Marriage to Count Alexander Potocki, 1802
Marriage Schemes—Arrival of Count Potocki at Bialystok—Count Stanislaus Potocki—Count Tyszkiewicz and General Beningsen—Death of Paul I.—The Author's Education and Tastes— Countess Tyszkiewicz—Madame Sobolewska.
From: 1802 C.E. To: 1802 C.E.
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From Memoirs of the Countess Potocka by Anna Tyszkiewicz, Edited by Casimir Stryienski, 1901.
I was an only daughter; legacies from two large fortunes were coming to me. I had an old name, a pleasant face, and a thorough education. I was, in a word, what is conventionally called a good match. At the age of fourteen I was to have married Prince Stanislaus Poniatowski, my mother's brother; but as he was approaching fifty, was lanky, dry, and sober, I would not hear of him, and I withstood the inducements of jewels and a marriage outfit.
My mind and my heart were, I cannot say exactly how, swelled with a sort of juvenile exaltation, nourished by the perusal of the great poets whom it had been impossible to keep from me. I wanted heroes like Racine's, or knights like Tancred. Mighty passions were my need, instantaneous affections, great and sublime deeds! I waited! But as I finally perceived that neither Britannicus nor Gonzalvo of Cordova presented himself, and that not even a meeting with Grandison was likely, I made up my mind to descend from the clouds, and sorrowfully reflected that I should be obliged to end by marrying, like everybody else, under the guidance of reason and expediency.
Various matches were proposed to my parents. Some did not meet with their approval, not being brilliant enough; the rest seemed to me out of the question because the suitors were unattractive. But at last M. Alexander Potocki declared himself, and as he, too, was acknowledged one of the best matches in Poland, he was accepted without hesitation. Our relations had arranged everything by letter, so that when Potocki arrived at Bialystok he knew beforehand that he would not be refused.
I can still fancy myself hearing his carriage drive into our court of honour. It was on an evening of the month of April; I had caught cold, and had been forbidden to leave my room. The sound of a post-horn roused me. I ran to the window, and saw a young man jump out, most gracefully, from a travelling calash, and quickly mount the steps to the main entrance. I at once told myself this could be none other than the expected traveller. The emotions I underwent very much resembled fright! What would I not have given to be able to put off that first interview until the morrow! But I was not consulted, and I saw M. Potocki enter with my mother on his arm.
He had been journeying afar; that was a great resource for a first call. He told us a lot of interesting things about London, about Paris—he had seen the great Napoleon! But on this point I found him not the least bit communicative. He spoke without particular enthusiasm of what he had seen, and did not seem at all dazzled by so much greatness and magnificence.
Tea was served, and we scrutinised one another. M. Potocki had seen me when I was very young indeed, at my mother's. I remembered him; he had made the impression on me of a disdainful dandy who did not talk to little girls.
We met again at that happy age when time, having put the finishing touches to his task, seems to halt, as if to enjoy its contemplation, but ready to compensate himself, some day, for the brief respite. We looked at each other surreptitiously, and experienced surprise mingled with satisfaction. We were better pleased with our prize than we had anticipated being. Three weeks elapsed, at the end of which we thought we knew and suited each other perfectly. There was, however, not the slightest similarity in our characters and tastes.
Count Stanislaus Potocki, my future father-in-law, soon joined us, so as to be present at our wedding. The count was one of the foremost personages of those times, which abounded with men of head and heart. His brother Ignatius and himself had worked valiantly at the Constitution of May 3, and both were victims of their faithfulness, in a Russian and an Austrian dungeon expiating the noble impulse which had urged them to devote themselves to their country's liberty and independence. It is rare to see two brothers so richly endowed by nature; to the most pleasing exterior were added a superior mind and a prodigious education and memory, and, though men of the world, they knew everything and had time for everything.
Prince Stanislaus, moreover, was gifted with artistic accomplishments to a degree I have never seen equalled by an amateur. Several journeys in Italy had helped to develop in him that noble love of the beautiful which constitutes, so to speak, an additional sense. Always kind and affable, he was always disposed to listen to those who came to him for advice. His light humour and extreme politeness contrasted oddly with a vivacity, an irritability, which often gave rise to mirth. There were days when, at the least annoyance, he got angry like a child, and calmed down as quickly.
It was above all funny to watch this statesman at play—this gentleman of taste, this great lord, who by his exquisite manners had been marked in every court of Europe—to see him roused to the pitch of throwing cards and counters at his partner's head. And yet he played for penny points, and never would be paid.
"Why," he exclaimed, in his amusing wrath, “if I were playing for blows with a stick, I should still want to win!”
I dwell upon these details since I take pleasure in speaking of my father-in-law, whom I dearly loved, and of whom I know nothing but good. I owe him everything I know of architecture; he enjoyed cultivating this passion for the arts in me, which has since been the delight of life, and which my mother had sought to instil into me.
But let us go back to my marriage, which took place at Wilna, where my father was stopping. As he was suffering severely from an attack of the gout, he had been forbidden to leave his room, and the ceremony was held in his saloon.
A few days later my father-in-law, tired of enforced inactivity, and desirous of resuming his usual pursuits, took us off to Warsaw, where my mother-in-law was awaiting me.
I took leave of my father with the dreadful presentiment that I should never see him again. His persistence in refusing to go away to take the waters cost him his life. He had become gloomy and melancholy, and left the country only as often as his health or business compelled him to go into town, where the contact with the Russian officials was odious to him. In order to escape it, his illness served as an excuse; he never went out, and even exempted himself from the ceremonial visits. General Beningsen, Governor of Wilna for the time being, treated him with overwhelming consideration, and frequently came to see him.
One day he was so far carried away as to relate to him all the details of the famous conspiracy which had put Alexander on the throne. He even spoke of the part he had taken in the assassination. So far as I remember, he claimed the honour of being the first to lay hands upon the unhappy monarch, who defended his life with greater courage than was expected of him. Beningsen experienced no diffidence in talking of this scene of horror, in which one man had long held out against five murderers.
He regarded himself as a modern Brutus. To say truth Paul's tyranny and his extravagances, which partook of cruelty in a certain measure, justified those who, having failed to force his abdication, found themselves obliged to take his life; but it is none the less the fact that you could not listen without shuddering to him who thus boasted of having played an active part in the drama.
We left Wilna together. My mother preferred to remain at Bialystok, for she did not in any way wish to divert me from the duties my new position brought me. I felt a keen sorrow at separating from my mother. I had never left her before. She had taken a great interest in my education; I took my lessons in my room—some she gave me herself. Idle about everything not related to the things of the imagination or the arts, I would have liked to draw all day. And when, at thirteen, I read the "Iliad," I would not hear of any other book. My mother took alarm at what perhaps might have pleased a less sensible person. She was grave and cold; she had a just and sound mind; she was fond of study, and indulged in thinking from inclination. Never was there a more striking contrast than that existing between our characters.
My own experience has led me to see that education may, at the utmost, modify the temperament, but that it cannot change it. My mother frowned on exuberant merriment, on the taste for society and dress. I hid a thousand little things from her; at the same time I never knew how to dissemble, and I made more mistakes than one by too much candour. I was brought up alone, my sole recreation being to talk with old friends; in spite of that my good spirits remained inexhaustible.
None but good examples were shown me. I read none but serious books; none but things I might hear were told in my presence; but I nearly always guessed what was supposed to be kept from me. It may be that without such close watching I should not at all have responded to the exertions lavished on me, but I am sure I only knew well what I had been taught least.
I loved my mother tenderly, feeling that I owed her much, and that her high character demanded my fullest respect, but with this sentiment was connected a sort of fear which spoilt our intercourse. She wished for my confidence, and I often felt a desire to give it her entirely; but from the moment that my opinion or intention contradicted hers, she scolded me severely, and drove back a confession nearly slipping from my heart.
I stood in need of an affection, if not tenderer, at least more confidential. Among the young people with whom chance had thrown me, was Madame Sobolewska. I felt attracted to her; I liked the great sweetness of her face and manners. She was a few years older than I. To her advantages she joined so much modesty and humility that one could not envy her for being a universal favourite, at which she alone seemed surprised.
Whenever her agreeable and cultivated mind managed to escape from the strict reserve behind which she kept it concealed she was charming, and I have seen few women so amiable when she dared to be amiable. Her spirit shed something elevated and pure over all her actions. I felt better at leaving her. At first I loved her by instinct. When I learnt how to think I loved her because I found she was perfect, and I shall love her all my life, because this love has become my heart's necessity and habit. Never have I had a secret thought or act from her; never has she believed me better than I am. In her heart I went to place my sorrows, my hopes, my joys, and my regrets, and I always found in her an indulgent friend, discreet beyond all proof, and a most gentle and pleasant companion.
My mother ended by approving of our intimacy; she was the only person she allowed me to love.
Tyszkiewicz, Anna. Memoirs of the Countess Potocka, edited by Casimir Stryienski, Doubleday & McClure, 1901.
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