DIARY OF FRANCES KRASINSKA;

OR, LIFE IN POLAND DURING THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.

Sunday, December 30th, 1760.

I have finally decided upon going to Maleszow; I may perhaps feel more at ease there than here. Barbara would accompany me, but the state of her health will prevent her; her husband says it would be very imprudent for her to travel. I have finally received a letter from the prince royal; he is in despair at my departure. He is exceedingly irritated against the princess, and fears lest Brühl should disclose all he knows to the king.

I must leave here as soon as possible. The happiness surrounding me is a real torment. This sweet and quiet joy of a husband and wife who love each other so tenderly, pierces my heart. This well-arranged household, this family union, and all the delicate attentions of the Starost Swidzinski, who adores my sister—all these blessings, which I must covet, and yet of which I am not jealous, increase the bitterness of my suffering.

My sister is predestined to every possible felicity. Her little girl is the most charming child anywhere to be found; her father fondles and caresses her, and my parents are always writing to my sister, because they feel so much solicitude for her and her little one. Happy Barbara! Life is one long festival for her. Ah! may God take her happiness into his own keeping, and may this reflection console me under my own weight of sorrow!

I shall perhaps feel more tranquil when I have seen my dear parents; their pardon will be as a Christian absolution for me. I will again live and hope when protected by their tenderness. I will begin the new year with them; it may perhaps be the dawn of my happiness! I was formerly so happy at Maleszow....

Castle of Maleszow, January 5th, 1761.

I have been here several days, but I think I will soon return to Sulgostow. I suffer everywhere, and it always seems to me that I will be most happy in whatever place I am not. My lot is brilliant in imagination, but miserable in reality. And yet, my parents have received me well, and have treated me with the greatest kindness. But a matter of comparatively slight importance is one of the causes of my uneasiness here: I have no money; I cannot make the slightest present to my sisters, and can give nothing to the people of the castle.

When I was with the princess, she provided for all my wants, and gave me besides a small sum every month; I could save nothing, nor indeed could I anticipate any cause for doing so. I now find myself in the most complete state of destitution, and would rather die than ask for money from my husband or my parents, who of course think that I am abundantly provided for. When Barbara returned from the school of the Holy Sacrament, she doubtless had much less money than I spent during my sojourn in Warsaw, and yet she made a small gift to every one. She was not, as I, bowed down beneath the weight of melancholy thoughts; her spirit was free and her heart was joyous. She could think of others, and offer the labor of her own hands when more costly presents were wanting.... But I, unquiet, agitated, passing alternately from the most actual and positive grief to fears still more terrible, cannot apply myself a single moment.

Formerly, when I was happy through hope, and when all life seemed to me one brilliant illusion, I fancied that when I should return to Maleszow after my marriage, I would be followed by as long a train as a queen; I forgot no one in my dreams; all had their share in my royal favors.... Ah! what a fearful contrast between my desires and the reality!

I have not passed a single day since I came here without shedding tears. When I first saw my parents I wished to throw myself at their feet; but my father prevented me, and, treating me as if I were a stranger, made me a profound bow. Whenever I enter the saloon, he rises and will not sit near me; the homage he considers due to my dignity as princess royal overpowers his paternal tenderness.

This formal etiquette causes me inconceivable torment! Ah! if honors are to cost me so dear, I would a thousand times prefer to be only a simple noble.

The first dinner I ate with the family was ceremonious and cold. My mother was uneasy and ready to apologize for offering me the ordinary fare of the castle, and my father whispered in my ear:

'I might have offered you a bottle of wine, drawn from the tun of Miss Frances; it would have been very pleasant for me to have drunk it at our first dinner, but custom requires that the father should drink the first glass, and the husband the second; otherwise it would be a bad omen.... Will that day ever come?' he added, sighing.

I could not restrain my tears, and could neither speak nor eat; my mother looked at me with the most tender compassion. Every moment here brings me some new sorrow, and the bonmots of our little Matthias have lost all power to divert me. My father makes signs to him with his eyes that he may invent something witty, but it is all lost upon me. Music to a suffering body is but an importunate noise; and sallies of wit to a despairing soul have lost their savor.

Our little Matthias is inconceivably acute; he divines all. He knows my position, I am quite sure. He took advantage yesterday of a moment when I was quite alone to come into my room, and with an air half sad, half jesting, he knelt down before me and drew from his pocket a little bouquet of dried flowers tied with a white ribbon and fastened by a gold pin.... I could not at first tell what he meant, but soon the bouquet I had worn at Barbara's wedding flashed across my memory. He gave me the flowers, saying: 'I am sometimes a prophet,' and, still on his knees, went toward the door. I ran after him; I remembered all, and with the remembrance came a crowd of feelings, at once sweet and bitter. This bouquet was the same I had given Matthias on Barbara's wedding day....

I took a rich diamond pin from my dress, and fastened it at the buttonhole of Matthias's coat. Neither he nor I spoke a single word, but I am sure that while each wondered inwardly at the strange fulfilment of the prophecy, each was still more surprised that it had realized none of our hopes.

Just as I was writing these lines, my mother entered my room. Her kindness is incomparable; she brought me such a quantity of stuffs, of jewels and blondes, that she could scarcely carry them. She laid them on my bed, and said:

'I give you a portion of the trousseau destined to my daughters; I should have added many other articles, but I was afraid they were not handsome enough, and yet I have given you the best I had. I have spoken to my husband, and he has determined to sell two villages to make a trousseau worthy of so illustrious a union. That will come when the secret is unveiled.'

I burst into tears, and would have thrown myself at her feet, but she prevented me, and asked me a thousand pardons for presenting me with things of so little value.

Oh, yes! I must certainly leave here day after to-morrow. I suffer beyond expression. My younger sisters, madame, the courtiers, and even the old servants exclaim over the change which has come upon me, and ask one another why I am not yet married, and why no one seems to think of having me married.

The three girls whom I was to take into my service came to see me; doubtless, to remind me of my promise. Our old Hyacinth himself brought his daughter to me. Every one I see causes me some new sorrow or vexation. Ah! how astonished they would be if they knew of my marriage! And these poor people who relied upon my protection, I cannot take them into my service, because I have married a prince, the son of a king!

Sulgostow, Wednesday, January 9th.

I am again with my sister. On my arrival, I found no letter from the prince royal. He may be ill! Or, perhaps, the king has been informed of our marriage, and has placed him under strict surveillance. If the prince palatine were in Warsaw, he would surely have written to me; I can rely upon his devotion. As for Prince Martin, I thank him for his light-headedness, and am very glad that he forgets me.

My parents' parting farewell did me much more good than their reception; at that moment, I again found all their former tenderness.

Before I left, I went to Lissow, and visited the curate in his presbytery. When I came, he was planting cypress trees in his garden, and he promised me to plant one in memory of me in the cemetery. I will leave behind me this melancholy remembrancer. His words to me were very kind and consoling. As I left him, I experienced a moment of real calm and resignation.

Tuesday, January 15th.

During the last few days I have been forced to struggle against new persecutions. Just as we were about sitting down to table, the sound of the trumpet announced the arrival of a stranger, and soon after, the double door of the dining hall was thrown open, and M. Borch, the king's minister, was announced.

I at once divined the motive of this visit, and my heart throbbed as if it would burst. M. Borch, like a real diplomatist, tried to give his visit the appearance of a simple courtesy. Remembering the gracious reception offered him at Barbara's wedding, he came, he said, to offer his homage to her ladyship the Starostine Swidzinska, and renew his acquaintance with the starost. During dinner, many compliments were exchanged; but as soon as the dessert was over and the court had retired, he invited me to go with him into the starost's private cabinet, and said to me:

'Brühl and I know your secret, madame, and I can assure you we have been exceedingly diverted; for you may well believe that we regard this marriage as a mere jest, a real child's play: the benediction given by a priest not belonging to the parish, and without the knowledge of the parents, can never be valid. This marriage then will soon be broken, and with very little trouble, I can assure you.'

These words fell upon me like a thunderbolt, and without a superhuman courage and the aid of Heaven, I should have been crushed at once; but I felt that the fate of my whole life might depend upon that moment. Borch's character was well known to me; I knew him to be as cowardly as base, and also that strength of will is all powerful with such men, who are only bold with the weak. I replied:

'Sir, your cunning lacks skill; your diplomacy and that of Minister Brühl, come to nought through the simple good sense of a woman. Your world, which judges me and deems me devoid of courage and reason, only excites my pity; I am ready for a struggle with you and with Brühl. My marriage is valid; it has been blessed by the consent of my parents; I hold my powers from God, and will be able to defend them. The bishop was aware of this marriage on which you are pleased to throw the anathema of your irony; the curate of my own parish gave us the benediction, and two witnesses assisted us during the holy ceremony. I know that divorce is possible, but only through the common consent of both parties, and the prince royal, my husband, and myself, will never consent to it.'

Borch's astonishment may easily be imagined, and even I could not have believed myself capable of so much energy. Borch expected to find a child whom he could dazzle with a few promises; he thought he could easily bring me to a renunciation of my rights, and that I would readily consent to sign the instrument of my own shame and sorrow: he found me most determined. He remained here two days, and again renewed his attempts, but, finding that I persisted in my refusal, he departed, having however previously asked me if I would consent to a divorce in case the prince royal should deem it necessary.

'Yes,' I replied, 'but you must first show me a writing to that effect, signed by the prince himself.'

I feared lest this occurrence should be the cause of a new sorrow: Barbara's situation requires so much care, and she feels my troubles so deeply! I was really alarmed lest her health should suffer, but, thank God! she feels quite well. Dear Barbara is another me; alas! all who love me must accept the chalice of misery! The starost was quite uneasy concerning his wife; they are so happy together, so tenderly united!... And I, what a sad destiny is mine! I have obtained neither repose, nor happiness, nor those objects of ambition which I would have consented to receive from the hand of love.

Here ends the Diary of Frances Krasinska. Her thoughts were too sad, her memories too bitter, to bear being transferred to paper. When sorrow in all its bitterness has seized upon the soul, we can no longer see or hear without a shudder certain words which formerly excited reveries more or less sweet and seductive within our souls. Frances lost all her illusions, one by one; she was strong enough to bear up against injustice, but she was powerless against her husband's indifference.

My readers may perhaps have accused her of ambition; and yet she loved him; but love is not always absolute devotion and self-abnegation; love is not always a virtue; it is often the result of egotism; it is, as Madame de Staël says, one personality in two persons, or a mere double personality. Frances loved the prince royal, but not the less had she been dazzled by his rank.

She remained a long time at Sulgostow after Borch's departure. Barbara Swidzinska, already the mother of one daughter, bore also a son, and another daughter, who was named Frances. The tenderness, care, and attention which Frances experienced in her own family could not console her for the prince royal's desertion. Her sister was the only being in the world to whom she confided her grief; women have a delicate sensibility which enables them to comprehend the minutest details; nothing escapes them, and, with the finest instruments in their possession, they can more readily deal with a crushed heart. If love had left Frances a single hope, she might still have found happiness in friendship.

Nowhere at rest, she sometimes left Sulgostow for the convent of the Holy Sacrament in Warsaw; but solitude could not restore her peace, and her prayers were one cry of despair sent up to God to implore death.

The genius of sorrow is the most prolific of all spirits, it seems as if human nature were infinite in nothing but in the power to suffer. There was still another grief in store for Frances, another wound for her afflicted soul; she lost her parents, lost them before they had bestowed the name of son upon their daughter's husband. At this time she went to the Franciscan convent in Cracow, whither Barbara sent her her young daughter Angelica, to endeavor to bind her to earth through the influence of this innocent and youthful affection.

She lived also at Cznestochowa or at Opole, and everywhere received orders not to disclose her marriage. At long intervals of time, the prince royal came to see her, and thus accomplished an external duty of conscience: total desertion and forgetfulness would perhaps have been preferable.

The prophecy made by the little Matthias was finally verified: the ducal crown and the throne of Poland both slipped from Prince Charles's grasp; Biren was named Duke of Courland, and, when Augustus III. died (at Dresden, October 5th, 1763), he was succeeded by Stanislaus Augustus Poniatowski.

To quiet the uneasiness and the melancholy suspicions of Frances, the prince royal declared to her that through regard for his father's advanced age he must continue to conceal his marriage. But many years passed after the king's death without bringing any amelioration or change in the position of Frances; the prince and the royal family lived in Dresden, while the prince's wife was constrained to hide her real name in obscurity.

The Lubomirski family did all in their power to obtain a recognition of Frances's rights; they even appealed to the Empress Maria Theresa. Prince Charles finally yielded; he wrote a most tender letter to his wife, begging her to come to him in Dresden; this letter found her at Opole, and the Lubomirski advised her to await another advance from the prince before she consented to go to Dresden, which she did.

Prince Charles, like all men who are impassioned through their fancies and cold at heart, was irritated at Frances's hesitation, and wrote her another letter still more pressing and affectionate; she resisted no longer, as one may well believe; but she found neither happiness nor the rank she was entitled to occupy, or rather, the honor due to her rank. Unprovided with a revenue suited to her position, she led a life of privation, almost of want. The Empress Maria Theresa, touched with compassion at her melancholy fate, conferred upon her the county of Lanckorona, near Cracow. This possession, coming from a strange hand, could not satisfy her ambition, and her heart must long before have renounced every hope of happiness.

She maintained a constant correspondence with her sister and the other members of her family in Poland.

We will here give the letter which she wrote to her sister before her departure for Dresden, translating it scrupulously from the Polish, and underlining [italicizing] the portions originally written in French:

I shall not see you again, as I can no longer delay, my husband having fixed the very day for my arrival in Dresden. In his second letter, he impresses on me not to be later than the fifth of January. I must then say farewell, and rest assured that I return with my whole soul the affection you feel for me; always, and in whatever place I may be, you will be the dearest to me, and the tokens of your remembrance, the most satisfactory to my heart.

Write to me often, I beg you, and rely upon my punctuality in replying.

I am going where I hope to find a little repose.... Alas! I no longer expect happiness, for the elector will not concede me my rank as princess royal, nor recognize me as the wife of the prince. He desires, that is to say, he commands me to preserve my incognito, while in his estates. The prince royal is truly grieved, and of all my sorrows the most bitter is that of my husband; his health is visibly failing.

I will write you a faithful account of all that happens to me; you shall know how I am received and the progress of all my affairs. If they will be willing to decree us an augmented allowance, I will beg my husband to permit me to leave Dresden and settle in some foreign country contiguous to Saxony, that I may readily hold communication with him. Do not mention my project to any one, for if it were known in Saxony, my whole enterprise would be ruined. Adieu, most tenderly loved sister. Do not forget me. Farewell, the multiplicity of my occupations will not permit me to write at greater length. Apropos, I beg you to go now and see the princess palatiness; you will find her with the Bishop of Kamieniec, and Kulagowski; she will be very grateful for this attention from you; it must be agreeable to her; you will brighten a little the gravity of this trio. Adieu, I embrace you with all my heart, and am, as ever, your most affectionate and attached sister,

Frances.

A thousand tender and friendly messages to your husband; I conjure him always to retain a place for me in his memory.

In 1776 the Polish diet assigned large pensions to all the heirs of Augustus III.; the half of that bestowed upon Prince Charles was revertible during her lifetime to his wife, the princess royal, Frances Krasinska.

During her sojourn in Dresden, she gave birth to a daughter, the Princess Mary; she educated her with the greatest care, but was soon forced to leave her; her many sorrows developed an insidious malady, which finally proved fatal. She died on the 30th of April, 1796, aged fifty-three.

Madame Moszynska, who had shown herself a friend to Frances in her prosperity, and, what is still more rare, also in adversity, was grievously afflicted by her death. It was she who announced it to Madame Angelica Szymanowska, born Swidzinska, whom Frances had held at the baptismal font with the prince royal in the cathedral church at Warsaw, in 1760.

Dresden, June 8th, 1796.

I comply with your request, madame, but with extreme grief; the loss you have sustained is a most cruel one to me; indeed it is the deepest affliction I have ever known. The princess royal's malady began about two years ago. She then felt pains in her breast; some physicians said her disease was cancer, while others assured her it was tumor.

An incision was then made, and she was better during some time. But the disease soon made the most fearful progress. The inflammation appeared upon the outside, and she felt the most acute pains in her breast and throughout the whole length of her arm. She patiently endured the most excruciating torments. Having tried various modes of treatment without experiencing any relief, she finally consented to make trial of a new cure. During twelve weeks she saw no one except the members of her own household and the physicians, who sometimes said she was better and sometimes that she was worse; finally, however, fever set in, accompanied by all the signs of consumption.

Perfectly aware of her condition, she prepared for death with resignation and devotion; she died during the night of the 30th of April. Her breast had burst open several weeks before. An examination was made after her death, and many causes for her last illness were discovered; but I cannot dwell upon these details.... In my opinion, and I followed the whole course of her malady, her chest was seriously affected in addition to the cancer.

We have experienced an irreparable loss; I can scarcely endure life since our misfortune, and will never be able to think of the princess royal without the most bitter regret. I have not yet seen her husband; some say that he is ill, and cannot long survive his wife, but others speak of him as quite well: I know not whom to believe.

I sometimes see their daughter, the Princess Mary, whom I love with all my heart, but whom I can only visit once during the week. She is charming, and already gives promise of a noble character. The princess royal, during her dying moments, left her under the protection of Elizabeth, the king's daughter and the prince royal's sister. Elizabeth is warmly interested in the young princess, and sincerely attached to her brother; she is a highly meritorious personage.

May I beg you, madame, to continue toward me your previous sentiments of kindness, and to accept the expression of my unbounded esteem.

L. Moszynska.

The prince royal, Charles, survived his wife several months, and their daughter, still very young, was confided to the guardianship of Prince Charles's sister. When she reached a marriageable age, she wedded Prince Carignan, of Savoy, and their descendants are now allied to the reigning family of Sardinia.