The Serf of Pobereze.
The materials for the following tale were furnished to the writer while
travelling last year near the spot on which the events it narrates took
place. It is intended to convey a notion of some of the phases of
Polish, or rather Russian serfdom (for, as truly explained by one of the
characters in a succeeding page, it is Russian), and of the catastrophes
it has occasioned, not only in Catherine’s time, but occasionally at the
present. The Polish nobles--themselves in slavery--earnestly desire the
emancipation of their serfs, which Russian domination forbids.
The small town of Pobereze stands at the foot of a stony mountain,
watered by numerous springs in the district of Podolia, in Poland. It
consists of a mass of miserable cabins, with a Catholic chapel and two
Greek churches in the midst, the latter distinguished by their gilded
towers. On one side of the market-place stands the only inn, and on the
opposite side are several shops, from whose doors and windows look out
several dirtily-dressed Jews. At a little distance, on a hill covered
with vines and fruit-trees, stands the Palace, which does not, perhaps,
exactly merit such an appellation, but who would dare to call otherwise
the dwelling of the lord of the domain?
On the morning when our tale opens, there had issued from this palace
the common enough command to the superintendent of the estate, to
furnish the master with a couple of strong boys, for service in the
stables, and a young girl, to be employed in the wardrobe. Accordingly,
a number of the best-looking young peasants of Olgogrod assembled in the
broad avenue leading to the palace. Some were accompanied by their
sorrowful and weeping parents, in all of whose hearts, however, rose the
faint and whispered hope, “Perhaps it will not be _my_ child they will
choose!”
Being brought into the court-yard of the palace, the Count Roszynski,
with the several members of his family, had come out to pass in review
his growing subjects. He was a small and insignificant-looking man,
about fifty years of age, with deep-set eyes and overhanging brows. His
wife, who was nearly of the same age, was immensely stout, with a vulgar
face and a loud disagreeable voice. She made herself ridiculous in
endeavoring to imitate the manners and bearing of the aristocracy, into
whose sphere she and her husband were determined to force themselves, in
spite of the humbleness of their origin. The father of the “Right
Honorable” Count Roszynski was a valet, who, having been a great
favorite with his master, amassed sufficient money to enable his son,
who inherited it, to purchase the extensive estate of Olgogrod, and with
it the sole proprietorship of 1,600 human beings. Over them he had
complete control; and, when maddened by oppression, if they dared
resent, woe unto them! They could be thrust into a noisome dungeon, and
chained by one hand from the light of day for years, until their very
existence was forgotten by all except the jailer who brought daily their
pitcher of water and morsel of dry bread.
Some of the old peasants say that Sava, father of the young peasant
girl, who stands by the side of an old woman, at the head of her
companions in the court-yard, is immured in one of these subterranean
jails. Sava was always about the Count, who, it was said, had brought
him from some distant land, with his little motherless child. Sava
placed her under the care of an old man and woman, who had the charge of
the bees in a forest near the palace, where he came occasionally to
visit her. But once, six long months passed, and he did not come! In
vain Anielka wept, in vain she cried, “Where is my father?”--No father
appeared. At last it was said that Sava had been sent to a long distance
with a large sum of money, and had been killed by robbers. In the ninth
year of one’s life the most poignant grief is quickly effaced, and after
six months Anielka ceased to grieve. The old people were very kind to
her, and loved her as if she were their own child. That Anielka might be
chosen to serve in the palace never entered their head, for who would be
so barbarous as to take the child away from an old woman of seventy and
her aged husband?
To-day was the first time in her life that she had been so far from
home. She looked curiously on all she saw,--particularly on a young lady
about her own age, beautifully dressed, and a youth of eighteen, who had
apparently just returned from a ride on horseback, as he held a whip in
his hand, whilst walking up and down and examining the boys who were
placed in a row before him. He chose two amongst them, and the boys were
led away to the stables.
“And I choose this young girl,” said Constantia Roszynski, indicating
Anielka; “she is the prettiest of them all. I do not like ugly faces
about me.”
When Constantia returned to the drawing-room, she gave orders for
Anielka to be taken to her apartments, and placed under the tutelage of
Mademoiselle Dufour, a French maid, recently arrived from the first
milliner’s shop in Odessa. Poor girl! when they separated her from her
adopted mother, and began leading her towards the palace, she rushed,
with a shriek of agony, from them, and grasped her old protectress
tightly in her arms! They were torn violently asunder, and the Count
Roszynski quietly asked, “Is it her daughter, or her grand-daughter?”
“Neither, my lord,--only an adopted child.”
“But who will lead the old woman home, as she is blind?”
“I will, my lord,” replied one of his servants, bowing to the ground; “I
will let her walk by the side of my horse, and when she is in her cabin
she will have her old husband,--they must take care of each other.”
So saying, he moved away with the rest of the peasants and domestics.
But the poor old woman had to be dragged along by two men; for in the
midst of her shrieks and tears she had fallen to the ground, almost
without life.
And Anielka? They did not allow her to weep long. She had now to sit all
day in the corner of a room to sew. She was expected to do everything
well from the first; and if she did not, she was kept without food or
cruelly punished. Morning and evening she had to help Mdlle. Dufour to
dress and undress her mistress. But Constantia, although she looked with
hauteur on everybody beneath her, and expected to be slavishly obeyed,
was tolerably kind to her poor orphan. Her true torment began, when, on
leaving her young lady’s room, she had to assist Mdlle. Dufour.
Notwithstanding that she tried sincerely to do her best, she was never
able to satisfy her, or draw from her aught but harsh reproaches.
Thus two months passed.
One day Mdlle. Dufour went very early to confession, and Anielka was
seized with an eager longing to gaze once more in peace and freedom on
the beautiful blue sky and green trees, as she used to do when the first
rays of the rising sun streamed in at the window of the little forest
cabin. She ran into the garden. Enchanted by the sight of so many
beautiful flowers, she went farther and farther along the smooth and
winding walks, till she entered the forest. She who had been so long
away from her beloved trees, roamed where they were thickest. Here she
gazes boldly around. She sees no one! She is alone! A little further on
she meets with a rivulet which flows through the forest. Here she
remembers that she has not yet prayed. She kneels down, and with hands
clasped and eyes upturned she begins to sing, in a sweet voice, the Hymn
to the Virgin.
As she went on, she sang louder and with increased fervor. Her breast
heaved with emotion, her eyes shone with unusual brilliancy; but when
the hymn was finished she lowered her head, tears began to fall over her
cheeks, until at last she sobbed aloud. She might have remained long in
this condition, had not some one come behind her, saying, “Do not cry,
my poor girl; it is better to sing than to weep.” The intruder raised
her head, wiped her eyes with her handkerchief, and kissed her on the
forehead.
It was the Count’s son, Leon!
“You must not cry,” he continued; “be calm, and when the filipony
(pedlars) come, buy yourself a pretty handkerchief.” He then gave her a
rouble and walked away. Anielka, after concealing the coin in her
corset, ran quickly back to the palace.
Fortunately, Mdlle. Dufour had not yet returned, and Anielka seated
herself in her accustomed corner. She often took out the rouble to gaze
fondly upon it, and set to work to make a little purse, which, having
fastened to a ribbon, she hung round her neck. She did not dream of
spending it, for it would have deeply grieved her to part with the gift
of the only person in the whole house who had looked kindly on her.
From that time Anielka remained always in her young mistress’s room;
she was better dressed, and Mdlle. Dufour ceased to persecute her. To
what did she owe this sudden change? Perhaps to a remonstrance from
Leon. Constantine ordered Anielka to sit beside her while taking her
lessons from her music-masters, and on her going to the drawing-room,
she was left in her apartments alone. Being thus more kindly treated,
Anielka lost by degrees her timidity; and when her young mistress,
whilst occupied over some embroidery, would tell her to sing, she did so
boldly and with a steady voice. A greater favor awaited her. Constantia,
when unoccupied, began teaching Anielka to read in Polish; and Mdlle.
Dufour thought it politic to follow the example of her mistress, and
began to teach her French.
Meanwhile, a new kind of torment commenced. Having easily learnt the two
languages, Anielka acquired an irresistible passion for reading. Books
had for her the charm of the forbidden fruit, for she could only read by
stealth at night, or when her mistress went visiting in the
neighborhood. The kindness hitherto shown her, for a time, began to
relax. Leon had set off on a tour, accompanied by his old tutor, and a
bosom friend as young, as gay, and as thoughtless as himself.
So passed the two years of Leon’s absence. When he returned, Anielka was
seventeen, and had become tall and handsome. No one who had not seen her
during the time, would have recognized her. Of this number was Leon. In
the midst of perpetual gaiety and change it was not possible he could
have remembered a poor peasant girl; but in Anielka’s memory he had
remained as a superior being, as her benefactor, as the only one who had
spoken kindly to her, when poor, neglected, forlorn! When in some French
romance she met with a young man of twenty, of a noble character and
handsome appearance, she bestowed on him the name of Leon. The
recollection of the kiss he had given her, ever brought a burning blush
to her cheek, and made her sigh deeply.
One day Leon came to his sister’s room. Anielka was there, seated in a
corner at work. Leon himself had considerably changed; from a boy he
had grown into a man. “I suppose Constantia,” he said, “you have been
told what a good boy I am, and with what docility I shall submit myself
to the matrimonial yoke, which the Count and Countess have provided for
me?” and he began whistling, and danced some steps of the Mazurka.
“Perhaps you will be refused,” said Constantia, coldly.
“Refused! Oh, no. The old Prince has already given his consent, and as
for his daughter she is desperately in love with me. Look at these
moustachios, could anything be more irresistible?” and he glanced in the
glass and twirled them round his fingers; then continuing in a graver
tone, he said, “To tell the sober truth, I cannot say that I
reciprocate. My intended is not at all to my taste. She is nearly
thirty, and so thin that whenever I look at her, I am reminded of my old
tutor’s anatomical sketches. But thanks to her Parisian dress-maker, she
makes up a tolerably good figure, and looks well in a Cachemere. Of all
things, you know, I wished for a wife of an imposing appearance, and I
don’t care about love. I find it’s not fashionable, and only exists in
the exalted imagination of poets.”
“Surely people are in love with one another sometimes,” said the sister.
“Sometimes,” repeated Anielka, inaudibly. The dialogue had painfully
affected her, and she knew not why. Her heart beat quickly, and her face
was flushed, and made her look more lovely than ever.
“Perhaps. Of course we profess to adore every pretty woman,” Leon added
abruptly. “But, my dear sister, what a charming ladies’ maid you have!”
He approached the corner where Anielka sat, and bent on her a coarse
familiar smile. Anielka, although a serf, was displeased, and returned
it with a glance full of dignity. But when her eyes rested on the
youth’s handsome face, a feeling, which had been gradually and silently
growing in her young and inexperienced heart, predominated over her
pride and displeasure. She wished ardently to recall herself to Leon’s
memory, and half unconsciously raised her hand to the little purse which
always hung round her neck. She took from it the rouble he had given
her.
“See!” shouted Leon, “what a droll girl; how proud she is of her riches!
Why, girl, you are a woman of fortune, mistress of a whole rouble!”
“I hope she came by it honestly,” said the old Countess, who at this
moment entered.
At this insinuation, shame and indignation kept Anielka, for a time,
silent. She replaced the money quickly in its purse, with the bitter
thought that the few happy moments which had been so indelibly stamped
upon her memory, had been utterly forgotten by Leon. To clear herself,
she at last stammered out, seeing they all looked at her inquiringly,
“Do you not remember, M. Leon, that you gave me this coin two years ago
in the garden?”
“How odd?” exclaimed Leon, laughing, “do you expect me to remember all
the pretty girls to whom I have given money? But I suppose you are
right, or you would not have treasured up this unfortunate rouble as if
it were a holy relic. You should not be a miser, child; money is made to
be spent.”
“Pray, put an end to these jokes,” said Constantia impatiently; “I like
this girl, and I will not have her teased. She understands my ways
better than any one, and often puts me in good humor with her beautiful
voice.”
“Sing something for me, pretty damsel,” said Leon, “and I will give you
another rouble, a new and shining one.”
“Sing instantly,” said Constantia imperiously.
At this command Anielka could no longer stifle her grief; she covered
her face with her hands, and wept violently.
“Why do you cry?” asked her mistress impatiently; “I cannot bear it; I
desire you to do as you are bid.”
It might have been from the constant habit of slavish obedience, or a
strong feeling of pride, but Anielka instantly ceased weeping. There was
a moment’s pause, during which the old Countess went grumbling out of
the room. Anielka chose the Hymn to the Virgin she had warbled in the
garden, and as she sung, she prayed fervently;--she prayed for peace,
for deliverance from the acute emotions which had been aroused within
her. Her earnestness gave an intensity of expression to the melody,
which affected her listeners. They were silent for some moments after
its conclusion. Leon walked up and down with his arms folded on his
breast. Was it agitated with pity for the accomplished young slave? or
by any other tender emotion? What followed will show.
“My dear Constantia,” he said, suddenly stopping before his sister and
kissing her hand, “will you do me a favor?”
Constantia looked inquiringly in her brother’s face without speaking.
“Give me this girl.”
“Impossible!”
“I am quite in earnest,” continued Leon, “I wish to offer her to my
future wife. In the Prince her father’s private chapel they are much in
want of a solo soprano.”
“I shall not give her to you,” said Constantia.
“Not as a free gift, but in exchange. I will give you instead a charming
young negro--so black. The women in St. Petersburg and in Paris raved
about him: but I was inexorable; I half-refused him to my princess.”
“No, no,” replied Constantia; “I shall be lonely without this girl, I am
so used to her.”
“Nonsense! you can get peasant girls by the dozen; but a black page,
with teeth whiter than ivory, and purer than pearls; a perfect original
in his way; you surely cannot withstand. You will kill half the province
with envy. A negro servant is the most fashionable thing going, and
yours will be the first imported into the province.”
This argument was irresistible. “Well,” replied Constantia, “when do you
think of taking her?”
“Immediately; to-day at five o’clock,” said Leon; and he went merrily
out of the room. This then was the result of his cogitation--of
Anielka’s Hymn to the Virgin. Constantia ordered Anielka to prepare
herself for the journey, with as little emotion as if she had exchanged
away a lap-dog, or parted with a parrot.
She obeyed in silence. Her heart was full. She went into the garden that
she might relieve herself by weeping unseen. With one hand supporting
her burning head, and the other pressed tightly against her heart, to
stifle her sobs, she wandered on mechanically till she found herself by
the side of the river. She felt quickly for her purse, intending to
throw the rouble into the water, but as quickly thrust it back again,
for she could not bear to part with the treasure. She felt as if without
it she would be still more an orphan. Weeping bitterly, she leaned
against the tree which had once before witnessed her tears.
By degrees the stormy passion within her gave place to calm reflection.
This day she was to go away; she was to dwell beneath another roof, to
serve another mistress. Humiliation! always humiliation! But at least it
would be some change in her life. As she thought of this, she returned
hastily to the palace that she might not, on the last day of her
servitude, incur the anger of her young mistress.
Scarcely was Anielka attired in her prettiest dress, when Constantia
came to her with a little box, from which she took several gay-colored
ribbons, and decked her in them herself, that the serf might do her
credit in the new family. And when Anielka, bending down to her feet
thanked her, Constantia, with marvellous condescension, kissed her on
her forehead. Even Leon cast an admiring glance upon her. His servant
soon after came to conduct her to the carriage, and showing her where to
seat herself, they rolled off quickly towards Radapol.
For the first time in her life Anielka rode in a carriage. Her head
turned quite giddy, she could not look at the trees and fields as they
flew past her; but by degrees she became more accustomed to it, and the
fresh air enlivening her spirits, she performed the rest of the journey
in a tolerably happy state of mind. At last they arrived in the spacious
court-yard before the Palace of Radapol, the dwelling of a once rich and
powerful Polish family, now partly in ruin. It was evident, even to
Anielka, that the marriage was one for money on the one side, and for
rank on the other.
Among other renovations at the castle, occasioned by the approaching
marriage, the owner of it, Prince Pelazia, had obtained singers for the
chapel, and had engaged Signor Justiniani, an Italian, as chapel-master.
Immediately on Leon’s arrival, Anielka was presented to him. He made her
sing a scale, and pronounced her voice to be excellent.
Anielka found that, in Radapol, she was treated with a little more
consideration than at Olgogrod, although she had often to submit to the
caprices of her new mistress, and she found less time to read. But to
console herself, she gave all her attention to singing, which she
practiced several hours a day. Her naturally great capacity, under the
guidance of the Italian, began to develop itself steadily. Besides
sacred, he taught her operatic music. On one occasion Anielka sung an
aria in so impassioned and masterly a style, that the enraptured
Justiniani clapped his hands for joy, skipped about the room, and not
finding words enough to praise her, exclaimed several times, “Prima
Donna! Prima Donna!”
But the lessons were interrupted. The Princess’s wedding-day was fixed
upon, after which event she and Leon were to go to Florence, and Anielka
was to accompany them. Alas! feelings which gave her poignant misery
still clung to her. She despised herself for her weakness; but she loved
Leon. The sentiment was too deeply implanted in her bosom to be
eradicated; too strong to be resisted. It was the first love of a young
and guileless heart, and had grown in silence and despair.
Anielka was most anxious to know something of her adopted parents.
Once, after the old prince had heard her singing, he asked her with
great kindness about her home. She replied, that she was an orphan, and
had been taken by force from those who had so kindly supplied the place
of parents. Her apparent attachment to the old bee-keeper and his wife
so pleased the prince, that he said, “You are a good child, Anielka, and
to-morrow I will send you to visit them. You shall take them some
presents.”
Anielka, overpowered with gratitude, threw herself at the feet of the
prince. She dreamed all night of the happiness that was in store for
her, and the joy of the poor, forsaken, old people; and when the next
morning she set off, she could scarcely restrain her impatience. At last
they approached the cabin; she saw the forest, with its tall trees, and
the meadows covered with flowers. She leaped from the carriage, that she
might be nearer these trees and flowers, every one of which she seemed
to recognize. The weather was beautiful. She breathed with avidity the
pure air which, in imagination, brought to her the kisses and caresses
of her poor father! Her foster-father was, doubtless, occupied with his
bees; but his wife?
Anielka opened the door of the cabin; all was silent and deserted. The
arm-chair on which the poor old woman used to sit, was overturned in a
corner. Anielka was chilled by a fearful presentiment. She went with a
slow step towards the bee-hives; there she saw a little boy tending the
bees, whilst the old man was stretched on the ground beside him. The
rays of the sun, falling on his pale and sickly face, showed that he was
very ill. Anielka stooped down over him, and said, “It is I, it is
Anielka, your own Anielka, who always loves you.”
The old man raised his head, gazed upon her with a ghastly smile, and
took off his cap.
“And my good old mother, where is she?” Anielka asked.
“She is dead!” answered the old man, and falling back he began laughing
idiotically. Anielka wept. She gazed earnestly on the worn frame, the
pale and wrinkled cheeks, in which scarcely a sign of life could be
perceived; it seemed to her that he had suddenly fallen asleep, and not
wishing to disturb him, she went to the carriage for the presents. When
she returned, she took his hand. It was cold. The poor old bee-keeper
had breathed his last!
Anielka was carried almost senseless back to the carriage, which quickly
returned with her to the castle. There she revived a little; but the
recollection that she was now quite alone in the world, almost drove her
to despair.
Her master’s wedding and the journey to Florence were a dream to her.
Though the strange sights of a strange city slowly restored her
perceptions, they did not her cheerfulness. She felt as if she could no
longer endure the misery of her life; she prayed to die.
“Why are you so unhappy?” said the Count Leon kindly to her, one day.
To have explained the cause of her wretchedness would have been death
indeed.
“I am going to give you a treat,” continued Leon. “A celebrated singer
is to appear to-night in the theatre. I will send you to hear her, and
afterwards you shall sing to me what you remember of her performances.”
Anielka went. It was a new era in her existence. Herself, by this time,
an artist, she could forget her griefs, and enter with her whole soul
into the beauties of the art she now heard practised in perfection for
the first time. To music a chord responded in her breast which vibrated
powerfully. During the performances she was at one moment pale and
trembling, tears rushing into her eyes, at another, she was ready to
throw herself at the feet of the cantatrice, in an ecstasy of
admiration. “Prima donna,”--by that name the public called on her to
receive their applause, and it was the same, thought Anielka, that
Justiniani had bestowed upon her. Could _she_ also be a prima donna?
What a glorious destiny! To be able to communicate one’s own emotions to
masses of entranced listeners; to awaken in them, by the power of the
voice, grief, love, terror.
Strange thoughts continued to haunt her on her return home. She was
unable to sleep. She formed desperate plans. At last she resolved to
throw off the yoke of servitude, and the still more painful slavery of
feelings which her pride disdained. Having learnt the address of the
prima donna, she went early one morning to her house.
On entering she said, in French, almost incoherently, so great was her
agitation--“Madam, I am a poor serf belonging to a Polish family who
have lately arrived in Florence. I have escaped from them; protect,
shelter me. They say I can sing.”
The Signora Teresina, a warm-hearted, passionate Italian, was interested
by her artless earnestness. She said, “Poor child! you must have
suffered much,”--she took Anielka’s hand in hers. “You say you can sing;
let me hear you.” Anielka seated herself on an ottoman. She clasped her
hands over knees, and tears fell into her lap. With plaintive pathos,
and perfect truth of intonation, she prayed in song. The Hymn to the
Virgin seemed to Teresina to be offered up by inspiration.
The Signora was astonished. “Where,” she asked, in wonder, “were you
taught?”
Anielka narrated her history, and when she had finished, the prima donna
spoke so kindly to her that she felt as if she had known her for years.
Anielka was Teresina’s guest that day and the next. After the opera, on
the third day, the prima donna made her sit beside her, and said:--
“I think you are a very good girl, and you shall stay with me always.”
The girl was almost beside herself with joy.
“We will never part. Do you consent, Anielka?”
“Do not call me Anielka. Give me instead some Italian name.”
“Well, then, be Giovanna. The dearest friend I ever had--but whom I have
lost--was named Giovanna,” said the prima donna.
“Then, I will be another Giovanna to you.”
Teresina then said, “I hesitated to receive you at first, for your sake
as well as mine; but you are safe now. I learn that your master and
mistress, after searching vainly for you, have returned to Poland.”
From this time Anielka commenced an entirely new life. She took lessons
in singing every day from the Signora, and got an engagement to appear
in inferior characters at the theatre. She had now her own income, and
her own servant--she, who had till then been obliged to serve herself.
She acquired the Italian language rapidly, and soon passed for a native
of the country.
So passed three years. New and varied impressions failed, however, to
blot out the old ones. Anielka arrived at great perfection in her
singing, and even began to surpass the prima donna, who was losing her
voice from weakness of the chest. This sad discovery changed the
cheerful temper of Teresina. She ceased to sing in public; for she
could not endure to excite pity where she had formerly commanded
admiration.
She determined to retire. “You,” she said to Anielka, “shall now assert
your claim to the first rank in the vocal art. You will maintain it. You
surpass me. Often, on hearing you sing, I have scarcely been able to
stifle a feeling of jealousy.”
Anielka placed her hand on Teresina’s shoulder, and kissed her.
“Yes,” continued Teresina, regardless of everything but the bright
future she was shaping for her friend. “We will go to Vienna--there you
will be understood and appreciated. You shall sing at the Italian Opera,
and I will be by your side--unknown, no longer sought, worshipped--but
will glory in your triumphs. They will be a repetition of my own; for
have I not taught you? Will they not be the result of my work?”
Though Anielka’s ambition was fired, her heart was softened, and she
wept violently.
Five months had scarcely elapsed when a _furore_ was created in Vienna
by the first appearance, at the Italian Opera, of the Signora Giovanna.
Her enormous salary at once afforded her the means of even extravagant
expenditure. Her haughty treatment of male admirers only attracted new
ones; but in the midst of her triumphs, she thought often of the time
when the poor orphan of Pobereze was cared for by nobody. This
remembrance made her receive the flatteries of the crowd with an
ironical smile; their fine speeches fell coldly on her ear, their
eloquent looks made no impression on her heart: _that_, no change could
alter, no temptation win.
In the flood of unexpected success a new misfortune overwhelmed her.
Since their arrival at Vienna, Teresina’s health rapidly declined, and
in the sixth month of Anielka’s operatic reign she expired, leaving all
her wealth, which was considerable, to her friend.
Once more Anielka was alone in the world. Despite all the honors and
blandishments of her position, the old feeling of desolateness came
upon her. The new shock destroyed her health. She was unable to appear
on the stage. To sing was a painful effort; she grew indifferent to what
passed around her. Her greatest consolation was in succoring the poor
and friendless, and her generosity was most conspicuous to all young
orphan girls without fortune. She had never ceased to love her native
land, and seldom appeared in society, unless it was to meet her
countrymen. If ever she sang, it was in Polish.
A year had elapsed since the death of the Signora Teresina when the
Count Selka, a rich noble of Volkynia, at that time in Vienna, solicited
her presence at a party. It was impossible to refuse the Count and his
lady, from whom she had received great kindness. She went. When in their
saloons, filled with all the fashion and aristocracy in Vienna, the name
of Giovanna was announced, a general murmur was heard. She entered, pale
and languid, and proceeded between the two rows made for her by the
admiring assembly, to the seat of honor, beside the mistress of the
house.
Shortly after, the Count Selka led her to the piano. She sat down before
it, and thinking what she should sing, glanced round upon the assembly.
She could not help feeling that the admiration which beamed from the
faces around her was the work of her own merit, for had she neglected
the great gift of nature, her voice, she could not have excited it. With
a blushing cheek, and eyes sparkling with honest pride, she struck the
piano with a firm hand, and from her seemingly weak and delicate chest
poured forth a touching Polish melody, with a voice pure, sonorous, and
plaintive. Tears were in many eyes, and the beating of every heart was
quickened.
The song was finished, but the wondering silence was unbroken. Giovanna
leaned exhausted on the arm of the chair, and cast down her eyes. On
again raising them, she perceived a gentleman who gazed fixedly at her,
as if he still listened to echoes which had not yet died within him. The
master of the house, to dissipate his thoughtlessness, led him towards
Giovanna. “Let me present to you, Signora,” he said, “a countryman, the
Count Leon Roszynski.”
The lady trembled; she silently bowed, fixed her eyes on the ground, and
dared not raise them. Pleading indisposition, which was fully justified
by her pallid features, she soon after withdrew.
When, on the following day, Giovanna’s servant announced the Counts
Selka and Roszynski, a peculiar smile played on her lips; and when they
entered, she received the latter with the cold and formal politeness of
a stranger. Controlling the feelings of her heart, she schooled her
features to an expression of indifference. It was manifest from Leon’s
manner, that without the remotest recognition, an indefinable
presentiment regarding her possessed him. The Counts had called to know
if Giovanna had recovered from her indisposition. Leon begged to be
permitted to call again.
Where was his wife? why did he never mention her? Giovanna continually
asked herself these questions when they had departed.
A few nights after, the Count Leon arrived, sad and thoughtful. He
prevailed on Giovanna to sing one of her Polish melodies, which she told
him she had been taught, when a child, by her nurse. Roszynski, unable
to restrain the expression of an intense admiration he had long felt,
frantically seized her hand, and exclaimed, “I love you!”
She withdrew it from his grasp, remained silent for a few minutes, and
then said slowly, distinctly, and ironically, “But I do not love _you_,
Count Roszynski.”
Leon rose from his seat. He pressed his hands to his brow, and was
silent. Giovanna remained calm and tranquil. “It is a penalty from
Heaven,” continued Leon, as if speaking to himself, “for not having
fulfilled my duty as a husband towards one whom I chose voluntarily, but
without reflection. I wronged her, and am punished.”
Giovanna turned her eyes upon him. Leon continued, “Young, and with a
heart untouched, I married a princess about ten years older than
myself, of eccentric habits and bad temper. She treated me as an
inferior. She dissipated the fortune hoarded up with so much care by my
parents, and yet was ashamed, on account of my origin, to be called by
my name. Happily for me, she was fond of visiting and amusements.
Otherwise, to escape from her, I might have become a gambler, or worse;
but to avoid meeting her, I remained at home--for there she seldom was.
At first from ennui, but afterwards from real delight in the occupation,
I gave myself up to study. Reading formed my mind and heart. I became a
changed being. Some months ago my father died, my sister went to
Lithuania, whilst my mother, in her old age, and with her ideas, was
quite incapable of understanding my sorrow. So when my wife went to the
baths for the benefit of her ruined health, I came here in the hope of
meeting with some of my former friends--I saw you--”
Giovanna blushed like one detected; but speedily recovering herself,
asked, with calm pleasantry, “Surely you do not number _me_ among your
former friends?”
“I know not. I have been bewildered. It is strange; but from the moment
I saw you at Count Selka’s, a powerful instinct of love overcame me; not
a new feeling; but as if some latent, long-hid, undeveloped sentiment
had suddenly burst forth into an uncontrollable passion. I love, I adore
you. I----”
The Prima Donna interrupted him--not with speech, but with a look which
awed, which chilled him. Pride, scorn, irony sat in her smile. Satire
darted from her eyes. After a pause she repeated slowly and pointedly,
“Love _me_, Count Roszynski?”
“Such is my destiny,” he replied. “Nor, despite your scorn, will I
struggle against it. I feel it is my fate ever to love you; I fear it is
my fate never to be loved by you. It is dreadful.”
Giovanna witnessed the Count’s emotion with sadness. “To have,” she said
mournfully, “one’s first, pure, ardent, passionate affection
unrequited, scorned, made a jest of, is indeed a bitterness, almost
equal to that of death.”
She made a strong effort to conceal her emotion. Indeed she controlled
it so well as to speak the rest with a sort of gaiety.
“You have at least been candid, Count Roszynski; I will imitate you by
telling a little history that occurred in your country. There was a poor
girl born and bred a serf to her wealthy lord and master. When scarcely
fifteen years old, she was torn from a state of happy rustic
freedom--the freedom of humility and content--to be one of the courtly
slaves of the Palace. Those who did not laugh at her, scolded her. One
kind word was vouchsafed to her, and that came from the lord’s son. She
nursed it and treasured it; till, from long concealing and restraining
her feelings, she at last found that gratitude had changed into a
sincere affection. But what does a man of the world care for the love of
a serf? It does not even flatter his vanity. The young nobleman did not
understand the source of her tears and her grief, and he made a present
of her, as he would have done of some animal, to his betrothed.”
Leon, agitated and somewhat enlightened, would have interrupted her; but
Giovanna said, “Allow me to finish my tale. Providence did not abandon
this poor orphan, but permitted her to rise to distinction by the talent
with which she was endowed by nature. The wretched serf of Pobereze
became a celebrated Italian cantatrice. _Then_ her former lord meeting
her in society, and seeing her admired and courted by all the world,
without knowing who she really was, was afflicted, as if by the dictates
of Heaven, with a love for this same girl,--with a guilty love”--
And Giovanna rose, as she said this, to remove herself further from her
admirer.
“No, no!” he replied earnestly; “with a pure and holy passion.”
“Impossible!” returned Giovanna. “Are you not married?”
Roszynski vehemently tore a letter from his vest, and handed it to
Giovanna. It was sealed with black, for it announced the death of his
wife at the baths. It had only arrived that morning.
“You have lost no time,” said the cantatrice, endeavoring to conceal her
feelings under an iron mask of reproach.
There was a pause. Each dared not speak. The Count knew--but without
actually and practically believing what seemed incredible--that Anielka
and Giovanna were the same person--_his slave_. That terrible
relationship checked him. Anielka, too, had played her part to the end
of endurance. The long-cherished tenderness--the faithful love of her
life, could not longer be wholly mastered. Hitherto they had spoken in
Italian. She now said in Polish,
“You have a right, my Lord Roszynski, to that poor Anielka who escaped
from the service of your wife in Florence; you can force her back to
your palace, to its meanest work, but”--
“Have mercy on me!” cried Leon.
“But,” continued the serf of Pobereze, firmly, “you cannot force me to
love you.”
“Do not mock--do not torture me more; you are sufficiently revenged. I
will not offend you by importunity. You must indeed hate me! But
remember that we Poles wished to give freedom to our serfs; and for that
very reason our country was invaded and dismembered by despotic powers.
We must therefore continue to suffer slavery as it exists in Russia;
but, soul and body, we are averse to it; and when our country once more
becomes free, be assured no shadow of slavery will remain in the land.
Curse then our enemies, and pity us that we stand in such a desperate
position between Russian bayonets and Siberia, and the hatred of our
serfs.”
So saying, and without waiting for a reply, Leon rushed from the room.
The door was closed. Giovanna listened to the sounds of his rapid
footsteps till they died in the street. She would have followed, but
dared not. She ran to the window. Roszynski’s carriage was rolling
rapidly away, and she exclaimed vainly, “I love you, Leon; I loved you
always!”
Her tortures were unendurable. To relieve them she hastened to her desk,
and wrote these words:--
“Dearest Leon, forgive me; let the past be forever forgotten. Return to
your Anielka. She always has been, ever will be yours.”
She despatched the missive. Was it too late? or would it bring him back?
In the latter hope she retired to her chamber, to execute a little
project.
Leon was in despair. He saw he had been premature in so soon declaring
his passion after the news of his wife’s death, and vowed he would not
see Anielka again for several months. To calm his agitation, he had
ridden some miles into the country. When he returned to his hotel after
some hours, he found her note. With the wild delight it had darted into
his soul, he flew back to her.
On regaining her saloon a new and terrible vicissitude seemed to sport
with his passion:--she was nowhere to be seen. Had the Italian
cantatrice fled? Again he was in despair; stupefied with
disappointment. As he stood uncertain how to act in the midst of the
floor, he heard, as from a distance, an Ave Maria poured forth in tones
he half-recognized. The sounds brought back to him a host of
recollections; a weeping serf, the garden of his own palace. In a state
of new rapture he followed the voice. He traced it to an inner chamber,
and he there beheld the lovely singer kneeling in the costume of a
Polish serf. She rose, greeted Leon with a touching smile, and stepped
forward with serious bashfulness. Leon extended his arms; she sank into
them; and in that fond embrace all past wrongs and sorrows were
forgotten! Anielka drew from her bosom a little purse, and took from it
a piece of silver. It was the rouble. _Now_, Leon did not smile at it.
He comprehended the sacredness of this little gift; and some tears of
repentance fell upon Anielka’s hand.
A few months after, Leon wrote to the steward of Olgogrod to prepare
everything splendidly for the reception of his second wife. He
concluded his letter with these words:--“I understand that in the
dungeon beneath my palace there are some unfortunate men, who were
imprisoned during my father’s lifetime. Let them be instantly liberated.
This is my first act of gratitude to God, who has so infinitely blessed
me!”
Anielka longed ardently to behold her native land. They left Vienna
immediately after the wedding, although it was in the middle of January.
It was already quite dark when the carriage, with its four horses,
stopped in front of the portico of the palace of Olgogrod. Whilst the
footman was opening the door on one side, a beggar soliciting alms
appeared at the other, where Anielka was seated. Happy to perform a good
action, as she crossed the threshold of her new home, she gave him some
money; but the man, instead of thanking her, returned her bounty with a
savage laugh, at the same time scowling at her in the fiercest manner
from beneath his thick and shaggy brows. The strangeness of this
circumstance sensibly affected Anielka, and clouded her happiness. Leon
soothed and re-assured her. In the arms of her beloved husband, she
forgot all but the happiness of being the idol of his affections.
Fatigue and excitement made the night most welcome. All was dark and
silent around the palace, and some hours of the night had passed, when
suddenly flames burst forth from several parts of the building at once.
The palace was enveloped in fire; it raged furiously. The flames mounted
higher and higher; the windows cracked with a fearful sound, and the
smoke penetrated into the most remote apartments.
A single figure of a man was seen stealing over the snow, which lay like
a winding-sheet on the solitary waste; his cautious steps were heard on
the frozen snow as it crisped beneath his tread. It was the beggar who
had accosted Anielka. On a rising ground, he turned to gaze on the
terrible scene. “No more unfortunate wretches will now be doomed to pass
their lives in your dungeons,” he exclaimed. “What was _my_ crime?
Reminding my master of the lowness of his birth. For this they tore me
from my only child--my darling little Anielka; they had no pity even for
her orphan state; let them perish all!”
Suddenly a young and beautiful creature rushes wildly to one of the
principal windows: she makes a violent effort to escape. For a moment
her lovely form, clothed in white, shines in terrible relief against the
background of blazing curtains and walls of fire, and as instantly sinks
back into the blazing element. Behind her is another figure, vainly
endeavoring to aid her,--he perishes also; neither are ever seen again!
This appalling tragedy horrified even the perpetrator of the crime. He
rushed from the place; and as he heard the crash of the falling walls,
he closed his ears with his hands, and darted on faster and faster.
The next day some peasants discovered the body of a man frozen to death,
lying on a heap of snow,--it was that of the wretched incendiary.
Providence, mindful of his long, of his cruel imprisonment and
sufferings, spared him the anguish of knowing that the mistress of the
palace he had destroyed, and who perished in the flames, was his own
beloved daughter--the Serf of Pobereze!