Zaozaima, near Wilna in Lithuania.

June 15, 1812. I have just reached Zaozaima to oversee for the summer one of our Lithuanian estates. My honored mother was unable to come.

I received a letter from Prince Adam to-day. He is no longer Minister of Foreign Affairs, but he still stays on at the Court of Russia because of his influence and friendship with Alexander. He still hopes to effect the freedom of Poland. And I am waiting. How many women are there in Poland to-day whose fate, like mine, is bound up with the fate of the nation!

June 27, 1812. A messenger just came post-haste from Prince Adam with this letter: “By the time this reaches you, Napoleon will have crossed the Niemen with the great army of France. Diplomatic relations, as you know, have been severed between France and Russia. Again I have hope of the old alliance of Russia and England.

“Word has been sent to Napoleon that you are in Zaozaima in Lithuania, on the direct route to Russia. His love for you is well known. He will send you word. You can help us. While I have the ear of Alexander and you the heart of Napoleon, something may yet be done for Poland. This is the plan—not to let Napoleon see the army of Russia until after he has left Wilna. When he does see it, it will feign fear and retreat. In case an engagement cannot be avoided, it is our plan to give him the victory and then retreat again. In this way we can bring him into the heart of the country. With you to help, we will lure Napoleon, who is now drunk with success, to a banquet of death in the heart of White Russia.”

July 18, 1812. A messenger came from the Emperor to-day and an escort of Lithuanian soldiers. I am commanded to go to Witepsk to the Convent of Our Lady of Good Council and there await him. I did not think it would come so soon.

July 20, 1812. All night we rode through the great pine woods of Lithuania. The soldiers sang, alternately, with answering voices, one of the strangely modulated dainos of the country:

Poor fellows! There is little probability that they will come back to the Memel.

July 25, 1812. Witepsk is a gloomy city filled with cloisters. There are twenty-four here. They look as black and as forbidding as the black pines of Lithuania.

July 27, 1812. I found the strangest manuscript in the convent to-day! It is unsigned and ancient. No one knows of its origin. I copy a part which mysteriously refers to the present:

“For I say unto you that the balance must always be kept. Great things will be weighed and estimated by great things. But in the end that shall prevail that is fullest of joy. Joy, alone, is life. Joy, alone, can create. That which is effort is of a baser fiber.

“Out of the gloom and the fog of the North the barbarians came and destroyed the land of joy, the cities of white marble, the gladness of the pagan world. They destroyed the altars whereon the incense smoked and the sacrificial doves slumbered.

“In the ages of ages, when the time shall be ripe and the world shall have forgotten its ancient joy, retribution will fall upon the North.

“Out of the South will come a Cæsar and a god, who, like them of old, shall know not fear, but joy. He will be wise with the wisdom of the sleeping centuries. He will be a Bacchic god, in whose honor for incense cities will burn and the smoking blood of slaughtered nations rise. He will be a Titan, who believes that the only crime is littleness and impotence. A new age will begin with him.”

As I read I saw the white cameo-like face of the Great Emperor framed in the gold of a burning city.

July 29, 1812. The Emperor came yesterday. He brought two suits such as are worn by the Polish cavalry, one for me and one for my dame de compagnon. I had to cut my hair. Now it is in little yellow curls. He said I must look like the women who lead the armies of the Great Catherine.

We are on the road to Moscow.

July 30, 1812. What is so inspiring as the call of trumpets! They are the instrument of courage and high deeds.

July 31, 1812. Pan Brodzinski, Pan Anton Malzweski, and Prince Michael Radziwill are with the army. I have not seen them.

August 1, 1812. This army is a wonderful sight. In it are people of all nations. The faith of the soldiers in Napoleon is fanatical. In just this way do the Moslems worship Allah. They think he is superior to death. As the days go by and I learn to estimate his power, I, too, can say “Allah il Allah.”

August 10, 1812. No mortal was ever adored like this. Surely there must be good in his heart.

August 11, 1812. It is just as Prince Adam wrote. The Russians feign fear and retreat. I cannot be a party to this murder, this luring him on to death. I must find some means of escape. I must find some means of saving him that will save Poland too.

August 12, 1812. Napoleon disguised himself as a chasseur and we rode together all day. I made the most of the opportunity.

“Sire, before we reach the boundaries of Old Poland, I pray you, take this precaution for your safety—make Poland free. Then you will have a safe ally behind you. Then you can conquer Russia.”

“Why take the trouble! Do you not see how they fear me, how they retreat?”

“That is only a ruse, Sire; they are the subtlest of races.”

“They fear me; that is why.”

“No, Sire, I know them better. It is a ruse. I beg you to listen and be not angry. Only a man whom the too great favors of destiny had made drunk would lead an army into the heart of Russia. It means death—to them—to you.”

“That is for cowards. Audaces Fortuna juvat, timidosque repellit.”

“Sire, make Poland free!”

“If I did, what good would it do the Poles? They could not remain free.”

“Why, Sire! Do you not admire my race?”

“I admire them, but I do not respect them. Your Polish aristocracy has received a foreign education. In art, in letters, they have become demi-savants, which has unfitted them for practical affairs. No people were ever more fitted to please. No people ever so loved the joy of life—music and the tossing of plumes. But—no people ever had so little talent for the conquest of life. They were not made for care, work, for a commonplace thing like discipline. That is why they are famous for their cavalry. They are good only for the impetuous rush of an inspired moment.”

“Sire, make an end to this crucifixion of my country! It will mean safety to you on your return. Make Poland free!”

“It would be useless. You Poles have no genius for affairs. You have always acted like children.”

“Sire, we are grown now. Sorrow has made us wise.”

“It is useless, I tell you. You do not belong to the present. You belong to other centuries. You are the last defenders of the bulwark of the Middle Ages, where chivalry ruled. Now a modern world is here that does not care for things that are merely fine; an age without ideals but with great practical sense; an age which money and success alone can rule,—money and success, won at any price, for not even honor will stand in the way. Soon the old chivalric days when men loved one another will be merely a dream.

“The wars of the time to come will not be like these of mine. They will be bloodless wars fought at expense of men’s souls and nerves, and they will be crueler and more deeply destructive than any that have desolated Poland.

“If I should make Poland free, it could not remain free. It is the age that is at fault. You have not grasped modern life. Another age has come over Europe. And because the Pole cannot accommodate himself to it, the nation will be destroyed. It will pass under the rule of others who have in abundance what he has not. Polonia delenda est.”

I can do no more. He must go on to ruin. I dare not show him the letter of Prince Adam.

August 16, 1812. We are under the walls of Smolensk, the city which the Cossack Hetmans wrested from the Commonwealth. This is on the borders of Old Poland.

I said to the Emperor in one last attempt: “There is Russia, Sire. Do you remember how it looks upon the map? A wilderness bounded by a river of blood and by blue and frozen seas. Those, Sire, are God’s awful prohibition.”

He looked toward it thoughtfully for a time, then turned and walked silently away.

August 18, 1812. Yesterday the French took Smolensk. Again I saw the policy of Russia. It was garrisoned by thirty thousand men. They gave us the victory that Napoleon may push on into the heart of the country. There, when winter comes, the snow and the frost will do what arms can not. There he will contend with a new army—the army of the elements. I saw the battle. It was terrible beyond description. The Emperor commanded in person. He was here, there, everywhere, all at once. He was the incarnate demon of joy. Bullets dared not touch him. Screaming, they fled past. It was frightful in that he really seemed to be protected by a superhuman power.

After it was over, he rode to where I sat.

“Was a woman ever entertained as I have entertained you? I do not amuse you with stupid balls, operas, soirées, but with the play of the best armies of Europe.”

His joy filled me with terror.

August 20, 1812. The soldiers are wild with hope. They see themselves master of the East. I alone know what awaits them. They are uplifted by such a burning desire of the future that the present is annihilated.

Along the way are the dead and dying. No one seems to care.

August 22, 1812. I am becoming infected with the general joy. Yet I know that the Russians have prepared their revenge.

August 28, 1812. The Russians are still retreating. Yesterday and the day before there were slight engagements in which the French were successful.

The Russians retired to Borodino. Now the invincible Kutusow is in command. The Emperor is delighted. He is eager to meet him.

September 8, 1812. Yesterday they fought by Borodino. Kutusow retired to Moscow.

September 12, 1812. We can see Moscow!

Imagine a yellow, barren plain, over it gold-dust haze, brightening and darkening as the wind sways it, through which rise a multitude of green and red and blue and silver domes, surmounted by gold, lace-work crosses. It floats in the air. It is the creation of a magician. At the same time it is very real, and touched with mystery and age—the immemorial age of the East.

September 15, 1812. We are in Moscow. The city is deserted. Kutusow took his troops and went away. It was not fear that made him. Something terrible is going to happen. Why do not the French suspect?

It is unimaginable—the effect of this silent, wonderful city. Who would dream of a city here—on the barren plain that stretches eastward to Asia! And such a city! Italian palaces by the side of Tartar huts! Bazaars where the wonders of the Orient are displayed!

The soldiers are pillaging right and left. Entire squadrons go about decked in gold and embroidered gauzes fit for the harems of Stamboul.

It is like a festival in honor of a pagan god. This illusion is heightened by the fires which are burning everywhere, like incense.

Never before did the bitter North see anything like this. Like this life must have been in the old days—in Alexandria and in Mitylene.

September 17, 1812. It has come! It could not be put off longer. Last night the Emperor summoned me to him. He was in the Uspenski Sobore, the cathedral where the Russian emperors are crowned. Here he has set up his abode. The splendor of the room I entered was overpowering. It was magnificent, imposing, glittering with marbles, with paintings, and with decorations, made out of barbaric gold. It was lighted by a thousand candles, each as tall as the body of a man. Yet the corners and the roof were black and impenetrable.

No sooner had I entered than he drew me to him with that silent fury I remembered. Then he hastened to make fast the door.

“Now I can unfold my plan—I, who am master of the world. For five years I have loved you and asked nothing in return. Now is my time. You are to be my Empress—Empress of the East. This shall be your capital, Russia and the Orient your crown lands. You shall be what Yek-Katarina dreamed always of being—Empress of the East.”

“But—Sire—the church! Could it bless a union like ours?”

“The church? Why, I shall be the church!”

I saw that he was drunk with the deadliest wine that can be given to mortals—success, and the too great favors of destiny.

“Sire, I have considered. I will follow your will—on one condition.”

Here some one knocked at the door.

“The city is on fire! Lose no time. Save yourself!”

“And what is that?” paying not the slightest heed to the interruption.

“Sire, Russia’s supply of powder is under the Kremlin. In an instant we may all be destroyed. Sire! Sire!”

“And what is that?”

The pounding on the door became deafening. The great windows were so lighted by the flames outside that they dimmed the candles. The floor, made of bricks of steel, was as red with the reflection as a sea of blood.

“The freedom of Poland, Sire.”

“I grant it.”

“Why should you not? Poland was cut up to make presents for the lovers of Catherine. Why should it not be united for the one love of Napoleon?”

“Sire! Sire! Open the door. Do not risk your life—the fate of France. Open! Open!”

“Write then its freedom here,” snatching a piece of paper and spreading it before him.

I felt no fear. I was conscious only of a great exaltation,—the sensation he had first taught me to know. Death was nothing in comparison with the goal I sought.

“Write, Sire, write!”

We were then in such an intensity of many-colored light that the farthest top of the great dome shone red like a baker’s oven. The knocking and the voices increased, grew deafening.

“An instant, just another instant!” I prayed, “until that paper is in my hands!”

“Dictate; it shall be as you wish.”

“Write, then: ‘que la République de Pologne soit maintenue dans son état de libre élection et qu’il ne soit permis à personne de rendre le dit royaume héréditaire dans sa famille ou de s’y rendre absolu.’”

Just as he reached the place of signature, the door fell and the Prince of Naples, followed by frightened soldiers, rushed in.

“What are you writing?” He snatched the paper from the table. By this time the room was half filled with soldiers.

The freedom of Poland!

“Sire, this woman is the tool of Russia. See, here is the letter written to her by Prince Adam Czartoryisky. Listen, Sire, listen!

“‘With you to help, we will lure Napoleon, who is now drunk with success, to a banquet of death in the heart of White Russia.’”

The look on the face of the Great Emperor is one of the things which the merciful God will never permit me to forget. Upon it dawned in quick succession the intelligence of all those baffling defeats, followed by a mingled look of anger, surprise, and that which cut me deepest—grief.

“Sire,” continued the Prince of Naples, “outside waits her escort sent by His Imperial Majesty, Alexander, to rescue her from burning Moscow.”

“Take her to her escort,” was the stern reply.

Not one word, not one glance, did he give to me.

As I drove away toward Warsaw, I saw him for one last instant standing on the pictured Kremlin wall, fearless and calm, a pagan god for whom a city fell in ruin. Behind and beside, the conflagration rolled its waves of flame.

I had been faithful to my country, to my duty, yet I felt the greatest contempt for myself.

You see, I was beneath his anger.