Memories And Impressions Of Helena Modjeska
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Memories And Impressions Of Helena Modjeska

Helena Modjeska

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Memories And Impressions Of Helena Modjeska

Helena Modjeska

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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.

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Information

Publisher
Ghose Press
Year
2021
ISBN
9781528760461

PART I

CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH

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 “pseudologia-fantastica-madness,” to which much stronger natures than my own are often subjected.
Born on the 12th of October, 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 management 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 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 surroundings 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 sufferings, 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 language, 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 of bursting bombs, the march of armies, men killed and lying in their blood,—these are never-forgotten impressions 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 imagination, 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, together 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 understood 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. 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 remotest 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 consumption, caused by a severe cold contracted while searching 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 years 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 years old, my great-grandmother was 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 nearly 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 established 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 girls were busy sewing the red and white and blue cockades and scarfs for the National Guards.1
I remember with what delight I handed thread and ribbons to Miss Apollonia, 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 Benda, teased her, saying that her nose was not suited to sentimental or tragic poetry, being but an 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 responsible at all, Miss Apollonia 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, singing. 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, 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 barricade 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 off 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, fearing 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 protective 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 suddenly 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 unlocked the door where my poor brother was imprisoned, and ordered him to go first. Cooled off from his first excitement, 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 foundations. Something unnaturally heavy struck the wall, followed 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 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 repeated, weighing them one by one in his hand. “When I grow up I will make different bullets to kill the ‘cow’s feet.’1 They will be pointed, that they may go deep into their accursed flesh!”
The shooting ceased for a while and we went to the window. There a picture met my ey...

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