Continental Monthly, Vol. 4, No 3, September 1863

Night had already set in. The ladies went up into their rooms to change their dress, but the bride and the young ladies attending upon her remained as they were. Toward seven o'clock, when the fumes of the wine were somewhat dissipated, all began to think of dancing, and the king's representative opened the ball with Barbara. At first only Polonaises, minuets, and quadrilles were danced, but as the guests became more excited, they ventured upon Mazurkas and Cracoviennes. Kochanowski dances the Cracovienne to perfection. According to the ancient usage, the leader sings stanzas, which are repeated by the others. He improvised one at the moment he began to dance with Barbara; as nearly as I can remember, it ran as follows:

 
'Neither king nor palatine to-day would I be,
The fortune of the starost only give to me;
For he has truly merited the fair,
The lovely lady, sweet beyond compare.'
 

The ball and the toasts, which had been recommenced, as if none had been offered before, were suddenly arrested, and a chair was placed in the middle of the hall. The bride took her seat upon it, the twelve young ladies began to loosen her headdress, singing in lamentable tones:

 
'Ah! Barbara, farewell,
We have lost thee!'
 

My mother took off her garland, and Madame Malachowska placed a laced cap in its stead. I should have laughed heartily at this change, if Barbara had not been all in tears: however, the cap became her wonderfully well, and every one repeated that her husband would love her dearly, very dearly. I am sure I do not doubt it: who could help loving such a good, sweet young creature?

The ceremony of the cap ended, all began again to dance, and through respect for the custom introduced by the new court, the bride danced the drabant with the king's representative, after which the orchestra played a grave Polonaise. The Palatine Swidzinski offered his hand to the bride, and she danced in turn with all the gentlemen present. As the Polonaise is rather a promenade than a dance, it suits all ages; my father made once the tour of the hall with Barbara, and then gave her back to the starost, as was most proper. The Polonaise ended the ball, and my mother sent us all off to sleep.

… I slept well, and indeed I needed rest; but I do not feel very much tired this morning. Heavens! how happy I was yesterday! I danced oftener with the prince's representative than with any one else; he is so agreeable and converses so charmingly! That is not astonishing, for he has been to Paris and Luneville; in fact, it is only a year since he returned. He was then immediately attached to the person of the prince, whom he praises highly. Indeed, if his master be more gallant than he is, he must be something really ideal.

I am very glad that the festival will be continued this evening; but we must begin to dance early, for on Shrove Tuesday we cannot dance after midnight.

I have not yet seen Barbara – I should say her ladyship the starostine, for my parents desire we should so call her. Her absence puts me completely out of my reckoning, but I have fallen heir to her bed and work table. I have finally all the honors due to the eldest. I am no longer Frances, still less Fanny; I am the young starostine… Indeed, I needed some consolation.

Wednesday, February 27th.

To-day is Ash Wednesday, and we must languish a whole year before another carnival comes round.

Our guests already begin to leave us. His majesty's representative departed yesterday, and the married pair will go day after to-morrow. We will accompany them to Sulgostow. The starost can invite no strangers, as all amusements are forbidden during Lent; an exception has been made in favor of Kochanowski, the castellan's son. He earnestly solicited this favor, and the starost could not refuse him, as he was his comrade at college.

I am enchanted with the prospect of the little journey we are to make. I shall see my good sister's palace and domains. I cannot become accustomed to say her ladyship the starostine, when I speak of Barbara, but I know I ought to follow the example of my parents, who call her nothing else.

Barbara has become very grave since her marriage; she wears dresses with long trains; she looks to me several years older in her grand robes, and still seems quite sad, but that is easily understood, as she is about to quit her father's and mother's home; and then, the idea of being entirely alone with a person she scarcely knows must distress her.

She is so timid with the starost that no one would think he was her husband; but he is not in the least timid: he calls her my wife, approaches her often, and talks much more to her than he ever did to our parents.

Saturday, March 9th.

We returned yesterday from Sulgostow: I amused myself exceedingly while there, but it is a real sorrow not to be able to bring her ladyship the starostine back with us. How time flies! A week has already elapsed since she left the castle!

Last Friday, when all our guests had departed, Barbara rose early, and went to the parish church at Lissow; she made an offering of a golden heart to the chapel which contains the image of her patron saint, and then bade the good priest adieu. When she returned to the castle, she took leave of all the courtiers and attendants; then went down to the farm, and distributed all the little articles which had belonged to her domestic establishment as a young lady. She gave away her cows, geese, and chickens to a poor peasant of Maleszow, who had just been burned out of house and home; she kept only two crested hens and her swans, which she will take with her to Sulgostow. She gave me her birds and flowers.

After this distribution of her little property, she expressed a desire to go once more all over the castle; she visited all the rooms on every story, and remained long in the chapel and in our own apartment. We had scarcely finished our breakfast, when the cracking of whips was heard, and a chamberlain entered to announce that the carriages were ready. The starost went to Barbara and told her it was time to go. Her heart swelled at these words, and tears streamed from her eyes; she threw herself at our parents' feet to thank them for all their kindness, for the care they had bestowed upon her, and the happiness she had enjoyed during eighteen years. She added:

'All I can desire in the future, is to be as happy as I have been until the present day.'

For the first time in my life I saw my father weep. Ah! what tender blessings our poor Barbara received!.. All who were present at this scene were deeply moved.

When we reached the drawbridge, the captain of our dragoons opposed our passage, and told the starost he would not suffer him to proceed until he had received some pledge as a promise that he would at some future day bring Barbara back to the castle. The starost gave him a beautiful diamond ring.

During this colloquy I had leisure to examine the starost's equipages. They are truly magnificent: the first one had two seats, was yellow, and lined with red cloth; next came a fine landau, then a barouche, and several britschkas. The horses belonged to the finest breeds. To the yellow carriage, intended for the married pair, were harnessed six noble animals, white and gray. The various members of the suite followed in the other vehicles, and we (young ladies) brought up the rear.

Her ladyship the starostine wept aloud, and we heard her sobs distinctly; they almost broke my heart.

The courtiers, chamberlains, and even the peasants, accompanied us quite a considerable distance. Barbara threw them all the money she had about her, and the starost displayed an unheard-of generosity; he gave to every one, beginning with the steward and ending with the lowest servant in the castle.

Wherever we stopped to rest our horses, or to pass the night, we found the attendance admirable. The starost gave his orders, and the tables were covered as if by magic. The Jews, who keep most of the inns upon the high road, turned everything out of doors, even their children and goods, to make room for us.

Shortly before arriving at Sulgostow, we met the palatine and the Abbé Vincent, who had preceded us in order to receive the young couple.

The peasants, led by the starost's steward, met us at the frontier of the Sulgostow estate. The eldest member of the peasantry made a speech, at the conclusion of which all cried aloud: 'May the bride and groom live a hundred years!'

As we entered the palace courtyard, a company of hussars discharged their muskets, and the captain presented arms. The palatine, with his nephew and all his court, received us at the first gate; loud acclamations arose from every quarter.

The starost presented her ladyship the starostine with an enormous bunch of keys, and the following day she assumed the reins of government. She gave her orders and directions in a manner that made it a pleasure to hear her; it is true that she had been instructed from her infancy by our mother in all the details of housekeeping.

Sulgostow is situated differently from our castle of Maleszow; the two mansions possess few points of resemblance. The former is a palace, and the latter a castle.

Sulgostow is gay and splendid; luxury abounds on all sides, and grandeur appears in the least details. The court is numerous, and the table excellent; but that which is of more importance is the eagerness to oblige, and the attention shown by every one toward my sister. I foresee that she will soon forget our castle.

I tasted several excellent new dishes at Sulgostow, and for the first time in my life drank coffee. My parents do not like it; they say it is unwholesome for young persons, especially for young girls, as it heats the blood and makes the skin yellow. But I believe they will one day lay aside this prejudice. It is not long since coffee was first introduced into Poland, and people must become accustomed to it gradually. As for me, I drank plenty of it at Sulgostow; the starost is very fond of this beverage, and obtained from my parents permission for me to drink a small cup every day.

Apropos to coffee, we all laughed heartily one day when some one recalled the verses of the poetess Druzbacka. Speaking of a bride just arrived at her husband's castle, she says: 'She could not find even three little grains of coffee; but he gave her instead a great soup plate, filled with soup made of beer and cheese.'

Certainly, the new starostine has no such complaint to make.

I was very sorry to leave the starost's palace so soon. Mr. Kochanowski, the castellan's son, is very lively, and amused us exceedingly; when we drove out, he always rode on horse back near our carriage door.

Her ladyship, the starostine, sobbed bitterly when we parted from her. I too felt very sad, and feel still more so now that we have returned to Maleszow; I fear this melancholy will not soon pass away.

Tuesday, March 12th.

I foresaw that my sister would take all my gayety away with her. The castle seems deserted, and all pleasure has vanished with our dear Barbara… My parents are also very sad: Barbara, being the eldest, was much more with them than we were, and rendered them a thousand services. I try to fill her place, but I am very awkward in lighting my father's pipe, and in choosing the silks for my mother's embroidery. With time and the help of God I hope to become more skilful, but I can never equal Barbara (I must call her so for this once). I have plenty of good will, but notwithstanding that, forget many things, while my sister never forgot anything: the whole court speak of her in the most affectionate and exalted terms.

My parents sent a chamberlain to Sulgostow to-day, to inquire for her ladyship the starostine. All the chamberlains covet the honor of bearing the message. Michael Chronowski, who leaves to-morrow for Opole, really regrets his ancient condition.

The castle becomes daily more melancholy; the castellan's son has gone, and, during the last three days, the only visitors we have had were some travelling friars and a gentleman of our neighborhood, who brought his young wife to introduce to our parents. This gentleman formerly belonged to our court, and he seemed to me very well bred.

'My heart,' said he to his wife (who had not spoken two words), 'if I am a good husband and father, you must thank, first the starost, and then the steward; the former never spared his reprimands, nor the latter his leathern strap.'

I was charmed with this naïveté; and my father made him some very handsome presents.

Such have been our sole visitors, and everything is sad and dull, as it always is after so much joy and merriment. However, I should not omit one occurrence which made me laugh like a crazy girl. After the wedding, my mother distributed Barbara's wardrobe among the young ladies of the suite and the waiting women: during our absence, each one made a dress, a spencer, or a mantle for herself out of her share of the spoils, and on Sunday all presented themselves tricked out in their new clothes. Whichever way we turned our eyes, we saw the fragments of Barbara's wardrobe. Our little Matthias was the first to observe it: he pretended to sigh, and when asked what troubled him, replied:

'My heart aches when I behold this pillage of all that pertained to the late Miss Barbara.'

Every one began to laugh, but Theckla and I louder than the others, and indeed so loudly, that my father reproved us by repeating the old proverb: 'At table as at church.' Our little Matthias is so droll! How could any one help laughing?

Wednesday, March 13th.

An event took place yesterday which should certainly find a place in my journal. When, according to our custom, I went down to our parents' apartments with madame and my sisters, I found Kochanowski, son of the castellan, talking with my father in one of the window recesses; their conversation was so animated that they did not perceive our entrance. I could not hear what they said, but the last words uttered by my father caught my ear: 'Sir, you shall soon have my decisive answer.'

He then said something in a low tone to my mother, who sent for the steward, and gave a whispered order; soon after, dinner was announced. Mr. Kochanowski was seated opposite to me; I could not help remarking the especial care he had bestowed upon his toilet. He wore an embroidered velvet coat, a white satin waistcoat, a frilled shirt, and lace sleeves; his hair was frizzed, curled, and pomatumed: in short, everything indicated some peculiar motive for attention to his dress. His manners harmonized with his appearance: he spoke much, seemed excited, was continually mingling French words in his discourse, and was twice as witty as usual: all this became him well, and diverted me exceedingly.

Dinner was unusually long, and we were obliged to wait some time for the roast meat. I had abundance of leisure to observe that the castellan's son, although he talked and smiled unceasingly, was by no means at his ease; he became pale and red by turns. The doors were finally opened, and the servants entered with the dishes. Kochanowski grew pale as a sheet; not knowing to what to attribute his emotion, I looked round me on all sides, and my eyes fell at length upon the dishes which had just been brought in. I saw a goose dressed with a certain black sauce (jusznik), which among us signifies a refusal.

I did not dare to raise my eyes, a thousand fancies floated through my brain; I remembered the Cracoviennes, the Mazurkas, the minuets, in which Kochanowski had displayed so much grace; then his graceful appearance on horseback, the French with which he so plentifully sprinkled his conversation, and his never-failing compliments… A feeling of melancholy seized upon my heart, I lost courage, and could not touch a single dish. My parents were as much affected as myself; if the gray end had not helped to finish out the dinner, it would have been sent away untouched.

It seemed to me that we were ages at table; I was impatient to know the end. My father finally gave the signal, and we rose, but while we were each saying the after-dinner grace, Mr. Kochanowski slipped out at a small side door, and did not again make his appearance.

When the courtiers and chamberlains had retired, my parents desired me to leave my work and come to them: my father said:

'Frances, Mr. Kochanowski, son of the Castellan of Radom, has asked your hand of me. I am aware that his family is ancient and illustrious. I know that he has a fine fortune, by no means disproportioned to your own, but this alliance does not exactly please us. In the first place, Mr. Kochanowski is too young; his only distinction is derived from the title held by his late father; he has received no honors at court, or rather the favor shown him has conferred no very illustrious rank upon him: finally, I think he has made rather too abrupt a declaration, and he exacts an immediate and decisive reply. We have given him our answer, and it is in accordance with his own mode of proceeding. We are sure, Fanny, that you will approve of what we have done.'

He then desired me to recommence my work, thus giving me no time to say either yes or no.

I doubtless share the opinion of my parents; but as I have promised to be entirely frank in my journal, frank without any reserve, I must confess that neither Kochanowski's age nor the manner in which he made his offer, appear to me sufficient objections. The true motive of the refusal he has received is that he has no title, and, as our little Matthias says, a vice-castellan is not much: a castellan would indeed be something worth considering. God reads to the bottom of my soul, and I am sure I have no desire to marry; I am so well satisfied, so entirely happy in my father's house. I was melancholy during several days after I returned from Sulgostow, but I have now completely recovered my ancient gayety.

My position is very different from what it formerly was, and I am treated with more respect; when there are no strangers at table, I am served the fourth.

I will accompany my parents wherever they go. I should be sorry to abandon such dear and sweet prerogatives. Besides, marriage is not so fine a thing as many deem it; a woman's career is then ended; once married, all is fixed and decided for life; no more changes, no more doubts, no more hopes of something still better. One knows what one must be, one knows what one will be until the hour of one's death, and for my part, I like to indulge in the freest range of fancy.

A whole oxhide would not be large enough to contain all the dreams that float through my brain. When I am seated at my work, my mind is more active than my fingers: it is so delightful to dream, to revel in a future of one's own creation, bright as an excitable imagination can make it… My mother says to me often, but I fear in vain: 'A well born and properly educated young lady should never think of her future husband;' but, in truth, it is not of a husband that I think; it is of a thousand things, of memories, of hopes, and of descriptions, adventures, etc., which I meet with in my reading, and which I involuntarily apply to myself. If my fate were to be like that of Mademoiselle Scudery's, or Madame Lafayette's, or Madame de Beaumont's heroines! I can picture all the situations so vividly that I really believe all these adventures will happen to me. I must confess that Barbara's marriage has much more inclined me to revery. She blamed such wanderings of the fancy, and always hindered my reading romances; but to make up for lost time, madame makes me read a great deal, and the more I read, the more does my imagination lose itself in vague dreams.

Barbara possessed an entirely different character; she has assured me that she never thought of her future life, or of the husband she was to have; and if this latter idea ever crossed her mind, it was only when she said her prayers. I must here say that, according to our mother's desire, after we have reached our sixteenth year, we always add these words to our prayers: 'My God, give me wisdom, good health, the love of my neighbor, and a good husband.' This was the only moment during the day that Barbara's thoughts ever rested upon her future lord: 'And it should be so,' she used to say; 'since one day he must replace our father and mother, and we must love and obey him until our death.' Beyond this she felt no anxiety as to what he would be or when he would come.

Notwithstanding her indifference, she has succeeded perfectly; her husband is one of the most upright and excellent of men; she writes to us that after she has somewhat overcome her grief at the separation from her family, there can be no happier woman in the world than she is. One may plainly see that she loves the starost more and more every day, and that she is entirely satisfied with her lot. But I … who can tell what may be in store for me?.. Indeed, my parents have done well to refuse Mr. Kochanowski; I pity him, however, for the humiliation which he has received; but if I am to believe the prophecy of our little Matthias, he will soon be consoled.

Sunday, March 17th.

Yesterday, just as we were sitting down to supper, we had a visit from my aunt, the Princess Palatiness of Lublin, and her husband, the palatine. It was a delightful surprise: not having been able to come to my sister's marriage, occupied as they were by their duty toward the prince royal, who was preparing to depart for his duchy of Courland, they came to atone for their omission, and felicitate my parents on their daughter's marriage. The arrival of these illustrious guests has restored life to the castle; my father cannot restrain his joy or do enough to show honor to the princess, whom he loves and respects from the depths of his heart.

Five years have elapsed since the prince and princess were last at Maleszow; I was then a child, and they find me now a young lady; their compliments are endless. They praise my beauty, my figure, etc., until I am overwhelmed with confusion; such praises are very agreeable, but then one should hear them accidentally; when they are thrown in one's face they lose their value, they annoy and embarrass one; I am consequently better pleased to remember them to-day than I was to hear them yesterday. The prince palatine said very seriously, that if I were to show myself at the court of Warsaw, the young starostine Wessel, Madame Potocka, and the princess Sapieha (the three chief court beauties) would be eclipsed. My aunt, the princess, remarked that I still needed more gravity in my demeanor, and more dignity in my carriage.

Never in my life had I heard such flattering speeches, and indeed I had no idea that I could make any pretension to so much beauty. I saw that my father's heart was swelling with pride; but my mother, fearing lest so much flattery should render me vain, sent for me this morning, and told me all this was nothing but a mode of speech common to courts, and that I must not regard it as anything more important.

I do not know, but it seems to me they have some designs upon me. Oh! how I would like to know them! I did not close my eyes during the whole night… The prince and princess related such curious and interesting things!

My mother desired me to retire as usual at ten o'clock, but the prince palatine begged it as a favor that I might be permitted to remain until quite late with the company.

It appears that the rejoicings upon the occasion of the prince royal's investiture were truly magnificent; no one can remember to have ever witnessed so brilliant and gay a carnival. All the colleges represented tragedies and comedies, and everywhere allusions were made to the prince royal, who seems to be adored.

On the Monday preceding Ash Wednesday (Barbara's wedding day) the collegians, under the care of the Jesuit fathers, represented the tragedy of 'Antigone,' in which the celebrated warrior, Demetrius, defends his father against his enemies, and restores his estates to him. At the end of the piece the following lines were recited, and received with the greatest applause:

 
'Not only 'mid the Greeks were faithful sons;
Demetrius in our own times finds his peers.
In thee, O Charles the Great, may we behold
Sublime example and heroic deeds.
For thou against injustice hast thy sire
Defended; thy dear sire, whose virtues rare
Efface the memories left by antique Greece.
Be thou the father of thy country! Reign!
Reign over us! Thy people all wilt love thee
With the love of a Demetrius.'
 

One may see from this that the prince royal has devoted partisans; an interior conviction assures me that he will one day be king of Poland. I was deeply interested in the praise which the prince palatine bestowed upon him: if I am not mistaken, the hero of my dreams will one day be a great man; but I may be deceived in my previsions, or they may be rendered vain by the power of intrigue.

I judge of the generality by the diversity of opinion existing within our own little circle. The views of the princess palatine differ from those of her husband. She desires to see neither the prince royal nor Poniatowski king of the republic, but carries her wishes still elsewhere… To whose prayers will God listen?