Part 1
A BOOK
OF
DEAR DEAD WOMEN
A BOOK OF DEAR DEAD WOMEN
BY EDNA WORTHLEY UNDERWOOD
“_Dear dead women with such faces_”--BROWNING
BOSTON LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 1911
_Copyright, 1909, 1911_, BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
_All rights reserved_
Published March, 1911
THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.
I wish to acknowledge my indebtedness to _The Smart Set_ for permission to reprint “The Painter of Dead Women,” which appeared in the issue of January, 1910.
EDNA WORTHLEY UNDERWOOD.
CONTENTS
PAGE
ONE OF NAPOLEON’S LOVES 1
THE PAINTER OF DEAD WOMEN 64
THE MIRROR OF LA GRANJA 92
LISZT’S CONCERTO PATHÉTIQUE 133
SISTER SERAPHINE 144
THE SACRED RELICS OF SAINT EUTHYMIUS 158
THE OPAL ISLES 194
THE HOUSE OF GAUZE 257
THE KING 286
ONE OF NAPOLEON’S LOVES
FROM THE DIARY OF THE COUNTESS TATJANA TSCHASKA
“_Polonus sum, Poloni nihil a me alienum puto._”
ESTATE MIODUSCHWESKI, NEAR WARSAW ON THE VISTULA, June 8, 1806.
Never did spring come so early. In April, when the country is as white as the coverlet on my bed, fields were dotted with black rings at the base of trees which glistened with moisture.
Returning birds twittered under the eaves. Rivers awoke and became merry. In the distance rose the smoke of melting snow. Even in the North--in White Russia--so travelers tell, the ice broke. Now the country is wonderful.
I have seen the foam-edged waves of the Baltic come rolling in by the mouth of the Niemen, just as spring rolls northward its foam of flowers--to rescue us from the grasp of winter. In the same way, I wonder, will the army of France come northward to rescue Poland from the grasp of Russia? That is what every one talks about. That is what every one hopes. I hope it, too, but somehow I do not believe it. I have no faith in France. Yet it would be no act of generosity on her part. We Poles have bled for her on every battlefield of Europe. It is little that in return she should give the nation life. France may intend to do this. It is hard to tell now. No trustworthy news reaches us. The Prussians suppress and burn the mail lest we take heart and rebel. They say, however, that the Great Napoleon has conquered Italy and is now making plans for the North.
* * * * *
_June 12, 1806._ The country is lovely! The avenue of poplars that leads to the house is enveloped in lustrous gauze. The birches and the willows and the lindens are green flames that shake in the light.
In the fields I can see the white head-kerchiefs of women who are working, and beyond, the white spire of the church. Those two white objects symbolize Poland--hard work and hope--the effort for something beyond and, perhaps, unattainable.
I love this country with its fine distances and long levels where the eye is not impeded. Yet it has affected our natures, and not always advantageously. It has made us think that great things are too near and too easy to get.
Small wonder that others have coveted Poland!--the Swedes among their rocks, where they have only fish to eat; the barbarous Russians, buried in winter and snow; Prussia for the trade facilities of the Vistula; and Austria because she is greedy of everything.
The armies of the Continent have swept across Poland. It is the highway that leads to war.
Here on our estate and southward to the boundaries of Little Poland, there is not now such devastation and ruin. Perhaps it is because spring is here and I do not see it. With the spring there comes a sensation of expectation. Is it merely the unrest that beautiful things bring? I do not know. It seems to me that it is stronger this year than usual; that all Poland feels it; that Poland is waiting for something. It is the feeling I have in the Grand National Theater in Warsaw, before the curtain goes up on a new tragedy. Perhaps that is what Poland is waiting for now--the curtain to go up on a new world-tragedy, whose stage is to be our country or Russia, and the chief actor the French Colossus.
* * * * *
_June 20, 1806._ Spring makes my heart glad, and for the silliest reason. I fancy that the dead of the Massacre of Praga are not so miserable and are a little happy. Is not spring a sort of forgiveness?
In the nights of winter, when the wind and the white snow sweep down from the north, I suffer torments. The wind mimics and multiplies their cries of agony, their pain. I lie awake and listen and tremble.
At the time of the massacre I was a child. We were in Warsaw at our town house, which is situated near the suburb of Praga. The windows were shattered by the musketry. To save our lives we hid in the cellar--men, women, children, servants--an entire day. At night, when we crept back to our chambers in the upper story, every breath of wind brought the groans of the dying. The air was sickening and thick with dust and smoke and the scent of blood. Nine thousand Poles lay dead upon the field, slain by that Russian butcher, Suwarow.
When the news reached Petersburg, the people rushed into the streets and shouted: “If Suwarow is with us, who can be against us!” Was not that blasphemy such as God is sure to punish! Then we named Yek-Katarina[1] “The Fury of the North.”
What will eventually become of Poland? Who next will be greedy of it? I have a presentiment--which I dare not whisper to any one--that in years to come it will be only a name, a great and glorious name, that signifies, in a world whose patriotism and fineness commercialism has dulled, the impossible dream of freedom.
* * * * *
_June 30, 1806._ My honored mother came to me this morning and broached the subject of my marriage. Since I had heard nothing for several days, I hoped it had been laid aside for the present.
“You are past your twenty-first birthday, an age when girls of your rank have been married three years. Soon you will be an old maid. Have you no interest in the matter?”
“I hoped you would permit me to enjoy myself in the country. It may be the last summer that I shall be at home,” I ventured.
Here my honored mother brushed away a tear, but soon returned valiantly to the subject.
“You have read too much. You want a story-book life.”
“That is not it. I do not want to marry until--”
“Until what?”
“It is settled.”
“What is settled?”
“The fate of Poland.”
“What have you to do with that?”
“Nothing; but I feel that I might do something. There is in me the power to do something--”
“And you are going to sit and waste your youth for that? Marry, raise up sons for Poland! That’s the thing to do!”
“I do not wish to offend you, my honored mother, but I wish you would drop the subject until late summer--”
“Look at your friends--how well they are married! There is the Countess of Tisenhaus, who has married a Frenchman of birth, a peer of the realm, Count de Choiseul-Gouffier. Anna Tyskiewicz has become Countess Potocka; Princess Czartoryska has married the Prince of Wirthemberg; Anna Lapouschkine, by her marriage with Prince Paul Gavrilowitsch Gargarin, is one of the beauties of the Court of Russia. I should think you would want to play a part in the world! Do you not owe it to your family?” exclaimed my honored mother in such exasperation that she was unable to continue the discussion. This is the way these scenes end. They grieve me and vex her. And what good comes of them?
* * * * *
_July 5, 1806._ My honored mother has submitted to me a list of names which have received her approval and that of my honored father and grandfather. This is merely a conciliatory formality. They will choose whom they please. Since I have met none of them and know only their families, it makes little difference. The thing nearest my heart is that the marriage be deferred. Therefore I considered those at a distance from Warsaw. I picked up the list, read it through with a show of interest, and checked Count Krasinski[2] and Prince Adam Czartoryisky; the former is in Paris, and the latter is attached to the Court of Russia. The names pleased my honored mother. There are none nobler in Poland. Peace is restored--for a time.
* * * * *
_July 10, 1806._ Yesterday we attended a reception in Warsaw given by the Countess Stanilas Potocka for her new daughter, the Countess Anna. My honored mother was in high spirits because of my apparent acquiescence to her plans, and happily pictured me settled more splendidly than is the Countess Anna.
The Countess Anna, while not pretty, is charming and girlish. She told us about the country place which is being built for her outside of Warsaw. She has named it Natoline. The old Count Stanilas Potocki--who is now in ill-health because of years of exposure endured in the Ukraine--is helping with the decorative scheme. He is a great connoisseur of art. They say his taste is respected abroad. His art gallery is the finest in Poland, except that owned by the Czartoryisky--the Prince General--in the “Blue Palace.”
While he was escorting the ladies, my honored mother and myself among the number, through the hall where the pictures are hung, I made an unfortunate remark for which my honored mother reprimanded me severely. We came to a picture, purchased recently (I cannot remember the Italian painter’s name), which has caused comment. It represents a band of horsemen going at full speed through the streets of an ancient city. They come to a river bridged only by one board. Across this foaming chasm beckons an impossibly beautiful sprite, half-hidden in whose enveloping gauzes is a skeleton, the symbol of death. The skeleton holds out a crown.
“Ah!” I exclaimed, “above that fleeting phantom, whose possession is death, should be written Poland.”
There was a dreadful hush. Eyes looked into eyes. Every one knows that with his Cossack warriors of the Ukraine Count Stanilas wanted to wrest the crown from the Commonwealth.
It is the talk in Warsaw, too, that negotiations are going forward for my marriage with a Czartoryisky, who likewise coveted the crown of Poland.
I wonder if I have an unfortunate tongue! I must remember not to say everything I think.
Countess Waleweska was present. She wore a red velvet dress. She did not look so well as usual. We are called the two prettiest women in Warsaw. She is tall and blond; that is why the red did not become her. I am plump and petite, with dark eyes, dark skin, and blond hair.
Later I forgot my chagrin. I met Pan Kasimir Brodzinski.[3] He is entertaining. He has written some interesting things of late, too, about Polish literature. At once I asked him, “Why are there never any new Polish novels? We stopped on our way at a book-seller’s to get something to take back to Mioduschweski. Is no one doing anything?”
“Unfortunately that is the case, Countess Tatjana.”
“The only Polish novel I found was _Valeria_, by Baroness Krüdener.”
“Your honored mother will object to that, Countess Tatjana.”
“Why, Pan Brodzinski?”
“It is a _chronique scandaleuse_ of the writer’s life in Venice and Copenhagen.”
“I found the last volume of Walter Scott. They say Her Imperial Majesty, the Empress, reads nothing else. You will laugh when I tell you that I bought two books just for the interest they have aroused in the Great Napoleon--_Corinne_ and _Werther_--which he has carried with him for months at a time.”
Here Pan Brodzinski leaned forward and his face became eloquent:
“Let me tell you something: the writer of that book, Goethe, and Napoleon, and an Englishman whom you have not read--Byron--rule the minds of the age. The entire civilized world is in raptures over them. Do you know, a friend of mine lately returned from Russia told me that Russian soldiers stationed in the lonely regions of the Caucasus are learning the English language just to read Byron.”
Just as I was getting ready to ask Pan Brodzinski the latest news of the Grande Armée, our hostess summoned us to the drawing-room to hear some recitations by Adam Mickiewicz.[4] He is a remarkable child--not more than seven and he declaims like an orator. The strange part about it is he will give only Polish pieces. Nor indeed will he answer if you address him in French. The Mickiewicz belong to the old _schlachta_ (nobility) of Lithuania. I have seen their ancestral home. It is like the palace of a king.
* * * * *
_July 11, 1806._ The post horn awoke us, blowing furiously. We jumped up and dressed without crossing ourselves or saying a “Hail Mary.”
In the yard was a messenger from Warsaw to tell us that Napoleon had defeated the English in Italy and was striding northward like a giant in seven-league boots. I wonder what he is like, this world-hero who is writing his name in blood across the face of Europe. They say that he is handsome. Heroes, of course, are always handsome.
* * * * *
_July 18, 1806._ My honored grandfather, who is eighty and an adherent of our ancient customs, came in this morning while I was reading a French book to my sister Mischa. He flew into a rage because I was not reading Polish.
He is worth seeing. He attracts attention on the streets of Warsaw. He still wears the _zupan_ and the _kontusch_, and when he goes abroad, the _burka_ fastened across his breast with silver clasps whereon are the arms of the Tschaski.
“You are just like the rest!” he exclaimed, but in so grieved a tone that my heart went out to him. “And I hoped better things of you! There are no more Poles in Poland! We are a French race now. We speak French, read French, follow French modes in thought and dress. When you enter the home of a person of rank, it is as if you entered a drawing-room in the Faubourg St. Germain. There is nothing to be seen that is characteristic of us. It is right that we should cease to be a nation when we have ceased to be ourselves.
“Why do not the Germans dress like the Italians, or the Spaniards like the Russians? Would it not be just as reasonable? In the houses of fashion we see the same gilt furniture upholstered in silk, the same mirrors in frames of decorated Saxon porcelain, a profusion of frail ornaments made of china, tables inlaid with marble or bordered with delicate plaques of Sèvres, picture galleries, tapestries, silk-hung walls--all the things that create effeminacy and a luxurious forgetfulness.”
I could not answer, because I know that it is true. Yet why should we not love beautiful things! Is it our duty to live in huts in the wild forests of Lithuania just because we are Poles and belong to the North?
* * * * *
_July 26, 1806._ Things are in a sad state. Everywhere uncertainty, indecision. Here no one dares do anything. Some are under the protection of Austria; some under the protection of Russia; others found their hope on France, and others vacillate in indecision. Was there ever such a state of things! Truly _Polonia confusione regitur_.
* * * * *
_August 6, 1806._ At dinner last night, my honored grandfather regaled us with stories of his youth. He was in Paris at the time of the second “partition.”
One night at a _soirée_ some one said: “How it will grieve the Poles to see their country cut up again! What will they do?”
Quickly the answer came: “Give balls and masquerades in Warsaw. When I think of Poland, I know that they are dancing--always dancing in Warsaw.”
I do not know why I write this, or why it impressed me so. If the French were the best dancers in Europe, would they not be proud of it too? They are jealous. We are more French than they.
* * * * *
_August 17, 1806._ My new frocks have come from Paris. I am glad that my honored grandfather was not present when they were unpacked. There are a number of gauze ball dresses made with shirred over-skirts caught up with little flowers, and several _robes rondes_. They are the _dernier cri_ of fashion.
* * * * *
_August 27, 1806._ I have had a splendid day. Pan Anton Malzweski[5] called. It has rained for a week, and we have had no guests. I was so glad to see him I greeted him in the Polish manner: “Praised be Jesus, the Christ.”
He answered quickly in that impulsive way I like: “In all eternity.”
We are of an age and great friends. He has been everywhere and seen everything. He has seen Prince Adam Czartoryisky in Imperial Russia. He told me all sorts of things about him. He is one of the most notable figures in the court set and the desire of all the ladies.
In the course of the afternoon, when we were quite alone, he confided to me his ambition. What do you suppose it is? To be a poet! I gravely answered: “All Poles are poets.”
“But I am going to be a great one in the English manner. As soon as the wars are over and I have time, I am going to set to work. It was Lord Byron who discovered to me my talent. The name of the first book is chosen: _Maria, An Heroic Tale of the Ukraine_. In it there is to be a song--partly written down now--called _The Carnival of Venice_, which is what Byron and I thought of the Venetian nights.”
He talked with such fury, such disconnected haste, that I could only gasp: “You have seen Lord Byron!”
“Yes, and I gave him the subject for a poem--_Mazeppa_--which will be translated for us.”
* * * * *
_September 5, 1806._ We have just heard that the Grande Armée has crossed the borders of Prussia. Prussia tried to put herself on a war footing secretly. In return, Napoleon has seized Wesel, a fortress by the Rhine. Is he so near, and we did not know?
* * * * *
_September 11, 1806._ The harvest is under way. The fields are dotted with grain stacks that are for all the world like round towers. I look at them and dream of Napoleon and the fortress by the Rhine. Could anything be sillier!
* * * * *
_September 21, 1806._ My honored grandfather had company to-day. Count Severin Rzewuski, Count Stanilas Potocki, and the Prince General. The Prince General is feeble and ill, although he conceals it bravely. He still keeps up the elegant courtly life he knew in his youth, although it is evident he cannot last long. Every one says that he will die some night at the card-table, dressed in the stiff, formal evening dress of a century ago, his courtiers gathered about him.
Little was talked of save the political situation. We are upon the eve of world-changing events. There is evident the ominousness that precedes the storm. The old gentlemen talked freely. They are of one political faith and have deeply at heart the welfare of Poland.
It must have been a great life that was lived in their youth. The Prince General says that there will never be anything to equal the old aristocracy of Poland. Their life was the most sumptuous and luxurious in Europe. Mischa and I listened. It was like a romance. Count Rzewuski says that it is our own fault that we are where we are to-day. In the old days each was too great to acknowledge a greater.
“You are right,” replied Count Potocki. “He who will not obey his own king will be forced to obey the king of others. ‘After feasting follows fasting.’”
Our grandparents tell only of wars and bloodshed. In other countries, I wonder, are there other memories?
* * * * *
_October 6, 1806._ Napoleon is in Prussia. Terrible things are happening. We do not know just what, because little news reaches us.
* * * * *
_October 12, 1806._ The excitement in Warsaw cannot be imagined. Every few hours a messenger arrives with a blowing of trumpets. Why should not we tremble when the Czar of Imperial Russia trembles on his throne?
Yet Warsaw rejoices--_and dances_.
* * * * *
_October 18, 1806._ My engagement to Prince Adam Czartoryisky has been announced. I had no word in the matter; I was not consulted.
I have received a letter from Prince Adam and as betrothal gift a _kanak_--an antique Polish necklace of wrought silver set with round disks of ivory upon each of which is carved an eagle--the white eagle of Poland. I ought to be proud and happy. Prince Adam is Minister of Foreign Affairs at the Court of Russia. My honored mother says that my position will be better than that of the Countess Anna Potocka.
* * * * *
_October 25, 1806._ Last night there was a celebration at the Prince General’s in the “Blue Palace,” in honor of my betrothal to his son Prince Adam. Prince Adam could not be present. He was represented by his dearest friend, M. Novosiltzow, likewise attaché of the Russian Court.
He brought with him a gift from His Imperial Master, a miniature of the Empress Elizabeth surrounded with diamonds and strung upon blue riband. M. Novosiltzow attached it to my shoulder in the presence of the guests. I am now a _dame de la portrait_.
We made merry in the good old Polish way. First we danced the Polonaise, going through nearly every room in the house and up and down all the stairs. Then the Prince General made a speech, as was the custom in his youth, at the end of the Polonaise. Next, toasts were called for. Mine was drunk from one of my jeweled slippers, which every one present declared to be smaller and shapelier than those worn by the Archduchess of Austria, Marie Louise, who has the prettiest foot in Europe. It was splendid and solemn, but some way my heart was not in it. My honored mother, however, was gay and happy enough for two. I kept thinking--I wonder if outside through the night he is marching toward Warsaw, _the man who has the face of an antique god_.
* * * * *
_October 12, 1806._ The expected has happened. There has been a terrible battle at Jena. Prince Louis fell. A new sun has risen over Europe. Napoleon is master of Berlin, and Queen Louise is kneeling at the feet of a soldier of fortune. I wonder if he is greater than all other men, or if it is only that he knows one game better--the game of war. He moves armies as if they were pawns upon a chess-board.
* * * * *
_November 12, 1806._ Autumn is upon us. The harvest has left the fields bare and brown. In the poplars there is a shiver that tells of winter. The leaves are a faded yellow, which is the color of the things of yesterday. To-morrow we go to Warsaw for the winter.
* * * * *