We have been here two days, and the Prince Martin announced from the very first that he would not let us go away soon. I do not think there can be found anywhere a host more generous, gay, and hospitable than the Prince Martin. The princess says that he sows his money broadcast as though he expected it to grow. He has now a new scheme on foot: they are cutting a road through a beautiful forest near the castle,—from my window I can see the magnificent trees fall under the axes of at least a hundred workmen,—and at the end of the road they are building a small palace, but in such haste that it seems to grow under one's eyes. There is a wager between the Prince Martin and the Prince Woivode that the building will be ready in four weeks, and I am sure the younger prince will be the winner. The whole forest is to be enclosed with a hedge and serve as a preserve. Men have been sent to distant places to bring deer and bears, besides the game which is found around here. There is some mystery about all that hasty work; I wonder what it is!
This place is beautiful indeed. The old and majestic castle stands upon a hill above the Vistula, and commands a most admirable view over picturesque villages, forests, and the winding river. The halls and rooms are innumerable, the furniture rich and elegant, and the gallery of portraits is said to be the finest in the country. But my room seems to me the most charming of all; it is in a high tower, and it makes me feel like the heroine of a novel. From each of the three windows is a different view, each beautiful, but I sit most near the window looking towards the little palace, the progress of the work going on there interests me so very much. On the walls of my room is Olympus painted in fresco. "Venus lui manquait, mais il la possède maintenant," said Prince Martin, gallantly, when he brought me in.
I rose before the sun, and I must have looked like a ghost when I glided through the large halls, on my way to the gallery of portraits.
The Prince Martin, following the example of our ancestors, who kept with great care the pictures of their most illustrious members, and the memory of their great deeds, determined to gather all such souvenirs of the Lubomirski family in one room. He brought from Italy a skilful painter, also called in the help of a very learned man, who knew all about the Polish history, and after long researches and debates the plan was carried out in 1746; as the inscription above the door testifies. The princess says it is a pity that all these portraits and pictures are not painted in oil on canvas instead of "in fresco," as they never can be removed, and it is more difficult to take care of them. In any case the gallery, as it is now, is superb.
Yesterday after dinner our host brought us in and explained the meaning of the large paintings, relating the facts and the anecdotes about them. It was so interesting that I decided to get up very early this morning, before the house was awake, and come here alone to look again at the pictures, and write about some of them.
The first picture represents the three brothers Lubomirski, young and handsome men, who in the presence of the king, and many lords and witnesses, are dividing the inheritance of their father. Two scriveners are writing the deed upon a roll of parchment, and this document, dating from 1088, was the first historical title-deed known in Poland; it is still in existence, and the family are very proud of it.
After that picture, comes a row of portraits of stately men and great warriors, which I must pass over. Then I see a painting representing a chapel, where, before a miraculous image of the Virgin, a baby is being weighed, and the other scale is covered with gold pieces. One Prince Lubomirski, being childless, made a vow that if a son were born to him he would offer to the Church its weight in gold, and he kept his promise.
Farther on, I see a nun on her deathbed, with a halo round her head; sick people touch her garments and are healed; it was Sophy Lubomirska, who in the sixteenth century was renowned for her sanctity.
On the other wall is represented an amusing scene: Among young damsels at work stands a pretty little girl in a very uncomfortable position, as her foot is tied to the leg of the table. Her aunt, who has punished her thus for some mischief, is sternly looking at her. But the naughty little Christina has grown to be a young lady, and in the following picture we see her kneeling before the altar in her room, her beautiful eyes full of ecstasy; she has just pricked her finger with a golden needle, and gathering her blood on a pen, she writes down her determination always to lead a saintly life. She kept her word; married to Felixe Potocki, she was as famous for her virtues as for her beauty. All her accomplishments, her rare talent for music, her great skill in handiwork, were given to God's service. She adorned His churches, composed and sang verses to His glory, founded several convents, and her charitable deeds were innumerable. Her own confessor wrote her life and called her a saint.
Next come the portraits of her two brothers. First, Stanislaus, an eminent writer, surnamed the "Polish Solomon," is surrounded with books, and Fame crowns him with a laurel wreath. The second, Jerome, famous for his valor, is represented with the King Sobieski, when after the victory near Vienna they are examining the flag of Mahomet, captured from the Turks; in the distance the Polish army can be seen occupying the Turkish camps.
Then I stop at a large picture representing a very exciting adventure. In a forest covered with snow, a man is fighting with a bear, who seems to have the better of him, when from behind a woman in a hunting costume approaches, and holds two pistols to the animal's ears; in the background a horse is seen running away with a sleigh. The story runs thus: A Princess Lubomirska, who was very fond of horses, was returning one day from a hunting party, with only one servant, when an infuriated bear sprang upon them. The frightened horse threw over the little sleigh and ran away with it, and the two people were left to the fury of the beast. The faithful servant having only said, "Your Grace, remember my wife and children," threw himself forward to meet the bear, who was advancing on his hind legs, and give his mistress time to run away. But the courageous Pole did not leave the brave man to perish; drawing two pistols from her belt, she stepped from behind and shot the bear on the spot.
But I hear the Prince Martin talking to his dogs, which he loves and pets as if they were children; his greyhounds are famous in the whole country. It is time to stop and run back to my tower.
We went to Opole, and returned here again, urged by Prince Martin to see the villa finished; he won the wager. I asked him to-day why he wanted another house, and he answered smiling, "For your ladyship's sake." What does he mean?
The duke is here! And, oh!—I can hardly believe it,—he loves me! He loves me so much that he could stay no longer without seeing me, and the two princes, to please him, thought to build the villa and to give hunting parties, in order to bring him near the object of his affection. It is fortunate that it was dark when he appeared yesterday. Everybody would have seen how I blushed, and he himself might have read in my eyes more joy than I ought to have shown. How will all this end? Until now I feigned not to understand the hidden meaning of his words. I tried most carefully to conceal my feelings toward him; shall I be able to do it any longer, especially here, where I shall see him so often,—live almost under the same roof?
I cannot express the state that my heart and head are in. I see before me either a destiny so grand that I am afraid to think of it, or so dark and miserable that I shiver. What ought I to do? I would rather die than ask the princess; she said, not later than to-day, that the woman who would believe in the love of the duke would be simply mad, and that his wife would be most unhappy. The Prince Woivode visibly shuns any confidence.
I am betrothed. Is it really true? I, Frances Krasinska, I shall be Duchess of Courland, and perhaps one day something more!
To-day we went to the little palace. The princess made a false step mounting the stairs, and was obliged to stay in the room with her companion, and we four went to the park. The Prince Martin stopped to show the Woivode some preparations for the hunt, but the duke said he preferred to walk, and took my arm. He was silent for awhile, which seemed strange, as he generally talks a great deal. At last he asked me if I would never be willing to understand for whom and for what he had come here. I tried to answer, calmly, that I knew him to be a lover of hunting, and that there promised to be great sport. Then he put aside all metaphors, and said plainly that he came for my sake, "and to find his whole life's happiness." I was stunned, it came so suddenly; but I composed myself and said: "Monsieur le Duc, are you forgetting who you are, and what you may be one day? You must look for a wife among the royal daughters." "You are my queen!" he exclaimed; "you, who first by your beauty have charmed my eyes, and afterwards by your modesty and virtues have won my heart. I am used to having women run to me as soon as I have spoken one word. But you, although you loved me perhaps more than any one of them, you shunned me; I could only guess what you were feeling. You are worthy of the first throne in the world. If I wish to be one day King of Poland, it is in order to put a crown on that beautiful brow of yours." How can I believe that all that was not merely a dream!
I stood silent; no words could pass my lips. Then the two princes drew near us. "I take Heaven and you for witnesses," said the duke, turning to them, "that I will never marry any other woman but the Countess Françoise Krasinska. For reasons easily understood, I wish my decision kept secret until the time comes, and I am sure of your loyalty and discretion." The princes saluted; they said something about the great honor and their faithfulness; they whispered in my ear, "You are worthy of it," and withdrew.
I stood as yet in a dream, but at last I had to answer to the affectionate words; I had even to confess that I loved him much, and had done so for a long time. Should I not have made that avowal to my future husband? My husband! No, it cannot be true. But then, what means the exchanged ring on my finger? I had from Basia a little golden snake-ring which she gave me at my last visit; the duke had observed it, and ordered a similar one with the words "for ever" engraved inside; he put it on my finger and took mine for himself. The trees and the birds were the only witnesses of that silent betrothal. But these rings were not consecrated; a Father's hand had not given me away, nor a Mother bestowed her blessing. Oh! yes, now I believe that all is true, for I feel hot tears on my cheeks.
One week has passed, a week of such bliss! To-day for the first time, I was struck with the thought that my happiness might fly away. The Dukes Clement and Albert arrived here on Thursday; the hunt took place on Friday and Saturday, and they leave this afternoon; perhaps he also will have to go soon! How could I have so totally forgotten about it? Perhaps I had not time to think of what would come next, the days are so full—not only with my heart's content, but also with the duties of the lady of the house; the princess is confined to her room, as her foot has grown worse, and I have had to take her place. Or perhaps I did not want to think at all and spoil my happiness. Now I can think of nothing else but that departure. What will it be when he has gone? With what thought shall I awake in the morning? For whom shall I want to dress? What shall I do with the whole day when he is not here!
I looked out of the window toward the villa, and saw a white handkerchief waving from the balcony; it is the "good-morning" he sends me every day. How early he is,—it is not yet six o'clock! Now I see a rider galloping along the road. It cannot be he! No, it is his favorite hunter who brings me flowers, a message every day from him. Oh! no, my anxiety was premature; I have not heard yet that he was going away; we may have another happy week, and a third, and perhaps a fourth,—why did I fret?
My forebodings were right; he is going. A special courier came last night with the king's order that he return at once. I saw him this morning; I shall see him again in half an hour, when he will come to say good-bye, and then when shall we meet again?
Two weeks have passed. Two couriers brought me short notes under the Prince Woivode's seal; but what is a letter, written words, for two people who have been accustomed to talk to each other for hours, who knew each other's thoughts without even using any words, only looking into each other's eyes. He left me his miniature, a fairly good likeness, but it has always the same expression; I have a better portrait of him in my heart. I do not answer his letters; it is hard, but I was positive when I told him that until we were married he would not receive a single written word from me. I think my hand would be paralyzed if I wrote a letter without the knowledge of my aunt and my honored Parents, and I will keep my word, although God knows how much it costs.
How long the days seemed when he was gone! I felt in a kind of lethargy, caring for nothing, without will or desire to do anything. I was aroused by a very sad occurrence: the princess' health grew worse, her foot swelled, and the doctor for whom they sent to Warsaw declared her to be in a critical condition. I cannot express what I felt during the three days of uncertainty. Notwithstanding all that the duke and the princes have said to quiet my conscience, I know very well that my silence about what has happened is an offence toward her. From the very beginning I planned and lived in hopes that the day would come when I should confess my involuntary fault to her, and to my honored Parents, explaining how everything happened, how I could not help it, and I was sure I would be pardoned. But during those three days of danger my hopes might at any moment have been crushed, and then what would have become of me? How could I live without having her forgiveness? It came to my mind also that my honored Parents are no longer young, and an unexpected illness may come to them, and I felt utterly desperate.
The Lord be praised and thanked! The princess is better, and we had good news from Maleszow; both my honored Parents are in excellent health.
But it is time to return to the princess; she likes to have me near her, and now I feel most happy at her bedside when I can do something for her.
The princess felt so much better in health and strength that we returned here the day before yesterday. I left Janow with regret; after all, the remembrance of the happy hours spent there is the strongest.
In his last letter the duke frightened me, writing that he will be obliged to go to his dukedom of Courland, and that he is puzzling his brain as to how he shall see me before he leaves. How long those months will be! But his sufferings are worse to me than my own. Several guests arrived here from Warsaw, and spoke about the change that everybody notices in him; he does not look well, he is sad, and avoids society. People find me also changed and looking pale. I would not care, but when I hear the princess explaining that it is on account of the trouble and care I took of her during her illness, then my conscience makes me feel miserable.
One moment of bliss, and it is gone; he has been here, but only for one hour. He left Warsaw last Wednesday, as if to go to Courland, but as soon as he was out of town, he left his equipage and turned south instead of going north; now he is travelling day and night to meet his court at the frontier. I saw him such a short time, that I cannot realize it was not all a dream. He came disguised as one of his hunters; nobody recognized him but the prince and myself, but nobody ought to have recognized him. He implored me with tears in his eyes to write to him, and it was perhaps fortunate that he could not stay longer, for it was hard to resist those tears.
Three months is the shortest time for his stay in Courland; how many weeks, and days, and hours in three months!
I have not opened my book for two months; they passed as everything passes in this world, but that they were sad it is needless to say. One month more to wait. In each letter the duke assures me he will be here in October. To-day I was so glad at seeing some dry leaves on the ground in the garden; I thought it might already be October. We shall go to Warsaw ere long; the princess has forgotten that she was ever ill.
I had great trouble lately,—a proposal of marriage, and a splendid match, as they say. The princess, who from the time of her illness is kinder to me than ever, arranged everything, acting in concert with my honored Parents, and never a doubt arose in her mind that I might object. It was extremely painful to me to destroy her plans, to incur her just anger, to hear her reproaches, and especially her innuendoes concerning the duke. It was also very difficult to write to my honored Parents, not knowing what excuses to make for my refusal. My honored Mother deigned to answer me. "The Parents who allow their daughter to leave their guidance," she writes, "cannot be very much surprised if she does not obey their wishes." Could I ever have foreseen that what I called the height of happiness could have thrown me into such a depth of misery!
We have been in Warsaw for several days. With what joy I approached the city! Here I shall see him again; he is coming on October 1st, that is, in one week. If it was not for that hope, life here would be intolerable. Those visits and receptions which seemed so amusing are now a trial. I think everybody is reading my secret in my eyes, and that all my acquaintances are laughing at me, especially the women. Yesterday one of them made me so nervous with her inquiries and her false solicitude that my tears were quite near,—in the presence of at least fifty people. But the Prince Woivode took pity upon me and came to my rescue; he is always so good, only he does not believe in my sorrow and troubles, and calls them "childishness."
He arrived and is well; I have seen him, but before much company, and when my heart was leaping to meet him I had to stand still and wait until he entered and saluted the Prince Woivode, and then to make the low courtesy as etiquette requires. No matter; as long as he is here and well, everything seems more cheerful, and all will be well.
My God! what a promise have I given one hour ago! The fourth of November, when will it be? It is the birthday of the duke, and as a gift he wants my hand. He said that he will doubt my affection if I refuse. The Prince Woivode also pleaded for him, and I said "yes," before I realized that I had no right to do it without the knowledge and permission of my honored Parents. But I will not marry without their consent; I said that I must write to them, or otherwise I would rather enter a convent. At last the duke submitted and promised to add a postscript to my letter. Here my pride received a shock; is it not the young man who ought to humbly ask the Parents for their daughter's hand? Yes, but not a royal prince. For the first time, I felt the difference in our rank,—that it is he who does me a favor in marrying me. But it is too late for any regrets; my word is given.
A chamberlain of the Prince Woivode has gone to Maleszow with the letters. The duke said that my letter was too humble, but I thought it was his postscript which was too royal. What will the answer be? My life is in suspense until then. I had the happy thought to ask if the curate of Maleszow could not come to give the wedding blessing; it would at least be somebody from my home. The Prince Woivode promised to have him come, and he will also obtain the necessary papers.
My honored Parents consent and give their blessing, but it is not such an affectionate blessing as they gave Basia when she was to be married, and it is just, for I do not deserve it. The duke expected a separate letter for himself; as there was none, he felt a little offended and talked with the Prince Woivode about the pride of the Polish seigneurs. No matter, it is a relief to think that they know everything; it is as if a stone were lifted from my heart. They promise to keep the secret until the duke releases them. One sees in their letter some surprise, even satisfaction at such an alliance, but there is also, especially in the words of my dear Mother, a kind of affectionate reproach which pierces my heart. She writes, "If you are unhappy, you cannot ascribe your misfortune to us; if you find felicity in your decision, for which I shall never stop praying the Lord, your Parents will rejoice over you, but not as much as over their other children, as you have not allowed them to share in making your happiness." I cried so much over these words that they are almost illegible.
The curate will come, and in six days I shall be a bride. I cannot believe it; there are no preparations for the wedding, everything around me is so quiet and every-day-like.
One week before Basia's wedding, what was there not in Maleszow! If at least I could see the duke often, but sometimes two, and sometimes three days pass without my seeing him. He fears to awaken the suspicion of the king, and still more that of Brühl; therefore he avoids me at receptions, and does not appear here as often. I feel so lonesome with nobody to confide in or ask for any advice. Even my little maid is to be sent away, and a married woman, whom the Prince Woivode knows, but I have never seen, is to take her place. I do not even know how to dress for the wedding; I asked the prince, and he answered, "As every day."
What a strange occurrence! I am making the grandest marriage in Poland, and my shoemaker's daughter will be more dressed on her wedding day than I on mine.
Married! One hour ago, before the altar, before God, we swore to each other faith and love until death. What a terrible wedding! At five o'clock in the morning the Prince Woivode knocked at my door. I was quite dressed, we went out stealthily; at the gate the duke and Prince Martin were waiting for us. It was quite dark, the wind blew fiercely; we walked to the church, as a carriage would have made a noise. It was not far, but I should have fallen several times, if the duke had not supported me. At the door of the church the good curate met us. The church was dark and silent as a grave; at a side altar two candles were lighted; no living soul but the priest and the sacristan. Our steps resounded on the flagstones as in a cavern.
The ceremony did not last ten minutes, and then we hastened away as if pursued. The duke brought us to the gate, and the Prince Martin had to compel him to go away. I had my every-day dress on, not even white, only I hastily put a bit of rosemary in my hair. Yesterday, remembering Basia's wedding, I prepared for myself, with tears, a golden coin, a piece of bread, and a lump of sugar, but in my haste I forgot to take them this morning.
Now I am again in my room, alone. Nobody is blessing or congratulating me, the whole house is asleep, and if it were not for the wedding ring, which I shall soon have to take off and hide, I could not believe that I have returned from my wedding, that I am a married woman, that I am his forever.
I was not going to write in this book any more; I saw no use for it, as the friend I have won for my life had all my thoughts confided to him. But cruel destiny has separated us, and I open my book again to relate the sorrowful event. In the days of happiness, if they ever come, it will be agreeable perhaps to read over the accounts of the past misfortunes, although I do not think the most perfect bliss could ever wipe them out of my memory.
Six weeks have passed since the day of our wedding. Nobody has guessed what happened. My new maid swore to the Prince Woivode on the crucifix that she would be silent on whatever she may know. Our meetings and interviews, managed by the Woivode, were kept perfectly secret. I was still Mademoiselle la Comtesse Krasinska to everybody. The duke, in order to be ready for any sign from the Prince Woivode, pretended illness and did not leave the castle, but in the end he was obliged to appear in society, and paid a visit to the princess. It was the first time I saw him in public; I could not control my emotion, which was perceived by the princess. After his departure, she overwhelmed me with reproaches, scoldings, and warnings. Sure of my innocence, I answered perhaps too boldly, and imprudently made her understand that it was not a mere flirtation between the duke and me. On the following day, the princess was very much agitated; the duke came again, and knowing he could not see me on that day in private, he had written a short note, which he discreetly slipped into my work-basket,—but not discreetly enough for the watchful eye of the princess. As soon as he was gone, she seized the basket, and when she read the inscription on the note, "Pour ma bien aimée," her wrath burst forth in the most dreadful and offensive words. I heard myself called the shame, the blot on the Krasinskis' name. I heard that I would send my Father and Mother to the grave. "But now," she added, "this low intrigue shall be ended. I have written to Brühl, telling him that honesty and honor are more to me than my family ties, and I feel it to be my sacred duty to let him know that the duke is in love with you, and that he must do what he thinks best to stop this unlawful affection. So at this moment the king himself is perhaps informed of your mad scheme, and of your shame." "There is no shame," I answered, "I am his wife." As soon as I uttered these words I realized what I had done in revealing the secret, but it was too late. The princess was amazed. I fell at her feet and confessed everything; there was nothing else to be done. I implored her pardon, and begged her in the name of God to keep the secret to herself. She seemed surprised, but not soothed; she compelled me to rise from her feet, saying that it was not a proper position for a lady of my standing. She asked to be pardoned for having often treated me not according to my dignity, of which she was unaware; but she did not allow me to kiss her hand, and under the pretence that her house was not good enough for a duchess, perhaps the future Queen of Poland, she gave at once the orders for my departure. I controlled myself so that not one disagreeable word fell from my lips, and I shall always be thankful to the Lord for it; the princess is my aunt, and I shall never forget the care she has bestowed upon me during so many months.
I did not know at all where I was to go. Fortunately some one happened to mention Sulgostow. The marshal, who came to take the orders, heard it, and the news spread in the house that I was going to spend Christmas with my sister. Glad of the suggestion, I confirmed it. I wrote a letter to the duke, in care of the princess, in which I told him about the necessity of letting my sister know the truth, and in less than two hours, in a closed carriage with my maid, I was travelling fast, not knowing what was to become of me. I reached Sulgostow in such a confused state of mind that when Basia saw me and heard the disconnected sentences,—that the princess sent me away from her house, that I was innocent, that the duke was my husband,—she was so frightened that she wanted to call for help, and to send for the doctor; she was sure that I was insane. No news yet from Warsaw!
I received a letter from the duke (I think I shall never call him otherwise). He is in despair about my departure, angry with the princess, and much afraid of Brühl discovering everything. I am leaving Sulgostow; the happiness of my sister makes my lot still more miserable. I love her with my whole heart, and I pray God that she may always be as happy, but this comfortable home, the attention her husband's family pay to her, the many tokens of affection from our honored Parents, the little Angela who is so fond of her mother, and of whom her father is so proud,—all this stabs my heart when I compare her fate with mine. I will go to Maleszow. When I shall hear the words of forgiveness from the lips of my honored Parents, and they embrace me, I shall perhaps feel more tranquil. Perhaps the year begun with them will be as happy as those that I spent under their roof, when a gay and careless girl.
I have been here for several days, but I am not any happier. My honored Parents greeted me in such a strange manner. I wanted to throw myself at their feet, and I would have felt better for it, but they did not allow it. The Count bowed low to me as if I were a stranger; even now he will not sit next me, and he gets up when I enter the room. This homage paid to my new title is grievous to my heart. At the first dinner he whispered in my ear, "I could under the pretence of testing, order a bottle of 'Miss Frances' wine.' I am sorry not to taste it at the first dinner, but the custom requires that the first cup be emptied by the father, and the second by the bridegroom; any other order is considered a bad omen. But will that happy moment ever come?" he added, so sadly that I was hardly able to restrain my tears. Oh! that dinner was for me a real suffering; everybody seemed to be under some constraint; even Matenko was not up to his standard. The Count winked at him to make him tell some jokes, but they were not a success.
He is a sharp fellow, Matenko. Yesterday he entered my room mysteriously, when I was alone, and kneeling on both knees, with an expression which was half droll and half melancholy, he drew from his vest a little bunch of dried leaves tied with a white ribbon and a golden pin in it. I could not at first make out what he meant when he said, "I am sometimes a prophet." Then I recollected the bouquet from Basia's wedding. I ran after Matenko, who still on his knees was retreating toward the door, and put in his coat a diamond pin I had received from the duke. Neither of us said a word, but both perhaps thought that if it was strange that his joking prophecy was fulfilled, how much more strange it was that its fulfilment failed to satisfy my expectations. When I think how I dreamed about my return to Maleszow after my wedding! What royal presents and surprises there would be for everybody! Even each of the peasant-women was to receive a new cap, the girls bright ribbons, and what entertainments and banquets were to be given to all! And here I return to my paternal home after nearly two years of absence, and bring no gifts to any one. When Basia came home from the convent she had a little surprise for everybody, although she had no more money than I; but she had leisure of time and mind, and with her own hands she prepared the little trifles which were valued so much. How could I do it?
Here my beloved Mother interrupted my writing. She came into my room carrying heavy bundles of costly silks, laces, and jewels, and laying them down on the chairs she said rather timidly: "I have brought here a part of the things which are destined for each of our daughters; I would have brought more, but nothing seems to me good enough. I have been talking to my honored husband; he will sell a few villages in order that when the happy moment comes, and the marriage is announced to the world, our second daughter may receive an outfit in accordance with her high rank." Moved to tears, I wanted to embrace her knees, but she did not permit me, and was still making excuses for the "miserable presents," as she called them.
Oh no! I cannot stand all this. I will return to Sulgostow. There are too many eyes fixed on me here, too many exclamations about how pale I look. My dear little sisters are asking continually, "Why are you not married yet?" or, "When will you marry?" Even the old servants ask me the same questions. Yesterday the three girls whom I promised to take to my court, came to see me. Old Peter brought his daughter himself; it was so painful to send them away. How astonished they will be if they hear that am I married, but cannot take them, for my husband is a son of the king!
I found no letter here from the duke. I am dreadfully anxious; perhaps he is ill, or the king is informed about everything, and does not let him write. If the Prince Woivode were in Warsaw he would let me know, but he left a few days before me and probably has not yet returned.
The farewell of my honored Parents was more tender than their reception, but the best moments I spent were in Lisow, where I went to visit our curate. I found him planting spruce-trees in his garden, and he allowed me to plant one in the cemetery near the church. [15] I leave a sad souvenir behind me, but I am not gay myself. I heard kind and comforting words from the good Father, and went away with more courage. If only I had news that the duke is quite well!
New trials and new sufferings during these past days! Will there be any kind of grief which I have not experienced?
On Saturday when we were going to dinner we heard the postilion's horn before the palace; the door opened and Borch, the minister of the king, entered the hall. I knew at once the purpose of his coming, and I trembled like a leaf, but he pretended that he wanted to pay his respects to the Staroste and Madame Starostine, at whose wedding he had the honor to be present. He played this part during the whole dinner, but when it was over he asked me for a moment of private conversation, and then told me at once that Brühl and he were informed of all that had happened, but to them the marriage of the duke was a mere joke; that a wedding without the knowledge of the parents, and not blessed by the pastor of the parish, is void, and can be annulled without any difficulty.
In the first moment I believed his words and felt doomed and helpless, but God had mercy upon me, and suddenly my mind was cleared. I considered whose representative was before me; I felt sure that the Prince Woivode would not have countenanced an illegal marriage; I was aware that upon my firmness in that moment depended the future of my whole life; and I replied as follows: "It is wrong of Minister Brühl, and it is wrong of you who speak for him, to want to deceive a woman who is not yet eighteen years old; but I am not so ignorant as you may imagine," I continued, while he was listening in blank amazement,—"I know that our marriage is valid; it was consecrated by the curate of my parish before two witnesses, and with the consent of my Parents. Yes, there is the divorce, but the signature of both parties is necessary for it, is it not so? and neither prayers nor threats will obtain mine or the duke's signature." Borch was confounded. On the following day, however, he tried to secure my signature by offering me a large donation, and when that failed he wanted at least my promise that, if the duke gave his consent to the divorce, I should not withhold mine. I gave that promise in writing; I am sure of my husband's faith and love.
Here ends the journal of Françoise Krasinska. Continual sorrows and misfortunes took away her strength, and her wish to write about them any more. The most painful of her trials was the inconstancy of her husband, and the apprehension of the divorce with which she was threatened more than once. After the early death of her parents, the homeless young woman led a wandering life for several years, between her sister Barbara's, her aunt's the Princess Lubomirska (who could not remain angry very long with her favorite niece), and convents in Warsaw and in Cracow. Her fickle husband returned to her from time to time, but their marriage was still kept secret, under the pretence of sparing the old king the shock. Furthermore, the visions of a brilliant future which the young girl once nourished vanished one after the other; as Matenko had predicted, the mitre and the crown both slipped away. Count Biron became Duke of Courland, and after the death of Augustus III., Stanislaus Poniatowski was elected King of Poland.
The family of the late king moved to Saxony. Then the Duke Charles wrote a most tender letter to his wife, asking her forgiveness for the past, and imploring her to come to Dresden, where, he wrote, he would publicly call her his wife, and he would devote his whole life to her happiness, in order to redeem the years of her beautiful youth spent in wandering and humiliation. Although she had longed for this moment for years, she did not yield at once to her husband's request. Her heart wished perhaps otherwise, but her self-respect commanded her to await at least a second invitation. She had not long to wait; letter followed letter, and every word breathed the most tender affection, and news came that under this suspense, the duke's health began to give way. Convinced at last of the sincerity of his re-awakened attachment, the young duchess, surrounded by a numerous retinue sent from Dresden to accompany her, left her native country; and from that time she lived in Saxony, not in the splendor once dreamed of, but in a happy home. Her husband now clung to her with all the passion of a young lover; her little daughter, Marie Christine, their only child, promised to be as beautiful as her mother, and numerous friends, among others the Empress Maria Theresa, who was very fond of her, and bestowed upon her the estate of Landscrown, surrounded the "handsome Pole" with affection and admiration.
But she never forgot Poland and her relatives, nor lost the hope of living there once again. The numerous letters written to her sisters, her goddaughter Angela, the Princess Lubomirska, and others, are still kept by the family and show her deep affection and solicitude for them and her country. She did not live to a great age, having died in 1796; and as if to prove his deep attachment, her husband survived her only a few months.
Their daughter, Marie Christine, married Charles de Carignan, Duke of Savoy, and had two children,—a daughter, Elizabeth Françoise, married to the Archduke Regnier, King of Lombardy-Venice, and second cousin of the present Emperor of Austria; and a son, Charles Albert, the father of Victor Emmanuel, and of the Duke of Genoa, the latter being the father of Marguerite, the "Pearl of Savoy." Thus both the King and Queen of Italy are the great-great-grandchildren of Françoise Krasinska.
In the original book and in the text version, footnotes appear throughout the book.
In this HTML version, the footnotes have been collected and moved to here
[2] Governors of provinces.
[3] Honorary judge.
[4] Wife of a woivode.
[5] The Polish florin is worth twenty cents.
[6] At the end of the fourteenth century these two countries were united by the marriage of Hedvig, queen of Poland, with the prince of Lithuania Jagellon.
[7] Stanislaus Leszczynski, surnamed the "most virtuous of men," king of Poland before Augustus II., was dethroned by the Saxon party. He had Lorraine allotted to him, and is still remembered there as the "good King Stanislaus." His daughter Maria was married to Louis XV. of France.
[8] An old Polish custom, by which a young girl was to prove whether she was patient enough to meet the trials of married life.
[9] Son of a castellan.
[10] Two feet.
[11] It was a generally observed custom to serve a goose with dark gravy as a polite but positive answer that the proposal of marriage was not accepted. A pumpkin put in the carriage of the young man when he was leaving had the same meaning. Until now the saying "He received a pumpkin," or "He was treated to a goose fricassee," is often used.
[12] That place is now Lazienki, with a park and a charming little palace built by the last Polish king, Stanislaus Poniatowski, for his summer residence.
[13] The Prince Charles Radzivill had the habit of beginning each sentence with the exclamation "My love!" and therefore he himself was generally called, "the Prince My-love." He was the wealthiest magnate of Lithuania. After the dismemberment of Poland, when all his estates were confiscated, he emigrated to Paris and there bought the whole street between his palace and the market, in order, as he said, that his Polish cook might not lose his way. That street, near the Louvre, has still the name of "Rue Radzivill."
[14] The Easter dinner, or the "consecrated meal," is still a special feature in Poland, and an elaborate affair even among the poorer people. During several days meat and pastry are prepared, and on Holy Saturday the tables are set, with the symbolical lamb in the middle, and every dish garnished with sprays of boxwood. Then a priest is summoned, who puts on a white surplice, and saying the appointed prayers he sprinkles the table with holy water.
In the villages on Easter morning the peasants bring baskets with eggs, bread, cheese, and perhaps a sausage, to church, and standing in two rows have them consecrated.
At noon the dinner begins with hot bouillon served in cups; all the other dishes are cold. But first of all, the lady of the house, holding a plate of hard-boiled eggs cut in pieces, presents them to every one in turn, wishing a "glad Alleluia." The table sometimes stays covered several days, hot dishes being added to succeeding dinners, and the pastry lasts sometimes several weeks, by some mystery remaining as fresh as on the first day.
The children always have their own table, with miniature dishes ornamented with boxwood, a lamb in candy, colored eggs, etc. They would never forget to have them consecrated, and the little girls very earnestly play the hostess, partaking of the eggs with their own guests.
In olden times, the Polish houses tried to surpass each other in setting the most sumptuous Easter tables. In an old manuscript is found the following description of a festival given by Prince Sapieha, in the sixteenth century.
In the middle of huge tables stood a lamb of candies and marzipan, which were distributed "only to ladies, dignitaries, and church men." Around it, representing the seasons of the year, stood four wild boars, each stuffed with hams, sausages, and turkeys. The prince's chef showed wonderful skill in roasting those boars whole. Then came twelve deer, also roasted whole, and stuffed with a variety of game: hares, woodcocks, partridges, hazel-hens, etc.; these were for the twelve months of the year. Around the table, numbering the weeks of the year, were fifty-two mazourkas, that is, large square cakes stuffed with all kinds of fruit, and three hundred and sixty-five babas, for the days of the year; each was one ell high and on their iced surfaces were various inscriptions, mottoes, proverbs, and witty verses, which the invited guests took pleasure in deciphering.
In the way of beverages there were: first, four antique silver tankards with wine from "King Batory's time" (that is, one hundred years old); then twelve silver pitchers of old Tokai; then fifty-two silver barrels of Spanish, Italian, and Cypress wines, and three hundred and sixty-five bottles of Hungarian wine. For the household there were 8,760 quarts, as many as there are hours in one year, of home-made mead. The invited guests feasted during one whole week. As soon as the morning service was over they surrounded the tables, and the entertainment lasted till midnight; the prince's court band played lively airs, and the young people were never tired of dancing, nor the elderly ones of talking of "the good old times," sipping the Hungarian Malmsey, and drinking to the health of the prince.
[15] This tree still shades the old building. (Note in 1858.)