THE JOURNAL of COUNTESS FRANÇOISE KRASINSKA in the eighteenth century. (continued 2)

Another good visit was at Madame Rzevuska's, where we found her husband, the Woivode of Podolie. I was very glad to see him, as I had often heard from my honored Father about his adventures when a child; how he was brought up among peasant boys and tramped barefoot as they do, and thus grew tough and fearless. He is over fifty now, but looks young and vigorous. He is said to be also extremely learned. The Prince Woivode told me that he writes beautiful tragedies.

We went also to Madame Bruhl's, the wife of the minister and special favorite of the king; although he is neither liked nor respected by anybody, she is received everywhere, and called upon, as she is a very refined lady. Our next call was upon Madame Soltyk, the widow of the Castellan of Sandomir. She introduced us to her son Stanislaus, a boy of nine years, but gallant as a young cavalier; the elderly ladies were not yet seated, when he brought a chair for me, paying me a compliment, and Madame Castellan said that he was always enraptured with pretty faces and black eyes. She also was very enthusiastic about my looks, and to tell the truth, everywhere they spoke about my beauty,—sometimes in a whisper, but I heard it as well. But then I never have been dressed so beautifully, even at Basia's wedding. I had a dress of white brocade with wide flounces of gauze, a court train of turquoise blue, and pearls in my hair.

I should have been quite satisfied with those visits, if I had met the Duke of Courland anywhere. I started from home with that hope, but I was disappointed. After his long absence he spends his days now with his father, and has not yet been seen out of the royal castle. It is quite natural; I myself have been so often homesick for my honored Parents, especially when in school. But soon the carnival will begin; there will be balls and assemblies without end. The duke goes everywhere, and he likes dancing very much, the Woivode says, so I am sure to meet him.

Wednesday, January 1, 1760.

My wishes have been fulfilled, how much fulfilled! Not only have I seen the duke, but I talked with him; I not only talked with him but ... but will it not be too bold to write down that which I would not dare to whisper to anybody, what I do not dare to believe myself, what perhaps I only dreamed of? Well! no, I did not dream, I am sure of that; I always know very well when I please any one. And then is there anything extraordinary, since God has made me handsome, and everybody acknowledges it, that the duke looked at me with the same eyes as other people? The same eyes?—was there not in his eyes something more than in others?...

But everything ought to be set down in order. Yesterday morning the Princess Woivodine had me called to her and spoke thus: "To-night, as on the last night in the year, there is generally a ridotto, which means a masked ball. All the best people, even the king and the royal princes go to it; and you, mademoiselle, will come with us, dressed as the 'Goddess of the Sun.'" I was delighted and I kissed the princess' hand. Soon after dinner they began to dress me in a costume quite different from the usual, being without powder or hoops. The princess told me very earnestly that although such a dress was not decent at all, and that a woman would ruin her reputation if she wore it on any other occasion, still she hoped that by the expression of my face, and my demeanor, I would make up for the deficiency of my costume. Obeying her instructions I tried to look very dignified, and I think I succeeded, for I heard people at the ball asking, "Who is that queen in disguise?" Now, when I think of it I feel uneasy; perhaps in that costume I was prettier than on other days.... In any case I certainly looked quite different. My hair, thoroughly cleansed from powder, fell in loose curls over my neck and shoulders; my dress of white gauze was clasped with a golden band at the waist; on my breast I wore a golden sun, and over my head a long, flowing veil, which enveloped me like a cloud. I did not recognize myself when after dressing I was allowed to look in a mirror. Perhaps others would not recognize me as I am now....

The ballroom was almost full when we entered. I felt dizzy, seeing such a crowd of people, so diversely and handsomely dressed, with and without masks, in ordinary and extraordinary costumes. I did not know which way to turn my eyes, and what to look at first.

Suddenly a murmur arose in the crowd. Some voices said, "The Duke of Courland," and surrounded by a group of handsome and richly dressed young men, there he was. I knew him at once, although his costume did not differ much from those of the others; but his stature, his large blue eyes, extremely soft, and his charming smile made him different from every body else. I gazed at him as long as he did not see me, but when our eyes once met I could not look at him any more, for I always met his glance. I saw him inquiring about me,—and of whom? Of the Prince Woivode! I noticed the pleasant smile when he learned who I was, and he at once approached the princess, greeting her in a most charming voice. After the first compliments were over, the princess took my hand, and introduced me as her niece.

I do not know at all how I bowed, but I fear it was not that special courtesy which the dancing-master taught me. Neither do I know what the duke said to me; I only remember that he opened the ball with the princess, and danced the second polonaise with me. Then when he talked, to my great surprise, I answered without any embarrassment. He inquired about my honored Parents, about Madame Starostine, and her wedding. I wondered how he knew so well about everything, when I recollected that the Castellanic Kochanowski was his favorite. The good boy has not only "digested the goose with the black gravy," but he gave the duke the best report of us all. "He praised you much, but not half enough," said the duke. I heard many other nice things during that dance and the following ones, for the duke invited me for almost all the minuets and quadrilles, and talked to me all the time.

When at midnight they fired the cannon as a sign of the beginning of the new year, he said to me, "I shall forever remember this night; it is not only a new year, it is the beginning of a new life for me." And how many clever comparisons about my costume! (Only, it does not sound as well in any other language as in French.) "It was not the gold on my breast which was the sun, but rather my eyes; their glance lighted an eternal fire in the heart, etc., etc." Finer compliments could not be found in the novels of Mademoiselle de Scudéry or Madame Lafayette.

Can all that be only sham, courtly civility? It is a pity I cannot ask anybody about it, but I am afraid of the princess, and I cannot ask the Prince Woivode; it would not be proper to talk about those things to a man. I feel too much left to myself; one week ago I was a school-girl among books and teachers, and to-day I am playing a part in the world of which I know nothing. But in about ten days Basia is coming here; she is so wise she will enlighten me. I am so very happy thinking that she will come. I have not seen that dearest sister of mine for three quarters of the year, but I know that she is more and more happy, more and more beloved by her husband.

When shall I see the duke again? Will he recognize me in my every-day dress?

Friday, January 3.

I have seen the duke, I have seen him twice, and I am laughing now at that childish anxiety I had, wondering if he would recognize me. Why, I should always know him, no matter how well disguised he might be.

I just finished writing my journal on New Year's day, when the Prince Woivode came to my room. "Françoise," he said, "you surpassed all our expectations; your demeanor at the ball yesterday was perfect, and it pleased generally, even the most notable persons. I have just returned from the Castle, where we went with the senators and ministers to pay our New Year's compliments to his Majesty. His Royal Highness the Duke of Courland approached me, and declared that he had never seen anybody like you, and that if it were not for the etiquette of the court, which requires him to spend the New Year's day with the king, he would come to pay you his respects in person." I felt my cheeks growing red when I heard these flattering words, but the prince seemed not to notice it, and went away leaving me with my thoughts.

And so I shall meet the duke, not only at the balls, but in this very house! "He has never seen anybody like you." These words are still sounding in my ears, as if somebody were repeating them constantly.

I was so gay at dinner that the princess had to reproach me several times. After dinner we went again to pay some visits, but we left the carriage only twice, as all the people were out for the same purpose. We met in the streets, the carriages stopped, sometimes several of them at one time, and cards were exchanged amid much laughing, noise, and confusion. In the evening it was still gayer when the pages and the torch-bearers were moving about with their lights and brilliant uniforms. There were even several accidents, but we fortunately arrived safe. We returned home quite late. I went to sleep at once, being very tired, but queer dreams flitted through my head.

The following day at noon, when I sat with the princess in the drawing-room, beginning a new piece of work on the frame, the chamberlain announced: "His Royal Highness the Duke of Courland." The princess rose quickly, and hastened to meet him at the entrance. I, in the first moment wanted to run away, but my wish to see him was still stronger than my timidity, and I stayed. As soon as he entered he approached me and inquired about my health. I answered distinctly, although I felt very much embarrassed, and when he sat near my working-frame, I had sufficient command of myself to thread at once some very fine needles with rather coarse silk, in spite of my trembling hands.

He praised my skill; stayed about half an hour, and although he talked most with the princess, still he found an opportunity to say many amiable things to me. I could thus ascertain that my different dress did not change me in his eyes. He departed saying that he hoped to see us the same evening at the ball. I heard then that the Marquis d'Argenson, the French ambassador, was giving a ball to which I was to go.

What a reception it was! Why, Basia's wedding was nothing in comparison. And how highly educated are all these people in Warsaw! Whenever they open their mouths it is to compliment, but the duke's compliments surpass them all. He could not talk with me as much as at the bal-masqué, neither did I answer as boldly. But then I was no longer the Goddess of the Sun, and besides, it always happened that somebody was standing near us as if to listen to what we were saying. I do not like it; it is not nice, especially in well-bred people, to be inquisitive.

The princess is in high spirits; she was the only elderly lady with whom the duke danced last night. The Prince Woivode is more gracious to me than ever, but he seems to avoid any questions from me or counselling me in any way. I look forward with growing impatience to my dear sister's coming.

Sunday, January 5.

During the whole of yesterday, the duke, the balls, all my dreams, everything went from my mind; all my thoughts were with my sister, although I have not seen her yet. She arrived yesterday morning and was taken suddenly ill. The princess hastened at once to her house, but I was not allowed to go. I spent the whole day in the most dreadful anxiety, and sent to three churches to have masses said. At last, after midnight the princess returned with the news that Basia was as well as could be expected, and that she had a little daughter. This morning I begged on my knees to be allowed to go there, but they said it would not be proper, and that I should have to wait several weeks. The Staroste came here for one moment, very happy to be a father. The little girl is, they say, beautiful. If they would only let me see her! She will be named Angela in honor of my gracious Mother.

This morning the duke sent his congratulations and best wishes for the little grand-niece. Oh! I am longing to see my sister.

Wednesday, January 8.

Basia is still in bed, but the news from her and her little daughter is the best.

I have seen the duke once only; he was away hunting with the king, but yesterday he appeared unexpectedly and stayed over an hour. How good he must be, and how he loves his father! He spoke about the late queen, his mother, with tears in his eyes. One can see also that he loves Poland, and that he has a most noble and valiant heart. Everything I ever heard of him is true; he is not praised even enough; one cannot well describe the charm of his voice, his sweet smile, and the look of his blue eyes, so deep and so soft! I do not wonder that the Russian empress was charmed with him,—that he carried away the hearts of the Courland people; and I shall not be surprised if after his father's death, Poland calls him to the throne. And he likes me!... Sometimes I think that it cannot be. Still, yesterday his eyes told me that so plainly; and not only his eyes, but some of his words too, and the Prince Woivode also seems to think so.

The princess made me feel a little sad when, at table, she said, with some meaning, it appeared to me, that "many women have already pleased the duke" and that the last one he sees always seems to him the most beautiful. But how childish I am! how should that trouble me?

Am I the only pretty woman in this world? In my eyes the three Warsaw belles, Mademoiselle Wessel, the Countess Potocka, and the Princess Sapieha are without any comparison more handsome than I. And what is more, they know how to enhance their beauty, which is an art quite unknown to me. The duke says that that is my great charm, but it seems to me that my complexion is quite eclipsed by theirs. Especially at the ball in the French embassy Madame Potocka was ravishing, and the duke danced with her twice. Well, what right have I to be displeased with that?

Sunday, January 12.

I ought to be quite pleased now! At the ball of the Woivode of Russ, last Thursday, the duke danced only with me. On Friday he called here again. Yesterday he sent us by his aide-de-camp an invitation for a new Italian opera, "Semiramide," given in the court theatre, and there he devoted himself exclusively to me. There I was also presented to the king, who was very gracious and inquired about both my honored Parents. Still more, the Staroste came here an hour ago announcing that the duke wished to stand godfather to the little Angela, and desires me to be the godmother,—me, nobody else; he insisted upon that.

The christening will be magnificent, in the royal Collegiate Church. There were to be more couples invited to assist, but out of respect to the duke the honor will be left solely to him; the others will only be witnesses of the ceremony. Many of the most distinguished persons will be invited. The whole of Warsaw will talk about the affair, and certainly the "Courier" will describe it, and our two names will stand there together.

What will Madame Strumle and the young ladies in the school say to that, and my honored Parents, and all the people in Maleszow, and the good Matenko? I am sure he will say that it is because of his predictions.

Oh, that Matenko! how often his words come to my mind. He is responsible for all my troubles; but for his hints no foolish notions would have entered my head. As it is, I do not feel two days alike: sometimes the happy thoughts crowd around me, life seems full of hope, and I hardly know that there is an earth under my feet; then suddenly everything seems to fade, and my heart feels heavy and so sad!

For instance, to-day when I was so enraptured at the news of the christening, the princess mentioned,—I do not know why,—that the law of the Church forbids the godparents to marry each other, and I shuddered.

But what makes me feel really happy is that at last I shall see my dearest sister. After the christening we go to her house.

Wednesday, January 15.

The ceremony took place yesterday and I have seen Basia, who looks beautiful, although she has grown a little thin and pale. She is always as good as an angel, and as happy as a queen.

The duke begged that the little girl be named after me, but Basia was firm in her first purpose; and she was right, for this honor was due to our gracious Mother. Thus the little girl was christened "Angela;" she is a dear little thing, and she cried during the whole ceremony, which is a good sign that she will live to be aged. It was the first time in my life that I stood as godmother; I did not know how to hold the baby, so the duke had to help me. It seemed so queer to stand with him before the altar surrounded by so many people, and to write down my name next to his in the large book. Perhaps it was to this event that Matenko's predictions referred.

Everybody is congratulating me on the great honor which befell me. The duke is still more attentive than before, and a little more familiar; he calls me "my beautiful partner," and the little girl is always "our little Angela." He presented handsome gifts to Madame Starostine and to me, and threw handfuls of gold among the attendants and the poor in the church.

I for my part could not do so much, but the little embroidered christening robe, my gift to Angela, has cost me more than a few hours' work.

But I forget to speak about an important affair. The topic of conversation in Warsaw has for some time been a hunting party which the Prince Jerome Radzivill, the Hetman of the Lithuania army, is preparing for the pleasure of the king and the duke. He is spending thousands in order to make a grand display, and has had the game brought from the forests of Lithuania, over 500 miles away. The fête will be to-morrow; the weather is fine and the sleighing excellent. The duke wished to drive his "partner," and it shall be so. The four Warsaw belles—for I am counted now as the fourth—will go in one sleigh, and the duke will be our driver. All four will have costumes alike, but of different colors,—long velvet coats, tight at the waist, trimmed with sable, and small caps with fur to match. The Countess Potocka has selected blue, the Princess Sapieha dark green, Mademoiselle Wessel marroon, and I shall wear dark crimson.

It is a pity Basia will not see all this, but she is so happy with her little Angela that she does not care for anything else.

Friday, January 17.

I have never in my life seen anything so magnificent as this hunting party. We started at nine o'clock in the morning. One could not possibly count all the horses and sleighs which were assembled before the king's castle, but ours was the handsomest of all, and we followed first after the king. The duke, in a hunting costume of green velvet, looked superb!

We had a long drive far beyond the Church of the Holy Cross, to Ujazdow. There, coming down the hill on which is built the city of Warsaw, is a large field usually planted with wheat. [12] This field was enclosed by a fence with a gate, ornamented with escutcheons, devices, and inscriptions. In the middle stood an iron kiosk into which the king and the duke entered. Near the kiosk was a space covered with bear-skins for the most notable men, and further on, an amphitheatre with an iron railing for the ladies. The whole place looked like a forest, for except a space left around the kiosk, the ground was covered with big pine-trees planted for the occasion. In the background, one saw the hills covered with a throng of spectators.

As soon as we arrived and took our seats the trumpets and the horns gave the signal, and the hunters of the Prince Radzivill let the wild beasts loose from the enclosure. There were bears, deer, wild boars and wolves; the trained dogs chased them toward the kiosk, and one cannot describe the howling and the roaring of the wild animals, the barking of the dogs, the shrieking of the ladies, and all the noise which ensued. The king himself shot three wild boars; the duke killed much game, and fought a bear with the spear, a proof of great strength and skill. The skin of that bear was presented to me for a rug.

The hunt lasted until four o'clock in the afternoon; we had a lunch served to us during that time. There were perhaps a hundred hunters and game-keepers of the Prince Radzivill, all dressed in red livery and armed with guns and pikes.

This entertainment was given in honor of the anniversary of the coronation of the king; for the same purpose there will be a ball to-night given by the Marshal of the Crown, Bielinski.

Saturday, January 18.

The ball was splendid. The duke was very gay and happy, as on that day he received a diamond-star order from the king. I danced a great deal and my feet are aching; but I am sorry that I spoke of it, for now I shall have to stay at home and rest for ten days. The princess fears that the incessant dancing and late hours will injure my health; really, my cheeks have become rather pale.

We received letters from Maleszow. My honored Mother deigned to write to me herself, recommending earnestly that I be prudent about my health and that I take the greatest care of my reputation, so as to give no cause for the slightest reproach for frivolity. She says that I ought not to believe all the compliments I may hear, that often a young girl is called a belle through some passing fancy, not because her beauty really deserves it; and that it sometimes spoils her whole life, for her head is turned, her expectations aim too high, and she may be forsaken and laughed at in the end. I am sure that will never be the case with me. My ambition may be ever so high, but nobody shall know about my disappointment if it comes. Still I could not help crying when I read that letter; I carry it with me and often read it over. Happy is the young girl who never leaves her parents' home! I often regret the old Maleszow Castle.

Wednesday, January 29.

At last the ten days of my retirement are over. There were four balls during that time, and one of them a bal-masqué, where I was to appear in a Scotch quadrille with the three other belles. But no entreaties of the duke or others could make the princess relent; when she has said anything she never changes her decision.

I was sorry to miss the balls, but no one looking at me would have guessed it. It is true that the duke came here often, and praised my patience and courage so much that it was a great comfort. The hours spent in his company are delightful. He talks about Saint Petersburg, or Vienna, where he also spent some time; he describes the good people in Courland; and he always knows how to put in a word the meaning of which, I think, escapes all other ears but mine.

How well he knows the bad affairs of our country! It is only through respect to his father that he does not dare to speak about them openly. What a good king he would make! The princess says that his extreme amiability has a particular aim,—to gain partisans for the future,—and that if he were elected king, he would perhaps not even look at us. I do not believe it. I can see plainly that the princess is not in favor of him; she would like rather to see a Lubomirski on the throne.

To-night there will be an entertainment at the Ladies Canonesses'; a very agreeable house and much frequented. This order was founded by the Countess Zamoyska, in imitation of the Ladies' Chapter House of Remiremont in Lorraine. It is said that it originated from the pity the countess felt for a young girl of a noble family, who was to be married in spite of her dislike and even despair. She was an orphan and had no inclination for the convent life, but her high birth forbade her accepting a situation, so she was obliged to marry, merely for a home. In order to give a shelter to other homeless Polish girls, where they could lead a Christian life and be free to marry according to their liking, the countess bought Maryville, a large building once belonging to the Jesuits, and had it altered into small apartments, with a common dining-room and large reception-parlors; she endowed it and also completed an adjoining chapel, erected by the Queen Mary Kasimir, the wife of John Sobieski, in memory of his victory over the Turks near Vienna in 1685.

There are eleven canonesses and the abbess. In order to be elected, the young girls must be fifteen years old, and prove their nobility for six generations on both parents' sides. They are addressed with the title of "Madame."

Ash Wednesday, February 19.

Thank God, the carnival is over! I see that one can grow tired even with entertainments. There have been so many during the last weeks that I felt in a continual whirl. I could do nothing, nor think of anything else but dresses, visits, assemblies, and other festivities. At first such a life seems amusing, but by and by one feels disheartened, and in my life I have never known such tedious hours as those I passed in the last fortnight. And yet so many people think that I am so very happy, and they envy me.

How beautiful the Countess Potocka looked at the ball last night, dressed as a sultana! She was the queen of the ball, and danced the whole evening. I danced only the first polonaise; I hurt my foot and refused all the invitations. Toward the end the duke came to ask me for a dance, but I did not care to dance then. Thank God, the carnival is over!

Saturday, February 29.

A few words in haste: I am going unexpectedly to Sulgostow. There was nothing said about it yesterday when the Staroste and Basia came to take their leave, but this morning the Prince Woivode came to my room and said that my sister and her husband begged me to go with them; that I shall have a good rest there and probably see my honored Parents, so I ought to go. I believe that all the prince's advice tends to my good, so I did not hesitate, but I am sorry the duke does not know anything about it. Perhaps he will not mind it at all; perhaps he will not even notice it, as there are so many pretty women in Warsaw; and the Countess Potocka, she does not go away.

Sunday, March 15.

I returned two days ago. My diary was forgotten here in my desk, so I could not write in Sulgostow. I was away a fortnight, but it seemed much longer. My honored Parents are expected in Sulgostow in a few days, but the Prince Woivode, who came for me, did not want to wait even a few hours; we were almost flying on the road, with fresh horses waiting at each station, and we reached Warsaw in one day. The duke came the following morning; he looked pale, almost ill. He gave me to understand that it was my sudden departure, without saying good-bye, which made him feel so badly. He said almost bitterly that "a friend deserves better treatment." I am sorry now that I went away, and to be sincere, I was sorry for it more than once during that fortnight, but the Prince Woivode says that it was for the best. I must confess that often I do not understand him at all, but I obey him blindly, for I feel that he is interested in my future. The princess greeted me very graciously.

In Sulgostow I spent most of the time petting the little Angela, and embroidering a cushion for the Christ's chapel, in order to propitiate Heaven in a certain direction, which I do not dare to name here. I worked assiduously; it seemed to me that every stitch made the fulfilment of my wishes nearer, and now my work is finished.

They celebrated with great magnificence the anniversary of Basia's wedding in Sulgostow. How many changes in this one year!

Thursday, March 19.

Yesterday was one of the most pleasant days I can remember. The duke was as gay and charming as at the beginning of our acquaintance. He came here first in the morning, but only for a moment, as he was going to a hunt with the king; then in the evening, when we did not expect him at all, he ran in,—I think he walked, as no carriage was heard,—and he stayed a few hours. He is freer now to leave the castle, as his two brothers, Albert and Clement, are in Warsaw, and they keep the king company.

The Duke Clement is said to be very good and religious, and he is to enter the Church. It is quite right that the king, having several sons, wishes to give one of them to the service of God, but it is as well that it was not the lot of the Duke of Courland.

Tuesday, March 24.

Although it is Lent, I have a delightful time; the duke runs in as often as he can leave the Castle. He says that he rests here from the etiquette of the court. But to-morrow will be the end of all the worldly pleasure. The princess has a few rooms kept for her in the Convent of the Holy Sacrament, and every year, before Easter, she secludes herself for eight days in order to be well prepared for confession. All the ladies do the same, and I naturally shall accompany the princess. During eight days we shall see only priests and nuns; we shall read only religious books, and work for the Church or the poor.

Holy Thursday, April 2.

Our retirement is over, Easter confession is made, and I feel so free in my mind and so quiet in my heart! I had an excellent confessor, Father Bodue; he is all the fashion, as he is French, but even in spite of fashion I would always choose him for my director. He is a saint, and he is so wise! We had many and long conversations with him. He knew so well how to speak to my heart and make it humble and full of contrition, he was so convincing when speaking of the voidness of the things of the world and the dangers of it, that really there were moments when I wanted to leave everything and become a sister of charity in his hospital. I was just pacing my little cell thinking earnestly about it, when my maid entered and whispered that she saw one of the duke's hunters passing near the convent. My devout thoughts were thus scattered and I could not grasp them again.

Still, Father Bodue told me also that one can be saved as well in the world when living virtuously, and that such a life is still more meritorious, as it is more difficult. Why, then, should I shrink from it?

I really regret that this week is over, although we lived in perfect seclusion. To-day we shall see everybody, as we are going to the Castle for the ceremonies of Holy Thursday.

Friday, April 10.

Easter is over. I cannot say that those days were unpleasant, but the quietude of thought and heart of one week ago, they are mine no more. Moreover, my conscience has more than one thing to reproach me for, so soon after my most earnest resolves!

For instance, that as early as Holy Thursday I was guilty of a dreadful piece of vanity! Was such a thing ever heard of?

It occurred thus: when I was to put on my mourning-dress, as is the custom in holy week, the princess entered my room followed by two maids carrying a magnificent gown of white satin with a long transparent veil, a wreath of white roses for my hair, and a bouquet for my corsage. I was amazed, but the princess explained that on Holy Thursday after Mass, said in the chapel of the Castle, the king and all the assemblage go to a large room where twelve poor men are sitting at table, and the king, in imitation of Christ's humility, washes their feet and serves them at dinner. During this ceremony, one of the society young ladies is to make a collection for the poor. The king himself appoints the young lady; this time he named me, and promised to give the collected money to Father Bodue for his hospital, which is being built. I felt overcome with joy hearing this, but it was not because of the poor or Father Bodue; it was simply vanity. I saw myself, not in a heavy black and unbecoming dress, but clad in white, I alone among all the other women,—and thus the handsomest of all! It was wicked, but my conscience feels better now for having confessed it here.

The collection was extremely successful; I had over five thousand ducats. The Prince Charles Radzivill alone, saying "My love! [13] one has to give something to such a fair lady," tossed down five hundred gold pieces, so that the tray bent.

At first I felt rather timid, my knees were shaking at each low courtesy which I had to make before every person, but by and by I grew bolder, and on that day the lessons of my dancing-master proved to be really useful. The marshal of the court accompanied me telling the names of the persons we were approaching, and when the tray grew too heavy he emptied it into a bag carried by the king's page.

My ears were filled with compliments. The duke told me that it was fortunate that I begged for money, not for hearts, as every man would have to give me his. "I would never ask for such a thing," I answered; "for who would value a heart begged for?" He seemed pleased with my answer,—I wonder how he could imagine that I should think otherwise. A woman to beg for a heart—even of the king himself,—why! it would be a shameful, base thing. To accept it, when it is offered to her, earnestly and honorably, that is another thing.

But again my thoughts are wandering. To return to my narrative; the ceremony of the washing of the feet was very touching. I have still before my eyes the king as he was bending over the feet of the poor old men, and as he stood behind their stools at dinner. Moreover, our Augustus III., although no longer young, is very handsome and stately, and everything he does is done in a proper manner. The Duke Charles is quite the likeness of his father.

On Good Friday, we went, dressed in deep mourning, to visit the Holy Sepulchre. We were in seven churches, saying in each of them five Paters and five Aves in honor of the five wounds of Christ; in the cathedral I knelt one hour before the holy Sacrament.

On Saturday evening there was a grand "Resurrection Service" in the cathedral; the music by the court orchestra was admirable.

The Easter table in our house was sumptuous, and until yesterday the tables remained covered with all kinds of meat and pastry. [14] Who would have thought one year ago, when, on the third day after my arrival at the boarding-school, I was sitting at the poor Easter table feeling very melancholy—who would have guessed then that one year later I would eat an Easter egg with the Duke of Courland?

He seemed to have grown thin; it is perhaps because of the long fast. We also have not had any meat for forty days, and neither butter nor milk during the holy week; everything was cooked with oil, and on Friday we fasted the whole day. I did not mind it at all, but for a man it must be different. Yesterday I was looking anxiously at him: I thought he would not notice it, as he was talking with the Prince Woivode, but he thanked me afterwards for my solicitude. I felt quite ashamed; how careful a young girl ought to be, not only of her words, but even of her eyes!

Wednesday, April 15.

We leave Warsaw to-morrow. The Prince Woivode and his wife are going to their estate "Opole," and they take me with them. My honored Father wrote a letter to the princess saying that she may keep me as long as she is not tired of me. I hope that will never be; I endeavor to please her as well as I can, and I feel the greatest awe of her. If I ever live to be old I wish to have her dignity of demeanor; even the duke is afraid of her.

I am glad that I am not yet going to Maleszow. I have it in my head that I ought not to return there just as I was, and if I arrived now there would be no change. No change? Oh! yes, there is a great change, but not the one I mean. Yet, things cannot stay long as they are now, something must take place. Will it be yes, or no? I shall not be surprised if it is yes, and in the other case—well, I will not bend my head, even if my heart break. It sounds like riddles, but if when I think of him I am afraid that some one may guess my thoughts, how could I write more plainly? As it is I have already said too much; it is better to stop and put my book under lock and key.

Opole, Wednesday, April 24.

We have been here for nearly a week; the place is pretty, but I do not feel very cheerful, and nothing seems to go right. The trees ought to become green, but they are as black as in mid-winter; it ought to grow warm, and it is still cold. I wanted to begin some embroidery, but I have not the necessary silks; I wished to play, but the harpsichord is most dreadfully out of tune, and they have to send to town for the organist. There is a large library, but the princess has the key of it, and I am afraid to ask her for it. The prince has bought some new French books, the works of Voltaire, the most celebrated author in France; he paid, before my eyes, six golden ducats for a few volumes, and not very large ones; but the princess does not allow me to read them. What is still worse, there arrived, just fresh from Paris, a novel which is all the rage, the "Nouvelle Héloïse," written by a certain M. Rousseau. I took the book eagerly in my hand, but the author says in the introduction, "No mother will allow her daughter to read this book," and the princess most sternly forbade it to me.

I had still another disappointment yesterday; the physicians in Warsaw ordered the princess to ride horseback for her health; she laughed at them, saying that she would never do it, but the Prince Woivode believed their advice good, and he bought a beautiful mare, quite gentle, which was brought here. The princess very reluctantly consented to ride a little in the garden, but I, who am not afraid of horses, was just dying to learn how to ride, and I said so yesterday. I got a terrible scolding; the princess said that such an exercise would be quite indecent for a young lady, and I had to give up all my plans,—such beautiful plans, of riding and hunting with—well, with some one.

There are many people coming here to pay their respects to the prince, who is the Woivode of this province, but they are not very interesting. The one person whom I like to see is the Prince Martin Lubomirski, the first cousin of the Woivode, but much younger, and whom I have already met in Warsaw. He owns the earldom of Janow, which is not far from here, and he has invited us very eagerly to pay him a visit; I hope we shall go. The princess always finds something to censure in him, but I like him very much; he talks most agreeably, and is a great friend of the Duke of Courland.

Janow, Friday, May 1.

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.

Sunday, March 3.

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.

Thursday, May 14.

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?

Saturday, May 16.

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.

May 18.

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.

Monday, May 25.

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?

Wednesday, May 27.

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?

Sunday, June 7.

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.

Opole, Thursday, June 18.

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.

Saturday, July 11.

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!

Thursday, September 3.

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!

Warsaw, September 22.

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."

Thursday, October 1.

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.

Tuesday, October 20.

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.

Thursday, October 22.

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.

Wednesday, October 28.

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.

November 4.

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.

Sulgostow, December 24.

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!

Saturday, December 30.

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.

In Maleszow Castle, January 5, 1761.

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!

Sulgostow, January 9.

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!

Tuesday, January 15.

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.

THE END.