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MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
OF
HELENA MODJESKA
/
/
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
NBW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO
MACMILLAN & CO., Limitkd
LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCIHTA MBLBOURNB
THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd.
TORONTO
MADAME MODJESKA AS -PORTIA" IN THE "MERCHANT OF VENICE"
i -
^
MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
OF
HELENA MODJESKA
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY
ILLUSTRATED
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1910
All rights reserved
\
COPYVIOHT, 1910,
bt the macmillan company.
Set up and electrotyped. Published October, X9x<x
* m *
J.-8. Cashing Co. - Berwick A Smith Co. Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
0
LIST OF PLATES
Madame Modjeska as ''Portia 'I (1891) Frontispiece
FACING PAOB
Madame Modjeska as « Ophelia " (1871) 64
Madame Mod jeska as '' Adrienne Lecouvreur " 158
Madame Modjeska (Photograph) 168
Madame Modjeska as " Marie Stuart " 198
Madame Modjeska (Photograph by Steckel) ... . . 290
Madame Modjeska as " Sappho " (Photograph by Sarony) . . • . 352
Madame Modjeska (Portrait by Carolus Duran) 368
Madame Modjeska in " Heartsease " 404
Madame Modjeska as « Mary Stuart " (1880) 414
Madame Modjeska in " Les Chouans " (1887) 421
Madame Modjeska as '' Isabella " in " Measure for Measure " (Photo- graph by Stein) 498
Madame Modjeska as "Viola" (Photograph by Falk) .... 610
Madame Modjeska as " Cleopatra " (Photograph by Thors, 1901) . 518
Madame Modjeska as '' Lady Macbeth " 536
Madame Modjeska as "Marie Antoinette" (Photograph by Schu- macher, 1891) 548
21.--vV'-J
•
ILLUSTRATIONS IN TEXT
PAGS
Church of Panna Marya, Cracow 8
The Royal Palace, Cracow 11
The « Rynek," Cracow 27
Wincenty Rapacki 97
Earol Bozenta Chlapowski in 1866 132
Bozenta Chlapowski (on the left) and his friend Syp. Neiwicz in prison
during the Polish Insurrection 134
The Warsaw Theatre 155
Jan Richter, of the Warsaw Theatre 162
Open-air Theatre in the Public Park, Warsaw^ 166
One of the Residences of the Chlapowski Family, near Posen . . 168
Madame Modjeska (1869) . . . 183
Zolkowski, of the Warsaw Theatre 191
Rapacki in a Favorite Rdle 202
Madame Modjeska with her brother, Felix Benda, taken after her ill- ness in Warsaw • . 209
The De Reszke Family 214
Henryk Sienkiewicz, in 1876 222
Ludwig Grossman 226
Anton Rubinstein 227
Charlotte Wolter 233
Madame Ristori 235
Madame Mouchanoff, Daughter of Count Nesselrode .... 240
Stanislaw Witkiewicz, Painter and Author 249
Agnes Booth Schoeffel 267
F.C. Bangs 269
Mrs. Florence 270
Edwin Booth . 284
Madame Modjeska's First Home in California, the Farm at Anaheim 287
Shanty in Santiago Canon 288
> vii
t-
viii ILLUSTRATIONS IN TEXT
The Return from America, Caricature by Paprocki, 1876 • , . 306
Mrs. John Drew 321
£. A. Sotheru . 322
Charles Coghlan 323
Adelaide Neilson 325
John McCullough 333
William Winter .347
Mary Anderson 348
Dion Boucicault as ^* Conn *' in ** Tlie Shaughraun " . . . . 350
S. W. Couldock 354
Thomas Whiffen 355
William Warren 359
Longfellow 361
Walt Whitman 371
Lotta (Charlotte Crabtree) 875
Clara Morris 387
Sarah Jewett 388
Joseph Jefferson 389
Henry IiTing as " Louis XI " 400
Madame Modjeska in '^ Heartsease " 403
Wilson Barrett as " Hamlet " . 406
Sarah Bernhardt as " Pauline Blanchard " . . . . *. .408
Forbes Robertson 411
Ellen Terry as " Imogene " 416
M. Coquelin 423
Mrs. Langtry 424
Genevieve Ward 426
Laurence AlmarTadema 430
Lord Ixjighton, from the Portrait by G. F. Watts 432
Madame Sembrich * . . . . 435
V Madame Modjeska as " Juana '* 439
Maurice Barry more 460
Mary Shaw 463
Madame Modjeska's Country Residence, near Cracow .... 465
Antonin DvofAk 467
Paderewski 467
Joseph Joachim 467
E. H. Vanderfelt 492
Madame Modjeska's California Residence . . . • . . 494
ILLUSTRATIONS IN TEXT ix
PAOK
Robert Tabor 495
Lawrence Barrett . • 497
Charlotte Cushman 602
Otis Skinner . . . . ; 505
National Theatre, Gracow 514
Richard Mansfield 520
Minnie Maddern Fiske 523
Madame Modjeska #• • ^^^
Tommaso Salvini 526
Eleanora Duse 528
Madame Modjeska as *' Magda " 532
Three Views on Madame Modjeska's California Estate .... 539
Library in Madame Modjeska's California Residence .... 540
Interior View of Libi*ary 541
Library of Madame Modjeska 543
Ada Rehan as '' Portia " 546
James O'Neill . 547
A Family Breakfast Party 550
Fireplace at *' Arden," Madame Modjeska pouring Tea .... 552
Last Home of Madame Modjeska, in East Newport, California . . 557
INTRODUCTION
INTRODUCTION
The car comes to a stop. After several years of absence I am in Poland again. The sun sheds upon the snow myriads of sparks, which glisten like so many precious gems; a purple strip of mist rises above the distant forest of dark, pointed pines, which form a background to white, humble huts, throbbing with lives of patience and toil, under the iron hand of the ruler. ... I feel a mysterious glow penetrating into the very depth of my heart, tears rise to my eyes ; I humbly bow my head and whisper, "Hail, beloved . . .'' '^Einsteigen, meine Herrschaften,'' shouts the metallic voice of the conductor, waking me from my revery, and by his sudden cry in a foreign language brutally recalling to my mind the misfortunes of my country.
As we proceed further through German Poland we look in vain for any outward sign of the nationality of the inhabitants; there is none. No Polish inscriptions, no Polish names of the stations, no railroad employees allowed to speak Polish ; yet crowds of peasants and workingmen hurrying to the fourth-class cars speak only the vernacular. Strange to say, there is one thing that all the efforts of the repressive governmental system cannot destroy, and that is the deep-rooted patriotism of the people, nor can they make of no avail their heroic struggle to preserve their mother-tongue.
It was almost dark when we reached a station with a name evidently Polish, but so distorted by the Germanizing process that we could not make it out. Here our train stopped. We had been delayed and had missed the con-
3
4 INTRODUCTION
nection. The prospect of spending the night in some awful inn in this out-of-the-way place appeared most un- pleasant. My husband tried to charter a special train to Oswiecim (the Austrian frontier station), thirty miles away, where we could make connection for Cracow, but there was not the slightest chance of getting such a luxury in that small place.
While we were still holding council on the course to take, the station-master, a jovial, good-natured German, proposed to us to go this short distance by a freight-train; and laughing, he invited us to the conductor's box. In Germany they have no regular caboose on the freight-train, but at the end of the rear car there is a kind of covered box or cage perched near the roof where the conductor remains con- fined between stations.
My American friend, Miss L. B. F., who, prompted by the extravagant idea of visiting the land of ^'Thaddeus of Warsaw," had joined us in our travels, was elated with the station-master's suggestion. With all the vigor of youth, good health, and good humor, she hastily climbed the steep, ladder-like stairs conducting to the box. We followed more leisurely. There we sat, five of us, my buoyant American, my husband, my grumbling maid, the conductor, and I, on very narrow seats, in a very tight place, and in an overheated, suffocating atmosphere, making the best of our queer situation.
The conductor, a young man with a pale, sad face, seeing us nearly smothered with rugs and furs, from which we tried in vain to extricate ourselves, speaks with a strangely patient and sympathetic voice, marked by a foreign accent. Evidently he is a Pole, but does not dare to address us in Polish, lest he lose his position. ... I happened to com- plain in Polish of the heat; the conductor, without a word, puts his pencil behind his ear and opens the window. It is dark and foggy. The earth and sky are both the same
INTRODUCTION 6
dull gray, — like the background of a picture, — upon which the breath of the engine disgorges clouds of white smoke, studded with millions of red sparks, glittering like dancing, leaping, floating stars. Some of them shoot high in the air, only to fall down with the same speed, and to die in the snow; others, less ambitious, keep lower above ground and disappear in the wallowing clouds of smoke. Poor evanescent stars !
The fog is so dense that it is impossible to distinguish the earth from the sky, the whole seeming a sombre immensity of space and smoke. For a while I imagine myself em- barked on some fantastic journey in an airship, and indulge in fanciful dreams, admiring the wonderful performance of those artificial clouds which with such unearthly speed rush through the air, furiously pushing and destroying each other, until they gradually melt away, and vanish in the mist of the night. The train stops. '^ Fallen Sie nicht, meine Damen'' ("Do not fall, ladies''), says the patient voice of the conductor, who offers his slender hand to lead us down the steep steps, and for which I give him a German ''Ich danke." He smiles faintly, and whispers ^'Dobranoc" in Polish.*
Oswiecim! This is the frontier between Prussia and Austria, and we enter that part of Poland which is named Galitzia and Lodomeria, and which is ruled by the kind- hearted Kaiser Franz Joseph, so unlike his ancestor, who joined hands with Katherine of Russia and Frederick the king of Prussia to crush the Poles.
We are taken to the Custom House. Here the employees are all Poles. Some of them recognized and greeted us with friendliness. Our trunks pass through a courteous and speedy inspection, very unlike the finicking, rummaging, and prying scrutiny which the passengers are subjected to at the New York docks.
* Good-night.
6 INTRODUCTION
After the inspection of our trunks, we go to the refreshment room for a cup of cofiFee, and there, to my great delight, we meet Count A. W., who, with three of his friends, is returning from a hunt. They are all clad in immense furs, all tall, about six feet or above, all laughing and greeting us with effusion, which so delights Miss L. B. F. that she surprises them with a Polish sentence she learned from me, and which sounds more like Volapuk than anything else, but it is nevertheless welcomed with shouts. ^ After parting with our friends, we are led to a reserved compartment in the slow local train. Here the usual rail- road notices are in three languages, Polish, German, and Czech (Bohemian). Every employee speaks Polish. We feel at home. A few stations more, and we shall be in Cracow, my native city.
Some fifteen miles separate us yet from the old Polish capital. How shall I spend that time, so that it may not seem an eternity? Oh! I want to be there at once; I have a wild desire to open the window and shriek, " Hurry up ! '' and to strike the lazy engine with my fists. One more station. This is awful ; I sink into my seat and try to be patient. Patience is sister to pain. I sit and suffer. At last the train moves a little faster; the engine, possibly to make a fine stage entrance, gives a few lively jerks just before coming into the city, the white pillars of the depot pass before our eyes, the wheels jangle, the engine gives a piercing whistle, and the train stops.
" Cracow ! " This is really Cracow — my cradle, my nurse, my mentor and master. Here I was born and bred. Here trees and stars taught me to think. From the green meadows with their wild flower's I took lessons of harmony in color, the nightingales with their longing songs made me dream of love and beauty. The famous ''Zygmunt" bell of the cathedral, with its deep and rich sound, reminded me of the glorious past of Poland ; the organs in the churches
INTRODUCTION 7
spoke of God and His Angels; stained windows, statues, and altars suggested art — its importance, its dignity.
At the depot the usual crowd of idlers as well as many friends wait for us. Faces not seen for years, faithful eyes and friendly, smiling lips, shaking of hands, words of hearty welcome, — all this fills me with joy, warms me, intoxicates me. The lapse of years spent far away from the country shrinks into nothingness; I am again with my own people a^ of old, and they are the same, unchanged and true ! I am happy !
Next morning I dress hastily, wake my American friend, and leaving Mr. Chlapowski with his cigarettes and piles of newspapers, we start out in the streets of Cracow.
The day is glorious, the sun shines brightly, the snow creaks under our feet, the sleigh-bells jingle their melodious tunes; my soul is filled with rapture, and I feel as light as a feather.
Miss L. B. F. loves the snow, and plans a long drive in one of those diminutive sliding conveyances, in which young women look so pretty wrapped in furs from head to foot, their rosy cheeks and bright eyes peeping from beneath the fur-trimmed characteristic ''Kolpaks." ^
From time to time, as these sleighs rush along the street, a sweet face leans out, uttering a surprised *'Ah,'' and sends a kisd or wave of hand to me. This amuses my friend, who is one of the most exhilarating persons I know, always ready to enjoy even the slightest glimpse of brightness in life. She bows back to the ladies, and says, ''Bon jour," and laughing merrily, asks me who they are. To this I can scarcely answer. ''Oh ! I understand," she exclaims, "they are the public! How lovely!"
Ah ! the dear old walls, worn by so many centuries ! We enter the church of the Virgin Mary (Panna Mary a). It is
^ A fur toque with an aigrette.
INTEODUCTION
CsdBCH or Panna Mabta, Cracow.
I
INTRODUCTION 9
encumbered with high scaffolding, reaching to the ceiling. Matejko reigns there again. According to his plans, the old walls, the arched ceiling, the pillars and altars, are re- stored and repainted in their old original glory. The work on the main altar, covered with the carved statuary of the great "Wit Stwos,'' a sculptor of the fifteenth century, and one part of the centre nave, is already finished. We stand awhile admiring. It is a marvellous restoration. The walls are covered with most vivid colors, yet the whole is harmonious, soft, and beautiful. The character remains purely mediaeval, full of color, glowing, inspiring, a true temple of God, for the people.
"Show me the house you were born in," says my friend.
"I can show you the place, not the house; it was burned down in the conflagration of 1850," I answered. We walk a short distance, and now we are standing before the new house built on the spot where my mother's old home had stood. I pointed to Miss L. B. F. the location of two windows on the third floor, behind which I spent the first ten years of my life. Dim memories, sweet as old lullabies, spread their charm over my being; but soon other recol- lections, full of the anxieties of the past, alight on my brain like a swarm of gnats. I turn my head away. At the other side of Szeroka Street stands aii old house which miracu- lously escaped the Austrian bomb as well as the flames, intact in its clumsiness, with squatty, sprawling walls and small square windows. At the angle of it, in a shallow niche provided with a small, protecting tin roof, a statue of the Virgin is placed. Ten golden stars surround her head, ornamented with most elaborate puffs and curls, a golden belt imprisons her waist, a blue cloak fastened with a gold buckle falls in graceful folds down to her feet. Her right hand is extended as in blessing over the people who pass beneath her. Her eyes are turned toward heaven, and her feet repose lightly on a silver crescent. In a word, a
10 INTRODUCTION
true relic of baroque style. Seeing me smiling tenderly at the statue, Miss L. B. F. asks: —
''What are you thinking about?"
''I am thinking what an important part this image of the Virgin played in my childhood."
''What! That ugly thing!"
"It was not ugly to me then. It was the most won- derful incarnation of virtue, grace, and motherhood. It brought into my little brain marvellous dreams of angels and saints. I firmly believed that she loved me, and many a time I related to her long stories of my childish grievances, in a whisper. I knew she heard me, in spite of the wide street between us, and every morning and evening I said my prayers, kneeling by the window on a chair, so that I might behold her lovely countenance!"
"You were a superstitious child, I see."
"I suppose I was, but I am still infinitely grateful for those glimpses into the land of wonders, which left an ever- lasting impression on my soul."
"Oh! you are such a baby stUl!" This Miss L. B. F. uttered, smiling broadly, and showing two rows of marvellous white teeth. I laughed and answered: —
"This time I will forgive you that absurd nickname you apply to me, a nickname of young America, given to those brought up by centuries of traditions and idealistic train- ing." Upon which we both laugh and proceed on our way.
The Royal Castle is the next thing I want my friend to see. One part of the castle is restored and turned into Austrian barracks, but the old portion of the edifice, ragged, with moss-covered roof, is still there, looking down on the city, with ita small grated windows and huge stone gate. One would say, a very old and lonesome man, with weak eyes and open mouth, brooding over his past. He has witnessed horrors of war, crime, lust, victories, pride, conceit, honors, as well as inexpressible sorrows, great Christian virtues.
INTRODUCTION U
monstrous injustice, and finally the downfall of the noble race.
We postpone until another day our visit to the picture galleries, museums, and private studios; and conversing on the subjects of national grievances and art, we enter slowly the long avenue of old chestnut trees which encircles the city, meeting in the neighborhood of the Royal Caatle.
This avenue, called the "Planty," is the favorite prome- nade of the people during the warm season of the year, but even in winter it is not deserted; students of the different schools find always a pretext to wallc on the fresh snow of their beloved "Planty." In fact, everybody fre- quents the avenue. I remember when I was a young aspirant for dramatic honors, I used to rise at five o'clock in the morning, take my part with me, and walk up and down in the shade of the wide-branched trees, studying my lines. At eight o'clock I had to return, for fear of being exposed to the jests of the students.
12 INTRODUCTION
While in Cracow I gave a series of performances, the total receipts of which I placed in the hands of the mayor of the city, as the beginning of a fund for the building of a new theatre. With this first money as an inducement, he opened a collection. Generous oflFers followed, and a few years later a handsome theatre was built, in a large square, stand- ing alone. A lawn, shrubs, and flowers lent to it a refresh- ing grace. The interior is ornamented with pictures and statues, and our late great artist, Siemiradzki, painted a curtain and offered it as a gift to the city. This curtain is an object of admiration to all who visit Cracow. As a rule very little attention is paid to a curtain, but this one is an important ornament. It strikes a noble note, and fills the auditorium with an artistic atmosphere.
9|e 3|c :(c 4e 3|e 3(s a)c
These few pages I wrote some years ago; I have not destroyed them, because this return to my native country, after a long absence, inspired me with the idea of writing my reminiscences. It was at this time that I commenced making notes, collecting such material as I thought neces- sary, with the firm project of describing my own personal experiences, as well as some characteristics of the promi- nent people I have met during my stage career.
[ PART I
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH
I
CHAPTER I
Some of the events and surroundings among which I was brought up come back to my mind with the clearness of a silhouette, perfect in its outline ; and since I have to tell the story of my life, it is just as well to begin at the very beginning. Yet I beg my readers to believe that I have not undertaken this task for the mere pleasure of speaking of myself or boasting of my triumphs. I only write because I cannot help thinking that this work, though deficient in many points, may yet interest some people, or be of some use to others.
It is impossible to write a biography leaving out entirely one's wretched '^I," yet I shall be as discreet as possible, as there is nothing I dread more than a touch of ''pseudo- logia-fantastica-madness," to which much stronger natures than my own are often subjected.
Born on the 12th_oLXbtober,- 1840, I was one of ten children at home, and being a member of such a numerous family, I could not claim the exclusive attention of my mother, who, besides many domestic duties, had the man- agement of her property on her shoulders. Therefore my younger sister Josephine and myself were left entirely in the care of my great-aunt Teresa, who loved us dearly, who was very, careful of our health, but whose attempts in developing our little souls were limited to the scrupulous reciting with us of our morning and evening prayers.
In consequence, I grew up mostly under the influence of Nature, among the incidents of life and national calamities, free, unrestrained, forming my own judgment of things blindly, innocently, adorning and magnifying them with
15
16 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
my vivid imagination, catching eagerly snatches of heroic songs, poems, or religious hymns, memorizing and repeating them, and thus unconsciously building up my character as well as laying the foundation for my artistic future.
Talent is born with us, but the influence of surround- ings shapes, develops, or subdues it. That sweet sadness, which for the most part exists in Polish melodies and poems and which is the outcome of the whole nation's suflferings, that limitless tenderness and longing, unconsciously rooted itself in my soul from my very childhood, in spite of the fiery and stormy temperament I brought with me into the world — presumably an inheritance from a Hungarian great- grandmother. That note of tenderness always predominated both in my nature and my work, in which often flashes of inborn vivacity and passion were overshadowed by that touch of Slavonic Tesknota, a word quite untranslatable into a foreign^ Janguage, which may be best interpreted by the following verse of Longfellow : —
" A feeling of sadness and longing That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles rain."
When I follow closely my childhood I see distinctly the logical evolution of my destiny. As far as I can remember, I did not find much pleasure in the society of other children, who often left my company, branding me with nicknames, such as: "Princess of the Sea Foam" or ''Lady with Long Nails"; sometimes they called me "a Fury," or ''a Weeping Willow," sometimes again "Laughing Magpie," on account of my occasional uncontrollable fits of laughter.
It seems that I was not one of the most amiable of children, and all these nicknames my brothers used to christen me with fitted my behavior.
Misfortunes, fires, the hissing of cannon-balls, the crash
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH 17
of bursting bombs, the march of armies, men killed and lying in their blood, — these are never-forgotten impres- sions which thrilled my childish soul through and through, shaping it into an untimely maturity and awakening in it inclination for heroism, thirst for greatness, for sacrifice; in a word, the necessity of attaining the unattainable, the upward start in quest of high ideals.
Alas ! it was not my destiny to die for my country, as was my cherished dream, but instead of becoming a heroine I had to be satisfied with acting heroines, exchanging the armor for tinsel, and the weapon for words.
My father, Michael Opid, was a student of philology and a teacher in one of the high schools in Cracow. Born in the Carpathian Mountains, he brought with him to the valley a warm, unsophisticated heart, a most vivid imagina- tion, and a great love for music. He also was very fond of children; I remember him during long winter evenings, sitting by the fireside, holding me and my sister on his knees; near him, my mother knitting, and the boys, to- gether with neighbors' children, scattered on the floor, watching him with glistening, curious eyes, and listening attentively to his stories. They were wonderful stories that touched us with pity or thrilled us with joy. Some of them were taken from national legends or from the mountaineer folk-lore, some were his own invention, or subjects taken from his cherished books. His favorite story was Homer's ''Iliad," extracts of which he told us in his simple language. I do not know how much I under- stood then of the famous epic poem, but when I read it some fifteen years later, many famous scenes came back vividly to my mind, and the picture of my father rose from the remote past, filling my eyes with tears.
Music was his passion. He played on several instruments, mostly on the flute, which instrument was then in fashion, and almost every week he arranged quartets in his rooms.
18 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
On such occasions the children were allowed to enter his '^sanctum sanctorum." He played with great feeling, and often during the tender passages I burst into a loud wail, after the fashion of dogs, which resulted in my being taken out of the room and unjustly punished. My mother did not, could not, know that this disgraceful behavior was the effect of the music, and that my tears were a genuine tribute to my father's art. I understood, however, that this loud crying disturbed the music, and I used to creep into the re- motest corner of the room, where I could hide my smothered demonstrations and avoid the vigilant eye of the maternal authority.
Those who knew my father say that he was a man of great kindness — kindness verging on weakness — a man of great feeling and few words, keeping the doors of his inner self closely shut. He died at the age of forty-three, of con- sumption, caused by a severe cold contracted while search- ing for his drowned brother's body. At last the body was found, but my father returned home with high fever and pneumonia. A few months later he died in the mountains, to which he was transported at his ardent request. I was at that time about seven vears old.
In contrast to my father's gentle nature, my mother was a person of great energy, great activity, very quick and outspoken, very generous, but rash in judgment, and often regretting her hasty words and actions. She possessed good health and a merry heart. Some of her old friends spoke of her great beauty. My mother never knew her own father, also a mining engineer, who perished in an attempt to rescue workingmen entombed in a burning mine. She was born a few weeks after his death. A year later her mother was married again, and followed her second husband to Russian Poland, leaving her little daughter in the care of her old widowed mother, Mrs. von Goltz. When my mother was seven yeai^ old, my great-grandmother was
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH 19
killed by lightning, and then one of her friends, the wife of Senator R., brought up the little granddaughter.
At nineteen she married a wealthy citizen of Cracow, Mr. Simon Benda, who was ennobled for the numerous services he had rendered the city. He was a widower, and neariy thirty years older than his young wife. When he died, he left her several sons, and a fortune somewhat compromised by his liberalities. In consequence, my poor mother had her hands full ; but in a few years, thanks to her industry, economy, and energy she had paid off all debts, and estab- lished a perfect order in her affairs. A few years later my father appeared; and this time it was a love match.
CHAPTER II
In the early spring of 1848 the people of Cracow were greatly excited. The young men talked a great deal, their enthusiasm was immense; they were merry, they sang derisive couplets on Metternich and General Castiglione. The giris were busy sewing the red and white and blue cockades and scarfs for the National Guards.^
I remember with what delight I handed thread and ribbons to Miss ApoUonia, our young neighbor from the third floor, who, while ardently stitching the inspiring ornaments, recited patriotic verses or sang sentimental love-songs. One of those songs began with the words, ''Here is the brook and the meadow where my lover waits for me." The next one was very long, composed of four stanzas, of which the first three ended with the words, ''No, no, I cannot and I will not," and the last one was concluded with : "Yes, yes, I can and I will — I love — I love — tra la la, tra la la." I never knew why she changed her mind, but I admired Miss Apollonia's delivery of the songs. She sang them with tender, melting voice, which pleased me, but my half- brother, Simon Bend a, teased her, saying that her nose was not suited to sentimental or tragic poetry, being but an
* In 1815 Cracow, with its surroundings, was proclaimed a free city by the Congress of Vienna, with the agreement of the powers, Russia, Prussia, and Austria. Notwithstanding the stipulations of those monarchs, and contrary to their pledges, Cnwow was annexed by Austria in October, 1846. During the same year Mettemich's policy created a new ''Jac- Querie" in Gsuitzia, sending out his agents to rouse the peasants against the nobles, and a terrible massacre ensued. Cracow people naturally wer6 indignant against the new regime, and when, in 1848, tne revolution broke out in Vienna, they were awakened to their old hopes of indepen- dence. The Austrians crushed these hopes by the bombardment of the city.
20
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH 21
upturned little bit of a nose, and so highly uplifted in the air that her profile looked very much like the profile of a coffee-pot.
In spite of this slight defect, for which she was not re- sponsible at all, Miss ApoUonia was very patriotic. It was she who informed me that all Russians, and Austrians in particular, were scoundrels and cowards who deserved to be hanged one after another until none of them were left on earth. One morning she told me in a whisper that there would be war, that the young Cracovians were learning to drill, and would fight like tigers, upon which she changed the subject and told me a fairy story: —
"One morning a handsome young prince saw a pretty green frog looking at him with pitiful eyes. He picked it up and took it to his palace. He placed the poor creature in a separate room, and fed it every morning with flies and honey. The frog was happy, and danced and croaked and began to grow wonderfully. In a week it was as large as a big rat, in another week it came up to the size of a cat, then later on it grew as big as a lamb, until at last it measured five feet and six inches. One morning the prince heard beautiful singing in the frog's room. He opened the door, and there was Miss Croaky standing on her hind legs, sing- ing. When the last sounds of the beautiful air died away, the monstrous animal shut its mouth, took a long breath, and puffed itself to such an extent that it looked like a large round balloon. Then it burst suddenly with a fearful noise, filling the room with a delicious perfume, and out of the repulsive hide of the monster stepped the most beautiful princess, in a wedding gown covered all over with pearls and diamonds." . . . Here she stopped for a while; I listened to the story breathlessly, and when I was just asking her nervously: ''What happened next, please? — what happened next?'' — the distant report of a gun was heard, then another and again another. Miss Apollonia,
22 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
with outstretched arms, cried: ''It is the war — the war! Did I not tell you!"
One morning my mother entered the room ; she was quite pale ; then all my brothers rushed in, very much excited, and all talked together about the National Guard, the exiles, the Austrians. The names of Baron Krieg and General Castiglione were mentioned, and while they were talking, a murmur of voices was heard approaching nearer and nearer, until an unusual clamor filled the streets, and in the midst of it a cry, ''Build barricades !" Then all the houses disgorged their inhabitants, who carried beds,' mattresses, chairs, sofas, throwing them into a large heap until a barri- cade was raised across the street. We counted one, two, three barricades, the last one at the end of our street ; and leaning out of the window, we could see the Austrians' bayonets in the distance. Our maidservants worked with spirit, carrying heavy pieces of furniture, kitchen utensils, etc., and placing them on top of the shaky structure. Every time they climbed up they called to the Austrian soldiers, shaking their red fists at them and giving them funny and uncomplimentary names. The whole scene seemed rather amusing. My brother Simon, then fourteen years old, jumping down oflF the barricade, rushed into the house, then into the room where we were all assembled, shouting*: —
"Give me a sword, a pistol, anything! Give me a spit! a spit ! and I will stick that General with a cockade on his casque, and roast him like a chicken!'' which speech provoked merry laughter from the hearers. Mother, fear- ing the lad might get into mischief, seized his two hands, pushed him into the adjoining room, and locked the door. We heard him stamping and shrieking : —
'^I want to kill him! Let me out! I must kill him!"
My sister and myself were highly interested in looking at the National Guards arranging themselves behind pro-
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH ': 23
tective barricades, when we were peremptorily ordered by my mother to keep away from the window. We obeyed, and crept into the next room, where stood my mother's stately bed, supported by four carved and painted little negroes. We soon forgot what was going on, absorbed in touching the large eyeballs, red lips, and gold ornaments of the queer dark fellows with whom we planned a long journey to the tropics, where pepper grows, when sud- denly a loud report of a cannon made us spring up, run to mother, and cling to her dress. She cried: —
''Great God! They are bombarding the city! Aunt Teresa, call the boys and servants, and let us go to the cellar — and please tell them to bring some bedding, as we must pass the night there, if they do not stop!'' . . . She un- locked the door where my poor brother was imprisoned, and ordered him to go first. Cooled off from his first ex- citement, he meekly submitted. Then, taking my sister by the hand, our imposing mamma turned to me and said briefly : —
''Follow me!". . . But I stood where she left me. Was it fright or curiosity? I cannot tell; but I did not move. I heard her descending the stairs; I knew it was naughty to stay when she had ordered me to follow her, and when she was sure that I was walking behind her. I knew all that — and yet — I stood where she left me.
My youngest and my own brother, Adolphe Opid, three years older than myself, tearing himself away from Aunt Teresa's protecting arms, came up to me dishevelled, and with an expression of wild passion in his face he said : —
"I will not go to the cellar! I want to see!" On the instant a tremendous crash shook the house to its founda- tions. Something unnaturally heavy struck the wall, fol- lowed by something equally heavy falling with a clang against the stone pavement. I began to cry aloud. My brother grew very pale. His lips were trembling. He ran
24 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
to the window, and leaning out with half of his body, he said excitedly : —
''A bomb tore away half of the iron balcony, and made a big hole in the wall !" The cannon reports still continued, the streets were filled with the clamors and cries of the people, and then, with a noise like the snapping of whips, the rifles began their work. Louder and louder grew the shooting, and with it the crash of broken window-panes falling to the floor together with the bullets. Adolphe, who, during that time, ran from one room to another, picking up the bullets, came back, and taking me by the hand pulled me with him to the corner room, the one most exposed to the projectiles of the Austrian carabines.
''Hide in that corner," he cried, pushing me forward, and then added, with unhidden pleasure, ''There will be more bullets." And there were more. This time bullets and shots together like hail fell through the window. . . . "I told you so! hold up your apron!" and picking the leaden toys up from the floor, he threw them into my apron, which I obediently lifted up, — not altogether displeased with the contents.
"Pretty little things — round and heavy, too," he re- peated, weighing them one by one in his hand. "When I grow up I will make different bullets to kill the 'cow's feet.' * They will be pointed, that they may go deep into their accursed flesh !"
The shooting ceased for a while and we went to the win- dow. There a picture met my eyes. On the opposite side of the street a man lies on his back on the pavement; his shirt is open, in the middle of his breast gapes a red wound. A woman kneels by him, trying to stop the blood, which drips on the- pavement and congeals. The face of the man is white, the eyes staring wide open. In the middle of the
^ A name for Austrian soldiers, caused presumably by the gaiters they wore, made of the undressed hide of that narmless animal.
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH 25
street a boy of ten or twelve lies, his face to the ground. Oh ! the pity of it ! Oh ! the sight of murder and death for a child's eyes ! The marring of the fresh bloom of a little soul with such a tinge of sadness and horror ! Clinging close to my brother, I cry. He is pale and silent, but a nervous shiver runs through his frame. . . . Some other wounded men are carried away. The street is alive with wailing, lamenting people, and we sit by the window and look and look, taking in every detail of that sad, never-to-be-forgot- ten picture. . . . My mother's desperate call, "Helcia!* Adolphe!" makes us leave the window. We rush out of the room and down to the cellar.
By the dim light of a lantern and a few candles the interior of our large cellar looks more picturesque than pleasant. The odor of dampness is unwelcome to the nostrils, the stone walls glisten with drops of moisture, and the cold, cavernous air chills me through. An immense quantity of bedding is heaped in one corner, and the maids, under my mother's direction, are making beds on the floor. My sister's plump little body is reposing on cushions, her beautiful golden hair forming an aureole about her fair round face. My two half-brothers, Simon and Felix, are quarrelling; Simon calls / Felix ''Metternich," which is such an insult that Felix \ springs up to fight with his brother, but mother's authori- tative voice brings order into the ranks of the fiery young- sters. Miss Apollonia, half reclining on a mattress, turns her large eyes and little nose up to the ceiling and sighs, murmuring : —
''God will punish them, — you will see," and then with an inspired voice she adds, ''Poland is not lost yet!" Her mother sits on a barrel saying her rosary, and Adolphe plays with bullets.
Slowly silence begins to reign (in our subterranean dwell-
^ Helcia is a Polish diminutive for Helena.
/
26 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
ing), and we only hear the distant shooting and faint cries of the people. Mother sits on her improvised bed, with her head in her hands. Aunt Teresa undresses me, and I kneel to say my evening prayers. After a while we hear outside of the door the clang of a sword against the stone stairs, and then the sound of steps approaching our cellar. In an instant my mother turns the huge key of the iron door. Some one tries the knob, then there is a knock, and then silence. Finally the gentle voice of my eldest half-brother, Joseph, is heard.
''It is I, mamma; please open." Mother gives a sigh of relief and lets him in.
There he stands, in the fine uniform of the National Guard, with a sword at his belt, and by his side a beautiful creature leaning on his arm. I learned years afterwards that she was an actress nicknamed ''Cornflower" (Bla- watka), on account of her wonderful blue eyes. Her popu- larity was great, especially among young men, who ad- mired her beauty and light-hearted ness. . . . Mother, seeing "that person" (as she called her), grew pale with anger. She did not say a word, however, but looked straight into my brother's eyes.
"Please, mamma," said Joseph, "be so kind as to give shelter to this lady." She answered j —
"No one can refuse shelter to those in danger, and the young lady may stay with us; but you" — turning to my brother — "what are you doing here? The Austrians kill men and children like game, and you are here, sane and safe. Go back where your duty calls you ! " And when Joseph obediently retired, she said to Cornflower in a softer tone of voice, "Sit down, young lady, and rest." Then, seeing that I was sitting with eyes wide open, she came to me, kissed my forehead, and whispered : —
"Lie down and sleep ; shut your eyes ; you have seen too much to-day. Good-night." I did as she told me; but
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH 27
behind my closed eyelids I saw a streak of red, a pale face, and the wide-open eyes of a dying man who stared at me.
Three days afterwards, on the large square, "Rynek," opposite St. Mary's Church, I stand with my mother. On the square, crowds and crowds of people wait for the funeral
The "Rtnki," Ckicow.
procession of the victims killed on the day of the bombard- ment. The sound of organs reaches our ears. The church is overflowed. Many kneel outside on the pavement, and at the call of the great "Zygmunt" bell more and more people come streaming by. The whole city is out. Then a long, plaintive wail of the people is heard, and the coffins appear, carried on the shoulders of men and women, and the long chain of victims proceeds to the final resting-place.
CHAPTER III
Be it from the shock of the tragic events I mentioned in the last chapter, or from some organic defect, shortly after the bombardment, my youngest brother, Adolphe, then eleven years old, began to show signs of somnambulism. On nights when the moon was full he would rise from his bed, walk with staggering steps, yet rapidly, to the window, and stand there with his eyes wide open, laughing softly and stretching his arms towards the moon. After a while he would open the window and try to jump out, which would have been sure death. But usually our guardian angel, in a white nightcap and a long white robe, our dear Aunt Teresa, appeared in time to rescue the boy from his dangerous position and bring him back to bed, screening off the moonlight from him. Every time my brother had one of those fits, I could not fall asleep again. I used to creep softly out of my couch, go to the window, and look down. The street, half white from the flood of moonlight, and half black with mysterious shadows, was a great attrac- tion to me. Leaning a little forward I could see the Francis- can square and a corner of the church. That part of the square always inspired me with a sort of awe. Often on the days of funerals I have seen emerging from the church door the brotherhood of St. Francis, of dreadful appearance, with which people used to frighten children. The members of that society are dressed in black cassocks, painted all over with skulls, bones, and flames. They wear black cowls drawn over their faces, falling in a V-shape below the chin, and looking like masks with round holes for the eyes. This institution is a relic from mediaeval times, and
28
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH 29
\ I believe that even at the present time the brotherhood
appears at some church ceremonies. The Franciscan square had yet another attraction: the
I old tradition was that during some terrible epidemics the
authorities, not being able to bury all the people, threw them
I pell-mell into the church vaults. My brother told me
» that one of those vaults was here in the corner of the
church; I also heard some awful ghost stories connected with it. The ghosts were not kind enough to appear, but at night, out of the corner, two huge century-old owls used to appear and walk in the moonlight, throwing long shadows behind them, which made them seem three times their own
^ length. These uncanny creatures moved very slowly, with
silent steps, spreading their wings from time to time in
f a vain effort to fly; but, unable to lift their old clumsy
\ bodies above the ground, they dropped their feathered arms
in despair, dragging them on the pavement. The phantom birds, I imagined, were some penitent souls, creeping in the
k dust and begging for mercy. They made me shiver with
fright, and yet I could not turn my eyes away from them,
^ but sat there in the warmth of a summer moonlight, fasci-
nated, hypnotized. What thoughts passed across my little brain then I cannot remember, but many years later, when I studied the part of Juliet, the tomb of the Capulets brought back vividly to my mind those childhood impres- sions of the Franciscan church, the mysterious vault, and
^ the phantom owls.
CHAPTER IV
As far back as my memory can reach, I remember that I loved to be in church. To be there, kneeling on the marble floor, looking at the altars, and listening to the organ music, was sufficient to make me happy ; and when I prayed dur- ing the Mass, a deep sense of beauty and holy peace spread over me, and the church seemed filled with angels. Often I closed my eyes, and with face upturned, waited, hoping that one of those holy spirits floating in the air would touch my forehead with its wings. I would remain there motion- less, all absorbed by some unutterable thoughts and the perfect bliss of the moment.
At the end of our short and wide street, about one block from our house, and in the opposite direction from the Franciscans, stands the Dominican church, a point of great attraction to me. The naves of that church are singularly narrow, and their arches drawn up so high that they seem to be out of proportion, — a regular old Gothic structure. Not knowing anything about architecture then, I supposed that this church was built in imitation of two hands joined for prayer, with the finger-tips meeting and relaxed above the wrists, as in some of the pictures of praying Madonnas whose hands form an arch not unlike the entrance to a Gothic church. My favorite amusement after the evening prayers was to join my hands in the same way; holding them against the light, I imagined I had a little chapel of my own, with three arches, a door, and a window in the background.
The Dominican church has a basement with widely spread arches of graceful design. That was my favorite place.
30
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH 81
I liked to go there during the summer months. In the winter the unheated church, with its stone floor, was too chilly, but it was a delight to be there during the warm weather, so cool, so quiet, with no sound except the twitter of the sparrows in the yard. How often I used to steal away from the house and stay there for hours. How often I would lie down, with my face to the ground, in imitation of our peasant women, with arms outstretched in the shape of a cross, kissing the floor^ and praying fervently to God for a miracle, for a glimpse of an angel or of some saint.
One afternoon, when I was in one of my ecstasies, I heard muffled steps near the door. Some one was coming towards me very softly, nearer and nearer. ''A miracle !" I thought. ''My prayer is granted! It is an angel who comes, or a saint!" and thrilled with mysterious joy, I even imagined I felt the waft of a heavenly garment or wings, like a cooling breeze upon my neck, when suddenly a strong grasp clutched at the belt of my frock, lifted me up, and with one turn of the hand put me on my feet, forcing me to face my angel in the shape of a distressed old maid. The dear Aunt Teresa, looking for me in vain for more than an hour, had come upon my track at last, and fearing I might catch cold, was determined to use even force in order to bring me out into the sun.
After that time I was watched more closely, and soon after this capture my sister and I were taken to Mrs. R., in whose house we were to receive our first education. That charming lady was my mother's old friend. She had two highly educated daughters, Salomea and Ludwina, who at my mother's urgent request had consented to be our teachers. I was taught to read at the age of four, and at seven I read fluently. To any modern mother it may seem absurd to t^ach a child so early, but in the days of my childhood and youth girls were taught to read at four, and were ready for matrimonial duties at fifteen.
32 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
The stories which Miss Ludwina gave me had developed in me quite a passion for reading, and I read everything I could find, my brother's school books as well as the sen- timental love stories which Miss Apollonia rented from a circulating library. In fact, I read long before I could understand what I read.
Opposite Mrs. R.'s house stood a large building, with boxed-up windows. It was a provisory jail for political prisoners. One morning I saw Miss Salomea sitting by an open window, with a sheet of paper before her and a pencil, looking intensely at the house opposite, as if watching or waiting for something to see. After a while she began to sing a plaintive Polish song. As soon as she finished the first verse, a large white hand appeared in one of the windows of the jaU, over the boxed casement, and began to trace with the forefinger some letters in the air. At once Miss Salomea wrote down some words, and raising her eyes again, she watched the hand and wrote down what the prisoner communicated. She was doing that for many days, and what she wrote down she read in a whisper to her mother and sister, and after some consultation they usually sent Felix oa some errand, and then some visitors called and they shut themselves in the parlor. That was all I noticed. I racked my little brain in vain to find out what was the meaning of it all, when one day Miss Salomea, seeing me watching her, explained to me that the man opposite was a dear friend, whom the Austrians kept unjustly in prison, and whom she and her family were trying to release.
"And mind, Helenka," she added, ''you must not tell any one what you saw." I promised, and never betrayed the secret, proud of the confidence placed in me, and more strongly than ever confirmed in my adverse feelings towards Poland's enemies.
''I do hate the Austrians," I repeated mentally on my
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH 33
way home, and I was so deeply impressed by Miss Salomea's words that I wrote "I hate the Austrians" several times on the copy-book of my grammar exercise.
I do not recollect the exact program of our studies, but my favorite subjects were grammar, Polish history, and French, and it seemed that I made some progress in my studies as well as in my behavior, for my mother came one day and expressed her gratitude to our teachers, Mrs. R. and her daughters, for the good influence they exerted over me, assuring them that they had corrected many deficiencies in my character. To which Mrs. R. replied, that though I seemed to improve, yet there were two things in my character she could not cure me of : my stubbornness and my bashfulness. Oh, that horrible, shrinking shyness, which stood in my way so often, which sent all the blood to my cheeks and made me look like a boiled lobster at the least provocation. That awful timidity which many times, even in my days of maturity, prevented me from asserting my own value in the face of impudent ignorance ! How often I loathed that unwelcome defect without being able to overcome it ! Even my long stage career did not cure me entirely of this disease, which our Polish poet, Asnyk, an old and indulgent friend of mine, called ''fits of modesty."
Mrs. R. often received visitors, and those reception days were real trials to me. The more I tried to be ''a good girl, and answer the questions addressed to me," the more awk- ward I felt, and when I saw everybody smiling at my be- havior, I simply ran out of the room, and would not come back for anything in the world. In the meantime, my little sister placidly occupied the field of action, and, handed from one charming lady to another, was filled with candy and cakes. When she told me of her triumphs, I was very angry with my own stupidity, but the next time I fell into the same blunder.
Mrs. R. and her daughters were very fond of the theatre,
34 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
and one afternoon, together with my mother, they planned to take a box, to hear the new soprano, Miss Studzinska. Miss Ludwina, always kind and thoughtful of others, begged my mother to take Josephine and me with them, the box being large enough for six.
The play was ** The Daughter of the Regiment," followed by a one-act ballet entitled, ''The Siren of Dniestr." Miss ,
Studzinska was the heroine of the opera, and little Josephine Hofmann,^ dressed as a butterfly, had the prominent danc- ing part in the ballet. It was my first visit to a theatre, and the whole evening was a dream of joy and enchantment to me. My mother told me, years afterwards, that I was so absorbed in the play that I became perfectly oblivious to . '
the surroundings. I was blind, mute, and deaf, and she I
could not get a sign from me. I went to bed with a high fever, and for weeks afterwards I tried to imitate the but- terfly dance, and sang some airs, accompanying them with gestures, exciting the derision of my brothers, who had spied me on the sly. 1
Every child tries to imitate actresses seen on the stage, — ]
there is nothing wonderful in that ! and there is no indica- t]
tion of talent in such demonstrations. Still, I know mothers of little girls who think that their daughters must one day be great actresses because they are naturally graceful and fond of pretty frocks and dances. It is rather dangerous to encourage that sort of thing, and mark out a career for a child who, were it not for the constant flattery, would perhaps choose another more suitable occupation. The stage is overcrowded with young persons without talent, possessing only some adaptability and the usual ability for imitation. They prosper sometimes as long as they are young, and then are pushed aside to make room for younger and more attractive women. Thus is formed quite an army of disappointed, discontented, poor struggling creatures,
^ Josef Hofmann's aunt.
I
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH 36
who, had they chosen dififerently, would occupy more dignified positions in life. I cannot be grateful enough to my dear mother for never encouraging my inclination to the stage, and never exciting my vanity by flattering or praising me to my face. I became an actress because I think it was my destiny to be an artist of some kind, and as the stage was the most accessible of all branches of art, I chose it.
But, returning to "The Daughter of the Regiment," my mother, seeing my excitement, decided that children ought to stay away from the theatre. And she kept her word ; but we found compensation in concerts given at our house by some friends and artists. Madame Majeranowska, n6e Hofmann,* then a young and very talented woman, who later was a well-known opera-singer, and Bogucki, a splendid basso profundo, gave us many never-forgotten moments of delight.
It is sometimes difficult for parents to keep their children away from their cherished attractions. My three older brothers were crazy about the stage, and asked mother for the permission to give private theatricals at home. Wearied with their incessant pleadings, she consented at last, prob- ably to keep them out of mischief. And it happened, to my great delight, that we had regular performances every month. Joseph, the eldest, though married, painted the scenery ; Simon took care of the music and songs ; and Felix was the leading man. With four or five young students they formed a company. Girls were not admitted to this histrionic circle, but boys assumed female parts. I remem- ber still a young red-headed and freckled youth, by the name of Jahnsen, dressed in a white muslin gown, and white stockings in place of shoes, probably to make his steps light and fairy-like, reciting dramatic verses, which called forth
^ The elder aunt of Josef Hofmann, who by marriage was oonneoted with the Benda family.
36 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
many enthusiastic bravos. He and Felix were the best actors of the troup.
We had many of these performances, and many friends came to see them. They praised or blamed according to the value of the performer, and these were the first lessons I received in dramatic art. Who knows if this childish enthusiasm for the theatre did not decide my fate, and also the fate of my sister and my two brothers. All four of us went on the stage.
]
I
>^
u
CHAPTER V
In July, 1850, on Sunday at noon, the heat was intense. After returning from church, Aunt Teresa undressed my sister and me to the skin, and throwing on our bare backs long gingham blouses, and putting slippers on our feet, she ordered a bath for us. Suddenly some one opens the door of the adjoining room, shouting:—
''The lower mills are on fire!'' Aunt Teresa looks frightened. The maid who appears at the door, with hot water for our bath, nearly drops the buckets, and placing them where she stands in the very entrance, rushes down- stairs for further information. I hear my mother's voice calling my brothers, but all of them are already on their way to the burning mills, eager to see the sight, — always so attractive to boys, young and old. No more than half an hour later we see flames on the roof of. the bishops' palace on Franciscan Street, and almost simultaneously the red tongues of fire are licking the roof of a house opposite ours on Grodzka Street.
CzaSy^ the Cracow newspaper, describes the conflagration in the following words: ''The panic was indescribable. People were maddened with fright. We heard their cries: 'Golembia Street is on fire !' then 'the Wielopolski's palace ! Prince Jablonowski's house ! Four churches burning at once!' It seemed as if the whole city were one flame. A strong wind blew, the air was full of smoke and cinders, and not one fire-engine, not even a ladder — nothing! All was left to the mercy of the destructive element."
My poor mother, left only with Aunt Teresa and one ser-
» Time. 37
38 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
vant for help, is at a loss what to do first ; but before all, she wants to see Josephine and me in a safe place, and hurriedly tells Aunt Teresa to take us to St. Sebastian's meadow, which is situated on the other side of the Chestnut Alley, and to wait there until she shall be able to join us. I obey promptly, and taking under my arm the life of St. Genevieve, a book I have just begun to read, holding my sister's hand, I start — without waiting for Aunt Teresa — straight to the designated spot.
We both are so excited that we run ahead without look- ing under our feet, and in consequence do not see the drain- age canal, filled with water and overgrown with vegetation. In one instant Josephine disappears under the green, slimy crust of the ditch, and I, following her closely, find myself up to my chest in the water. Happily I feel Josephine's fingers on my arm. I grasp her hand, and retracing my steps, pull her up to the dry land ; at the same time I inspect my precious book, anxious to see if it has not been destroyed by the immersion, but it seems that I held it so tightly under my arm that only the cover and the edges are a little wet. This unexpected bath has a cooling effect upon us. Having wrung out our scanty clothes as soon as we can, we begin to feel anxious, and look for Aunt Teresa, but she is not there. Behind the trees of the avenue the sky is red, covered with smoke and sparks, the sun is fierce, and our blouses are steaming under his hot touch.
Crowds of men, women, and children scatter on the meadow, bringing with them such articles as they have been able to save from the flames. Men are going back and forth, carrying furniture, bedding, and clothing, piling them up in different camps. Evidently they intend to spend the night there. People, horses, cattle, dogs, birds in cages, and cats — all are mixed up. Alone, among strangers, we are on the point of bursting into tears, when at last we perceive our dear, perspiring, tired, panting Aunt Teresa,
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH 39
carrying on one arm a large feather quilt, and with the other arm pressing tenderly to her bosom my large doll. That is all she thought, in her confusion, worth saving.
We hasten to meet her. Seeing us, she drops the quilt to the ground, sits on it, and then — a flood of words, which could only be compared to a rushing mountain stream, or the bursting of a cloud, falls on our heads, protesting, grumbling, scolding us for our independence and the un- kind spirit which prompted us to leave her side and to run so fast that she could not possibly keep pace with us. While she is talking, her dark brown eyes and black, frowning brows look so angry that their aspect chills us through; but suddenly she stops. She touches our wet clothes, and Josephine tells her of our narrow escape from 'drowning." In an instant her countenance changes. Her voice be- comes soft, and kissing us, she falls into another extreme, giving us sweet names, stroking our cheeks, and scolding herself for being rude. Dearest old Aunt Teresa !
After a while we learn from her that mother changed her plan and decided that we should go to the hills, called "Krzemionki," and ask the hospitality of Mrs. X., my aunt's old acquaintance. The hills are about three miles •from Cracow. We mount the hill, and at sunset we reach Mrs. X.'s modest villa. After a frugal meal, which we finish almost in total darkness, we all go to the top of the hill to look at the burning city.
Heavens ! What a sight ! The whole town is on fire. Flames, black and white smoke, sparks shooting high in the air, and — O God ! such a red, red sky ! It is terrify- ing but also beautiful ! I cannot help admiring the picture. I clap my hands and exclaim, "Oh, how glorious!" My outburst of enthusiasm is interrupted by a painful slap on the back, accompanied by Aunt Teresa's voice, which rings in my ears like an archangel's trumpet.
"You ungodly child ! Hundreds and hundreds of people's
40 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
homes are turning to ashes, and you rejoice over it! Kneel down and pray God to forgive you for your sin." And she pushes me by the shoulders towards the house. But here shame, distraction, anger, take hold of me; I strike, bite, scratch, and altogether behave like a wild animal, until, exhausted, I fall in a fit of violent sobbing, followed by an acute cramp around my heart. The next thing I remember is a small parlor, myself lying on a sofa, the dear Aunt Teresa's face bending over me, and behind her the disgusted countenance of Mrs. X, who looks harshly at me, saying these memorable words to my aunt : —
''Why do you take so much trouble with her? She wiD not die. 'Les mauvaises herbes poussent toujours.'"^ Years afterwards I recalled that woman's words.
Dressed in one of Mrs. X.'s nightgowns, a huge garment in which I feel lost, I kneel at my prayers, sad, meek, full of contrition. I am put into a strange bed for the first time in my life, and as I lie down, looking at the walls covered with pictures and daguerreotypes of unknown persons, I sadly realize that I have lost my home forever.
The conflagration lasted ten days. During that time there was not one night that was not brightened by flames, not one day without a new alarm. Every breeze revived the fire smouldering under the ashes, creating a new panic. The calamity was complete. During that time mother tried to find lodgings, but failed. Every remaining house, every attic,. even cellars, being crowded with homeless families. At last Dr. Schantzer ^ offered us two rooms until we should be able to rent a flat or a house.
During those days spent in Dr. Schantzer's house I was left entirely to myself, every one having their hands full, and I used my freedom in the most pleasant way I could.
* Weeds always grow.
* The father of Miss Schantzer, a well-known actress in Germany. She married Hans von Billow after his divorce from his first wife, Cosima.
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH 41
Hidden behind baskets and bundles of clothes, I gave myself entirely to the reading and re-reading of the life of my favorite saint, the sweet Genevieve. At moments I felt quite consoled for the loss of home ; for could we not go to the woods, as she did, and Uve on herbs and roots, until we should meet a poUte doe who would yield her milk to us?
We had not fallen to such extremities, but dark days came upon our lives. Days of sorrow for my mother, sleepless nights, nights of tears and sighs of regret for the past happier hours, and heavy cares for the morrow. My mother lost in the fire almost everything she possessed. Her two houses were bringing her a fine income. The houses were highly insured, but by some fatal stroke of fate the payment of the next year's insurance was not re- mitted in time. She was just ten days behind. The walls of the houses as well as the grounds were sold. With that money, and certain sums she had among the people, we had to live until the brothers were able to help.
Seeing every day my mother's tears, and the thousand unpleasant experiences she was exposed to, I ripened quickly, my mind developed prematurely, and I became unusually serious and sensitive.
CHAPTER VI
Two months after the conflagration, mother, prompted by economy, inscribed Josephine and me as day scholars at St. John's convent. We lived now in a different part of the city, and four times a day, accompanied by a maid, Josephine and I had to cross, there and back, the fashionable sidewalk, usually called line A. B., of the large square ''Rynek." This was a kind of distraction to us and a new experience. I remember meeting almost daily several characteristic types I never could forget. One of them, or rather two of them, were the brothers M., two middle- aged bachelors, dressed entirely alike, in long, whitish, tight-fitting coats, tall hats, and immaculate frilled shirt- fronts. They both wore small side-whiskers k la Byron, and when they lifted their hats, which they did frequently before promenading ladies,! noticed their high, elaborate toup6e8, firm and glossy at the top of their heads.
Next were two rich, aristocratic young ladies, two sisters with very blond hair, and such large hoops and so many flounces on their dresses that when they walked side by side people were obliged to step off the sidewalk, or to flatten themselves against the houses, to make room for them; but it was a peculiar pleasure for us to go right through between them, though we were nearly smothered by falbalas and the odor of musk. It was equal to an adventure.
The funny street urchins, with their sallies and gambols, so distressing, yet so amusing, and the crazy Paul (Pawelek) were also interesting. Poor, silly Pawelek, who offered to kiss every pretty girl he saw, without regard to their station
42
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH 43
in life; for that innocent desire he had been many times seized by the collar and given into the hands of an unro- mantic policeman.
The last and most entertaining type I remember was a person called Aunt Pumpkin, given this surname on account of her enormous rotundity, in contrast with her face. It was a benevolent, shiny, flushed, crab-apple face, framed in a large poke bonnet, smiling kindly at the world. Her small head was rhythmically wagging on a long, slender neck, while she carried on her swift, waddling legs the huge, seemingly artificial abdomen, which lifted her dress in front about ten inches above ground, exhibiting her white stock- ings and her low, black, cross-bandaged shoes. She never could appear in the street without being followed by a crowd of guying boys, yet she had means of disarming their mali- cious remarks by a pleasant smile, a kind word, and dry plums, which she carried in her large green reticule. Poor Aunt Pumpkin ! We laughed at her, and she died of dropsy.
At first I did not like the convent. There were so many girls in my class, and only a few congenial ones. The comparison between the crowded, stuffy schoolroom and the quiet, refined atmosphere of Mrs. R.'s library, drew fre- quent tears from my eyes, but I soon learned to love the sisters, who seemed pleased with my appUcation in the lessons of Polish historj'^, grammar, and catechism, and liked my way of reciting verses as well as my utter disdain for the German language. The sisters of St. John were known as great patriots. I remember how they shielded me on the examination days, when the Austrian school in- spector was present, and how they always managed not to let him ask me any German questions.
Our mother did not neglect our education in spite of ad- verse fortune, and we had additional French hours at the convent, music at home, and a few dancing lessons. Our health was also taken care of. In spring, accompanied
44 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
by three of our brothers, every morning at half-past five o'clock we were sent on a two-mile walk to a country place, where we had a glass of milk and a slice of bread. Then we returned home for breakfast and school, by the longest way on the shore of the river, where the boys usually per- formed gymnastic feats, walking on the top of barriers erected for protection of people against possible falls into the whirlpool, in which exercises they made me take part. It was at the same spot where my uncle, the priest, was drowned, and I was afraid to comply with their wishes, which sounded like orders. To avoid the name of coward, I obeyed, in spite of the imminent danger looking up at me from the dark, mysterious waters.
It was in the autumn of 1850 that my brother Joseph introduced to my mother Mr. Gustave Modjeski.* I was ten years old; he was nearly thirty then. He soon became a friend of the family, and offered to teach us children Grer- man, which we hated in every way, but which became obligatory in public schools and convents. My sister and myself tried to get out of these lessons, but we were held fast to them by Mr. Modjeski's stern behavior. It took quite a long time for us to get used to him, but we ended by Uking him quite well, especially when, during the long winter evenings, he read aloud to us some wonderful stories. It was he who established in our house the custom of read- ing aloud in the evenings. Every one had to take turns, and while my mother and Aunt Teresa were knitting, and we children were dressing or stitching clothes for our dolls, one of my brothers, or any one who would volunteer to do so, would read aloud. These were very delightful, never- to-be-forgotten evenings.
A few years later my three brothers were scattered in the world. Joseph Benda, after his wife's death, leaving his two-year-old daughter in my mother's care, went to
^ His full name was Gustave Sinninayer ModrzejewskL
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH 45
Russian Poland, where he joined a theatrical company. Simon Benda, my musical half-brother, went to Vienna to a conservatory of music. FeUx Benda, at nineteen years of age, became an actor, and was engaged at the Cracow theatre, but soon went with the company on a provincial tour. Our household became very quiet, and something had to be done to enliven it. My brother Adolphe ^ sug- gested that, as we were now ''grown up'' (he was fifteen and I twelve), we could give performances as the big broth- ers did, and for that purpose we wrote a play together. We had no stage, no scenery, but that did not matter. We found a plot in a magazine, and shaped it into a drama in one act, I writing two female parts, and he supplying his own speeches. It was a fierce tragedy, with the scene laid in Greece. A jealous sweetheart was waiting for her lover, who was hundreds of miles away on some secret patriotic mission. He had sworn to be back on such a day, at such an hour. In case he failed to return in time, his affianced lady swore on her part to take poison, which the ladies of that nation were supposed always to carry about their frail bodies, in rings, medallions, even in scapularies. The bill read as follows : —
Sophronia, an aristocratic Grecian lady . Helena Opid.
Ismena, her companion Josephine Opid.
Hector, the young patriot Adolphe Opid.
At the opening scene, dressed in Aunt Teresa's black gown, tucked and pinned to make it suit my size, with a black lace mantilla on her head, Sophronia walks up and down, excitedly wringing her hands. Suddenly she stops, and looking at the clock, exclaims: —
"Ten o'clock, and he is not here !" Then a short dialogue between herself and her plump duenna, whose long dress is dreadfully in her way.
* The youngest boy, and my own brother, Adolphe Opid.
46 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
"Twelve I Heavens! Now it is time to die !" and she pours the poison into a tin cup. She lifts it to her lips, when at once : Oh, rapture ! Oh, joy ! Footsteps are heard : "Yes, it is he !" and with a laugh of joy she nestles on her hero's breast. But, alas ! poor Hector, after a short explanation, falls down and dies from exhaustion and a neglected wound. The heroine's joy turns into a desperate speech and a convulsive sob over the dead lover's body. Curtain ! The dear Aunt Teresa was wiping her eyes, but mother looked stern. She took me aside and said I had made a poor exhibition before the neighboring children, playing such a play and in this absurd manner. Then she concluded with an imperative "No more theatricals!" I received the blow with tears. My brother and Josephine both laughed. So much work for nothing ! I had studied my part so thoroughly, not only the speeches, but also the gestures and poses, which was a rather difficult task, for we had no looking-glass in our room.
I had often asked Aunt Teresa why, when all the girls I knew had mirrors in their rooms, we had none. But she replied that it was a dangerous thing to look in them, espe- cially after dark, because then a girl, instead of her own face, may suddenly see a horrid mask with horns, or a skull. The evil spirits, being very malicious, play awful tricks on silly girls. Instead of a mirror, I used to place a lamp in the middle of the room, and standing in between it and the white wall, I could see distinctly the silhouette of my whole body, which I twisted in all sorts of impossible poses. I had great difficulty in managing my arms, and I did not like the appearance of my rather short-fingered hands; they did not look a bit like those I saw in pictures and statues. I came to the conclusion that the best way of managing them was to keep the fingers close together, as in some of the archaic pictures I saw in churches. In spite of all these attempts at what is now called "Physical Culture" (we
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH 47
have such scientific names for everything nowadays) — in spite of all that, when I was before our modest audience (composed of a few children and their nurses, my mother, and Aunt Teresa), I forgot my hands and arms and poses, and thought only of the miseries of my heroine. And mother did not like it, while I only tried to please her above all the people in the room. Tears rose to my eyes. I took the manuscript and tore it up in little pieces, which I threw into the fire, watching until the last scrap was consumed, then knelt to my prayers, with a feeling of sacrifice ac- complished.
There was nothing left in the way of pleasures during the long winter evenings but books, crochet, and fairy stories. But in summer there were excursions; first, the Rocks of the Virgins, where lilies of the valley grow wild; then Bielany, with its monastery of Camaldule brothers, built on a high hill amidst centenarian oaks, the most picturesque edifice, inhabited by equally picturesque monks in white robes and cloaks. We also visited, though rarely, the Dragon's Cave ; for Poland, too, has the myth of a dragon killed by the first chief of the Poles, Krakus, from whom the name of Cracow is derived. Most often we went to Kosciuszko's mound, raised by^the people, who carried with their own hands the earth to the spot until they erected a hill in his memory.
Besides the excursions, we attended faithfully the numer- ous festivities. The most important of them is the Corpus Christi procession. Early in the morning, at the sound of the Great ''Zygmunt" bell, crowds of peasants from the neighboring villages stream in from all the streets and stop at the Rynek, where provisory altars are built at almost every corner. These altars are called stations. When the large square is filled with people, it is hard to describe the wonderful display of costumes. Each village wears different garbs in shape and color. There are the white, blue, green.
48 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
gray, and brown coats of the men, — some plain, some embroidered and spangled, with tassels, strings of brass rings hanging from their belts, sleeveless vests with red lapels, high boots, and striped, loose, wide trousers. Women in rich brocade or velvetrspangled waists and jackets, with turbans of embroidered lawn and lace. Girls with artificial wreaths and ribbons and strings of coral ornamenting their throats and breasts. All these people come in quietly, modestly, with their prayer books and rosaries, deeply im- pressed by the occasion. Then marches in a regiment of Austrian soldiers in their handsome uniforms; then, city people in their best clothes, a string of girls in white, with garlands on their heads, carrying the images of saints on their shoulders, priests, brotherhoods, monks, banners of all kinds, etc. They all crowd the Rynek, and that mass of human beings forms the most gorgeous harmony of color, spotted here and there by a dark modern coat or the black crape of a widow.
The service begins at the first altar, and when the bene- diction bell rings, military trumpets send forth a peal of victorious melody, repeated three times and accompanied by a muffled roll of drums, and all the banners bend down over the heads of the prostrate people.
There is also the so-called ^^Konik" (little horse). A peasant, accompanied by pipes and drums, appears riding a hobby horse. He is armed with an imitation mace, stuffed with straw, with which he hits every one who comes in his way, making funny remarks, allusions, and altogether behaving without respect or regard to his fellow-men. The only way of stopping his tongue and his blows is to give him a few coins, for which he usually returns graceful thanks, unless some features, dress, gesture, or walk of the giver excites his sense of humor. Then his thanks are followed by such awful wishes and remarks that his benefactor soon regrets his kindness, and runs away from the persecutor.
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH 49
amidst the uproarious laughter of the crowd. This ludi- crous custom was established after one of the Tartar invasions, in memory of a peasant by the name of Micinski, who saved Cracow by galloping at night to the city and warning the authorities of the approaching hordes. Since that time the privilege of this pageant was granted to him and his de- scendants, which in Poland's happy days, when the great lords of the city were lavish in their gifts, proved very profitable to the Micinski family.
At present ''Konik" makes but a poor show, though it called forth loud laughter from the youthful Emperor Franz Joseph at his first visit to Cracow.
Of all the festivities I loved best the ''Wianki" (the Wreaths). On St. John's day crowds and crowds of people come to a certain spot upon the bank of the Vistula. They begin to come in the afternoon, though the festivity opens only at dark. Slowly, one after another, small boats, trimmed with foliage and flowers, appear on the rippling waters of the river. Some are rowed by a single young man, some contain three or four men. At last a large raft filled with students, vocalists, makes its triumphant entrance amidst hearty applause.
On the bank, a little higher up the stream, is a group of young girls. Each of them holds a wreath of flowers, tied with ribbons on a square board, with a small wax lamp or candle in the centre. Each of these wreaths is marked with a^ifferent color in ribbon. With nightfall, at a given signal, the girls launch their lighted wreaths on the water, and let them go with the stream. Dear little garlands! Each of them carries a thought, a pang, or a sigh, a hope or a wish, towards an imaginary lover or the chosen one, and by two, by three, by four, hunting each other, spreading apart or huddling together, they advance on the dark cur- rent to their unknown fate. Simultaneously with the ap- pearance of these fluttering messages the young men begin
50 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
a chase for them. Steering adroitly with their swift, small boats among those diminutive floating, flowery islands, they try to catch them without putting out the lights. This requires a certain degree of agility. Often two boatmen will aim at the same wreath, and then a fight ensues, usually fatal to the object of their desire. This creates great ex- citement among the girls, who watch the game anxiously. Voices are heard: ''It is Wanda's wreath, what a shame! Poor, poor Wanda!" These sad ejaculations are easily explained. There is a superstitious belief that the girl whose wreath is caught safely, with its light burning, will soon be married happily; but the one whose wreath is drowned, or its light put out, is condemned to celibacy if not to early death.
When the game is over, the choral song of the students hushes the animated crowd. People become suddenly silent, listening with delight to the fresh, youthful voices whose notes ring out with that clearness and magic beauty which music produces in the stillness of the night. After several songs, a dazzling Bengal light floods the boats, the old castle, and the distant group of peasants on the opposite shore of the Vistula, and then, as a finale, the National Hymn is heard. Oh, that hymn, full of tears, supplications, and revenge ! The people join in the chorus, and when the last note dies away, they return home with heavy hearts, pondering on the helpless tragedy of their country.
CHAPTER VII
At the age of fourteen I had finished the highest grade at the convent school, and then my literary education began. I read frantically our own poets first of all. First, our great poet Mickiewicz, then Krasinski, Slowacki, that incom- parable master of poetic language, and Bohdan Zaleski, called the nightingale of " Ukraina," and many other poets. In the winter evenings the sole pleasure of our small circle consisted in reading aloud, and we made the acquaintance of Walter Scott, Dickens, Bulwer, Madame George Sand, and of course of Dumas, p6re, the idol of young people. We never liked to read Russian or German stories, such was the resentment we cherished in our hearts toward those nations; but one evening we were invited by Mr. Modjeski to see the German troupe playing at that time in our city. By the wish of the government it was decided that Polish and German companies should play alternately at the Cracow theatre. I had not been at the theatre since I was seven years old, and the temptation was great. Mother hesitated, but Mr. Modjeski suggested to her that it would be a great help in my study to see a German play, and might encourage me to learn that language, so sadly neglected by me at school. . The argument was convincing, and she accepted the invitation.
I dressed in a hurry, and was so fidgety and afraid of being late that I made mother start three-quarters of an hour before the beginning,* and when we arrived the lights were not yet up. I remember with what respect, almost rev- erence, I entered ''the temple." For it was a real temple to me, a place where human hearts beat quicker at a word
51
62 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
from the stage, where one sentence of the author, or one magic touch of the actor's art, makes the audience laugh or cry ; where, . . . well, I do not remember exactly what thoughts whirled in my brain at my entrance to the theatre, but I know that my whole being was filled with a kind of rapturous awe.
Schiller's '^Kabale und Liebe" ("Intrigue and Love") was the play, and it fascinated me completely. I sat like one petrified, drinking in the words I did not understand, and feasting my eyes on the somewhat stiff and ponderous players. In the dramatic passages, however, their actions were impressive and clear. By the force of the acting, and the help of Mr. Modjeski, who translated to me several scenes, I succeeded in understanding the plot. When we returned home, I sat at the tea-table without a word, ruminating over the wonderful masterpiece I had just seen, until, jeered at as a lunatic, I was sent to bed.
That evening created a revulsion of feeling in me. I thought better of Germans. Next morning I did not rest until I had bought a printed copy of "Kabale und Liebe," which I read from cover to cover with a dictionary. It was very slow work, and it lasted several days, but I was not discouraged, and in this same toilsome way I read almost all Schiller's plays. By the time I came to '* Mary Stuart " I understood German quite well.
The more I read, the more I admired that great poet. I actually fell in love with him ; I bought a little statuette representing him in a graceful, quiet pose, with his sad, beautiful face slightly inclined towards his great heart. I gazed at it so often that I fell into the habit of holding my head in the same way exactly, looking wistfully into space ; and when, many years afterwards, I met in London the ''^Esthetics," a semi-artistic circle of people who tried to fashion themselves after Dante Rossetti's and Burne- Jones's pictures, their poses reminded me of those fanciful
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH 63
days of my girlhood. When I compared Schiller with our poets, he was not at all superior to them in ideas or senti- ment, but I suppose it was the dramatic form which took such strong hold on me. Our dear old poets were almost a part of me; I had heard of them since my childhood. I loved and worshipped them, and laid at their feet my soul and my patriotic heart. Schiller was only a lover, and, as it sometimes happens to lovers, was in time put into the shade by another, a mightier one, of whom I shall speak later.
Since the evening of ^'Kabale und Liebe," mother, who loved to go to Polish plays, often took Josephine and me with her. We saw several performances that season, some melo- dramas very much in fashion then, and also some Polish plays, brilliant because of gorgeous costumes, and touching because of the patriotic sentiment.
There were not many remarkable actors at that time in Cracow. My brother and the young leading lady pleased me the best. Felix ^ played a romping, jolly, rude peasant, just as well as a refined young marquis, and I regarded him, in all his parts, as the perfection of grace and boyish beauty. Mrs. R. H., the character actress and heavy lead, was con- sidered very fine, but I cannot remember her acting; all I know of it is that she walked with great dignity, and that she pulled her long train of velvet and ermine with a sort of jerk. Josephine and I drew her picture many times; it was easy to draw ermine, and we did not care how the face looked, as we had never seen her except over the footlights, which, in the fifties, were not so brilliant as they are now. We did not even know if she was old or young. There were no reporters to describe every feature, handsome or otherwise, and the witty or silly talk of the actors and actresses. The public knew very little of their personalities except what they chose to show in their acting. A hero was a hero ; a lover was a lover ; a villain a villain. The
^ Felix Benda, my half-brother and a popular actor.
64 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
stage was surrounded with a kind of mystery which lent to performances a charm of which they are deprived in these days. I would have hated any one who had told me that the hero was a married man of fifty with seven children; or that the pure maiden, our juvenile lady, was engaged every season to another man. I even was not curious enough to read their family names on the program ; the names of the characters were sufficient. Yet, as it often happens that we obtain a thing we do not care for, so at the end of the season I was brought face to face with the owner of the black velvet and ermine.
One afternoon, thinking that no one but my sister was listening to me, I recited a snatch from the poem ''Maria," by Malczewski. When I finished, I saw Felix standing in the door and smiling. I was terrified, as if I had been caught in some naughtiness, but he asked quietly: —
''Who taught you to recite?"
"Nobody," I murmured.
"Would you like to go on the stage?" he asked. "He mocks me," I thought, and said nothing. But he con- tinued : —
"I am not jesting ; if you wish to become an actress, I can help you." Saying this, he left me; left me with a whirl in my thoughts.
"What did he say? I to become an actress!" I ex- claimed, and looked at my sister, who giggled, saying: —
"He, he, he! How funny you will look in black velvet and ermine !"
"How can I be an actress? How shall I ever dare to appear before a crowd, when I am too shy to speak before a single stranger?" I was neither happy nor unhappy at the idea of devoting my life to the stage, and only when I looked at Schiller's statuette a great joy, a vague hope, filled my heart.
"I may, if I succeed, act in his plays." I re-read the
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH 66
lines of Louise, the heroine of Schiller's play, ''Intrigue and Love," kissed the statuette, and had a long talk with it.
Next day I was walking with Felix on the line A. B. towards Madame R. H.'s lodgings. I had to recite before her that she might decide whether I had any ability for the stage or not. After a short walk, trembling with fear and anticipation, I stood before my oracle. A thin, middle- aged lady ; oh, so unlike the handsome, rosy-looking heroine of velvet and ermine, sat before an embroidery frame and did not rise when we entered, but offered her long-fingered hand to my brother, who kissed it respectfully. She smiled with her pale, thin lips, and pointed a seat to me, while my brother was introducing me. She looked at me attentively from head to feet, and I blushed ''all over" under her scrutinizing gaze. I hated my blushes, and was angry at myself. Indeed, I must have looked foolish, for she asked my brother how old I was. Sixteen," he answered.
Already? I should not have thought so." Then she added, "Since she is sixteen, it would be time to prepare her for the stage, if ... " — here she turned to my brother — "if her mother has nothing against it," and "if" . . . and so on, until she asked me to recite. My brother excused himself, and left the room, sending me an encouraging smile. How I ever dared to say my lines before this stately authority I do not know, but I did so. She said nothing, still bent over her work ; then, after a few moments of tortur- ing silence, she asked me if I could sing.
"No; I never took singing lessons," I said, but she in- sisted, saying she only wanted to know if I had any voice. I had to submit.
I think and I believe every young girl will agree with me that it is a dreadful ordeal to stand in the middle of the room and warble, without preparation and without ac-
ti
56 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
companiment. I told her I should never dare to do it, especially while she was looking at me.
''Oh, is that so? Then you may stand in the recess of that window and hide behind the curtains, and I will resume my embroidery, since my eyes disturb you." She said *this with a ring of sarcasm in her voice, which fell upon my ears like a slap ; but I did as she told me. For a long time I was at a loss what to sing. I was ashamed, confused ; I could not remember the words of any of the pretty songs I knew, but, instead of them, one most unsuited to the cir- cumstances came to my mind, over and over with the ob- stinacy of a fly — a rude and jolly peasant song I had heard during one of our excursions in the fields. Some mischiev- ous spirit whispered in my ear, ''Sing it, sing it !" and I obeyed the imp. In order to assume a peasant's voice, I made mine sound very deep and as harsh as possible, and I sang this thing with the desperate effort of a gambler who has lost all he possessed, and throws his last coin on the table with the firm conviction of ruin.
Through the lace curtains I watched the effect. The madame was highly amused; happily my brother was not in the room. It was a fizzle — I knew it. I dared not leave the window. Madame R. H., mastering her merri- ment, asked me politely to come down, then rose from her seat, went to a small book shelf, and giving me a booklet covered with marbled paper, said : —
"Take this home and learn the part marked with a red pencil. The day after to-morrow come here, and I will give you your first lesson.'' I left, her. What a relief! She gave me a part; evidently she thought I had some ability. I pressed the precious treasure to my heart, and walked very fast, anxious to reach home as soon as possible and give myself entirely to this new, glorious task. But alas, what a disappointment ! The title of the play was already discouraging: "Our Grandmother's Parrots." I
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH 57
read the short play, and it seemed to me idiotic. Here is the plot: —
A grandmother, who suffered in her youth from man's treachery, brings up two girls, her orphan granddaughter and her foster-sister, in strict confinement, not allowing them ever to see a man. The girls were ignorant even of the existence of Adam's descendants, when one day two young scapegraces appear on the wall of their garden and talk to them; the simpletons ask their grandmother what sort of animals they are. '* Parrots" is the answer of the wise ancestor. At the end of the play, marriage, of course.
To study such a play ! Oh, shades of the sublime poets ! Oh, Mickiewicz ! Oh, Schiller !
After my first lesson, madame told my brother that it was useless to teach me. She could not discover any trace of talent in me. She said that I laughed all through my part, and seemed to be amused instead of taking it seriously, as I ought to. Then she advised my mother to keep me at home, instead of condemning me to become a mediocre actress; this cruel sentence was repeated to me by my dear mother, who seemed rather pleased with the decree. But my heart was sore, and this time my ambition for the stage was crushed forever, or so I thought.
CHAPTER VIII
The next year happened the incident which turned; in no small degree, my heart from Schiller. The German manager, in order to attract the Polish public, which ob- stinately kept away from the German theatre, used to engage different stars from Vienna and Berlin for what is called ''Gast Rollen," equivalent to ''Star Engagement." After the financial failure of several stars, a bill appeared at the corners of the street, announcing Fritz Devrient in the part of Hamlet. I had heard of Shakespeare, but never had read or seen any of his plays, and naturally enough my curiosity was aroused.
Hamlet made an overwhelming impression on me, and I worshipped at once the great masterwork of that powerful man born and buried somewhere on the British Islands centuries ago. That mysterious spirit ruling over human souls, the wonderful wizard, reading human hearts and God's nature, the great inimitable Shakespeare. He became my master then and there, and remained so through my theatrical career. I never took better lessons in acting than those Hamlet gives tx) the players ; I never enjoyed acting more than when I played those wayward, sweet, passionate, proud, tender, jolly, or cruel and sad heroines of Shake- speare's dramas.
I lived weeks afterwards in continual enchantment. The translations of Shakespeare were scarce, but Mr. Modjeski succeeded in getting Hamlet in Polish transla- tion and also ''Two Gentlemen of Verona," "The Merchant of Venice," and "Simon of Athens," which I read greedily.
Fritz Devrient, who played Hamlet, was a young man,
58
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH 59
blond and graceful. He was the nephew of Emil Devrient, one of the most celebrated German actors of that time, and played the part with a great deal of dignity and in a most natural way. A glorious future lay before him, but he died young, leaving behind the most flattering memory of his great talent. His acting made a tremendous impression on me, and the longing for the stage work was aroused again. I spent a sleepless night, and had to use all my strength of will in order to crush down in my soul that wild desire. I succeeded, and the result of Devrient's Hamlet manifested itself only in a long poem, written in secret, read and re-read and finally destroyed. The vision of his art, however, lived with me for years, linked in some way with my worship of Shakespeare.
My ambition to become a priestess of Melpomene and Thalia was nipped in the bud by Madame R. H.'s verdict, and I gave up all aspirations in the direction of the stage. But my desire for achieving a name for myself had never left me, and I thought for a while I might gain it ais a writer. Poems were manufactured in secret, and psychological studies, as well as sketches of different incidents. I tried to adopt a certain style in writing, but this was a vain desire ; I felt I was ignorant, and being too shy to confide my ambitious hopes to some one who could give me good advice, I burned my lucubrations as soon as I wrote them. The only person in whom I placed my confidence was my brother, Simon Benda, who lived in Vienna, and to whom I wrote letters in rhyme. But though he was pleased by my facility in rhyming, he never gave it a serious thought, and never encouraged my aspirations.
At the same time my good mother wanted me to pass a teacher's examination, believing in self-support for women. I began to study history, mathematics, and every- thing else I had been told to study. To me learning was the highest pleasure. Endowed as I was with an exceptionally
60 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
strong memory, it did not cost me any effort; I enjoyed it. Some of the studies, algebra, for instance, seemed a little tedious, but no matter in what shape knowledge was pre- sented to me, I grasped it eagerly, and was still crying with Goethe, ''Light! more light!" Who could have believed, then, that all these studies were only preparing and smooth- ing, my way to the stage? Since my failure in ''Our Grandmother's Parrots" and the victory over myself after Devrient's Hamlet, I had no desire of becoming an actress, yet owing to a mere incident I nearly became an opera-singer. It was at that time I« formed a friendship with a young actress, Ptaszynska. Engaged in the Polish stock com- pany, she had to play divers parts very often not suited to her abilities. In one of those parts she had to sing the grand aria from the opera "Hernani." My friend sang a little, but not well enough to execute this difficult piece of music, and the management sent her a teacher, the well- known and excellent master, Mr. Mirecki, whose task was to transform this modest little actress into a prima donna. One morning when I called on her she was just taking her lesson. Hearing her exercising, I quietly entered her bedroom and waited. She was singing the great aria. I heard a man's voice correcting her. She went over and over the same passage, but could not get it right ; then the old master grew impatient, and sang for her the whole aria. After a while he took leave. As soon as he left the room, I strolled in, and in joke, began to sing the same aria, tr3dng as near as possible to get his expression and accent, ac- companying it with extravagant gestures, when suddenly the door opened, and the dear old master, the celebrated Mirecki, appeared before us ! In an instant I was under the piano, afraid that he would scold me for imitating him. His eyesight was very weak, and he wore a green shade over his eyes. He did not see me, but he asked abruptly, with^ I thought then, an angry ring in his voice : —
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH 61
"Who sang here, just now?'' My friend, pointing to me crouching under the piano, said : —
''There she is!" then, turning to the master, added, in the way of mocking introduction, ''Miss Helena Opid, Felix Benda's half-sister." . . . There was no remedy. I had to come out from my hiding-place and face the master, who, lifting his shade, looked at me with scrutinizing, bloodshot gaze; but what was my astonishment when, instead of scolding me, he said that I had a good voice, that I must come to his class and he would teach me for nothing. I was so overcome and so surprised that I could not say a word of thanks, even; I bowed my head and stood motionless until he left the room. But as soon as he departed I nearly screamed with joy. I took my friend by the waist, and we started on a wild dance around the room. She was as happy as I, for there was no jealousy in her nature. She put on her hat and went home with me to tell mother the happy news. This time there was no objection on mother's part, and I went steadily to Mr. Mirecki's music school for three months. My only ambition and desire then was to become one day a church and concert singer, but the master in- sisted on making me a prima donna, and again the vision of my treading the stage boards stood before me by day and by night. Alas ! It was not to be. The dear old man died in a few months, and I never took another lesson.
Again one of my cherished dreams was dispelled, but among the numerous occupations at home and my studies I soon forgot this mischance. Memorizing verses was one of my dearest pastimes. After having learned a few scores of Polish poems, I read one day Schiller's "Kinder Moderin," and was so deeply struck by the dramatic pathos that I learned and recited it before Mr. Modjeski. When he heard it, he told me, to my great surprise, he thought that, in spite of Mademoiselle R. H.'s verdict, I might make a
62 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
success as an actress, but he would not advise me to go on the Polish stage, where there was only a small field and very few opportunities, but suggested the German stage. A few days later Mr. Modjeski introduced to us Herr Axt- man, who then was one of the best actors in the Cracow German stock company. I learned with him Louise in "Kabale und Liebe," Gretchen in ''Faust," Klarchen Marchen in "Egmont," and Lessing's ''Katchen von Heil- brun."
A pathetic incident is connected with my dramatic lessons. Herr Axtman had a fine voice, and played on the guitar, which instrument I also cultivated at that time. The most beau- tiful thing he sang was Schubert's serenade (''Standchen"). One afternoon he seemed to be very tired, his face was drawn and pale. I thought I would not trouble him with too much rehearsing. I stopped in the middle of my part, took the guitar, and sang a jolly Polish air, thinking I might dispel his sadness ; then, handing him the instrument, I asked him to sing the ''Standchen." He sighed deeply, and his face wore an expression of distress, but he struck a few chords and began to sing. He scarcely sang two lines when the guitar slipped from his hands, his body bent forward, and he fell to the ground in a dead faint. It seems that my dear teacher had had scarcely any nourishment for two days, and had fainted from sheer hunger. I mentioned before what bad business the German managers were doing in Cracow. Mr. Axtman and his friend stayed in Cracow with the hope of making some money by teaching until they obtained a good engagement in Germany. They were, how- ever, reduced to utter poverty.
In spite of this extreme need, Herr Axtman never wanted to accept any remuneration for my lessons, saying that my success on the stage would be his best reward. This looks like a fancy story, but it is nevertheless the perfect truth. We often find among artists such natures, full of
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH 63
pride, recklessness, and abnegation. Shortly afterwards, Herr Axtman and his friend, having obtained the desired engagement, left Cracow, to my great regret, which was, however, relieved by the hope of a better existence for the kind artist whose memory still lives in my heart.
Among my papers I have found the following letter I wrote about that time to my brother Simon, who was study- ing music in Vienna, and also a scrap of paper to which I confided a few of my impressions :, —
"Dear Brother,
** I would have written to you oftener, but I was and am very busy all the time. You ask me what I am doing. First of all, I help mamma in the house, for we have no servant, only old Kazi- mierzowa comes twice a day to wash the dishes. She also does our laundry, but ironing belongs to mother and me.
" Aimt Teresa is still very ill. The doctor says she has a can- cer. She scarcely leaves her bed now, and of course we have to look after her. Dear — poor Aimt Teresa, she suffers awful pains.
" I have also to help Stasia^ with her lessons. We have a good deal of trouble with her, for she constantly runs into the street, and is as wild as a boy. Mamma took her shoes off one day and locked them in a closet, but the imp crept barefoot out of the kitchen window and went to the neighboring garden, where she ate so many berries that she was quite ill afterwards. ... I am the only one that can manage her, because she loves me, and I talk to her as to a grown person.
" All my days are taken up with sewing, studies, and a thousand little things. The evenings I spend in reading, sometimes pro- longed until three o'clock in the morning.
" And now I have very important news for you, but I am afraid you will scream. Yet I am going to tell you, for I have more courage to write than to speak — I am to become an actress ! This is not all. I am to become a German actress. Please do not swear ! Mr. Gustave [Modjeski] says I shall have better op- portunities on the German stage, and though I do not like the idea, yet, — I think I have to please him. You see, dear brother, I
^ My niece, Joseph Benda's daughter, whom he left in my mother's care before leaving for Russian Poland.
64 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
want to do something in the world, and though I may not get an engagement, yet I study, study, and study. It may be useful to me some day, and if not, well, — at least it gives me a great deal of comfort at present.
" I know you will say that I always Uve in the clouds. Alas, it is so. And I think I shall never have peace imtil I am really up there among the clouds. I feel great strength in me, sometimes, and then again at times I am so weak that I am afraid of my own shadow.
" Mr. Gustave says I am nervous and need rest and change of air. He always brings me books. A few weeks ago he brought me Buchner's 'Kraft und Stoff.' It is a philosophical work in which the author tries to prove that there is no God, and that the world created itself out of a spark and accimiulation of matter, etc. I am curious to know who made the spark, because he does not tell that. No, no, I shall never cease to believe in God, to love Christ and his Holy Mother. I am now reading Kochanowski's poems, 'Treny.' They are beautiful because they are so infinitely sad.
" You know already that Adolphe works at some house-building, and gives mamma every month thirty florins. He lives with us, and we spend Sundays in excursions on foot or in 'furki. ' ^ Aunt Teresa, though she does not love Adolphe very much because he used to tease me and Josephine when we were children, and now is 'torturing' Stasia, yet she says that he is the only one in the family who will become a man.* Which means that neither you nor Felix nor Joseph have become 'men,' because you are all artists, and art does not pay. . . . 'Dixi.'
" I wish spring were here ! But it is only autmnn now, and a long, heavy winter is coming. Adieu. Mr. Gustave sends hearty greetings to you. Mamma, Josephine, and myself send you a thousand kisses. Your loving sister, "Hfiena
" P.S. Felix is going on a tour with his wife. The company is going to play in small towns and pleasure resorts during the summer months. You should see Felix on the stage. He is simply wonderful ! Ah ! When shall we be together again ? Do write often and long."
A scrap found among my papers: —
"The days do not belong to me, but the nights are mine. When all are asleep I go to the window, open it, and lookout into the moon-
^ A sort of peasant basket wagon.
* In Polish, the word " man " is the same
as a man of means, used in this sense.
MADAME MODJESKA AS "OPHELIA" (1871)
\
•. ♦■ • «*•».
<1
)
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH 65
light, into the starlight night. I stretch my arms and breathe deeply. The nightingale^s song, the perfume of the acacias, fill me with mispeakable delight and sadness. I wish to have wings and to fly into the endless space. Why am I so moved ? Does the idea of becoming an actress fill me with joy ? I do not know, though I feel happy at the thought, yet a mysterious pang is con- nected with it. I do not know what ails me. I have to leave my country, go on the German stage, among strangers. Ha ! If it must be, I will go ! Why do I not speak English 7 I would play Ophelia — Portia — Juliet. Gradually peace comes over me. I think of the parts I shall most likely perform. Half closing my eyes, I see among the trees and shrubs, Louise, wringing her hands and shedding tears, Ophelia with her vacant stare. Marguerite in the arms of Faust, Klarchen addressing the mob in desperate accents, Portia in a lawyer's gown, and sweet Julia of the 'Gentle- men of Verona' reading her lover's letter. All these phantoms, though unlike each other, have one and the same face, changed only by the expression, and it is mine. I send my thoughts into the vague future and see myself on the stage. I hear the applause of the j)eople. I see their tears and smiles. I know I make them feel what I feel. This is power ! . . . Ah, no, no, this is all a dream, a delusion. What does my miserable life amount to? Where am I going, and what will become of me? "
About that time happened the great event of my life: Mr. G. S. Modjeski, knowing my great love for reading, always provided me with books. I read with him Goethe, Wieland, and Lessing. He also made me memorize selected verses from Nibelungen Saga. It was during those readings that one day he asked me to become his wife. I answered ''Yes" without hesitation, because he had already become as dear to me as my own brothers ; and besides, my imagination had adorned him with the attributes of all the possible and impossible heroes I read about in poetry or prose. I believed him to be a man who could fight to death, kill a lion or a dragon for my sake, or, like Werther, commit suicide if I rejected him; for I truly believed he loved me with all the intensity of that most unhappy of Goethe's lovers.
PART II
POLAND
i(
f
"5
CHAPTER IX
In 1861, in the month of May, Mr. Modjeski, my little son Rudolphe, then four months old, and myself were living in Bochnia, where my mother and my little niece had moved previously. The dear Aunt Teresa was not with us any more. She died in the early part of January.
Bochnia is a small town of two or three thousand in- habitants in that part of Poland which belongs to Austria, and which is called the Kingdom of Galitzia. It lies about f fifty miles east of Cracow. In old times Bochnia was a
place of note, celebrated for its salt mines. At present the mines are nearly exhausted, and cannot compare with those of Wieliczka, the latter being probably the largest in the world. Buildings half ruined and miserable huts now stand in place of old historic castles, and instead of brilliant knights and rich noblemen, you see on the muddy streets merely poor peasants, shabby Jews, and only a few decently dressed men and women. In short, Bochnia to-day is a very uninteresting spot, except for the legend of the twelfth century clinging to its name.*
At the present time little remains in Bochnia of the marvels of its past, or its glorious associations, and I would not have mentioned the little town at all had it not been closely connected with my stage career.
One day at a May festival, while the young men and girls of Bochnia were trying their feet in a quadrille on the un- even ground of a meadow, Mr. Modjeski and I perceived the figure of a man in a summer suit and blue cravat coming
^ This legend has been already printed in The Arena of February, 1890, in an article of mine entitled, ''Reminiscenoes of Debuts in Many Lands."
69
70 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
toward us with dancing steps, smiling all over and waving his hat in repeated greetings. We did not recognize him at first, but when he came nearer, we both exclaimed: —
''Mr. Loboiko! What are you doing here?" Upon which he told us that Cracow, being overcrowded with photographic studios, he had come to Bochnia to establish one, and also to give dancing lessons.
One afternoon he brought news of an unfortunate acci- dent at the salt mines, causing the death of several men, who left widows and orphans without any means of support. We felt very badly about it, and decided to arrange an amateur performance for the benefit of the bereaved families, the receipts of which we had no doubt would be considerable, for Bochnia had no theatre of its own, and the travelling companies never stopped there on their tours.
This prospect transported me into the seventh heaven. The poor would be relieved, and moreover I should act on a real stage. Mr. Loboiko at once offered his services as instructor and artistic director. He went to a book-store and returned with several booklets containing short plays, which he left with us, and which I devoured one after the other, with the hunger of a beggar deprived for days of nourishing food.
Our artistic mentor, being also a very practical man, obtained at once the Casino Hall, in which he built a stage about ten feet deep. Then he manufactured some scenery out of wall-paper and canvas, and made a curtain of red calico, painted all over with golden stars. We went to the Casino every morning to see him, with apron and tucked- up sleeves, working on the paraphernalia.
Our company was composed of two men: Mr. Loboiko, the leading man; Mr. Bauman, our director's dancing pupil ; Miss Josephine Kossowska (my sister's stage name) ; myself as leading lady; and my eleven-year-old niec6, Stasia, as prompter, — five in all. The difficulties stand-
POLAND 71
ing in the way of regular charitable performances did not trouble us much. We had a hall in the Casino gratis. As to advertisements, there was no newspaper in town, so it was impossible to advertise, and the few bills posted on the corners of the streets were done at small expense by a hand printing-press, used commonly for announcements of deaths or public balls.
We selected two plays for the performance : ''The White Camelia,'' comedy in one act, and the ''Prima Donna," or "A Foster-sister," a play with songs, in two acts. We had eight rehearsals, and the actors were, speaking in theatrical slang, "dead-letter perfect." Yet, when I heard the cur- tain bell I nearly fainted. I tried to recollect the first lines of my part, but could not. My hands became cold as ice, thrilling acute shivers ran up and down my spinal column, and all together I had a feeling of sinking slowly into the ground. I do not recollect how I found myself on the stage, but once before the footlights I recovered my pres- ence of mind, and never made a mistake or forgot one word of my part. Toward the middle of the performance I was so much at ease that, when just at the beginning of a long soliloquy, my niece in the prompter's box dropped the manuscript, the leaves went scattering on the floor and the poor child began to cry, asking me in a desperate whisper : —
"WTiat skall I do a®T?" I tmswered composedly, "Pick up the leaves," and continued my part. My inborn shyness had totally disappeared when at work, and it only came back to me the next morning after the performance.
The audience was more numerous than we expected. All the authorities of the district and city, several country gentlemen of the neighborhood with their families, a few occasional visitors to the town, the teachers and the local schools, in fact, everybody who dressed in Occidental fashion, and even a thin scattering of Jews in their long silk
72 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
gaberdines, filled the Casino Hall, and represented what is called, in the American theatrical language, '^ a full house." I do not remember very well the details of the reception, but I suppose that our achievement must have been a genuine success, because two more performances were given, each with a change of bill. We played several new pieces, rehearsing the whole week each time, and playing Satur- days.
In one of these plays — a farce — I was cast for a man's part. It was necessity that prompted our stage director to give it to me. The personages of the farce did not exceed four, which was exactly the number of our company, but unfortunately they represented three men and one woman, whilst our dramatic organization was composed of two men and two women. To meet this difficulty I was cast for the part of a young, ''saucy lackey," whose chief performance consisted in stealing a pair of boots from a shoe store. Mr. Modjeski, afraid that I would appear ungainly in the part, and also to counteract my shyness, ordered at once a suit of boy's clothes for me, and every evening he took me out for long walks, so that, on the night of the performance, I almost forgot the strange garment I had on, and played my part with ease.
The preceding piece that night was a drama in two acts, entitled, ''A Window on the First Floor," by Korzeniowski, where I had to play a very dramatic part — that of a wife, who, on the point of being unfaithful to her husband, is saved by the cry of her sick baby.
The success was great, and the audience called the com- pany several times before the curtain. The unsophisticated public of that time loved plays with a healthy sentiment and a moral. It was before the times of Ibsen, D'Annunzio, or the French decadents. They always wanted virtue to be rewarded, and wickedness to fall into the depth of misery. They were very old-fashioned, but they had one good point :
POLAND 73
they paid most strict attention to the words and to the acting, which was a great comfort to a beginner like me. I knew that nothing would escape the critical eye or ear of that little crowd of provincials, and I took the same pains for them as if I were playing before the swells and sages of a metropolis. The farce following the drama was also well received, and I was not recognized in my boy's dress.
The chief event of the evening consisted in the visit of a stranger who came behind the scenes after the performance. He was very pleasant, and rather amused at my ''childish appearance," as he called it. He asked me, nevertheless, how long I had been on the stage, which I considered a flattering mistake.
''I never was on the stage," I answered, ''and I am not an actress. We only act for our pleasure, and we are only amateurs, except Mr. Loboiko." It was Mr. Chencinski,* a well-known actor on the Warsaw stage, a stage manager as well as a humorous dramatic author. He said something complimentary which I do not remember, and then con- cluded, taking leave of me : —
"I hope to see you in Warsaw soon." These words en- graved themselves in my memory, and turned my head completely. All the doubts concerning my abilities were dispelled. I knew now that I had talent. I knew I had to become an actress or to die ! And I wanted to be, not a German, but a Polish, actress ; and go one day to Warsaw to play at the Imperial theatre before a brilliant audience, poets, artists, learned men and refined women, and with great actors and actresses.
In a few hours it was decided that my little experience had opened the way to a career, and Mr. Modjeski advised Mr. Loboiko to go to Cracow and obtain a license for a travel- ling company, which was easily granted to actors ; and thus we started on the road under Mr. Loboiko's management.
^ Read Hencinski.
74 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
In a short time, however, he handed over the direction to Mr. Modjeski, who had more experience and leisure to attend to the business part of the concern. Loboiko's name was on the posters and programs, but he was only a member of the company and stage director; while Mr. Modjeski was ''de facto" the business head of our new-born company.
After leaving my baby in my dear mother's care, we started on our way towards New Soncz (New Sandec), on a mountaineer's large three-seated wagon covered with white canvas, looking very much like those prairie schooners the Argonauts of 1849 used in crossing the plains on their way to the gold hills of California. We were six all together : the company of four members, the manager, and the driver. Behind us waddled a little one-horse cart filled with our famous paper scenery and the trunks.
The picture of this first professional trip stands vividly before my eyes. The weather was glorious ! From the road, which led uphill almost all the time, we saw villages with luxuriant orchards, golden fields, and diminutive white huts, all flooded with warm sunlight, and far ahead of us the Carpathian Mountains ! My soul was filled with en- chantment and delight. The joy was so great that I sang. My sister caught the tune, and the others followed. Ab- sorbed by our own merriment, we did not notice that we were crossing a village, until our wagon stopped and we saw peasants gathered around us, — girls with pink cheeks looking at us from the windows and from the garden gates, and little Jews yelling, ''Circus! Circus!" Amidst laugh- ter and jokes we descended from our Noah's Ark at an inn. The horses had to rest an hour before we could proceed farther.
''It is now twelve o'clock, and the repast is ready." So says the handsome stout Jewess inviting us to the dining room. Her husband stands in the doorway looking at us. He is not handsome. On both sides of his cheeks hang
POLAND 75
the two traditional curls, which this time happen to be of a bright red hue. He wears a black skull cap, breeches, white stockings, slippers, and a sort of vest with several strings hanging around it. I noticed that seeing us he kissed one of the strings, and then again another.^ He is not hospitable either, but lets his wife play the part of kind hostess, which she does to perfection, in spite of the five small children who hang around her, pulling her right and left, wiping their noses on her gown, and making faces at each other. We enter the whitewashed room, adorned by a few cheap prints and the inevitable swarm of flies, and we order a dinner.
'^ Everything is ready,'' says the landlady. We shall have to wait ''only half an hour," our plump beauty assures us. We have to submit, since there is no other inn in the village.
While waiting for the young chickens, which had to be killed first and fried afterwards, we take a stroll in the village. It is an hour of rest, and the whole village is eating. Some of the peasants are taking their meals in the huts and spme in the open air, under the shade of a large apple or cherry tree. Our peasants are almost all vegetarians by necessity. They are poor, and can only very seldom afford the luxury of meat ; yet they are strong, vigorous, indefatigable workmen, with ruddy cheeks, excellent humor, always singing while at work. Their songs are for the most part improvisations ; they are often witty 'and always me- lodious. These people can no more help singing than the birds. They set all their feelings to music : love, tears,
* The orthodox Jews in our country wear those vests with strings. They lift one of those strings from time to time and kiss it, and probably for that reason they call them in Yiddish "Tzitsele," which sounds eu- phonic enough. There is a saying among the Christian peasants that these strings represent the Ten Commandments, and every time the Jew tres- passes on one of them, or is tempted to do so, he amends the offence by Kissing the "Tzitsele," and by this act of devotion drives the evil spirits away.
76 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
joy, despair, oppression, — all are expressed in the various songs of these illiterate poets whose only learning consists of prayers and Nature's own inspirations. We return to the inn just in time, and the dinner is excellent.
Provided with food — and fleas ! — we take leave of our hospitable Rebecca, and mount the high grades of our wagon. She and her five offspring, augmented by the addition of a sucking baby at her breast, which evidently was asleep when we arrived, are sitting on the porch. She waves her hand to us, smiles with her white teeth, and says : ''Do widzenia!" Her husband stands frowning at the door. We bow to him, but he only nods slightly and kisses the ''Tzitsele."
Our trip to New Sandec was delightful. We were young, full of spirit and hope, the day was beautiful, and the country enchanting. We made plans for future work, we rode on the clouds, building Spanish castles. We were free as birds and happy as young dogs.
When we were established in New Sandec, Mr. Loboiko wrote to several actors and actresses, who soon joined us. ' Some of them came even without being invited, so that, at the end of three weeks, we had a company of nineteen members. The success was great, and soon we were able to buy decent scenery and costumes.
I was the star from the beginning, but I wanted to play parts of various kinds in order to gain experience, and I made several hits in episodical small parts. One evening I played a hysterical, comical old lady, and made the public laugh. I was ready to play even a few lines in pieces where there was no good part for me. Work was a delight to me. Even now when I think of my enthusiasm of those days, I am thrilled with the recollection. We lived in rooms which were barelv furnished. We had to sit on boxes and all sorts of improvised seats. I had but two dresses, one black and the other white, with two tunics, which I used to
POLAND 77
transform by addition of black or pink ruches; our meals were frugal, but I could see from the porch fields of wild flowers, trees, and mountains; above all, I had my parts. Walking up and down on the veranda, I studied them, to the accompaniment of the birds' songs, and I felt as proud and wealthy as the richest woman. v.To live in the imaginary world of my heroines, to speak their poetic language, to render different sentiments, to work out a character, were the most cherished delights of my existence.
The rendering of the part was not so attractive as the \ study of it, and I never was satisfied with the applause when . I was not quite pleased with myself. Even at that early | stage of my career I had a habit of calling before my mind j a picture of the person I had to represent, and then filling it with my own self. When I could not see the vision in my mind from head to foot, even to the garment and gestures, when I could not hear my own voice ringing in the accents of my vision, I rejected the part, for I knew I could not play it to my satisfaction, j
At the end of August we left New Sandec, where, owing to the generosity of the public, we had become of some im- portance. In order to prove our gratitude to the town, we called our company ''The New Sandec Combination.''
CHAPTER X
After leaving New Sandec we went to Krynica, a fashion- able health resort, greatly in favor with Warsaw people, who used to spend summers among the pines and rocks of that picturesque nook in the Carpathian Mountains. We found the place in alarm. The news had come from Waraaw that several men and women had been killed in the streets by the Russian soldiers.
It was in February of 1861 that the Poles began their demonstrations, singing hymns and national songs in public places, gathering in churches and walking in processions. All these demonstrations had seemingly a religious character, but they were in fact the forerunners of the Insurrection of 1863.*
^ The uprising of the Poles bore from the start a mystio character. In June, 1861, th«!« was a rumor which ran like an electric current through all the country, that in great forests near Warsaw strange men ap- peared, dressed in peasant garbs or blouses. Thev seldom came out of their hiding-places, but when they were seen, they behaved with modesty and piety. Some people saw them at a forester's abandoned house ; some giris gathering wild berries met them, and were greeted with courtesy. Here and there they bought milk and eggs from the peasant women; they paid royally, talked gently, and with a kind of mystic inspiration. They soon won the respect of the people. When they were asked who they were and what they wanted, they answered with allegories ; they called themselves men who came through their own sufferings to redeem the sufferings of their fellow-men. The peasants thought they were hermits seeking a refuge where they coula freely repent of their sins, but the city people and the governmental spheres saw in them secret revolutionary agents.
The first cause of the dissatisfaction of the people was the peasant ques- tion. The Poles desired to emancipate the peasants. This was opposed by Alexander II, on the ground that this action would estabUsh the popularity of the nobles. He preferred to be himself the originator of the idea, which he brought to life afterwards, and for which he gained the name of "White Czar.'* This measure of absolutism against the praise- worthy endeavors of the Polish nobility was the first spark thrown into
78
POLAND 79
In the presence of the tragic news from Warsaw it was impossible to give performances in Krynica. We returned to Bochnia, where we rested awhile; then, taking with us our baby boy and his nurse, we started on our further tour. It was absolutely necessary to stop a day in Cracow on account of scenery and luggage, which had to be unloaded and transferred to the railroad cars. The aspect of the city was unspeakably sad.
Already in February, 1861, after the first demonstration and the first victims in Warsaw, the women began to dress in black, but now mourning was recommended by ecclesi- astic authorities, and the whole country — all the three parts of Poland remaining under three different govern- ments — wore black. When we travelled through the country, the black dresses of city people were often relieved by bright costumes of peasants, but in Cracow there was not one person dressed in colors. Even the few German women and oflScers' wives were obliged to wear black dresses, lest they should be molested by street urchins, or jeered at and remonstrated with by the people.
The interiors of the churches were covered with mortuary paUs ; groups of men gathered at the corners of the streets or on the ''Planty," talking with animation but in low tones of voice. All the faces bore the same serious and anxious expression. In the evening, black crowds knelt down in the Rynek before the picture of the Virgin; and the National Hymn, in accents of desperate complaint, was rising slowly up to heaven !
a heap of combustibles. The whole nation caught the fever. Many unpleasant complications followed. Men, women, and even children, were killed in the streets while sin|:ing religious hymns, or following fune- rals. The government, at first lenient and undecided what course to take against praying and singing crowds, finished by a tenible repression. Cossacks were camping in the streets of Warsaw, outraging the inhabi- tants and committing all sorts of cruelties. The Poles threw themselves recklesslv into the Insurrection which broke out in 1863 with all the fierce- ness of a long-suffering and injured people.
80 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
Next day we left Cracow, after having taken a large provision of books, and we started *'on the road, " travelling from one town to another, and staying in each at least two weeks, and often longer. In Rzeszow we stayed three months, and played to good houses all the time.
Our company grew rapidly. In April, 1862, it contained thirty-six members, and our equipment and staff were considerable. There were no regular salaries, however, in our combination; but we shared the income according to the importance and abilities of the actors. Not being in the cast did not exclude the actor from his right to a share. This system had one good point. The actors, being interested in the income, tried their best to help the success. It hap- pened often that small parts were played by those who would never have condescended to accept them under an individual management. When we played national plays or dramas requiring a great number of people, all actors who were not in the cast appeared in mute parts as leaders of the supernumeraries. The result of this loyal spirit of the company was that the performances were smooth and artistic, and soon the reputation of the ''New Sandec , Combination" reached the ears of Mr. Nowakowski, one of the managers of the endowed theatre in Lw6w (Lemberg),^ who came to Sambor to see our performance.
We played "Sluby Panienskie" ("Maiden's Vows"), by Fredro, our Polish Moli^re. The play, written in verse, is one of his best and most popular comedies, and I played the subtle and spirited part of Clara. Mr. Nowakowski was pleased; he paid many compliments to the company and to me, and said he would surely remember me. In case I should get tired of travelling and wish an engagement in the Lemberg theatre, the doors would be opened for me. His gracious words, however, did not result at once in any material form, and we went on our further travels.
^ The oapital of the southeastern part of Poland called Galitzia.
POLAND 81
I became a favorite of our provincial public, and the evenings on which I did not appear the ''houses" were smaller. It was more flattering than comfortable, because the company wanted to have my name continually on the bill, no matter if my health permitted it or not; and so it/ happened that my daughter Marylka was born two hours after a five-act tragedy in which I played the principal r61e, and ten days afterwards I had to appear again on the stage. Another time, being seriously ill, I stayed in bed two weeks. One of our ladies came and told me that the public would not come if they did not see my name in the cast. Could I make an effort and appear in a one-act play, just to have my name on the bills ? I made an effort, played my part, fainted after the performance, stayed in bed two days, then played again and went to bed.
I recovered, however with the help of youth and country | au-, and in April, 1862, we visited Lemberg. As soon as we' came, my first desire, of course, was to go to the theatre. I was very anxious to see how the great city actors played.
The old theatre, built by Count Skarbek, and endowed by him, is a very large building occupying a square block. The stage, scenery, and auditorium seemed to me very handsome then. The play was "Marie Tudor," by Victor Hugo, and when the curtain rose I was all eyes and ears. Madame Ashberger, the leading lady, in the title r61e, made a powerful impression on me, but the others did not seem to me great. They were commonplace, though correct, but they wore very handsome costumes.
After the performance I could not sleep for a long while. I was thinking what a comfort it must be to act on a stage like that, to have appropriate lights, good orchestra, fine audience, and experienced, solid support, and I was de- termined to get there. At that time I was reading a little book called ''The Hygiene of the Soul," by Feuchtersleben. In this book the author tries to prove that everything we
f
82 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
wish can be obtained if we only wish it strongly.* Obedient to the spirit of this Utopian, I rose from the bed, and stamp- ing the floor, I exclaimed, ''Well, then, I must and I will!" This woke up my nurse, and the baby began to cry, so I crept back to bed, dreaming of future laurels.
Feuchtersleben, however, did not help, and we went on our further provincial tour.
In the meantime the news from Warsaw was stirring the whole nation and filling all hearts with sad apprehensions. Even to the farthest corners of the country the echo of Warsaw outrages came, magnified by distance and casting a gloom over all. People, however, did not cease to go to the theatre, but even there they were reminded of the ills of the country.
We performed many Polish historical plays then, and besides, popular pieces were placed on the bill every week, — plays with songs and dances, in which I also took part. Sad songs and desperate dances indeed ; at every patriotic word or suggestion of the present state of the country, the people in front wiped their eyes, and the actors on the stage danced with tears rolling down their cheeks.
In 1862 the spring was beautiful, the business very prosperous, and, in consequence, the company was pleased, and everybody looked bright in spite of the sad events in Russian Poland. I am mistaken; not everybody looked bright. There were among them those who were in love, and they looked very unhappy, and there were many of both sexes in our company who were touched with that disease which spring sends to the world with the first waft of her breath. I watched those poor victims. Ah ! those killing, desperate looks, the sighs, the nonsense, written and spoken, so full of charm or ridicule.
There were Romeos ready to use daggers against their
^ It seems that he failed in his theories, for a few years later he oom- mitted suicide.
POLAND 83
lives, and Juliets on the point of being buried alive. Some of them were young and some of them were old, but they were all romantic to excess. Our juvenile lady, who was desperately in love with a young student, failing to obtain her mother's consent to the marriage, tried to poison herself by drinking a bottle of the white liquid with which she painted her neck and hands for the stage. This attempt on her youthful life resulted in seasickness and total awaken- ing from her dream. Another young lady tried to jump out of the window, but screamed so loud before the fatal leap that her sister had ample time to rescue her. The young men were not so rash in taking such decided leaps into the next world ; their usual demonstrations consisted in slight cuts in their flesh, using their own blood instead of ink for writing ardent messages to their sweethearts.
During the season 1862, from February till September, besides many parts in Polish dramas, I played Amelia in Schiller's ''Die Rauber," Lady Teazle in Sheridan's "School for Scandal, " and also the leading parts in French melo- dramas: "Thirty Years of a Gambler's Life," "The Pearl of Savoy," "Life in Dream," etc. It is impossible to remember all the plays, and I have no records of that year.
In September, 1862, we arrived in Brody, a town in which the Jewish population predominated. And we did not ex- pect great success among this mixed population. Civilized Hebrews as a rule are very constant theatre-goets and patrons of art, but Brody, for the most part, was inhabited by orthodox Jews, who keep strictly to their religion, and do not indulge often in worldly entertainnients. The Israel- ites of Brody were for the most part very moral in their home life, and so exclusive that they did not like their girls to be seen by "goys," ^ but kept them at home at their housework until their marriage. To these grave people, deeply engaged in pursuits of fortune or religious rites, the
^ Yiddish for Christians.
84 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
theatre was no attraction; therefore we could not at all count upon their support. However, being in town, we spread our camp. Lodgings were found, and the theatre rented.
A few days later, on a bright afternoon, we strolled around the town in company with our juvenile lady, my sister, and some young actors. As the day was very fine, some one suggested an excursion to the next village. On the road we met a band of gypsies, and among them an old woman, who, as soon as we approached the camp, offered to tell our fortunes. My companions were eager to let the old lady have her way. They all had their fortunes read, and when my turn came I hesitated, but the old witch looked so intently at me with her piercing black eyes that I suc- cumbed to her fascination and extended mv hand towards her. After a moment of scrutiny with which she observed the lines of my hand, she raised her head, and looking straight in my face, she said in Little Russian : — ''
''After to-morrow you will be in Lw6w." We all laughed, and I answered that it was impossible because we had just settled down for two or three weeks. She frowned and repeated : —
''After to-morrow you will be in Lw6w," and then pro- ceeded with her mind-reading. We returned to town, very much amused by the various prophecies and nonsense we had heard, but very soon we realized that the gypsy woman's words were true, after all.
The very next night I was awakened by a glare of flames and an alarm bell. I looked out. The roof of the house opposite to ours was on fire, shooting sparks and sending them on the neighboring houses. I had enough presence of mind to pack our trunks without wakening up any one for fear of confusion, and when this was done, I woke my husband, the nurse, and the babies, whom he dressed in a hurry, and, having succeeded in transporting our trunks out
POLAND 85
of the reach of the flames, we waited until daylight in the open. The whole city seemed to be on fire, and we soon learned that the theatre was burning, too. There was nothing to do but to leave the town as soon as possible. We caught the morning train for Lemberg, and the gypsy's prophecy was fulfilled.
In September of 1862 Mr. Modjeski saw the managers in Lemberg, who consented to give me a trial, and selected three plays in which I had to appear. Thus by mere acci- dent my dream of appearing on the Lemberg stage was realized.
The first of the plays selected for my d^but was a drama called ''Domy Polskie" ("Polish Homes") by Majeranowski. My part was strong, very dramatic and heroic, but also full of tenderness and love. It suited me, I thought ; and, strange to say, I was not at all afraid of playing on that large stage. There is a great deal of courage, even boldness, in youth and inexperience. Timidity comes with responsi- bility, when we are afraid of falling down from the pedestal on which the audience and the critics have placed us.
I passed happily through the verdict of the audience, in spite of a slight incident which happened at the close of one of the acts. I had to shoot from my castle at the attack- ing enemies, and was supposed to kill a man. We had four rehearsals, and I thought that everything went smoothly. But it seems that the supernumerary man who had to fall at my shot sent a substitute for the next rehearsal, and the substitute sent another for the third rehearsal, and this pne being awkward, was replaced by an old man belonging to the theatre. At the night of the performance the first ''super" and his two substitutes came, and all together, with the old man who rehearsed the last, appeared in the mob. The result is easily foreseen — all four of them fell at my single shot. This, of course, put the public for a while in a hilarious mood, but I was called before the
86 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
curtain repeatedly, and when the play was over, I had no doubt of having made a favorable impression.
Next was the part of an ingenue, demure, shy, and cling- ing, very unlike the heroine in ''Domy Polskie''; and the third play which the management selected was "The Primrose Farm, " from the English, a sort of "Bluette," with songs and dances. I had to dance a hornpipe ! A hornpipe ! I had never seen, not even heard of such a dance ! I was in despair, and while I was trying to per- suade the stage manager to leave out the dance. Made- moiselle de Fontlief, who was crossing the stage, stopped and listened to my desperate appeal. Then she came right to me and said that if I wanted, she would teach me the dance, as she had played the part in ''Primrose Farm" before. She took me to her dressing-room and showed me the steps, then invited me to her lodgings and rehearsed with me several times, playing the tune of the dance for me until I was quite at ease in it.
Mademoiselle de Fontlief was leaving the Polish stage at that time. She accepted an engagement in Vienna, where she made a great success at Carl's Theatre in modern French plays. She left the stage to marry Prince Turn und Taxis, who was related to the imperial family. She left one of the sweetest impressions on my soul. I admired not only her talent but also her great kind heart.
CHAPTER XI
After my trial performances I was almost sure of an engagement, especially when I realized how useful I could be to the management.
The favorite of the audience was then a talented and very beautiful young woman, Madame X, to whom the parts of ing6nues belonged exclusively. She was greatly admired by the public in the part of ''La Petite Fadette/' the play which Madame Birch Pfeifer adapted for the stage from George Sand's novel. This beautiful actress was rather capricious. Her spontaneous success went to her head, and she enjoyed imposing her sweet will upon the management. Several times she sent a message to the stage manager just before the performance, declaring that, being indisposed, she would not play. Sometimes she refused parts assigned to her. In a word, she caused some annoyance to both managers.
When I came, they saw in me a sort of antidote against her whims, and proposed to engage me, on the absurd salary of forty florins a month, to play the parts she rejected, and also to be her understudy. Mr. Modjeski advised me to accept the engagement. I played all sorts of parts. I was in one play a great lady, in the next a page, a Venetian courtesan or a Hungarian dancing boy, a gypsy or a fairy queen, a shy inginue or a rattling singing soubrette in an operetta! I also understudied all Madame X.'s parts.
All went well and smoothly until one evening I came into collision with the capricious favorite. One morning the management sent for me to rehearse one of her parts. I
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88 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
knew the lines well, and the stage manager was satisfied, and said: —
" Madame X. is ill, and will not be able to play to-night; as you know her part, you must play for her." Then very kindly he went over the business with me. I came to the theatre early that night and dressed. Just as I was leaving my room, I saw Madame X., standing in the wing waiting for her entrance. As she lived in the theatre building, she came all dressed and made up, and without reporting to the stage manager, appeared behind the scenes just in time for her cue. When she saw me she looked at me in utter dis- dain, and exclaimed : —
''What does this mean? What are you going to play to-night ? " I explained that the management called for me to play her part because she was supposed to be ill. ''My dear, they were joking," she answered, with a three-cornered smile, and shrugging her shoulders, she turned her back on me. That was not the only humiliation I had to stand from the ladies of the theatre. Most of the numerous per- sonnel of that endowed theatre were very kind and charitable, especially Madame Ashberger, the leading lady, who took me under her protective wing from the start, and whenever a difficult or unsuitable part fell to my share, she asked me to come to her room, and talked to me about it, and some- times even read the lines for me. She also g'ave me designs for costumes I had to wear in my various parts. This favor she conferred on me created more enmity then ever in the ranks of my adversaries. One evening two of the three antagonistic goddesses were so incensed against me that they would not allow me even a corner in the large dfessing-room, where four could dress comfortably, and where I occupied a dressing-table by right. These spirited and not over-kind priestesses of art arranged their costumes and baskets in such a way that, when I came in, not the least space was left for me among them. Not being satis-
POLAND 89
fied with the trick they played on the provincial strolling actress, they began to sting me with their silly remarks, until I was boiling all over with anger. I was just about to lift a beautiful spangled gown oflf my table to make room coUte que coUte, when I heard a clear musical voice : —
''Madame Modjeska, come to my room, please." It was Madame Ashberger's voice, who, from her dressing-room,, separated only by a partition, had heard every word of the conflict. I was so touched by this new proof of that dear woman's kindness that I could not speak. I only kissed her hand, and hot tears fell from my eyes.
''Do not cry," she whispered to me. " It would give them a great satisfaction to know that you took their silly talk to heart. Be calm ! Think of your part, and do not mind them."
The play that night was "Balladyna," by Slowacki, — entirely new to me ; for, though I had read and memorized many of his poems, I was not well acquainted with his plays. My part was that of an imp, a sort of "Puck." Madame Ashberger gave me a design for the costume, and I executed it to the best of my ability. The tunic was com- posed of strips of shaded brown gauze folded thickly over yellow silk, which was intended to produce the effect of a beetle. My dress was short in contrast to the conven- tional long skirts actresses then wore on the stage even in boy's parts. I wore brown and gold wings and fleshings ! Horrors ! Each of the goddesses passing before me said aloud : —
"Shame! Outrageous! She is naked!" And Madame Ashberger only laughed, and said to me: —
"Never mind, never mind. You are 'all right!" But in spite of her kind, encouraging words, I experienced one of those terrific fits of stage fright which makes the voice sound hollow and paralyzes the gestures. The dreadful
90 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
remarks of the trio resounded in my ears, they burned, they scorched, until I became conscious of my scanty dress, which, when I tried it on first, seemed to me rather pretty and characteristic. I crossed my arms over my chest, and did not unfold •them until the end of the scene. I was awkward and felt the ground slipping from under my feet, and only after I had delivered one of the speeches I had particularly studied, and received recognition from the public, did I begin to be my own self again. The language of Slowacki is so beautiful that it was a delight to speak the lines. I soon forgot all the bitterness I was fed on that evening, and gave myself up entirely to my part and the fairyland in which the author made me live for a while.
After a few weeks of my uncertain engagement on that miserable salary, I received a more serious proposal from the management. A high-spirited and absurd letter I wrote at that time to my mother gives the description of that incident : —
NovEMBEB 9th, 1862. "Dear Mameczka Gittle mother),
"Although I have just written to you, the event which happened here lately compels me to write again, for it is only my duty to enlighten you, dear mamma, as well as all big and small members of the family upon the subject : —
"I have actually signed the contract with the management of the Lemberg theatre for one year and a half. The following official act will best describe thi important fact : —
"To all present, etc. —
"It happened in Lemberg on the 6th of November, 1862d. year, in the following manner : —
"At eight o'clock in the morning came to the lodgings of the undersigned a certain female in a straw hat, a red shawl, a green dress [without hoops], and a large wicker bag on her arm. Judg- ing by her face, she could be more or less between thirty and fifty years old. Her Christian name is Justyna, and after her husband she is called Urbanska, and she is the wife of the property man of the theatre.
POLAND 91
''She entered the bedroom without knocking, and found all the family in bed, and Mr. Modjeski in deep negligee. A vivid scarlet tint spread over the unbeautiful face and the beet- root nose of Pan! Justina, and a sigh escaped through the wide-open lips, — a sigh of indignation over the sad realities of the world, — such at least was the supposition of the under- signed. After that deep and expressive sigh, she deUvered a statement to Mr. Modjeski and the undersigned, in which she declared that the gentlemen managers wished to speak with them.
"Mr. Modjeski and the imdersigned dressed immediately and went to the managers' office, asking for the reason of the summons. They only found one manager in the office, Mr. S. ; John the Spendthrift, so called for his great economy, was not there. Manager N. sent for him, however, and when he arrived we were shown into the rehearsal hall. He took Mr. Modjeski and the undersigned aside and declared in soft tones of voice that, prompted by the noble feelings of a thoughtful father, he desired to raise the salary of the undersigned and wished to sign a contract with her. Mr. Modjeski asked what salary he would be willing to ofifer me, and John the Spendthrift answered: —
" *I raise her salary to fifty-five florins a month.' To which both Mr. Modjeski and the undersigned agreed.
"What was the reason of this wastefulness, unheard of in Lem- berg theatre history, no one knows, but the current of whispers brought to our ears the intimation that Majeranowska, who was until now a member of the Lemberg Stock Company, had obtained a more lucrative engagement in Warsaw, and will not likely return. The management was then in need of an operetta singer, and, having no one at hand, they have destined the undersigned to that position.
"How it happened, no matter; but it happened. Besides the raising of the salary, the contract allows traveUing expenses for the undersigned and family, as well as hotel expenses, should the company go on the road.
"The hearing of which arrangements is granted to each person concerned in the matter, as well as to all present and absent mem- bers of the family.
"This act has been composed and written in the presence of two trustworthy witnesses, who, by their own signatures, affirm its authority. The names of the witnesses : Rudolphe S. Modjeski, age twenty-one months, citizen of Lemberg, bom in Cracow;
92 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
Marie S. Modjeska/ thirty weeks old, spinster, bom in Sambor, inhabitant of Lemberg.
''Lembero, November 9th, 1862d. year.
'' XRUDOLPHE S. M^BJISKI
as witmesf. " X Marie S. Modjeska
as witness. '' (The witnesses, not knowing how to write, put down a sigti of the cross.)
"From the official act you may, dear little mother, judge how our affairs stand."
I suppress the end of the letter, as it only contained some very intimate details about the babies and people which could not possibly be of any interest to the readers.
^ The last vowel of the name in Polish changes aocording to the sex, "i" for men, !*a" for women.
CHAPTER XII
In the second part of January, 1863, the Insurrection broke out. The Poles, encouraged by a few successful en- counters with the Russians, threw themselves blindly into the whirl of battle. Their courage, their intense love of the country, their devotion to the cause, and their undaunted spirit aroused the admiration of our neigh- bors.
For a long time they were under the delusion that the emperor of France, Napoleon III, would help them, but that hope, like so many others, was vain.
The poor Poles were left alone, with no sympathy save in words, and no help but what they received secretly in ammunition, arms, and money from different parts of the world. These means were soon exhausted, and nothing was left but their own courage to depend upon. They fought desperately. Thousands of young men — even boys under sixteen — enlisted under the national flag. Every day brought tears and mourning into the Polish homes.
The greatest misfortune of this uprising was that not all our peasants were in sympathy with those who fought for independence. If the whole nation could have risen like one man, then there might have been some hope for the nation; but this division was fatal, and the Insurrection was rapidly progressing to its hopeless end.
Oh, the painful recollections of those horrible times! From the April of 1861 (when the first five men were sacri- ficed), when women and children were killed in the streets for singing hymns, the whole people, even those who had
93
94 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
but a few drops of Polish blood in their veins, were pene- trated with a most acute feeling of great wrongs and pity for the victims. The whole nation was palpitating with pain and desire for revenge, the atmosphere was full of something coml^ustible, something which made aU the nerves vibrate at the slightest news from the battle- field.
In spite of the tension of pain, this pit of horror and despair in which the poor country was precipitated, the theatres were kept open, and it was the right thing to do, for the unfortunate young men who were going to fight found there at least a few moments' pleasure before they went to sacrifice their young lives for the country.
One never-forgotten performance comes to my mind. The youth of Lemberg had just finished their enlisting. The newly enlisted regiment was about to start. On the eve of departure the theatre was crowded. All the young insurgents were there. The play was a Polish melodrama, with national costumes and songs. In the last act almost every actor in the play had to sing a ''couplet" suited to the occasion, the words of which were pencilled in a hurry in the dressing-rooms during the play. The manager read the compositions, approving or correcting them. They were words of farewell and good wishes, or appeals full of patriotic meaning, spurring the young men to brave deeds. The youthful volunteers cheered at every verse ; the actors sung, choking with tears, and there was such a bond of sym- pathy between the audience and the stage that were it not for the footlights they would have all joined in one embrace.
There was something grand, inspiring, and heartrending in the aspect of all these young, eager faces, many of them mere boys, with no trace of hair on their upper lips or chins, mad enthusiasts who threw themselves blindly into
POLAND 95
the whirl of battle, never doubting that the deliverance de- pended on their courage alone, and that the dawn of liberty- was near at hand. No one could look at them with dry eyes, and we all cried. When the curtain fell, the company was called again and again, and new cheers and farewells were exchanged, until the exhausted actors refused to appear, and the audience was reduced to a few enthusiasts, who would not leave the theatre until the lights were put out.
I did not stay in Lemberg until the expiration of my contract. The salary was really too small to live and dress upon, and my enthusiasm received* many shocks from the constant conflict with the 'Hrio" and also from the '' fa- therly" managers, who put all the parts no one wanted to my care. But, poor souls, they were forced to do so. When on one particular occasion they gave me a really good part of a pathetic, patriotic boy of fourteen, because that boy had to sing, and none of the trio had any voice, and when Mr. Lozinski, the prominent critic, declared that I possessed an unmistakable talent, the trio made so much ado, accus- ing the dear old managers of patronizing a ''pretty face," that they never even tried to repeat the experience, and I continued playing pages, gypsies, servant-girls, peasant women, mysterious countesses in French melodramas, etc. I sang and danced, laughed and cried, and always tried to play even the smallest part to the satisfaction of my best friend, Madame Ashberger, who allowed me to recite in her presence, and many a time corrected me during rehearsals. I had worked hard and always with the hope of rising some day, and though I saw no chance of the realization of my hopes in the near future, still I plodded on my way pa- tiently. It was discouraging, yet that year's experience did me a great deal of good ; and though I did not seem to advance in my art, yet I was unconsciously working towards development, acquiring versatility and originality, for I had
96 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
to use a good deal of observation to play so many various characters.
But playing two or three new parts every week, rehears- ing, and making my own costumes at night, nearly exhausted me. I looked thin and pale, and my health was visibly failing. Even Madame Ashberger ceased to encourage me, and advised me to take the engagement offered me by one of the provincial managers, who promised me leading parts and a good salary.
L
CHAPTER XIII
After a few weeks of a "star" engagement in small towns of Galitzia, we settled down in Czerniowce, where Mr. Modjeski rented the city theatre jind established a stock company. Soon after- wards all my three half- brothers Benda — Joseph, Felix, and Simon — joined us ; and also a very talented actor, Ortynski. We also
1 had in our company Win-
I centy Rapaeki (who became
' famous a few years later)
and his wife Josephine
f , Hofmann. My sister and
her husband, Tomaazewiez, were also in our company. Being over twenty in num- ber, we played a very im- posing repertoire : comedies,
j^ classic ant! modern, trage-
dies and dramas, melo- dramas and operettas, of
' which my brother Simon, Wincenti r*packi.
who had just returned from the Vienn^ conservatory, was the leader.
r-' In order to satisfy the authorities, Mr, Modjeski had to
engage a German company to alternate with the Polish
I performances. The German actors and actresses used to
97
98 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
come to our plays, and I received great encouragement from them. They advised me to study for the German stage, and persuaded Mr. Modjeski that the field of the Polish stage was too small for me, that I needed a larger space in order to "spread out my wings" (the phrase is theirs, not mine).
My husband looked to it at once. He brought to our house Herr Neugebauer, the high school professor of German literature, who undertook to instruct me in his native tongue. Though I was not a novice in the language, yet I was deficient in pronunciation, emphasis, and enun- ciation.
After a few months of study, however, I was ready to appear with the German company in a one-act play called ''On Water and Bread" (Bei Wasser und Brod). It was a very modest beginning, but Mr. Modjeski did not want me to appear ia any of the responsible parts in a language with which I was not thoroughly acquainted as yet. The rehearsals were called, and a bill in large type announcing my first appearance on the German stage was placed at the theatre entrance.
It was only then — only when I saw that unfortunate^ announcement — that I realized what I was doing,, and a sense of shame filled me at the meanness of my deserting the Polish stage just at the tim_e when the poor tountry was fighting desperately for independence, with but a slight hope of winning the cause. My spirits fell to the lowest degree of temperature at the last rehearsal, and when, on leaving the theatre, I perceived several students before my bill frowning as they read aloud my name in German type, I ran home with my head down, not daring to lift my eyes for fear of meeting glances of reproach or contempt.
I ate my midday meal in silence and without the slightest appetite. Mr. Modjeski was chatting merrily, asked me if I had my costume ready, and how it looked, etc.
POLAND 99
'^And mind, read your part again in the afternoon," he added, "or else you may get confused." I wanted to scream at the top of my voice, *'I shall never play in German!" But I dared not disappoint him, and besides, r knew well that he would treat this outburst as a caprice not worthy of a sensible person. I stifled my feelings, and went to the garden with my part. I sat there motionless, brooding over my misery, and forming all sorts of arguments to justify my appearance on the German stage, or to get out of it entirely, when, suddenly, like an answer called forth by some magic power, the sound of a passing military band struck my ears, my breast, my whole being, with un- speakable exultation and pain.* I listened for a while, then, flinging my part away, I fell on my knees, and burying my face in my hands, I sobbed convulsively, repeating : —
''No, no I I will never be a renegade ! Never ! Never !" Mr. Modjeski found me in that state, and lifting me up, took me to my room. I do not remember what happened next, but one detail is still in my mind : I shook with fever, my nails were blue, and. my mother was sitting at the foot of my bed. My dear, sweet mother, who had travelled so many miles to come and live with us, poured many comforting words into my ears, words which acted as balm to my over- strung nerves, shothing the pain and restoring me to my own self again. How it happened I do not know. There was no more question of my going on the German stage. I continued to play in Polish.
We produced ''Angelo Malipieri," by Victor Hugo. This was my first attempt at tragedy. I also played Louise in ''Kabale und Liebe," in ''Wilhelm Tell," in all the French melodramas, and in a great many patriotic Polish plays. Offenbacl^ was also in our repertoire, and I played
^ The Austrian under this reign of the Emperor Franz Joseph was liberal, and the national music was not excluded from the military band's program.
100 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
in ''Fortunio/' ''Enchanted Violin," ''Wedding by Lan- terns/' and in several other musical plays, besides the Polish comic operas; when, on one occasion, during the finale, I had to keep the high C during four full bars, my uncultivated voice broke, and I could sing no more. I ought not to have sung high soprano parts, for my voice was a decided mezzo, but we had no one else to sing those high notes except Madame Hofmann Rapacka, and she being ill at the time, I had to take her place. The loss of my voice was not very important, for I never liked my singing parts. Light operas did not appeal to me. I was anxious to make a repertoire of serious dramas and comedies.
Neither did I like my parts in French melodramas ; but I had to play them, as in those days nothing was so highly appreciated and enjoyed by the audience as a good melo- drama. I recollect an amusing incident connected with one of these popular plays : —
We had in our company a young, very talented actor, who was an ardent follower of the French melodrama. He had tendencies for writing, and in one of his happy, or unhappy, moods he wrote a play based on the French novel, "Le Bossu" (The Hunchback). The hero's object in the play was to appear as a hunchback in the first three acts, by way of disguising his real personality; then, at the supreme moment, to straighten himself up to the full height of six feet, in order to confound the villains and destroy their wicked plots.
This young actor thought that the mere stooping and bending of his body was not sufficient to represent the appearance of a man with a hump on his back, and in order to give his figure a realistic touch (every one had to be realistic at that time) he contrived a peculiar scheme : he bought a bladder which he filled with air, and placed it on his right shoulder under the coat. Previous to the perform- ance he nciade the stage carpenter place a strong wooden
•*,«.«,
POLAND 101
board braced by iron clasps behind the painted pillar, so that he could lean against it. He imagined that by pressing the right shoulder against the pillar the air would escape from the bladder, and by this action he would complete a marvellous change from a hunchback to the straight, tall, h ndsome fellow he was normally.
He forgot, however, one of the eternal laws of the stage : ''Before you let the audience see you, you must see your- self," which means the rehearsing of every point of the part. When the culminating point of the play arrived, and the \dllain was about to obtain the victory, our hero pressed his shoulder against the prepared pillar, but instead of flattening the hump he bounced back with a jerk which made him sway from one side to the other. Determined to execute his purpose, he again braced himself with all his strength against the supporting board, but with no result.
I played that night the unhappy girl who wore a wedding gown, being about to marry a hated man. I noticed our hero's struggle with the pillar, not understanding, however, the object of his exertions, when suddenly I saw him tak- ing out of his pocket a penknife which, he quickly opened. The audience could not see this action because he was shielded by the mob of supers, and only his head and shoulders were visible. I became most interested in his movements. I knew he was in terrible trouble about some- thing, but could not for the world understand what it was all about, when he turned toward me with the expression of a hunted animal, and handing me the knife, whispered desperately : —
''Please cut my bladder!"
"What?" I exclaimed in surprise.
"Cut the bladder on my shoulder," he added, impatiently, yet still in a whisper. Then the whole situation dawned on me, and with the willingness common among actors of
102 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
helping the fellow-artist out of his trouble, I approached him, took the knife, and concealing my action as much as I could, I plunged the small weapon even to the hilt. But oh ! what happened next was simply dreadful ! When I drew out the knife, the air escaped from the artificial hump with a gentle and prolonged whistle !
This unexpected sound put me almost into a convulsion of laughter. The audience did not notice anything, but I wanted to shriek when I saw my hero's expression and his set teeth, with a suppressed curse behind them. Hearing my cue, I drew the veil over my face and advanced to the footlights, with eyes cast down and a handkerchief pressed to my lips. Fearing to speak lest I should choke with laughter, I pretended to faint, and fell flat on the floor, shak- ing with unwonted merriment.
The curtain fell. The hero was applauded. My faint- ing was taken for granted as belonging to the play, and one critic even said that I had quite an original fall. You may imagine how amused I was when I read the following lines : —
"... she turned her back to the audience, but every one could see the great suffering shaking the whole frame of her slender body; then, covering her face with her veil, she fell flat to the ground, still quivering with emotion."
CHAPTER XIV
In 1863 Mr. Modjeski took a vacation, and we both went to Vienna, in order to see a little of the world, and mostly for the sake of my instruction. I was very anxious to see the best actors of the great city, and my delight was very great indeed when Mr. Modjeski bought two tickets for the Burg Theatre.
The play was ''Don Carlos.'' I still remember Sonnen- thal's impressive figure, even the voice in which he uttered the memorable words of Marquis Posa: "Gebt uns Ge- danken Freiheit, Konig."^ I was delighted with Eboli's scene of coquetry, and I shall never forget Levinsky's King Philip. The whole performance struck me as being per- fect, even to the smallest parts. It was a masterpiece of stage management, and though in some scenes I should have liked more warmth, more nature, more humanity, yet this first great performance I ever saw made a powerful impression on me, and kept me awake until the small hours in the morning.
The second play I saw was "Schoene Helene" (La Belle H61^ne), by Meilhac and Hal6vy, with Offenbach's music, where Miss Geistinger played the title r61e. What a con- trast to ''Don Carlos" ! I was not quite pleased. I was too young then, perhaps, to appreciate the so-called piquancy of the scene between Paris and Helen, and although I ad- mired highly Miss Geistinger's acting, yet I was almost ashamed to look at the stage, when she took ofif her peplum, and Paris, with quivering lips, waited for her kiss. I felt humiliated in my high aspirations in art, and displeased
* " Give us liberty of thought, O King I "
103
104 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
with this exposition of what I thought ought to be hidden from human eyes. It was, however, not Miss Geistinger's fault that the scene was made objectionable. She was artistic all through. The wretched suggestiveness was all done by Paris. When I saw ''Don Carlos" I felt now and then the lack of naturalness in the performance, yet I loved it all. Here I really deplored the brutal realism. This was my first lesson in moderation. I admired already the true realism, and always tried to render my parts as true to nature as possible ; but the performance of "La belle H^16ne '' taught me that I must not go too far in that direction, or I might step out of the circle of art and, instead of painting pictures on the stage, produce mere photographs.
We went to the theatre almost every evening, and I had the opportunity of seeing several good actors and actresses : among them Mademoiselle de Fontlief, my friend from Lemberg, in Dumas's ''La Dame aux Camillas." She was dainty, simple, natural, and very impressive, and satisfied all my requirements in modern drama. Her aristocratic figure and face, as well as her intelligence, strongly ap- pealed to me.
I called on her the next afternoon. We fell into each other's arms. I sincerely congratulated her on her re- markable success. She looked beautiful in her soft, gauzy dress, surrounded with objects of art, and a superb dog nestling at her feet. The only discord in this artistic room was a parrot, who insisted on sharing the conversation, and jarred on my nerves by its piercing shrieks. I had not been fifteen minutes with Mademoiselle de Fontlief when her hand- some mother came in, and a few minutes later the prince of Thurm und Taxis was announced, a handsome and very young man with melting eyes — at least they seemed to melt when they looked at her. He and "Marguerite Gauthier" *
^ The name of the heroine in Dumas's play.
POLAND 105
were engaged at that time, and I saw there before me the man of imperial family who was shortly afterwards to become the husband of the fascinating actress.
To my great regret I missed seeing the greatest German actress of the time, Frau Rettich. Shortly after the an- nouncement of her appearance at the Burg Theatre she fell ill, and the world never saw her act again. Levinsky was the great man, and I saw him in several parts, and took from him a lesson in self-control and in working out details ; but I imagined that a woman like Frau Rettich would have had a great influence over my artistic future.
We lost no time in seeing what was worth looking at in Vienna, and we went several times to the Luxembourg gal- leries, and stayed hours admiring the pictures. All this was new to me. Except the statues, carvings, and pictures of Cracow churches, I had seen nothing until then. The works of art accumulated through ages, combined with what was best in modern work, made me mad with en- thusiastic worship of art. I felt small and humble in the presence of the masterpieces of all ages and all nations, and yet, underneath this humility, I felt a glow of superhuman strength, and a hope that one day I might achieve fame, — in a different and smaller way, of course, — for our art was scarcely considered an art at all, but I formed then a strong determination never to rest until I had climbed to the very top of ray profession. Again the desire of play- ing in another language than my own began to make its way into my mind.
I thought of French or English — and Shakespeare — again; but German was the only tongue I spoke passably well, and my people hated Germans with the hatred of a vanquished nation, and I could not think of going on the German stage. However, one attempt more was made by my husband to change my resolve. He formed some friend- ships among actors and managers of the city, and one day
106 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
he told me that he had spoken to one of his friends, an influ- ential manager, and he wished me to recite before him some scenes from '*Mary Stuart" or ''Egmont." I consented, more in hope of hearing his opinion about my ability than of getting the engagement I secretly dreaded.
I do not remember being very nervous when I entered the manager's office ; and besides, being encouraged by his compliments as to my external value for the stage, I began to recite the lines of ''Mary Stuart'' (Eulende Wolken Sagler der Lufte) with all the feeling and pathos I was capable of. I had studied the language so long, with one of the best teachers, the dear Professor Neugebauer, that I finished by loving the sound of the words, the sonority and strength of expression, and I delivered the sentences with delight, and the precise pronunciation of an ardent student.
The manager listened very attentively and patiently, I thought, and when I had finished he said he was pleased ; but he also said that my voice, though musical in sound, was neither strong nor deep enough for tragedy. He advised me to play parts like Gretchen in ''Faust," or Louise in "Kabale und Liebe," also the girlish parts in comedy, until I grew matured enough for the heavy dramatic parts. I was very thankful for this advice, and I shook hands with him, saying good-by, but he stopped me at the door and said : —
"I forgot to tell you that you must study German at least one year more before you go on our stage, and it, would be advisable to stay in Vienna and go to work immediately." I thanked him again, and we left the office. I knew very well that we could not afford to'give up the stock company in Czerniowce and stay in a large city without any income, but I wanted to make sure, and asked my husband if we could do so.
"Of course not; it is quite impossible," was his short answer; and I breathed again.
POLAND 107
I formed a project of studying for the French stage as soon as I could find a good French teacher, and then again a voice like a distant echo whispered in my ear \ ''Shakespeare/' and a vision of myself on the English stage • rose before me..
From Vienna we went to Pesth, where we found the wlfole city in a great excitement on account of the races, and a visit of the Emperor Franz Joseph, then in the prime of youth. We spent the days in the streets and the evenings in the theatres. I have never seen so many beautiful women as in Pesth. It was almost impossible to find an ugly face; except in some ragged old woman, and even among those some possessed such dignity of carriage that it was a pleasure to watch them as they moved along the streets.
There was to be a so-called ''Gala'' performance at the opera-house. The emperor was to be present, and every one had to appear in national costume. An exception was made for men who could not or chose not to wear the beautiful yet uncomfortable and costly dress, but all women agreed to be attired in Hungarian costumes. We secured seats, and I had to procure a Hungarian headgear. It seemed to be absolutely necessary to do so, in order not to clash with the whole female audience. But I did not object when I saw how becoming was the small bonnet of black lace, heavily embroidered with silver.
At the theatre I was positively dazzled by the aspect of the audience in the. boxes. Three tiers of wonderfully hand- some women and brilliant uniforms, and every one trying to look their best in honor of the emperor. Never in my life shall I again look at so many beauties and such a dis- play of marvellous jewels, gold and silver embroidered waists, sparkling with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds ; misty veils, strings of rare pearls, and aigrettes of gems ; and amidst all this scintillating mass the smiling faces of the wonderful specimens of human beauty of both sexes. It seemed to
108 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
me like a chapter from the '' Arabian Nights." My soul was in my eyes. I sat as in a daze, and for the first time in my life I was unconscious of the singers on the stage. When the emperor entered, there was a deafening cheer, ''EUien! EUien!'' And the young monarch, blushing with pleasure, grated the audience, then sat modestly and directed his attention to the stage, his entrance being the cue for the rising of the curtain.
On our return from Pesth to Vienna we paid a visit to Josephine Galmayer, the celebrated comedienne and the greatest favorite of the Vienna people. She lived then in the country, resting after a long winter season. I shall never forget her eyes. A pair of dark brown, impish, passionate eyes, full of mischief, which in a flash could change to an inexpressible look of kindness and sympathy. We chatted merrily for a long while. Her conversation was full of wit and spontaneity, and though some of her sallies were risqu6j yet there was so much sincerity and simplicity in all she said that I could not help admiring it all. We parted like old friends, and I do not know what warmth and in- spiration came to me from her, but I threw my arms around her neck and kissed her, — a thing I had never done before to a comparative stranger. She was indeed the most mag- netic person I met at that time.
CHAPTER XV
When we returned to Czerniowce, the actors pressed me with questions, and I seemed to wear a halo around my head because I had seen things they had not seen. Still, in spite of this distinction, I had not changed my old way of accept- ing any part, good or bad, long or short, that was given to me. I did not care what I played so long as I could learn something, and try my versatility on the various kinds of characters. Yet my methods had changed. I had gained a great deal in the way of finishing the details and of putting more work on the development of parts. I also remem- bered the Vienna manager's advice, and avoided as much as I could the tragic parts.
A regular tragedienne was engaged for our company, a tall lady with a deep, big voice and the grace of a grenadier. She charmed the audiences in grewsome parts like ''Die Aufrau " (The Ancestor), translated from German, or "Medea," and other heavy characters which she ham- mered away with her metallic voice, to the great delight of the gallery gods.
In spite of my love for the gentle, sweet parts, I put my mind to improving the quality of my voice by adding some deep tones to it. I worked an hour or more a day reciting, no matter what, and trying to get my voice one shade deeper every time. Sometimes I could not get just the tone I wanted ; then I tried again and again, speaking louder and louder, and gaining strength with every effort and expan- sion of the diaphragm. By instinct I avoided the throat tones, using only my lungs, and with this practice I ac- quired such stability of voice that when, later on, I played
109
no MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
strong dramatic parts I could, on coming home, sing for an hour without feeling any fatigue in the voice. Music I always loved passionately, and having still a little singing voice left, it was my custom, after returning from the theatre, to sit at the piano and play or sing, according to my mood. I never could sleep after the play, and nothing could soothe my nerves better than music.
While keeping the stock company all the year round in Czerniowce, we used to make excursions to the smaller towns in the neighborhood. The artistic direction of these excursions was given to my brother, Joseph Benda, on account of his presence of mind, and his ability to get the best of the situation in any emergency.
We played in all sorts of houses, — sometimes in barns or riding-schools, — but my brother's ingenuity always suc- ceeded in turning these buildings into decent-looking sum- mer theatres, with the help of a few boards, paint, curtains, rugs, green branches, and colored lamps. At least they looked cheerful and cosy, and many times even pretty. I remember one amusing occasion in which my brother's wits were heavily taxed.
It happened in a very small town, which, however, by some chance, possessed quite a decent theatre. We arrived late in the afternoon. The bills announced ''The Devil's Mill." My brother, after inspecting the stage and dressing- rooms, came to our hotel with a radiant face, saying that he hoped everything would go smoothly, for there was room enough for the scenery and the actors. The stage was large and the dressing-rooms quite comfortable. When he was still rubbing his hands and smiling with satisfaction, there was -^ knock at the door, and the property man, covered with dust and perspiration, entered to inform us excitedly that the costumes of the devils were missing.
My brother rushed out of the room, and when he returned two hours later, he looked tired and discouraged. He said
POLAND 111
he had looked in several inns, hotels, and halls for the trunks, but in vain. There was no telegraph or even railroad in Galitzia in 1864, and therefore it was impossible to make inquiries. I was very anxious to know how my brother would solve the difficulty; the play had to be performed next evening, and there was no time to make new costumes or — what was the most important — to procure black tights for about twenty demons. No such article was to be found in the quiet little town. When I saw my brother the following morning, and asked what he intended to do about it, he answered with a mysterious smile, ''Come to the theatre in the afternoon, and you will see something that will amuse you.''
When I came at the appointed hour, I found my brother sitting on a high office stool in the centre of the stage. At his feet were lying in a tangle yards of red cotton stuff, and he was telling two sewing women how to cut and stitch the cloth. I understood that they were making trunks.
''What about the tights?" I asked. He smiled, and waving his hand towards a huge can of black paint, he said, "There are the tights, my dear," and then laughed right out.
"You don't mean to paint those poor boys all over?"
"Just what I mean to do, my little sister," and he laughed again.
He followed the property man, who carried the can of paint and a brush in one hand and a bundle of red trunks in the other.
We had not long to wait ; in a few minutes my brother opened the door just enough to put his head out, and calling to me: "Attention! Number one is ready!" he pushed on the stage a most frightened boy, painted black all over, with horns on his head, and white circles around the eyes, which made them look like goggles. He had a tail made of a rope, and a tongue of red cloth hanging out of
112 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
his opened mouth. The red, very scanty, trunks were the only protection to outraged modesty. The effect indeed was monstrous.
I forget the plot of that awful play, but I remember the scene where a man is brought in and sentenced by Lucifer. With a fearful yell the demons fall upon the man to beat him with uncanny-looking weapons, broomsticks, racks, iron bars, etc. The man tries to escape, and hides behind the throne, but the infuriated servants of Hades run after him and strike so hard that he catches one of the devils and throws him over his shoulders, as a shield against the blows. The '' supers," all young boys, appreciated the fun, and struck yet harder than before at the exposed part of the devil's body, until the poor imp screamed with pain, and finally exclaimed: '^Oh, Lord, Saint Marie, Saint Joseph, stop ! For God's sake, don't beat so hard!"
The audience shrieked with laughter and the curtain fell.
One of the most picturesque places I encountered in my travelling tour through Galitzia was a small town placed at the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains, called Zale- szczyki. Another dreadful name to a foreigner, is it not? Well, never mind ; we shall call it simply Z. . . .
When I first came to that enchanted spot I was beside myself from the sheer enjoyment of breathing the pure mountain air, filled with the penetrating perfume of firs and pines mingled with the odor of fresh hay, wafted in by the breeze from great green pastures in the valley. I went almost insane over the scenery, — the big mountains and the green slopes of the smaller hills in the foreground, the clear rushing streams, so cool and fresh, and the waterfalls at every turn of the hills.
I shall never forget the sensation when, after a day in the open, I entered my dressing-room. I felt suddenly a horror of the dingy lamplight, and the rouge I put on my
POLAND 113
face made me laugh at the incongruity of things : nature and art which had to reproduce nature. I just hated myself, and a sense of great humility swept over me when I stood before the looking-glass with all the artifices of my apparel ; and when I entered the stage, which was to repre- sent a wood scene, and compared the great effects of nature with our poor scenery, I felt simply crushed. After the first act I went to my dressing-room, and there I sat a long while, forgetful of everything, even of the changing of my costume, and dreaming of the possibility of appearing on some stage of the world where the artists could produce at least a better imitation of nature ; and again a great desire to fly away from my narrow circle rose in my heart, and new dreams, one more impossible than the next, took possession of me. ''I must! I must!" I repeated loudly, and then began to recite some imaginary poem in some imaginary language. They were merely sounds of some unknown words which I uttered with passionate or tender inflections of the voice. I would have gone on with this recitation forever were it not for a sharp laugh from my sister, who dressed with me in the same room, and her wise words : —
''Helena, you are positively crazy !''
On our return to Czerniowce, I took up my French and music. Mr. Duniecki, the composer of several operettas, who was engaged for our lyric productions, consented to give me lessons. The time passed in studies and work. I played sometimes three or four parts in a space of eight days, and though we only gave four performances a week, yet the rest of the time was employed in memorizing the new parts and in constant rehearsals, keeping every one hard at work.
It may seem strange that I, the wife of the manager, should be obliged to play so many parts, of which some were uninteresting and subordinate, yet the explanation of the question is very simple. I became quite a favorite of the
114 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
public, and my name drew better houses. There was no selection made of the plays in which I could have what is now called ''star parts." The management was obliged to pre- sent what was the newest and the most popular in the rep- ertoire without regard to any particular person in the cast.
Life was a dream to me, and it stands before me now as some vision, half sweet and half bitter, too dim to be seen quite distinctly, too distant for detail.
In the spring of 1865 a great sorrow fell upon me, and its blow made the world dark for me. My little daughter Marylka died.
They say that misfortunes never come singly, but are accompanied by other misfortunes, forming a long-linked chain. Blow after blow struck my heart and bruised it to the core. Family considerations do not allow me to give the details of all I suffered at that time; but after fearful struggles with inexorable Fate, I found myself free, but ill and at the point of death. My mother and my brother Felix brought me and my little son Rudolphe to Cracow, and I never saw Mr. Modjeski again.
CHAPTER XVI
In the month of September, 1865, 1 signed a contract with . the Cracow theatrical management. The old endowed / theatre of my native city was at that time in the care of ' Count Adam Skorupka, a cultured gentleman of wit, a great dilettante, and his partner, Stanislas Kozmian, one of the most cultivated men of Cracow.
They started a new era which in the annals of Polish stage history cannot be ignored. The whole personnel of the theatre was changed, new actors and actresses came into view, and only a few of the best old stock were retained.
Count Skorupka, led by the trufe spirit of a reformer, brought an artistic stage director from Warsaw, Mr. Jasinski, who proved to be the animating spirit of the whole insti- tution, as well as a perfect, and accomplished instructor. His gray hair and his bearing inspired respect, and his kindness and knowledge, love and admiration.
I shall never forget my first rehearsal under his direction, which was the first reading rehearsal of the season. He stood on the stage with Mr. Kozmian, as the actors and actresses were coming in. All were summoned to be pres- ent. When the last actor entered, Mr. Kozmian intro- duced Mr. Jasinski to the company and delivered a short speech on his merits, upon which Mr. Jasinski hastened to assure the company of his best efforts towards the needed iniprovements, and then added : —
''I hope that you will help me, and that we shall work in unison with but one view, — the good of the stage.'' The company cheered, and then Mr. Kozmian introduced each of us to the director. He shook hands with every one in
115
116 MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS
a most cordial way, and when the ceremony was over, he invited those who had parts in the play we were about to rehearse, to step into the reading-room. There he read the title of the play, and explained in what way it had to be treated, and also described the chief characters to us, then turned to the prompter and gave him the order to be ready. A muffled bell gave sign, .and the reading began.
Two days later the stage rehearsal was announced. Though there were only a few characters in the play, the whole company was present ; some stayed behind the scenes, and some occupied the boxes and chairs in front, and yet they were so quiet that no