a time from a child on whose education he had lavished such thought and
care. But at eighteen we find her established in Poland as an inmate of
one of its noblest families. After two years thus spent, during which
she acquired a thorough knowledge of the Polish and German languages,
she returned to France and had the melancholy consolation of nursing
and assisting her father in his last moments; after which she was
entreated to return to the Countess L—— in Poland, and become the
adopted child of the house, to which she consented. So that, when the
insurrection in that country broke out in 1863, “Mika,” as she was
affectionately called by the whole family, rejoiced in the opportunity
it afforded her of repaying the debt of gratitude she owed to those who
had been as her second parents, by a devotion which was ready to
sacrifice life itself in their service.
It is an episode in this war which we are about to give to our readers,
and which we think will be doubly interesting at the present moment,
when all eyes are fixed on the terrible struggle going on in the East.
The story is told in the heroine’s own words.
* * * * *
It was on the 22d January, 1863, that the Poles, in little bands of ten
or twenty men, met by a cross raised in honor of Kosciusko in the
palatinate of Radom, and made a vow to deliver Poland from the
Muscovite yoke or perish in the attempt. Let those who blame them
remember the intolerable persecution which they had patiently endured
for years—a persecution which deprived them of their faith, their
language, their rights as citizens, and all that men hold most dear.
On the 24th they marched on Miechow, having no other arms than scythes
and sticks and old-fashioned fowling-pieces. Led by inexperienced
chiefs, who, in their ardor, fondly imagined that patriotism and a holy
cause would carry the day against military tactics, they were foolish
enough to attack, in broad daylight, a strong body of Russians, well
armed and superior to them in numbers, who occupied an almost
impregnable position on the heights above the town. The result may be
easily imagined. The Poles were repulsed with heavy loss, and the
Russians, who delight in celebrating their triumphs by a bonfire, burnt
down the town and massacred all the Poles who came within their reach.
Ten of the Polish wounded were secretly brought to the castle, where we
had established a subterranean ambulance. It was my business to dress
the wounds of these poor fellows, assisted by a holy nun, the Mother
Alexandra, who played too important a part in my future history not to
be mentioned here. The Count L—— did not approve of the insurrection
and considered it hopeless from the first; but he would not abandon his
brave peasants. Towards the 30th of this month our couriers gave us
warning that the Russians were aware of the wounded men being under our
care, and that they were marching on the castle for the purpose of
burning it down. The count refused to fly, saying that his place was
amongst his own people at Syez, of whom he had always been both the
father and protector. But he called me into his counsels, and implored
me to carry off his wife and children and his sister-in-law (who lived
with us) to Mislowitz, a little manufacturing town on the frontier of
Silesia and Poland. After all it was a false alarm; and after a
fortnight’s exile, which anxiety and fear had doubled, a letter from
the count recalled us. We had nearly reached the end of our journey
when we were attacked by a mob of Russian fanatics, who endeavored to
seize the carriage. I was on horseback at the head of the little
cavalcade, and I managed by means of my revolver to keep these
miscreants at bay. The coachman profited by this moment’s respite to
lash his horses into a gallop, by which means we escaped the ambush and
reached the castle in safety.
But our tranquillity was not destined to be of long duration. About a
fortnight later eight insurgents of the legion called of “Despair”
sought refuge in our house. We concealed them as well as we could; but
in the middle of the night notice was sent us that the Russians were on
their track and had discovered their hiding-place. We hastened to send
them off to a part of the forest where a cavern had been prepared to
receive any such fugitives. They reached it in safety, but unhappily
were betrayed by a peasant to whom the secret had been confided. The
exasperated Russians again threatened the castle; and again the count
insisted on our flight. On our way an alarm was given of some sort
which so terrified the coachman that he threw down his whip and fled
for his life, leaving us and the carriage at the mercy of the four
horses, which were strong beasts and very fresh. Luckily, they stood
still for a moment, and, as I was used to driving, I reassured the
countess and jumped on the box. Hardly, however, had I taken the reins
than the wheels of the carriage became wedged in the sand. I jumped off
the box, and, seizing one of the leaders by the bridle, urged him
forward with all my might. The animal made so violent an effort that he
threw me down and dragged me some twenty paces; but as I held on for
dear life, he ended by stopping, and, the carriage being thus released,
we went on as fast as we could, continually in dread of pursuit, till
we reached the house of Countess N——, who received us with the warmest
kindness and hospitality. Our stay here, however, was not of long
duration, for my poor friend, the Countess L——, was in an agony to
return to her husband, who had been left alone in the castle; and so,
at the risk of being again captured, we returned to Syez. Fortunately,
this time we had no alarms on the road, and the joy of the family at
their safe reunion was as great as their thankfulness.
But our happiness was short-lived. Although the count did not take any
part in the insurrection, it was well known that his sympathies were
with his people, and this was sufficient to make him a marked man with
the Russian authorities. At last we heard from undeniable authority
that his arrest had been determined upon, and that he had been already
condemned to Siberia. Then followed a heartrending scene—his wife and
children (whose whole future would have been wrecked had his
deportation been carried into effect) imploring him to take refuge in
Germany, where he had a small property, and to remain there till the
storm was past; while he clung tenaciously to his old home and to his
duties as a proprietor during the struggle. Finally, he yielded to our
tears and entreaties; but before leaving he sent for me and solemnly
commended his wife and children to my care. I swore to defend them or
to die in the attempt. It was agreed that we were to watch our
opportunity, and, if possible, obtain an escort so as to cross the
frontier and rejoin the count as soon as we could. Three days only
after his departure we received intelligence that the Russians were
close to our gates and were going to insist on a domiciliary visit. I
flew to the count’s private room and commenced making an _auto-da-fé_
of every compromising letter or paper I could find and of all suspected
newspapers. Whilst I was fanning the flames the count’s sister came in,
and, seeing what I was about, exclaimed with horror:
“O Mika! for God’s sake stop. You don’t know what you are doing. All
Arthur’s gunpowder is hidden and stowed away in that chimney!”
I was almost paralyzed with fear, but I said:
“Fly for your life and get the countess and the children out of the
house.” And then, with a fervent ejaculatory prayer to God, I tore the
burning papers out of the grate before the flames had had time to
ignite the gunpowder, which, luckily for me, had been carefully done up
in packets and placed in a metal box. I managed to drag the papers into
another fireplace, and had time to see that they were all burnt, and to
conceal the tinder, before the Cossacks surrounded the house and
summoned us to open the doors. Their officers made the most minute
examination of everything, but found nothing that they could lay their
hands on, and went away disgusted, while I escaped with a few trifling
burns on my hands and arms.
A few days after this scene Mme. de I—— and I were sitting talking in
the room where we generally met and waited before dinner, when the
countess came in with an open letter in her hand and looking more sad
and pale than usual. “What has happened?” we both exclaimed; and I
added, smiling: “Are we condemned to the knout? Or do the Russians
reserve us the honor of a hempen collar?” But my dismal pleasantry
produced no response, and the poor lady silently came and sat down by
me, taking my hand. After a pause she said:
“Mika, I have been unwittingly guilty of a great indiscretion. You know
how miserably anxious I am for news of Arthur’s safety. A servant whom
I had sent to the post, in hopes of finding a letter from him, brought
me back this one; and, full of my cruel anxiety, I tore it open without
looking at the address, being fully convinced it came from him.”
“Well?” I inquired, as she hesitated to go on.
“Well, this letter was a terrible disappointment. It wasn’t from Arthur
at all, or for me, but for you, and from your own family, who, dreading
the consequences of this sad insurrection, insist on your immediate
return to France.”
“Is that all?” I asked, smiling.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “I only read enough to find out my
mistake, and I was so absorbed by my own anxiety that I hardly took in
the meaning of the words at first.”
“But that is not what I ask,” I rejoined. “I want to know what there
was in that letter which makes you look so sad.”
The countess’ eyes filled with tears. “I own, Mika, that the thought of
losing you breaks my heart. You know, at the first moment of alarm,
Miss B—— and Fräulein F—— left the children and returned to their
homes. I fancied you would follow their example; but seeing you so
brave and so ready to share in all our dangers, I had been completely
reassured, until God allowed this letter to fall into my hands.”
“And what have you concluded from that letter?” I asked rather coldly.
“I have made up my mind, Mika, that it would be the height of
selfishness on my part to strive to induce you to stay on with us in a
country where desolation and terror reign supreme; where we are not
safe from one moment to the other; where neither human nor divine laws
are respected, and where even ladies are not spared the lash or the
stake. Yesterday, as you well know, Countess P——, for having worn
mourning for her brother, who had been massacred by the Russians, was
flogged publicly in the market-place and hanged afterwards. Fly, then,
my dearest Mika, while there is yet time. Already you have done far
more than your duty. You have risked your life over and over again for
us. I cannot, I must not, exact any further sacrifice. Leave us, Mika,
leave us to our sad fate, and may God be with you!”
Here the poor wife and mother hid her face in her hands, and I saw
great tears coursing down her cheeks through her clasped fingers. Mme.
de I—— and the children, who had come in during the interval and had
heard their mother’s words, clustered round me and cried too. When I
could command my own voice I turned towards the countess and said:
“Dearest madam! seven years have now elapsed since I first became an
inmate of your home. When I arrived here, Poland, if not happy, was at
least at peace, and I reckoned you among the limited number of the
truly happy ones on this earth. You received me (I, whom a deep sorrow
had driven from my native land) as a friend, as a child, as a sister;
and this affection and consideration for me have never failed for a
single moment. When the insurrection broke out your English governess
left you; and I think she was right. A sacred duty was laid upon
her—that of supporting her old mother, who lived entirely on her
earnings. As to Fräulein F——, that is quite another matter. I expected
she would go away on the very first alarm. With Prussians devotedness
does not exist. I believe they have tomatoes in place of hearts! As for
me, I have only one brother in the world, and he is good enough to
think of me only when his purse is empty. I have, therefore, not the
same excuse as Miss B——, still less that of Fräulein F——; for if I
chose to live independently, the little fortune left me by my father
would be enough for my wants. If I returned to Poland after his death
it was to find the same disinterested love and affection I had left
there. I have found more than a duty to fulfil: I have a debt of
gratitude to pay; and I thank God for the portion he has assigned to
me.”
“But your family?” again urged the countess, whose face began to
brighten.
“Since my father and sister died,” I replied, “I do not consider I have
any family claims. Now, listen to me, contessina,” I continued,
clasping her two hands in mine. “God has put into my heart an
inexhaustible treasure of devotedness and tenderness. He has given me
likewise unusual courage and strength; and now I thank him that he has
also given me the occasion to employ these, his gifts, in your service.
Your husband is in exile; you are threatened in your home, in your
children, in your property, and by everything around you; and you could
imagine for a moment that, under such circumstances, I should go and
abandon you! Thank God! that there never has been a stain yet on our
family name, and my father, an old soldier, impressed upon me, from a
child, the strongest feelings of duty and honor. I swear, therefore, in
the sight of God, that as long as this war lasts your country shall be
my country, your children shall also be mine, and as long as my heart
beats not a hair of your dear head shall be touched! When happier days
arise for Poland, and peace shall be restored, then, but not till then,
I shall remember that France is my country, and that I have left
well-beloved tombs on her soil.”
The countess threw her arms round me in a close embrace and cried on my
shoulder. Mme. de I—— looked at me with the sweetest smile. “Thanks,
Mika,” she murmured in a broken voice. “I never believed for a moment
that you would leave us. You!”
The children seized hold of my hands and covered them with kisses. It
was a moment of the purest happiness I had known on earth.
In proportion to the progress and extent of the insurrection the
cruelty of the Russians increased. Every day brought new vexations or
fresh tortures. We lived in constant fear, and our position became
really insupportable. Almost every noble family in the neighborhood had
fled and left the country, and we should long before have followed
their example had it not been for the great distance we were from the
railroad. The count had arrived safely at Dresden, whence he wrote
imploring his wife to join him. But we were at least forty versts from
the nearest station, and to go there without an escort would have
exposed us inevitably to fall into the hands of the Russians, who had
lately ranked emigration in the category of crimes of high treason. And
how was it possible to form an escort? The peasants, in the pay of the
_Raskolnicks_ (or old believers), would refuse to march, and the
servants would, in all probability, have betrayed us. In vain I racked
my brains to find some way out of this difficulty, and every day the
danger became more imminent. Providence at last had pity upon us, and
disposed events in a way which became eventually the salvation of those
so dear to me.
Every evening, when the rest of the family were gone to bed, I went
alone into the library to answer letters, verify the steward’s
registers, and look after the accounts. In the absence of the count
there was no one to see after these necessary duties but myself, and I
looked upon them as my right. One night, when this work had kept me up
later than usual, I heard some one knocking at the door. It was past
midnight. I rose to open it, very much surprised at any one coming to
me at that hour, and all the more as no servant would venture into that
part of the house at night, as it was reported to be haunted. What was
my astonishment at finding the countess herself outside the door in a
pitiable state of agitation.
“O Mika!” she exclaimed, almost falling into my arms as I led her to a
seat, “I am in the most horrible perplexity and anxiety. I have just
received an entreaty to send a despatch instantly to General B——, my
husband’s oldest and dearest friend. He is encamped with his squadron
at Gory, on the property of Count Dembinski; and he does not know that
eight hundred Russians are in the immediate neighborhood and have laid
an ambush to surprise him. This despatch is to warn him of it; for he
has only three hundred men with him, who will all be cut to pieces, if
he should not be warned in time. Who knows? perhaps already it may be
too late. But you, Mika, who are always so clear-headed—can you suggest
anything? Can you advise me what to do?”
“But the man who brought this despatch,” I exclaimed—“where is he? Why
cannot he go on instantly to Gory?”
“Alas! it is impossible,” replied the countess. “He has just galloped
seven leagues without stopping to take breath, and his horse dropped
down dead at the entrance of the village. The poor fellow himself is
half dead with fatigue and exhaustion.”
I thought for a minute or two, and then said:
“Leave the despatch with me. I will go and rouse the steward, and
between us we will find some one who will undertake this perilous
mission.”
“Do you really think so, Mika?”
“Yes, I am sure of it,” I replied.
“Oh! what a weight you have lifted off my heart,” said the countess
joyfully. “Go at once, dearest child. I will wait for you, and not go
to bed till I have heard the result of your consultation.”
When the countess had gone back to her own room a terrible struggle
arose in my heart. I had studied the peasants and servants well enough
to know that in such a moment of extreme danger not one of them was to
be trusted. The steward himself did not inspire me with much
confidence; and, besides, he was the father of a family. On the other
hand, the lives of three hundred men hung upon the delivery of this
message. I knelt down and prayed with my whole heart for guidance. When
I rose my resolution was taken. The hour was come for me to pay my debt
of gratitude towards this Poland which had become so dear to me, and
perhaps in this way alone could I save the family to whom I had devoted
my life. I wrote a few lines to the countess, and then went and woke my
own maid.
“Marynia,” I said, “in half an hour, but not before, you must take this
note to the countess, who is sitting up for me. And if to-morrow, when
you get up, I am not come back, you must take another letter to her,
which you will find on my chest of drawers.”
“But, Holy Virgin of Czenstochowa!” exclaimed the poor girl, “you are
not going out at this time of night?”
“Yes; I am starting this very instant.”
“But then I will wake the whole house. I won’t have you go alone at
this hour.”
“No, you will stay quiet,” I said to her in a tone which admitted of no
reply, “and in half an hour you will do what I have told you.”
So saying, I left Marynia to her lamentations and went out. The first
thing I had to do was to put on a man’s dress—I had received permission
to do this from Rome in case of an emergency like the present—and then,
taking my pistols, which were always ready, I went to the stable and
picked out the best horse I could find, which I saddled myself,
blessing again the education my father had given me, that made me
independent of any assistance.
The road which I took passed in front of the castle. There was a light
in the countess’ room where she was waiting for me. Good, gentle,
loving woman with a child’s heart! Twice I saw her shadow pass and
repass across the curtain, and twice my heart failed me. This feeling
only lasted a minute; but this minute might have been a century for the
agony concentrated in it. There to the left was the old castle which
held those two young women so dear to me, and those children whose
birth I had witnessed and who loved me so tenderly. To the right
stretched the road that was to lead me—to Siberia, perhaps, or to a
sudden and violent death. If at this thought my heart failed me, and if
for a moment I hesitated, God will, I hope, have forgiven it. At
twenty-four years of age one does not fling away life without one look
back. I stopped my horse instinctively, fully realizing the almost
foolhardiness of my attempt. But then my thoughts reverted to those
three hundred brave fellows whose lives I held, as it were, in my hand,
and, with a sigh which was more like a sob, I dug my spurs into my
beautiful “Kirdjcali,” who bounded into the air with surprise and pain,
and commenced galloping at a furious pace along the road—a pace I did
not even try to check, for it seemed to relieve my bursting heart. Now
and then I had to lie down on his mane to take breath. But by degrees
the cold and calm silence of the night, and the satisfaction of feeling
that I was accomplishing a great and sacred duty, restored my peace of
mind. I checked the pace of my horse, and after about three-quarters of
an hour came to a thick fir-wood, through which I was quietly ambling
when Kirdjcali stopped suddenly, and I instantly perceived the cause.
On the edge of the wood, about five hundred paces off, a great fire was
crackling, round which were grouped a number of men and horses. It was
either a Russian or a Polish patrol; but in either case my situation
was a critical one. I had no “safe-conduct” papers, and no password
save for General B——. I should be taken for a spy and hanged without
form or ceremony. What was to be done? Go back? That would be the
height of weakness. Take another road? There was no other. Yet to go on
was undoubtedly to run the risk of falling directly into their hands.
Again I lifted up my whole heart in prayer; after all I had God and the
right on my side, and so I decided to venture it, feeling besides that
my good Kirdjcali had the legs of a race-horse and could beat almost
any other animal, if it came to a chase. The moon, which till then had
guided my path, was suddenly hidden behind a thick cloud that concealed
me from the enemy. I made my horse walk, and, lying flat on his neck, I
went on to within fifty paces of the Cossacks (for they were Russian
Cossacks) without their dreaming of my vicinity; for the soft sand
deadened the sound of my horse’s feet. All of a sudden Kirdjcali threw
up his head and sniffed the wind with ever-widening nostrils. And then
what I most dreaded came to pass. He recognized some companion of the
steppes and gave a loud neigh, which was answered instantly by a hurrah
from the children of the Don, who were on foot in a moment. Making the
sign of the cross, I dug my spurs once more into my poor Kirdjcali’s
flanks, and passed like a flash of lightning before the astonished
Cossacks. “Stoj!” (stop) they cried with one voice. My only answer to
this summons was to urge on my steed to still greater speed. Then they
had recourse to a more active means of arresting my course. Two flashes
lit up the darkness of the night, and one ball whistled past my ear,
grazed my head, and cut off a lock of my hair close to the temple; the
other passed through a branch of a tree some paces before me. But
Kirdjcali flew like the wind, and I was soon out of the reach of
pursuit. As soon as I dared I stopped him to let him breathe; five
minutes more of this furious pace, and the poor beast would have
dropped down dead.
By the time I had reached General B——’s column it was three o’clock in
the morning.
“Who goes there?” cried the sentinel.
“Military orders,” I replied.
“The password?”
“_Polska è Volnoszez_” (Poland and liberty). He let me pass, and I was
received by M. D——, one of the general’s aides-de-camp. I gave him the
despatch, which he hastened to take to his chief. Hardly had he left
me, and before I had time to rejoice at having accomplished my mission,
when a discharge of musketry, accompanied by the savage Russian
war-cry, was heard to the left. In spite of the fearful speed of my
ride, I had arrived too late! The enemy had almost surrounded the
little camp. A few minutes sufficed for the general to throw himself
into the saddle and place himself at the head of his column.
“First squadron, forward!” he cried in a stentorian voice.
Not a man stirred.