to fight her own battles.
No one had ever cared very much for Figchen, her father and mother had
let her grow up as she would, and the only thing that was asked of her
was that she should marry the prince they might pick out for her. That
was her idea of duty, and that she had done. She had seen very little
kindness, or consideration for others, or happy home life in any of the
German courts where she spent her childhood. She had seen men trained
to be soldiers and gamblers and drunkards, and women who were vain and
spiteful and ambitious. In Russia she found things even worse than they
had been at home. The Empress was a tyrant who had put the rightful
Czar, a little boy, and his mother, in a distant prison, and planned to
keep them there all their lives. Figchen's husband cared nothing for
her, and soon appeared to have forgotten that she existed. If she had
disliked him when he was a boy she despised him now that he was a young
man. All around her were conspirators, and slanderers, and spies. There
seemed only one thing left to her, ambition, tremendous ambition, such
as had made Peter the Great and Elizabeth mighty conquerors and rulers
of Russia. So, cut off from all other dreams, Catherine began to dream
of that, and, as time went on, she made plans for the future.
Strange to say, although Figchen had always seemed a very quiet, docile
girl, Catherine proved a very strong, determined woman. She kept her
eye on what was happening in Russia, and she laid her plans. Peter had
showed he cared nothing for her, and she cared nothing for him. More
than that she knew that he would make the worst possible Emperor of
Russia, and she thought she knew some one who would grace the throne
much better.
The Empress Elizabeth died at a time when the Grand Duke Peter was away
from the capital. He heard the news and started for St. Petersburg, but
had not gone far when couriers brought him tidings that Catherine had
seized the throne, proclaimed herself Czarina, and meant to rule alone.
So she had. Dressed in the uniform of a general she had appeared before
the troops, and announced that she was their new commander. Those rough
soldiers knew that she was strong and that Peter was weak, and they put
the care of their country in her hands. So the Empress Catherine II
succeeded the Empress Elizabeth.
[Illustration: CATHERINE THE GREAT
_From a painting by Rosselin_]
Peter, amazed, indignant, terrified, had no more chance now than he had
had in the guard-room when Herr Brummer found him sailing boats. He was
only a pawn. But as long as he lived he might make trouble. Therefore
one night conspirators seized him and assassinated him, just as had
often been done to Russian rulers before. History does not say if
Catherine knew of the conspiracy in advance, but does say that she shed
few tears over his fate.
Events proved that Catherine knew her strength. She became one of the
great sovereigns of Europe, a far-seeing statesman, a brilliant
commander of her armies. She was relentless, but she was fearless as
well, and a century which had given the title of Great to Peter the
First, and to the warrior Frederick of Prussia, paid the same tribute
to her. She had only been taught the value of power in her girlhood,
and that was all she came to care for later. The wonder of it is that
the little Figchen who used to play with the town children in the
streets of Stettin should have become the masterful Catherine the
Great.
X
Fanny Burney
The Girl of London: 1752-1840
A girl sat at a desk in a small third-story room of Dr. Charles
Burney's house in London, writing as rapidly as her quill-pen could
travel over the paper. It was a December afternoon, and the light was
not very bright, so that she had to lean far forward until the end of
her nose almost touched the tip of her pen. Now and then a smile would
cross her lips or she would stop a moment to reread a sentence or two
and nod her head, but for the most part she kept steadily on, very much
in earnest in what she was doing. On one corner of the desk lay a pile
of finished manuscript, showing that she must have been at this work
for many days. As a matter of fact she had come up to this small spare
room every afternoon for a month and written until it was too dark for
her to see.
Presently another girl came tiptoeing up the stairs, paused a moment at
the door, and then stole quietly into the room. Without a word she
crossed over to an old sofa on the other side of the room, and sat down
upon it. The writer went on driving her quill-pen across the paper.
Some five minutes later the quill stuck and sent a shower of ink-blots
in all directions. "There, my pen's stubbed its toe again," said the
writer, sitting up straight. "I'd better let it rest itself a while."
"Oh, Fanny," exclaimed the girl on the sofa, "do tell me what's
happening to dear Caroline Evelyn now."
The authoress laid down her pen and tilted back in her chair. "The
funniest things have been happening to her lately, Susan. I laughed
until I cried. A young man named Lord Farringfield fell in love with
her. He was very good-looking, with light curly hair, and she thought
she liked him very much. He made her an offer of marriage in her
father's garden, when suddenly a wind came up and blew off his wig. He
looked so funny without any hair that all she could think of to say was
to offer him her handkerchief to cover his head, and that put him out
so that he jumped up from his knees and stalked away. Later the
gardener found the wig on the bough of an apple tree, but Caroline
didn't dare send it to its owner and kept it on a little stand in her
room to remind her of her first offer of marriage. Let me read it to
you."
"Oh, do, Fanny," urged the younger sister.
The writer delved into the pile of papers and pulled out several. Then,
with a preliminary chuckle, she began to read. At first she went
smoothly enough, but after a while she began to laugh, and finally she
had to stop and dry her eyes with a handkerchief. "He did look so
ridiculous," she said. "Can't you see him there, saying, 'Oh, my
adorable Caroline, wilt thou----' when whist! he claps his hands to his
head, but his beautiful curls have gone?"
"Indeed I can," replied Susan, who was hugging herself and rocking on
the sofa with appreciation. "However can you do it, Fanny? It seems to
me each person in the story is funnier than the last."
"They don't start out funny," said the writer, "but after they've
talked a little or walked about they begin to do funny things. Of
course the hero and Caroline herself are quite serious. It's getting to
be a big book. Just look." She opened a drawer of the desk and produced
another pile of papers and laid them on top of those already on the
table. "It's almost a full-sized novel now."
"It's beautiful," said Susan. "I don't know any book that's ever made
me laugh and cry so much."
"Do you really think it's good?" Fanny turned about so as to face her
sister. "I'll tell you something, Susan. I just had to write it. I
couldn't help doing it, no matter how hard I tried."
"It's wonderful," continued the admiring Susan.
"But you mustn't tell. You must never tell," besought Fanny. "I'd be so
ashamed of myself, and just think what father might have to say to me
about it!" She swung about to the desk and rested her head in her hands
as though to contemplate the overwhelming things Dr. Burney might be
called upon to say should he discover her offense. Then impulsively she
stretched out her hands and clasped the manuscript. "Oh, I love it, I
love every line I've written there."
Some one else had been climbing the flight of stairs to the third
story, and now came into the room. It was Mrs. Burney, the stepmother
of Fanny and Susan. She went over to the desk and looked at the pile of
written sheets before Fanny could turn them over or hide them in the
drawer. "So this is what you've been about, is it?" said she, not
unkindly, but rather in an amused tone. "I've wondered where you went
when you stole away from the rest of the family every afternoon. Your
father said you wanted to study, but I told him I didn't approve of
young ladies creeping out of sight to pore over books. So you've been
writing a story surreptitiously? Take my word for it, Fanny, writing
books has gone out of fashion."
"I know it," said Fanny, "but I couldn't help it. I'd much rather do
this than practice on the harpsichord."
"But music is a polite accomplishment, my dear, whereas scribbling is
quite the reverse."
"Fanny's isn't scribbling," protested Susan. "It's wonderful. It really
is, mother. It's as good as anything down-stairs in father's library.
Let her read some of it to you."
"No, thank you, Susan. I can understand some parents letting their
children run wild and become novel-writers, but not Dr. Burney. You
must remember you have a position in society to think about, my dears."
"I know," agreed Fanny guiltily.
"What would the world say," continued Mrs. Burney, "if it should learn
that Dr. Burney's daughter Frances had composed a novel!"
"Father writes books," suggested Susan.
"Yes, but on the subject of music. It's quite another thing to compose
a treatise showing learning. Fanny's writings, if I mistake not, are
merely idle inventions, the stories of events that never happened to
people who never lived."