FROM THE DIARY OF THE COUNTESS TATJANA TSCHASKA
Estate Mioduschweski,
near Warsaw on the Vistula,
June 8, 1806.
Never did spring come so early. In April, when the country is as white as the coverlet on my bed, fields were dotted with black rings at the base of trees which glistened with moisture.
Returning birds twittered under the eaves. Rivers awoke and became merry. In the distance rose the smoke of melting snow. Even in the North—in White Russia—so travelers tell, the ice broke. Now the country is wonderful.
I have seen the foam-edged waves of the Baltic come rolling in by the mouth of the Niemen, just as spring rolls northward its foam of flowers—to rescue us from the grasp of winter. In the same way, I wonder, will the army of France come northward to rescue Poland from the grasp of Russia? That is what every one talks about. That is what every one hopes. I hope it, too, but somehow I do not believe it. I have no faith in France. Yet it would be no act of generosity on her part. We Poles have bled for her on every battlefield of Europe. It is little that in return she should give the nation life. France may intend to do this. It is hard to tell now. No trustworthy news reaches us. The Prussians suppress and burn the mail lest we take heart and rebel. They say, however, that the Great Napoleon has conquered Italy and is now making plans for the North.
June 12, 1806. The country is lovely! The avenue of poplars that leads to the house is enveloped in lustrous gauze. The birches and the willows and the lindens are green flames that shake in the light.
In the fields I can see the white head-kerchiefs of women who are working, and beyond, the white spire of the church. Those two white objects symbolize Poland—hard work and hope—the effort for something beyond and, perhaps, unattainable.
I love this country with its fine distances and long levels where the eye is not impeded. Yet it has affected our natures, and not always advantageously. It has made us think that great things are too near and too easy to get.
Small wonder that others have coveted Poland!—the Swedes among their rocks, where they have only fish to eat; the barbarous Russians, buried in winter and snow; Prussia for the trade facilities of the Vistula; and Austria because she is greedy of everything.
The armies of the Continent have swept across Poland. It is the highway that leads to war.
Here on our estate and southward to the boundaries of Little Poland, there is not now such devastation and ruin. Perhaps it is because spring is here and I do not see it. With the spring there comes a sensation of expectation. Is it merely the unrest that beautiful things bring? I do not know. It seems to me that it is stronger this year than usual; that all Poland feels it; that Poland is waiting for something. It is the feeling I have in the Grand National Theater in Warsaw, before the curtain goes up on a new tragedy. Perhaps that is what Poland is waiting for now—the curtain to go up on a new world-tragedy, whose stage is to be our country or Russia, and the chief actor the French Colossus.
June 20, 1806. Spring makes my heart glad, and for the silliest reason. I fancy that the dead of the Massacre of Praga are not so miserable and are a little happy. Is not spring a sort of forgiveness?
In the nights of winter, when the wind and the white snow sweep down from the north, I suffer torments. The wind mimics and multiplies their cries of agony, their pain. I lie awake and listen and tremble.
At the time of the massacre I was a child. We were in Warsaw at our town house, which is situated near the suburb of Praga. The windows were shattered by the musketry. To save our lives we hid in the cellar—men, women, children, servants—an entire day. At night, when we crept back to our chambers in the upper story, every breath of wind brought the groans of the dying. The air was sickening and thick with dust and smoke and the scent of blood. Nine thousand Poles lay dead upon the field, slain by that Russian butcher, Suwarow.
When the news reached Petersburg, the people rushed into the streets and shouted: “If Suwarow is with us, who can be against us!” Was not that blasphemy such as God is sure to punish! Then we named Yek-Katarina[1] “The Fury of the North.”
What will eventually become of Poland? Who next will be greedy of it? I have a presentiment—which I dare not whisper to any one—that in years to come it will be only a name, a great and glorious name, that signifies, in a world whose patriotism and fineness commercialism has dulled, the impossible dream of freedom.
June 30, 1806. My honored mother came to me this morning and broached the subject of my marriage. Since I had heard nothing for several days, I hoped it had been laid aside for the present.
“You are past your twenty-first birthday, an age when girls of your rank have been married three years. Soon you will be an old maid. Have you no interest in the matter?”
“I hoped you would permit me to enjoy myself in the country. It may be the last summer that I shall be at home,” I ventured.
Here my honored mother brushed away a tear, but soon returned valiantly to the subject.
“You have read too much. You want a story-book life.”
“That is not it. I do not want to marry until—”
“Until what?”
“It is settled.”
“What is settled?”
“The fate of Poland.”
“What have you to do with that?”
“Nothing; but I feel that I might do something. There is in me the power to do something—”
“And you are going to sit and waste your youth for that? Marry, raise up sons for Poland! That’s the thing to do!”
“I do not wish to offend you, my honored mother, but I wish you would drop the subject until late summer—”
“Look at your friends—how well they are married! There is the Countess of Tisenhaus, who has married a Frenchman of birth, a peer of the realm, Count de Choiseul-Gouffier. Anna Tyskiewicz has become Countess Potocka; Princess Czartoryska has married the Prince of Wirthemberg; Anna Lapouschkine, by her marriage with Prince Paul Gavrilowitsch Gargarin, is one of the beauties of the Court of Russia. I should think you would want to play a part in the world! Do you not owe it to your family?” exclaimed my honored mother in such exasperation that she was unable to continue the discussion. This is the way these scenes end. They grieve me and vex her. And what good comes of them?
July 5, 1806. My honored mother has submitted to me a list of names which have received her approval and that of my honored father and grandfather. This is merely a conciliatory formality. They will choose whom they please. Since I have met none of them and know only their families, it makes little difference. The thing nearest my heart is that the marriage be deferred. Therefore I considered those at a distance from Warsaw. I picked up the list, read it through with a show of interest, and checked Count Krasinski[2] and Prince Adam Czartoryisky; the former is in Paris, and the latter is attached to the Court of Russia. The names pleased my honored mother. There are none nobler in Poland. Peace is restored—for a time.
July 10, 1806. Yesterday we attended a reception in Warsaw given by the Countess Stanilas Potocka for her new daughter, the Countess Anna. My honored mother was in high spirits because of my apparent acquiescence to her plans, and happily pictured me settled more splendidly than is the Countess Anna.
The Countess Anna, while not pretty, is charming and girlish. She told us about the country place which is being built for her outside of Warsaw. She has named it Natoline. The old Count Stanilas Potocki—who is now in ill-health because of years of exposure endured in the Ukraine—is helping with the decorative scheme. He is a great connoisseur of art. They say his taste is respected abroad. His art gallery is the finest in Poland, except that owned by the Czartoryisky—the Prince General—in the “Blue Palace.”
While he was escorting the ladies, my honored mother and myself among the number, through the hall where the pictures are hung, I made an unfortunate remark for which my honored mother reprimanded me severely. We came to a picture, purchased recently (I cannot remember the Italian painter’s name), which has caused comment. It represents a band of horsemen going at full speed through the streets of an ancient city. They come to a river bridged only by one board. Across this foaming chasm beckons an impossibly beautiful sprite, half-hidden in whose enveloping gauzes is a skeleton, the symbol of death. The skeleton holds out a crown.
“Ah!” I exclaimed, “above that fleeting phantom, whose possession is death, should be written Poland.”
There was a dreadful hush. Eyes looked into eyes. Every one knows that with his Cossack warriors of the Ukraine Count Stanilas wanted to wrest the crown from the Commonwealth.
It is the talk in Warsaw, too, that negotiations are going forward for my marriage with a Czartoryisky, who likewise coveted the crown of Poland.
I wonder if I have an unfortunate tongue! I must remember not to say everything I think.
Countess Waleweska was present. She wore a red velvet dress. She did not look so well as usual. We are called the two prettiest women in Warsaw. She is tall and blond; that is why the red did not become her. I am plump and petite, with dark eyes, dark skin, and blond hair.
Later I forgot my chagrin. I met Pan Kasimir Brodzinski.[3] He is entertaining. He has written some interesting things of late, too, about Polish literature. At once I asked him, “Why are there never any new Polish novels? We stopped on our way at a book-seller’s to get something to take back to Mioduschweski. Is no one doing anything?”
“Unfortunately that is the case, Countess Tatjana.”
“The only Polish novel I found was Valeria, by Baroness Krüdener.”
“Your honored mother will object to that, Countess Tatjana.”
“Why, Pan Brodzinski?”
“It is a chronique scandaleuse of the writer’s life in Venice and Copenhagen.”
“I found the last volume of Walter Scott. They say Her Imperial Majesty, the Empress, reads nothing else. You will laugh when I tell you that I bought two books just for the interest they have aroused in the Great Napoleon—Corinne and Werther—which he has carried with him for months at a time.”
Here Pan Brodzinski leaned forward and his face became eloquent:
“Let me tell you something: the writer of that book, Goethe, and Napoleon, and an Englishman whom you have not read—Byron—rule the minds of the age. The entire civilized world is in raptures over them. Do you know, a friend of mine lately returned from Russia told me that Russian soldiers stationed in the lonely regions of the Caucasus are learning the English language just to read Byron.”
Just as I was getting ready to ask Pan Brodzinski the latest news of the Grande Armée, our hostess summoned us to the drawing-room to hear some recitations by Adam Mickiewicz.[4] He is a remarkable child—not more than seven and he declaims like an orator. The strange part about it is he will give only Polish pieces. Nor indeed will he answer if you address him in French. The Mickiewicz belong to the old schlachta (nobility) of Lithuania. I have seen their ancestral home. It is like the palace of a king.
July 11, 1806. The post horn awoke us, blowing furiously. We jumped up and dressed without crossing ourselves or saying a “Hail Mary.”
In the yard was a messenger from Warsaw to tell us that Napoleon had defeated the English in Italy and was striding northward like a giant in seven-league boots. I wonder what he is like, this world-hero who is writing his name in blood across the face of Europe. They say that he is handsome. Heroes, of course, are always handsome.
July 18, 1806. My honored grandfather, who is eighty and an adherent of our ancient customs, came in this morning while I was reading a French book to my sister Mischa. He flew into a rage because I was not reading Polish.
He is worth seeing. He attracts attention on the streets of Warsaw. He still wears the zupan and the kontusch, and when he goes abroad, the burka fastened across his breast with silver clasps whereon are the arms of the Tschaski.
“You are just like the rest!” he exclaimed, but in so grieved a tone that my heart went out to him. “And I hoped better things of you! There are no more Poles in Poland! We are a French race now. We speak French, read French, follow French modes in thought and dress. When you enter the home of a person of rank, it is as if you entered a drawing-room in the Faubourg St. Germain. There is nothing to be seen that is characteristic of us. It is right that we should cease to be a nation when we have ceased to be ourselves.
“Why do not the Germans dress like the Italians, or the Spaniards like the Russians? Would it not be just as reasonable? In the houses of fashion we see the same gilt furniture upholstered in silk, the same mirrors in frames of decorated Saxon porcelain, a profusion of frail ornaments made of china, tables inlaid with marble or bordered with delicate plaques of Sèvres, picture galleries, tapestries, silk-hung walls—all the things that create effeminacy and a luxurious forgetfulness.”
I could not answer, because I know that it is true. Yet why should we not love beautiful things! Is it our duty to live in huts in the wild forests of Lithuania just because we are Poles and belong to the North?
July 26, 1806. Things are in a sad state. Everywhere uncertainty, indecision. Here no one dares do anything. Some are under the protection of Austria; some under the protection of Russia; others found their hope on France, and others vacillate in indecision. Was there ever such a state of things! Truly Polonia confusione regitur.
August 6, 1806. At dinner last night, my honored grandfather regaled us with stories of his youth. He was in Paris at the time of the second “partition.”
One night at a soirée some one said: “How it will grieve the Poles to see their country cut up again! What will they do?”
Quickly the answer came: “Give balls and masquerades in Warsaw. When I think of Poland, I know that they are dancing—always dancing in Warsaw.”
I do not know why I write this, or why it impressed me so. If the French were the best dancers in Europe, would they not be proud of it too? They are jealous. We are more French than they.
August 17, 1806. My new frocks have come from Paris. I am glad that my honored grandfather was not present when they were unpacked. There are a number of gauze ball dresses made with shirred over-skirts caught up with little flowers, and several robes rondes. They are the dernier cri of fashion.
August 27, 1806. I have had a splendid day. Pan Anton Malzweski[5] called. It has rained for a week, and we have had no guests. I was so glad to see him I greeted him in the Polish manner: “Praised be Jesus, the Christ.”
He answered quickly in that impulsive way I like: “In all eternity.”
We are of an age and great friends. He has been everywhere and seen everything. He has seen Prince Adam Czartoryisky in Imperial Russia. He told me all sorts of things about him. He is one of the most notable figures in the court set and the desire of all the ladies.
In the course of the afternoon, when we were quite alone, he confided to me his ambition. What do you suppose it is? To be a poet! I gravely answered: “All Poles are poets.”
“But I am going to be a great one in the English manner. As soon as the wars are over and I have time, I am going to set to work. It was Lord Byron who discovered to me my talent. The name of the first book is chosen: Maria, An Heroic Tale of the Ukraine. In it there is to be a song—partly written down now—called The Carnival of Venice, which is what Byron and I thought of the Venetian nights.”
He talked with such fury, such disconnected haste, that I could only gasp: “You have seen Lord Byron!”
“Yes, and I gave him the subject for a poem—Mazeppa—which will be translated for us.”
September 5, 1806. We have just heard that the Grande Armée has crossed the borders of Prussia. Prussia tried to put herself on a war footing secretly. In return, Napoleon has seized Wesel, a fortress by the Rhine. Is he so near, and we did not know?
September 11, 1806. The harvest is under way. The fields are dotted with grain stacks that are for all the world like round towers. I look at them and dream of Napoleon and the fortress by the Rhine. Could anything be sillier!
September 21, 1806. My honored grandfather had company to-day. Count Severin Rzewuski, Count Stanilas Potocki, and the Prince General. The Prince General is feeble and ill, although he conceals it bravely. He still keeps up the elegant courtly life he knew in his youth, although it is evident he cannot last long. Every one says that he will die some night at the card-table, dressed in the stiff, formal evening dress of a century ago, his courtiers gathered about him.
Little was talked of save the political situation. We are upon the eve of world-changing events. There is evident the ominousness that precedes the storm. The old gentlemen talked freely. They are of one political faith and have deeply at heart the welfare of Poland.
It must have been a great life that was lived in their youth. The Prince General says that there will never be anything to equal the old aristocracy of Poland. Their life was the most sumptuous and luxurious in Europe. Mischa and I listened. It was like a romance. Count Rzewuski says that it is our own fault that we are where we are to-day. In the old days each was too great to acknowledge a greater.
“You are right,” replied Count Potocki. “He who will not obey his own king will be forced to obey the king of others. ‘After feasting follows fasting.’”
Our grandparents tell only of wars and bloodshed. In other countries, I wonder, are there other memories?
October 6, 1806. Napoleon is in Prussia. Terrible things are happening. We do not know just what, because little news reaches us.
October 12, 1806. The excitement in Warsaw cannot be imagined. Every few hours a messenger arrives with a blowing of trumpets. Why should not we tremble when the Czar of Imperial Russia trembles on his throne?
Yet Warsaw rejoices—and dances.
October 18, 1806. My engagement to Prince Adam Czartoryisky has been announced. I had no word in the matter; I was not consulted.
I have received a letter from Prince Adam and as betrothal gift a kanak—an antique Polish necklace of wrought silver set with round disks of ivory upon each of which is carved an eagle—the white eagle of Poland. I ought to be proud and happy. Prince Adam is Minister of Foreign Affairs at the Court of Russia. My honored mother says that my position will be better than that of the Countess Anna Potocka.
October 25, 1806. Last night there was a celebration at the Prince General’s in the “Blue Palace,” in honor of my betrothal to his son Prince Adam. Prince Adam could not be present. He was represented by his dearest friend, M. Novosiltzow, likewise attaché of the Russian Court.
He brought with him a gift from His Imperial Master, a miniature of the Empress Elizabeth surrounded with diamonds and strung upon blue riband. M. Novosiltzow attached it to my shoulder in the presence of the guests. I am now a dame de la portrait.
We made merry in the good old Polish way. First we danced the Polonaise, going through nearly every room in the house and up and down all the stairs. Then the Prince General made a speech, as was the custom in his youth, at the end of the Polonaise. Next, toasts were called for. Mine was drunk from one of my jeweled slippers, which every one present declared to be smaller and shapelier than those worn by the Archduchess of Austria, Marie Louise, who has the prettiest foot in Europe. It was splendid and solemn, but some way my heart was not in it. My honored mother, however, was gay and happy enough for two. I kept thinking—I wonder if outside through the night he is marching toward Warsaw, the man who has the face of an antique god.
October 12, 1806. The expected has happened. There has been a terrible battle at Jena. Prince Louis fell. A new sun has risen over Europe. Napoleon is master of Berlin, and Queen Louise is kneeling at the feet of a soldier of fortune. I wonder if he is greater than all other men, or if it is only that he knows one game better—the game of war. He moves armies as if they were pawns upon a chess-board.
November 12, 1806. Autumn is upon us. The harvest has left the fields bare and brown. In the poplars there is a shiver that tells of winter. The leaves are a faded yellow, which is the color of the things of yesterday. To-morrow we go to Warsaw for the winter.
November 25, 1806. St. Catherine’s day. This was to have been my wedding-day. St. Catherine is the patroness of happy marriages. It is altogether impossible for Prince Adam to leave Russia. The only hope of Polish freedom is his friendship with the Emperor. Now is a momentous time. He must be at his ear to estimate his moods, that he may whisper at the propitious moment, memento Poloniæ! He writes: “We Poles who have lost the right to fight upon the field of battle, must, as a last necessity, resort to the coward’s weapons—cajolery and diplomacy.”
November 27, 1806. Napoleon is in Posen!
December 18, 1806. I received a letter from Prince Adam to-day which brings us nearer together than any he has written before. He has taken me into his confidence. He has a plan for saving Poland. It is this; to use his influence with the Emperor to bring about a defensive union of Russia and England, each of which alone is strong enough to check the advance of France. Then it will be to the advantage of each that Poland be independent, the future’s formidable barrier against continental aggression.
“I shall make Alexander see,” he writes, “that the partition of Poland was foolish.”
This is the object of his life. For this he is sacrificing his youth and his happiness at the Court of Russia.
My honored mother says, in case he succeeds, a king will be chosen for Poland, and it is sure to be either Prince Adam or Prince Poniatowski.
Nothing can make me believe that personal motives enter into his ambition. He is the most disinterested of men. All this time that he has been Minister of Foreign Affairs for Russia, he has received no salary. He refused to accept money, orders, or insignia of rank from the nation that oppressed his race. He said that he considered it his duty to free Poland, since it was his own family, the Czartoryisky, who in ancient days first invited the Russians into the country.
He has no faith in Napoleon. He hates him. It is his desire to be the instrument of his downfall. He writes: “Napoleon is the scourge of Europe. It is the duty of nations to unite and make an end of him.”
As for Poland, no time is to be lost, because the nature of Alexander is undergoing a change. He no longer has Utopian dreams of presenting nations with their freedom. As far as his weak nature will permit, he is being Russianized. Now, when the subject of Poland is mentioned, there must be some other object—and that for Russia’s good.
Then he wrote of life and people in St. Petersburg. He went to the first night of the new opera, Il Barbiere di Seviglia. It was written by Signor Paisiello, a protégé of the Great Catherine.
There has been a new play brought out by a Russian at Knipper’s Theater—Roslaw by Kniazin. Prince Adam did not care for it. However, as soon as it is put on sale at Glosunow’s, he will send me a copy that I may judge for myself.
December 21, 1806. Napoleon is in Warsaw! The joy of the people is beyond description. It must have been like this when our own king, Jan Sobieski, returned with conquering arms. We have greeted him as if our freedom were assured. But he has said nothing. He has made no promises.
The streets are gay with colors. Side by side are the gold eagle of France and the white eagle of Poland. The soldiers are banqueted everywhere. The people have gone mad and dance and sing without knowing why.
January 5, 1807. We have not given Napoleon a chance to ask for soldiers. They are rushing to him in such numbers it is as if the nation threw itself at his feet and cried: “With the forehead! With the forehead!”
Prince Poniatowski has raised a legion. Yesterday the consecration of their arms took place in Zielony Plac. When I looked at the youths kneeling at the altar, it seemed to me not a Christian consecration, but a pagan sacrifice of blood in honor of the modern Moloch—Napoleon.
January 9, 1807. My honored grandfather has returned from inspecting the French troops. He says that, in comparison with them, our old armies looked like a merrymaking at a country fair.
January 11, 1807. I have met Napoleon! It was last night. I am still so excited that I do not know how to tell about it. The ladies of Warsaw have been vexed that he did not arrange for a presentation. Yesterday the invitation came. At nine-thirty we were assembled. We waited a full hour, standing in nervous expectation. At last the door by which we knew he would enter opened, and Talleyrand appeared. It seemed minutes before he spoke. Then he bowed and announced—“The Emperor!” The word had the voice of the thunders and filled all space. I can hear it now. “The Emperor!!”
He looked like a god who in haste had been made a man and made too small. By some accident his eyes met mine. For an instant it was as if we two were alone, unconscious of the crowd that swayed between.
As the ladies filed past and were presented, I felt that he was waiting for me. Then a terrible nervousness seized me, which expressed itself in a sort of exaltation, a wild and reckless daring.
When my turn came, he stepped forward eagerly and asked my name. “The Countess Tatjana Tschaska.”
He beckoned me to him. “I am sure now that I shall meet in Poland the only ruler whom I fear.”
“And whom may that be, Sire?”
“The Queen of Beauty,” bowing gallantly.
I retorted: “One of our Slav poets said long ago: ‘One need not fear a Russian Czar so greatly as a Polish woman.’” Then I courtesied and moved on.
As soon as the presentations were over, I saw him making his way toward me. On the instant I was the observed of all. The crowd fell back, seeing that it was his will, and left us alone. I was conscious of a sensation then which I hope will never be repeated in the course of my life. It was as if upon the instant all my ideals, all my standards of living, had been shattered. It was as if I had never lived before. It is in such moods that we do things that we regret and wonder at ever after. There was something within me that rushed to meet him, that swept barriers before it. Outwardly, however, I was calm.
When he came near enough to speak, he asked jestingly: “Are there really none but nobles in Poland?”
In an instant I was on my mettle, defiant and scornful. “Sire, it is easier to be a sovereign prince in France than a petty noble in Poland.” Then I read such admiration in his eyes I regretted the answer and hastened to make amends by inquiring, somewhat awkwardly: “Are you not home-sick for Paris, here in the North?”
“How could I be, when in Warsaw I have found another and a gayer Paris?”
“Why is it that it fascinates the foreigner so?”
“Because here the East and the West meet. The streets—how interesting—a scene from an opera; turbaned Mussulmans, Janizaries, Hungarians, Russians in pointed caps, Poles, Tartars—”
“And what of the people—people such as are here?”
“I do not care so much for the men, but I never saw such pretty women. In them, too, the East and the West meet. They unite the intelligence, the fine presence of the West with the fire and the languor of the East.”
I do not know what else we said. We talked with merriment and unrestraint. Then he bowed, spoke a few words with some of the others, and retired. He has gray-blue eyes that deepen and darken when he talks. He is very small for a man, but so exquisitely proportioned that he gives the impression of stateliness and height. His voice is beautiful. It makes the heart vibrate.
January 12, 1807. To-day the Emperor sent one of his aides to inquire for my health and to bring me a book—Comte de Comminges. An enclosed note says that this is his favorite book and that every time he reads it he weeps. Strange man who can see his fellows slaughtered by thousands, and weep over the mimic passions of a book!
January 14, 1807. At the Assembly last night, I was commanded to the Emperor’s whist table. No sooner had I sat down than he turned to me with the greatest unrestraint of manner. “What stakes shall we play for, my little Countess?”
“When one plays with the King of the World, Sire, it should be for nothing less than a kingdom.”
“Well, then, what shall it be? Name it!”
“The freedom of Poland, Sire.”
You cannot imagine the consternation. Every one was so frightened that I began to be frightened, too. He was not in the least vexed. No one knows better how to value bravery.
“Granted, my little Countess! And I will play for the heart of the bravest of Polish women.”
Then the game began. I cannot tell how furiously we played. It was as if the fate of the world hung in the balance. I never lived such an exciting hour. People crowded around to learn the result. Bets were made. Excitement rose to fever heat. I lost. He leaned across the table and grasped my hands. “Now you are mine. I have won you fairly, you little rebel!”
Then some one cried out,—Prince Murat I think it was: “Sire, I never thought to see you grasp the hand of Russia.”
“What do you mean?” was the somewhat startled answer.
“The Countess Tatjana, Sire, is the affianced bride of Prince Adam Czartoryisky, the real ruler of Imperial Russia.”
“It is my custom always to defeat my enemies,” he answered, but I saw that his face clouded.
“Wait!” I exclaimed. “Prince Adam and I may yet defeat you!”
January 20, 1807. In a letter received from Prince Adam to-day was this sentence: “Do not trust the French Emperor. He will deceive the Poles. He will make them promises he has no idea of keeping, and in return they will shed their blood for him by thousands. The people of the South, remember, are light of tongue.”
January 26, 1807. Warsaw is still wild over the Emperor. He possesses a strange magnetism. It is as if, like Prometheus, he had stolen the fire of the gods. He is mortal. It cannot last. I wonder if, like Prometheus, he will atone for his temerity by being chained to a rock in the sea that the vultures of envy may eat his heart!
January 30, 1807. Again last night I was commanded to the Emperor’s whist table. He had forgotten about our little unpleasantness and was unfeignedly glad to see me. As I entered, he was talking with the Prince General about Goethe, whom he met in Weimar. The Prince General moved away to make place for the players, and the Duke of Bassano came up.
“I must quote for our little Countess, Duke, that saying of Goethe’s which proves him to be a warrior like myself: ‘Women and fortresses were made to storm and take.’”
“When Goethe wrote that, Sire,” I answered, “two exceptions were understood—Russian fortresses and Polish women.”
Then you should have heard the laughter, which he took good-naturedly, replying: “I like spirit in a woman. It indicates race.”
After the game was over, we found ourselves alone. He insisted upon driving me home. We managed it without the others knowing; otherwise I should not have dared. When we were in the sleigh he said, as if he thought I would be greatly interested: “I am going away to-morrow—or the next day, my little Countess.”
“Where, Sire?”
“To White Russia.”
I started as if some terrible thing had been communicated to me, then replied: “Do not seek the wind in the open field.”[6]
The answer did not please him. Some minutes passed before he spoke. Then the conversation took an intimate turn. We drove for two hours at a furious pace, the horses’ feet striking diamonds from the snow. When we reached the white levels of the country, silent and cold in the silver night, I suddenly realized that in the nature of the man beside me were the same great spaces of cold and silence—like the steppe—which nothing could reclaim. For a moment fear rose in my heart.
He said a thousand fond and foolish things and at last asked me if I loved him.
I replied: “One worships the gods, Sire; one does not love them.”
When we reached home and got out of the sleigh, he stood looking at me in silence. His face looked paler than usual and more stern. Suddenly a sort of rage convulsed it. He drew me to him, held me close, and kissed my hair again and again. Then he leaped into the sleigh and was off without a word. For an instant the stars in the winter sky and the sparkling snow-stars upon the earth were one. A noise as of whirling waters dulled my ears. In love as in war he is fierce and furious.
February 10, 1807. There has been another battle. We do not know much about it, except that it must have been in the neighborhood of Eylau. I have not heard from Prince Adam. I wonder if he was there. I fancied him on one side and Napoleon on the other, with the black thundering cannon between.
February 14, 1807. Every day comes news of an engagement in which the French are successful. To-day a messenger came to me from the seat of war, bringing a small box. In it there was an ornament of diamonds, with a slip of paper, upon which was written: “Russian fortresses may be taken!”
February 19, 1807. The French have defeated the Russians at Ostrolenko.
February 27, 1807. Despite the war and the sad news that reaches us daily, the carnival has been merry. We do always dance in Warsaw. There is no denying it.
Last night being Tuesday before Ash Wednesday, we celebrated at the Prince General’s in the good old-fashioned way. We wore the Polish costume in compliance with the Prince General’s request. The ladies were resplendent in antique flowered court gowns of old English gilt-brocade; the gentlemen in gorgeous uniforms with all their decorations, long blue and white plumes tossing from their hats.
We began by dancing the Kracoviak, each with a glass of wine in his hand. At the turns of the dance, where the ladies whirl, half kneeling, and their full skirts spread out around them like the petals of a flower, each gentleman made the sign of the cross above his partner’s head with a glass of glowing wine. Then came a gavotte, then a Polonaise, and last the old-fashioned dance where we sing, “Oh, we love one another, yes, we love one another!” Thus we kept it up without once pausing. At midnight the Prince General’s chaplain entered and made a little talk upon the necessity of keeping the fast days. We followed him to the chapel, where mass was said. When he came to the place in the service where he reads, “Cum jejunatis nolite fieri sicut Pharisæi,” the men leaped to their feet, flashed their swords from jeweled scabbards, and set their plumed hats high upon their heads to signify that they would fight and die for the faith. It was a splendid and imposing sight—those solemn courtly figures glittering with gems and gold, under the fretful light of tapers in the pale winter dawn. I shall not soon forget it.
April 20, 1807. This has been a sad Lent, a veritable season of gloom. I do not know why. I have heard nothing from the Emperor.
Mioduschweski,
Near Warsaw on the Vistula.
June 1, 1807. Spring is here. Even spring is sad. Not even the birds are merry. Our peasants have sung their saddest songs at the planting. I have heard nothing from the Emperor.
July 10, 1807. The Peace of Tilsit has been signed. Prince Adam was there. France won her point, made alliance with Russia and left England out. Prince Adam is broken-hearted. Had Alexander been less weak, Poland would be free. An attempt to influence the mind of Alexander is like writing one’s name on water. There is a Russian proverb that says, however: “You must not expect a cuckoo to be a falcon.”
How discouraging has this long diplomatic battle been to Prince Adam! To it he has sacrificed his youth. Alexander has made use of his talent for ten years by luring him on with the hope of a free Poland. He says that at the Peace of Tilsit Napoleon jested and made all manner of fun of the Poles. Since he is no longer the champion of the people, he has degenerated into an ambitious knave, to whom the god of luck gave a touch of genius.
“Napoleon,” he writes, “is not a man of knightly honor with the blood of kings in his veins. He is merely an adventurous usurper eager for power. He is the first exponent of a modern commercial world whose dawn is just at hand—a world wherein everything will be negotiable, everything will have its price. The chivalric spirit of the past will exist no longer; nothing comparable will exist again after the sword of Napoleon has passed over it.”