The materials for the following tale were furnished to the writer
while traveling 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 avenue leading to the palace. Some were accompanied by their
sorrowful and weeping parents, in all of whose hearts, however, rose
the faint 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 1600 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
jailor 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 sue 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 horse-back, as he held
a whip in his hand, whilst walking up and down 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 toward 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 the poor
orphan. Her true torment began, when, on laving 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 to
draw from her naught 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
farther 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 his 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
(peddlers) come, buy yourself a pretty handkerchief." He then gave
her a ruble 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 ruble 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 this 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. Constantia ordered Anielka to sit beside her whilst 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 this time, would have recognized her. Of this
number was Leon. In the midst of perpetual gayety 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 be 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 with 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 a 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. Petersburgh 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 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 marvelous 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 toward 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 Signer 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 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 toward 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, it 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 theater. I will send you to hear her, and
afterward 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 practiced 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 ecstacy 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 her 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; it 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 theater. She had now her own
income, and her own servant--she, who till then had 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,
worshiped--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
thoughtfulness, led him toward 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'a 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 had been taught, when a child, by her muse. 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 toward 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 afterward 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 that 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 gayety.
"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 dispatched 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 on 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 reassured 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 creatures 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 of them 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!
* * * * *