"At least, during the days of uncertainty that are
floating
be-
tween my past and my agony, do not forget me, write to me
every day.
tween my past and my agony, do not forget me, write to me
every day.
Poland - 1919 - Krasinski - Anonymous Poet of Poland
89102083045 Public Domain in the United States, Google-digitized / http://www.
hathitrust.
org/access_use#pd-us-google
? 46 The A nonymous Poet of Poland
to you. . . that I hate the people who rose against you in War-
saw, but I wrote at the same time that I love Poland and
that when her national affair came on nothing could keep me
back.
"The same thing I repeat to-day.
"Our age is the age of consecration and penance.
"It is a sacred duty, commanded by God, to make the sacri-
fice of oneself. All the delusions of youth have fallen from my
eyes--the hopes of bright days of earthly happiness. I have
never felt happy from the time I was conscious of life. I was
not happy in love. . . I know equally well that fame, besought
for by men, terminates in a few acclamations, and afterwards
in nothing. I used to dream about it, now I promise it to my-
self no more; but it is borne to the depths of my soul that I
am bound to fulfil a sacred duty from which no one on earth
can free me. There are certain duties in the world, which only
lie between the creature and the Creator, which allow of no
third person between them. The serving of one's country is
one of those duties.
"You write to me, dear father, to travel, to study, to cultivate
my mind, and to go out into society. It would be difficult for
me to do so in the state in which I am. Suffering has eaten
deep into my heart; I am in an unbroken fever; I sometimes
feel as if my brain would turn ; I would wish no one such days
and nights as are mine. I can neither read nor write; I can
hardly finish the conversation that I begin.
"And then to travel, to stroll among foreigners, when at the
other end of Europe my father is overwhelmed with misfor-
tunes, my grandmother dragging out her last years in sadness,
and my countrymen fighting to die or conquer, is a thing not
only impossible for me to do, but which would bring a blush
of shame every moment to my cheek.
"And who would even wish to speak to me? to press my
hand? to know me? when they find out that I am a Pole,
travelling for amusement and education at a time when Poles
are dying every day for Poland? I cannot endure such a state.
I am dying bit by bit. By God! It would be better to die at
once, and not suffer like this.
"But these are more or less egotistic reasons--for it is possi-
ble to make an oblation of oneself and to bear disgrace as a
sacrifice. I am ready to undertake such an oblation, though I
know what would be its result after a few months: death or
madness. But that is not the point. I now go back to what I
said above, to the sacred duty which stands above all others,
and which calls me to Poland, to join the ranks of my brothers.
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? The Sacrifice
47
"I have now reached the solemn moment. I am forced to
tell the father whom I love and have always loved above all
things, that I shall go against his will, that I shall try to re-
turn to Poland, that from to-day this has become the only aim
of my thoughts and actions.
"Dear father! May God judge me, and do not you refuse
me your blessing.
"Mr Jakubowski, to whom I have said this, has told me that
he will try by every means to keep me here. I respect him the
more because he is doing his duty. So I must be at war with
the man who for two years has given me daily proofs of his
affection. My lot is full of bitterness, but I trust in God.
"Within the next days I will try to get to Paris, and from
there as quickly as I can to Warsaw. I will write to you from
every place I can.
"It is done! I still feel on my face your tears when you
said good-bye to me at Bionie. My heart is torn on all sides.
Wherever I look I see the future dark.
"How am I to finish this letter ? What am I to say further?
"On my knees I beseech you, remembering the picture of
my mother, the anniversary of whose death I kept for the
tenth time a month ago in Geneva, I beseech my father for
his forgiveness and blessing. The sufferings which I shall still
cause you are imaged in my soul--I already bear their load
upon my conscience. . . When I think of you I shudder all over
and recoil before my resolution.
"But when Poland rises to my mind strength returns to me
again, I remind myself again that when a Child I often vowed
before my dear father that I would always, always love her.
"I will keep that vow. I entreat you for your forgiveness
and your blessing. God in His infinite mercy will permit me
some day to receive that blessing at your feet.
"Dear father! Do not turn your face away from your son.
I firmly believe that I am doing what I ought to do. Forgive
me. He Who died on the cross forgave His murderers in the
hour of death. I beg you for your forgiveness and your
blessing1. "
But there was little to hope from the father who
understood his son so imperfectly that he could expect
him to travel and seek amusement while Poland was
battling for her right to exist. Something of the indig-
1 Given by Dr Kallenbach, Zygmunt Krasinski.
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? 48 The Anonymous Poet of Poland
nation, lurking behind the unhappy boy's enforced out-
ward respect for an unworthy father, flashes out when in
answer to the trite question, "What had he been doing
with himself since December? " he hints at the misery
that had been his history during those long months.
To thisletter Krasinski added a postscript a few days
later to the effect that the tutor, Jakubowski, had closed
all the doors of escape for him1.
Krasinski was now face to face with the dilemma
from which there was no way out, that was the tragedy
of his life--the choice between his love for his father
and his love for his nation, his duty to his father and
his duty to his nation. He had now to make his choice
whether he would be at open war with the father who
had nothing left except his son, or whether he would
turn his back upon the country that was dearer to him
than life, in the hour when she called upon all her
children to save her.
The months that followed this appeal to his father
hurried a boy of nineteen by sheer agony of mind into
a premature, darkened manhood. The tears he shed,
as he wept in despair and grief, injured his eyes for life
and brought him again and again as the years went on
to the verge of blindness. Dr Kallenbach does not
hesitate to declare that it was Krasinski's mental suffer-
ing during that spring and summer that sent him, worn
out in body and soul, to his grave before his time2.
Devotion to his country had been instilled into
Zygmunt Krasinski's soul from his earliest childhood.
It was the tradition of his h&use, his strong inheritance
through generations of ancestors. With the Pole, pa-
1 Given by Dr Kallenbach, Zygmunt Krasinski.
2 J. Kallenbach, op. cit.
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? The Sacrifice
49
triotism is no vague abstraction that, till some great call
stirs it to active being, scarcely enters under normal cir-
cumstances into the working day of a man or woman.
In Krasinski's time, as in our own, the Pole's exis-
tence was a hand to hand and unceasing conflict to pre-
serve faith, language, nationality against an oppression
endeavouring to crush out every vestige of Polish race
possession. The ideals of nationalism are those that most
deeply affect the Pole's life: the love of Poland was
Krasinski's master-passion. With the exception of his
love poems, and even these are constantly interwoven
with the thought of Poland, Krasinski has written
scarcely one line that does not palpitate with his
passion for his country, that is not given to her sorrows,
that is not sung for her sake. In those heart to heart
outpourings, which make up his letters to his friends, it
is the sufferings of Poland, it is his hopes for Poland,
that tear words of fire from his lips. And that this de-
votion was not merely the ripe growth of his manhood,
although naturally it deepened and mellowed with the
course of events, but was the inmost fibre of his soul
when yet a boy, we see clearly enough from his youthful
letters to Reeve, even before that desolation had over-
taken Poland which caused her sons to mourn for her
as for a bereaved mother.
And on the other side, Krasinski's father stood for
all that was home. His mother was dead. He had
neither brother nor sister. His father was mother,
brother, sister to him: and the waters of many afflic-
tions could never drown that son's affection. He could
not prove his fidelity to his country without sinning
against his father. If he remained faithful to his father,
he was faithless, so it would seem, to his nation.
g. 4
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? 50 The Anonymous Poet of Poland
Then, too, that pride of race, that profound sense of
noble obligation, which was rooted in Krasinski's char-
acter, and of which we see proof after proof in his
letters, asserted itself in the support of patriotism, and
called him to the battle-field at any cost. A youth's
generous instincts, the inherited impulse of a soldier's
son that beat strongly in Krasinski's small and weakly
frame, his passionate recoil before disgrace and dis-
honour---all were there, spurring him to act in direct
defiance to his father.
Krasinski, as we have seen, wrote his intentions to
the General. Then a wall of obstacles rose around him.
Jakubowski watched over him like a jailor ; cut short
the money supplies without which he could not move;
and warned the Geneva authorities to be on the look out
if he attempted to leave the city1. Unable to endure
the prospect of resorting to a step that would not only
break his father's heart, but dishonour him yet further
in the eyes of his nation by the public spectacle of his
only son openly taking sides against him, Zygmunt ad-
dressed passionate appeals to the General, imploring for
his consent. While, as the weeks went by, he waited
for the answers in an agony of uncertainty how to act,
Reeve kept writing from Paris, proposing plans, each
wilder than the last. He begged Krasinski to escape
from Geneva, no matter how ; regretted that he had not
carried him off somehow with himself and his mother;
suggested that Zygmunt should start without a pass-
port on purpose to get himself arrested, and then slip
off on foot over the frontier for Paris, which was
crowded with Poles on their way to the front. Con-
vinced that for everybody's sake Krasinski must join
1 J. Kallenbach, op. cit.
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? The Sacrifice
5i
the Rising, full of sympathy both for his friend and for
the Polish cause, Reeve carefully passes on to Zygmunt
all the opinions on the latter's duty that he could
gather from the lips of Poles.
"One of them," says he, "told me that he doesn't
know you, but that he believes you to be a good sort
of boy and a good Pole1. "
I ought to have brought you with me at any price. How-
ever, in spite of the fact that, to use Morawski's expression,
each day that goes by is an eternity of loss for you, all is not
lost. It is not too late yet. They have known here for a long
time that your father is at Saint-Petersburg; but the colonel
told me yesterday that he is utterly broken-hearted, that he
will not see anyone, but weeps all day.
Reeve assures Krasinski that the best he can do
for his father is to take his share in the Rising. "I love
you as I have never loved a man before, and as I never
shall love one. That is why I am urging you on. " And
with greater zeal than tact he adds: " I told Morawski
you are ill. 'If he is not dying,' he said to me, 'he can
still go, and if he is dying let him have himself carried
to die on the free soil of Poland2. '"
All this Zygmunt knew only too well.
"Ah! my friend," he answers, "you have plunged the dagger
straight, straight to my heart. . . Yes, I know it, my salvation is
in Paris. If I don't go there I am lost. . . But listen to my
voice yet once more, that voice that you sometimes loved to
hear. I am alone, and everything is an obstacle to me, nothing
is a help. My father is dying, as you say, weeping; the son can
well die, gnashing his teeth. Have you considered what you
write to me, advising me to get myself arrested? Do you be-
lieve me capable of adding one stone to the heap that has
stoned my father? Do you want me to go promenading
through France the disgrace of the man who won such glory
there? Do you want me, a hero with the gendarmes, to read
1 Correspondance. Reeve to Krasinski. Paris, May 24, 1831.
2 Ibid. May 25, 1831.
4--2
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? 52
The Anonymous Poet of Poland
in a newspaper two days later epithets of infamy lavished on
the name of my father, sprinkled with a few praises for my-
self? Yes, I say openly, but only to Henry Reeve, and to
none other in the world, my father has committed a grave,
a terrible fault; it is not my place to call him to account for it.
"I shall wait at Geneva for my father's answer. If it is
satisfactory, I go; if not, I go all the same; because then my
duties, though not cancelled, will be lightened. After all,
think what you will; say that there is a want of energy in my
soul, that I speak, and do not know how to act, that I am weak,
irresolute. Good! Be as unhappy as I am, and then judge me. "
His brain obviously unhinged for the moment under
his mental tortures, among which not the least was the
conviction of his everlasting disgrace, he continued:
Do not attempt to defend me any more, to uphold my
reputation. I do not ask you to answer: "No," when they tell
you I am "a wretched creature"; but think it only, that will be
enough for me. Shut deep in your heart the friendship you
have for me. If your face lets it out it will compromise you.
Carry to the post on the sly the letters you write to me;
disguise your handwriting. Let nobody suspect that Henry
Reeve has any relations with Sigismond Krasinski.
But he has still a flicker of hope that "one hour
can change all, and then they will know who I am ":
and if that hour never comes, then at all events his
best loved friend, Reeve, will know it.
"At least, during the days of uncertainty that are floating be-
tween my past and my agony, do not forget me, write to me
every day. . . Remember that if fate and men are against me, you
at least ought to remain neutral. . . that if, at the end, all is for
ever lost to me, name, glory, father, country, there must still
remain between us something in common--if only the thought
of Chamonix"--where they had been together--"and the
memory of the tears of Saint-Cergues "--where shortly before
they had said good-bye to each other1.
A mutual friend chanced to be in the room as
Zygmunt closed this packet. He added a few words
below Krasinski's signature, describing the violent agi-
1 Correspondance. Krasinski to Reeve. Geneva, May 28, 1831.
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? The Sacrifice
53
tation into which Reeve's last letters had thrown
Krasinski, and how the latter, at the moment that the
friend sat and wrote, was hurrying with wild steps up
and down the room.
Reeve, now in England, scorned the idea of con-
cealing his friendship; tried at Krasinski's request to
find Henrietta Willan, whose silence her lover ascribed
to contempt for him; and told how his heart failed him at
the thought of going to a dance the evening that his
friend's outburst of misery lay in his pocket.
"Your part is taken," said Reeve. "The choice is terrible,
because that choice had to be made. Now that you have de-
cided to remain a son, pray, suffer, and love what is left to
you1. "
But Krasinski, who bore his burden unflinchingly
all his life long, in these early days doubted his strength
to carry through his sacrifice.
"You know me," he answered Reeve. "I am by no means
a being made for resignation. Fiery impulses, even if they
were to fling me into an abyss, cost me nothing; but per-
severance in good, as in evil, is supremely difficult to me.
"Skrzynecki [the Polish commander-in-chief] has had a
defeat. . . Nothing is lost. " It was the beginning of the end.
"She will be born again, that beautiful Poland2. "
At the same time he wrote the following letter to a
favourite cousin, Stanistaw Krasinski, who had been
wounded in the war.
This letter will find you on the bed where you are
suffering for Poland. With pride that I am related to you I
read in the papers that in an attack on a Russian battalion
you were seriously wounded. If my voice still counts for any-
thing with you, if you have not by now forgotten him who
promised to love you and always to wear your ring, accept
my good wishes. . . You alone are now a Krasinski. The rest
1 Correspondance. Reeve to Krasinski. London, June 6, 1831.
2 Ibid. Krasinski to Reeve. Geneva, June 12, 1831.
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? 54 The Anonymous Poet of Poland
of our glory has departed--but let our name disappear if only
Poland stays. Although appearances may be strong against
me, although I am now rotting far away from Poland, although
perhaps before long disgrace will fall and hang over my head,
believe that Zygmunt's heart is Polish, and will not cease to be
so till its last moment. Love me if you can still love one who
is remaining in Geneva while his brothers die. Believe, if you
still care to believe me, that the obstacle on my way must be
a weighty one when so far I have not been able either to re-
move it or pass over it. Good-bye, Stas'. Good-bye. Perhaps
God will give me such a blessing that before long I shall be
crying out at your side: "Hurrah, and death to the Mus-
covites. " Good-bye. I love you and adore your courage1.
Krasinski was now completely unnerved by the sus-
pense he suffered in his father's silence, and by mental
conflict2. He confided to Reeve how "in the silence
of the night" he was preparing himself for the hour,
when, with the arrival of his father's letter, his decision
must be made; an hour "more terrible than that of
death, because a decision is preceded by a struggle that
exhausts the soul, and death is merely a victory gained
over us3. "
In the intervals of grappling with his own problem,
in his ever increasing sadness as the news from Poland
grew worse, Krasinski took to his writing and excessive
reading to deaden grief. The sufferings of his mind
were now telling upon his body. Racked with pain, he
spent the nights over his pen and books, with fatal
injury to his eyes, already half blinded by weeping.
He told Reeve that the only hours in which he could
be said to live were those in which he poured out his
sorrows in the figure of an autobiographical story.
This story--Adam le Fou--is only known to us from
1 Given by Dr Kallenbach, Zygmunt Krasinski. See Appendix to
Vol. II, pp. 435. 436.
2 J. Kallenbach, op. cit.
3 Correspondance. Krasinski to Reeve. Geneva, June 21, 1831.
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? The Sacrifice
55
the scraps of French translations from the Polish that
Krasinski enclosed in his letters to Reeve. It presents
an idealized picture of Reeve as Lord Henry Gram ; a
Marie who stands for Henrietta Willan; while Kra-
sinski himself is represented as Adam, maddened by his
fate, Adam being one of Krasinski's own names.
Couched in a Byronic vein, it runs on the same lines as
the personal confidences that fill Krasinski's letters to
Reeve during the Rising. Adam sees himself despised
as a coward by the girl he loves; his name contemned,
his friends estranged. There seems to have been some
vague hope in Krasinski's mind that this story might
in a future day vindicate his honour by showing those
who held him cheap what his inaction in the war had
cost him1. But his idea came to nothing. Reeve
clamoured for it in vain: the Anonymous Poet would
never consent to divulge his name, or drag his father's
conduct into the public gaze2. The work breaks off
unfinished. Its remembrance of the Coliseum that had
so deeply affected Krasinski was afterwards ennobled
and purified in Iridion.
"I dreamt among the ruins," says Adam. "The ancient
world overthrown at my feet before a wooden cross. . . the
memories of my enslaved country, ran together in my brain.
I was comforted to contemplate Rome lying low in clay and
mud; for in my childhood I had sworn vengeance on another
Rome, and, as I trampled on the first, I thought that some
day I would trample on the second. " {Adam le Fou. )
Discussions on literary topics with Reeve afforded
Krasinski's overstrained mind some relief. He gave
Reeve a little lecture that proved to be strangely ap-
propriate, not to Reeve, but to Krasinski himself.
1 "Perhaps one day it will be the only proof that will witness in my
favour. " Corresfondance. Krasinski to Reeve. Geneva, July 25, 1831.
a J. Kallenbach, Zygmunt Krasinski.
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? 56 The Anonymous Poet of Poland
You ought not to hurry to finish your poem. Wait from
day to day now; life will become harder for you and, in pro-
portion to the load, your powers will grow. . . Laocoon, you
will wrestle; and from the struggle and the fight stars will
burst forth, I mean thoughts, unknown flights, stronger, more
gigantic, to the beautiful and sublime, because you will be
surrounded by baseness and ugliness. . . Till now, Henry, you
have only been a man in your moments of poetry, while you
walked in the circle of a child. But now, when your circle is
enlarged, when you are a man among men, struggling every
minute, you will be above man in your poetry, for to be a poet
is to carry his present reality to the past or future. . . to heaven
or hell1.
Then the Anonymous Poet, whose inspiration was
now clamouring for release, tells the friend, whom he
still believed possessed of gifts far greater than his own,
that at last he is convinced that he too has:
a spark of poetry in my bosom, very imperfect, it is true, as
rhythm is wanting in me. The proof is that, without any hope
of men ever reading me, I write and write. . . What is it to
be a poet if not to have a superabundance of thoughts which
rush in torrents over the surface of the soul, and which boil
there until they find an outlet? It matters little to him if this
outlet reaches the ears of men or the void, so long as he rids
himself of that fire which burns him, and gives him not one
moment's breathing space2.
On a July afternoon there is a glimpse of Krasinski
for once, in the thick of his troubles, at play. He went
to the garden of Reeve's adored Constance to steal a
rose for his friend.
In the road which passes the garden hedge I met the
Sautter father talking to a neighbour, while a string of oxen
plied before him. Between my teeth I murmured a Damn and
tied my horse to a little gate behind. Then I paced up and
down the road in the attitude of a man who awaits his adver-
sary to fight a duel. At last he [Sautter] came towards me,
and appeared to be considering me. I gave him back look for
1 Correspondance. Krasinski to Reeve. Geneva, June 23, 1831.
2 Ibid. July 13, 1831.
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? The Sacrifice
57
look and, seeing that he wouldn't learn any more about me, he
went off in the direction of the cornfields. I thought the
opportunity favourable, and I leaped the hedge. But at the
same instant two enormous dogs rushed out of a thicket, and
attacked me. I drew out my dagger and, thanks to the blade
that I presented at their heads, I made an honourable retreat
as far as the gate where I jumped on my horse. But there
behold! there was father Sautter, who reappeared among the
ears of corn on the other side. Caught between two fires, I
behaved with an astonishing presence of mind: for I pacified
the dogs by whistling and making friendly signs to them. As
for father Sautter, when I saw him passing out on my right
ten steps away from me, I stretched myself out on my saddle,
I laid my head on the neck, my feet on the back of my horse,
and I made as if I were going to sleep. The lawful proprietor
of Bourdigny passed by, looking at me with a smile, as if I
had given him the impression of being an oddity, then he
retreated to his house, leaving me for company his two amiable
Cerberuses. . . Like a falcon dying of hunger I swooped upon a
rose and another flower which I arranged in my pocket-book,
and that I shall send you as soon as they are dried.
This letter was still open when the courier came
in from Petersburg.
"What can I say to you, my dear Henry? My distress only
grows worse. My father writes to me with a heart-rending
tenderness. He tells me he is ready to make a sacrifice of
himself and his child to his country; but he implores me to
wait, and declares that he will shortly join me. Henry, what
would you do if you were in my place? Ah ! what need have
I to ask another what he would do? I see that I am ruined.
I am a fool, I am a coward, I am a wretched being, I have the
heart of a girl, I do not dare to brave a father's curse. I ex-
pected an imperious, violent, forcible letter, and I was prepared
for a decisive, terrible, forcible struggle too. . . But when
yesterday's letter arrived; when instead of threats, I found
prayers; instead of fury, I saw blessings; instead of commands,
supplications; instead of sentiments at the thought of which
I shuddered, a love of Poland piercing through each word, all my
strength melted into tears "--these three words are in English.
"I had prepared my arm to strike a blow; and, when it fell,
I found no resistance. . . I am touched to tenderness, full of
affection for my father, for his bitter misfortunes, and I have
no longer sufficient strength to decide. That is my condition.
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? 58
The Anonymous Poet of Poland
You can cast on my head the curse of a friend ; but I tell you
I am no longer myself. I have, however, answered, promising
nothing, still saying that if the opportunity presents itself I
shall go to Poland. But where is that opportunity? .
? 46 The A nonymous Poet of Poland
to you. . . that I hate the people who rose against you in War-
saw, but I wrote at the same time that I love Poland and
that when her national affair came on nothing could keep me
back.
"The same thing I repeat to-day.
"Our age is the age of consecration and penance.
"It is a sacred duty, commanded by God, to make the sacri-
fice of oneself. All the delusions of youth have fallen from my
eyes--the hopes of bright days of earthly happiness. I have
never felt happy from the time I was conscious of life. I was
not happy in love. . . I know equally well that fame, besought
for by men, terminates in a few acclamations, and afterwards
in nothing. I used to dream about it, now I promise it to my-
self no more; but it is borne to the depths of my soul that I
am bound to fulfil a sacred duty from which no one on earth
can free me. There are certain duties in the world, which only
lie between the creature and the Creator, which allow of no
third person between them. The serving of one's country is
one of those duties.
"You write to me, dear father, to travel, to study, to cultivate
my mind, and to go out into society. It would be difficult for
me to do so in the state in which I am. Suffering has eaten
deep into my heart; I am in an unbroken fever; I sometimes
feel as if my brain would turn ; I would wish no one such days
and nights as are mine. I can neither read nor write; I can
hardly finish the conversation that I begin.
"And then to travel, to stroll among foreigners, when at the
other end of Europe my father is overwhelmed with misfor-
tunes, my grandmother dragging out her last years in sadness,
and my countrymen fighting to die or conquer, is a thing not
only impossible for me to do, but which would bring a blush
of shame every moment to my cheek.
"And who would even wish to speak to me? to press my
hand? to know me? when they find out that I am a Pole,
travelling for amusement and education at a time when Poles
are dying every day for Poland? I cannot endure such a state.
I am dying bit by bit. By God! It would be better to die at
once, and not suffer like this.
"But these are more or less egotistic reasons--for it is possi-
ble to make an oblation of oneself and to bear disgrace as a
sacrifice. I am ready to undertake such an oblation, though I
know what would be its result after a few months: death or
madness. But that is not the point. I now go back to what I
said above, to the sacred duty which stands above all others,
and which calls me to Poland, to join the ranks of my brothers.
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47
"I have now reached the solemn moment. I am forced to
tell the father whom I love and have always loved above all
things, that I shall go against his will, that I shall try to re-
turn to Poland, that from to-day this has become the only aim
of my thoughts and actions.
"Dear father! May God judge me, and do not you refuse
me your blessing.
"Mr Jakubowski, to whom I have said this, has told me that
he will try by every means to keep me here. I respect him the
more because he is doing his duty. So I must be at war with
the man who for two years has given me daily proofs of his
affection. My lot is full of bitterness, but I trust in God.
"Within the next days I will try to get to Paris, and from
there as quickly as I can to Warsaw. I will write to you from
every place I can.
"It is done! I still feel on my face your tears when you
said good-bye to me at Bionie. My heart is torn on all sides.
Wherever I look I see the future dark.
"How am I to finish this letter ? What am I to say further?
"On my knees I beseech you, remembering the picture of
my mother, the anniversary of whose death I kept for the
tenth time a month ago in Geneva, I beseech my father for
his forgiveness and blessing. The sufferings which I shall still
cause you are imaged in my soul--I already bear their load
upon my conscience. . . When I think of you I shudder all over
and recoil before my resolution.
"But when Poland rises to my mind strength returns to me
again, I remind myself again that when a Child I often vowed
before my dear father that I would always, always love her.
"I will keep that vow. I entreat you for your forgiveness
and your blessing. God in His infinite mercy will permit me
some day to receive that blessing at your feet.
"Dear father! Do not turn your face away from your son.
I firmly believe that I am doing what I ought to do. Forgive
me. He Who died on the cross forgave His murderers in the
hour of death. I beg you for your forgiveness and your
blessing1. "
But there was little to hope from the father who
understood his son so imperfectly that he could expect
him to travel and seek amusement while Poland was
battling for her right to exist. Something of the indig-
1 Given by Dr Kallenbach, Zygmunt Krasinski.
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? 48 The Anonymous Poet of Poland
nation, lurking behind the unhappy boy's enforced out-
ward respect for an unworthy father, flashes out when in
answer to the trite question, "What had he been doing
with himself since December? " he hints at the misery
that had been his history during those long months.
To thisletter Krasinski added a postscript a few days
later to the effect that the tutor, Jakubowski, had closed
all the doors of escape for him1.
Krasinski was now face to face with the dilemma
from which there was no way out, that was the tragedy
of his life--the choice between his love for his father
and his love for his nation, his duty to his father and
his duty to his nation. He had now to make his choice
whether he would be at open war with the father who
had nothing left except his son, or whether he would
turn his back upon the country that was dearer to him
than life, in the hour when she called upon all her
children to save her.
The months that followed this appeal to his father
hurried a boy of nineteen by sheer agony of mind into
a premature, darkened manhood. The tears he shed,
as he wept in despair and grief, injured his eyes for life
and brought him again and again as the years went on
to the verge of blindness. Dr Kallenbach does not
hesitate to declare that it was Krasinski's mental suffer-
ing during that spring and summer that sent him, worn
out in body and soul, to his grave before his time2.
Devotion to his country had been instilled into
Zygmunt Krasinski's soul from his earliest childhood.
It was the tradition of his h&use, his strong inheritance
through generations of ancestors. With the Pole, pa-
1 Given by Dr Kallenbach, Zygmunt Krasinski.
2 J. Kallenbach, op. cit.
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? The Sacrifice
49
triotism is no vague abstraction that, till some great call
stirs it to active being, scarcely enters under normal cir-
cumstances into the working day of a man or woman.
In Krasinski's time, as in our own, the Pole's exis-
tence was a hand to hand and unceasing conflict to pre-
serve faith, language, nationality against an oppression
endeavouring to crush out every vestige of Polish race
possession. The ideals of nationalism are those that most
deeply affect the Pole's life: the love of Poland was
Krasinski's master-passion. With the exception of his
love poems, and even these are constantly interwoven
with the thought of Poland, Krasinski has written
scarcely one line that does not palpitate with his
passion for his country, that is not given to her sorrows,
that is not sung for her sake. In those heart to heart
outpourings, which make up his letters to his friends, it
is the sufferings of Poland, it is his hopes for Poland,
that tear words of fire from his lips. And that this de-
votion was not merely the ripe growth of his manhood,
although naturally it deepened and mellowed with the
course of events, but was the inmost fibre of his soul
when yet a boy, we see clearly enough from his youthful
letters to Reeve, even before that desolation had over-
taken Poland which caused her sons to mourn for her
as for a bereaved mother.
And on the other side, Krasinski's father stood for
all that was home. His mother was dead. He had
neither brother nor sister. His father was mother,
brother, sister to him: and the waters of many afflic-
tions could never drown that son's affection. He could
not prove his fidelity to his country without sinning
against his father. If he remained faithful to his father,
he was faithless, so it would seem, to his nation.
g. 4
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? 50 The Anonymous Poet of Poland
Then, too, that pride of race, that profound sense of
noble obligation, which was rooted in Krasinski's char-
acter, and of which we see proof after proof in his
letters, asserted itself in the support of patriotism, and
called him to the battle-field at any cost. A youth's
generous instincts, the inherited impulse of a soldier's
son that beat strongly in Krasinski's small and weakly
frame, his passionate recoil before disgrace and dis-
honour---all were there, spurring him to act in direct
defiance to his father.
Krasinski, as we have seen, wrote his intentions to
the General. Then a wall of obstacles rose around him.
Jakubowski watched over him like a jailor ; cut short
the money supplies without which he could not move;
and warned the Geneva authorities to be on the look out
if he attempted to leave the city1. Unable to endure
the prospect of resorting to a step that would not only
break his father's heart, but dishonour him yet further
in the eyes of his nation by the public spectacle of his
only son openly taking sides against him, Zygmunt ad-
dressed passionate appeals to the General, imploring for
his consent. While, as the weeks went by, he waited
for the answers in an agony of uncertainty how to act,
Reeve kept writing from Paris, proposing plans, each
wilder than the last. He begged Krasinski to escape
from Geneva, no matter how ; regretted that he had not
carried him off somehow with himself and his mother;
suggested that Zygmunt should start without a pass-
port on purpose to get himself arrested, and then slip
off on foot over the frontier for Paris, which was
crowded with Poles on their way to the front. Con-
vinced that for everybody's sake Krasinski must join
1 J. Kallenbach, op. cit.
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? The Sacrifice
5i
the Rising, full of sympathy both for his friend and for
the Polish cause, Reeve carefully passes on to Zygmunt
all the opinions on the latter's duty that he could
gather from the lips of Poles.
"One of them," says he, "told me that he doesn't
know you, but that he believes you to be a good sort
of boy and a good Pole1. "
I ought to have brought you with me at any price. How-
ever, in spite of the fact that, to use Morawski's expression,
each day that goes by is an eternity of loss for you, all is not
lost. It is not too late yet. They have known here for a long
time that your father is at Saint-Petersburg; but the colonel
told me yesterday that he is utterly broken-hearted, that he
will not see anyone, but weeps all day.
Reeve assures Krasinski that the best he can do
for his father is to take his share in the Rising. "I love
you as I have never loved a man before, and as I never
shall love one. That is why I am urging you on. " And
with greater zeal than tact he adds: " I told Morawski
you are ill. 'If he is not dying,' he said to me, 'he can
still go, and if he is dying let him have himself carried
to die on the free soil of Poland2. '"
All this Zygmunt knew only too well.
"Ah! my friend," he answers, "you have plunged the dagger
straight, straight to my heart. . . Yes, I know it, my salvation is
in Paris. If I don't go there I am lost. . . But listen to my
voice yet once more, that voice that you sometimes loved to
hear. I am alone, and everything is an obstacle to me, nothing
is a help. My father is dying, as you say, weeping; the son can
well die, gnashing his teeth. Have you considered what you
write to me, advising me to get myself arrested? Do you be-
lieve me capable of adding one stone to the heap that has
stoned my father? Do you want me to go promenading
through France the disgrace of the man who won such glory
there? Do you want me, a hero with the gendarmes, to read
1 Correspondance. Reeve to Krasinski. Paris, May 24, 1831.
2 Ibid. May 25, 1831.
4--2
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? 52
The Anonymous Poet of Poland
in a newspaper two days later epithets of infamy lavished on
the name of my father, sprinkled with a few praises for my-
self? Yes, I say openly, but only to Henry Reeve, and to
none other in the world, my father has committed a grave,
a terrible fault; it is not my place to call him to account for it.
"I shall wait at Geneva for my father's answer. If it is
satisfactory, I go; if not, I go all the same; because then my
duties, though not cancelled, will be lightened. After all,
think what you will; say that there is a want of energy in my
soul, that I speak, and do not know how to act, that I am weak,
irresolute. Good! Be as unhappy as I am, and then judge me. "
His brain obviously unhinged for the moment under
his mental tortures, among which not the least was the
conviction of his everlasting disgrace, he continued:
Do not attempt to defend me any more, to uphold my
reputation. I do not ask you to answer: "No," when they tell
you I am "a wretched creature"; but think it only, that will be
enough for me. Shut deep in your heart the friendship you
have for me. If your face lets it out it will compromise you.
Carry to the post on the sly the letters you write to me;
disguise your handwriting. Let nobody suspect that Henry
Reeve has any relations with Sigismond Krasinski.
But he has still a flicker of hope that "one hour
can change all, and then they will know who I am ":
and if that hour never comes, then at all events his
best loved friend, Reeve, will know it.
"At least, during the days of uncertainty that are floating be-
tween my past and my agony, do not forget me, write to me
every day. . . Remember that if fate and men are against me, you
at least ought to remain neutral. . . that if, at the end, all is for
ever lost to me, name, glory, father, country, there must still
remain between us something in common--if only the thought
of Chamonix"--where they had been together--"and the
memory of the tears of Saint-Cergues "--where shortly before
they had said good-bye to each other1.
A mutual friend chanced to be in the room as
Zygmunt closed this packet. He added a few words
below Krasinski's signature, describing the violent agi-
1 Correspondance. Krasinski to Reeve. Geneva, May 28, 1831.
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? The Sacrifice
53
tation into which Reeve's last letters had thrown
Krasinski, and how the latter, at the moment that the
friend sat and wrote, was hurrying with wild steps up
and down the room.
Reeve, now in England, scorned the idea of con-
cealing his friendship; tried at Krasinski's request to
find Henrietta Willan, whose silence her lover ascribed
to contempt for him; and told how his heart failed him at
the thought of going to a dance the evening that his
friend's outburst of misery lay in his pocket.
"Your part is taken," said Reeve. "The choice is terrible,
because that choice had to be made. Now that you have de-
cided to remain a son, pray, suffer, and love what is left to
you1. "
But Krasinski, who bore his burden unflinchingly
all his life long, in these early days doubted his strength
to carry through his sacrifice.
"You know me," he answered Reeve. "I am by no means
a being made for resignation. Fiery impulses, even if they
were to fling me into an abyss, cost me nothing; but per-
severance in good, as in evil, is supremely difficult to me.
"Skrzynecki [the Polish commander-in-chief] has had a
defeat. . . Nothing is lost. " It was the beginning of the end.
"She will be born again, that beautiful Poland2. "
At the same time he wrote the following letter to a
favourite cousin, Stanistaw Krasinski, who had been
wounded in the war.
This letter will find you on the bed where you are
suffering for Poland. With pride that I am related to you I
read in the papers that in an attack on a Russian battalion
you were seriously wounded. If my voice still counts for any-
thing with you, if you have not by now forgotten him who
promised to love you and always to wear your ring, accept
my good wishes. . . You alone are now a Krasinski. The rest
1 Correspondance. Reeve to Krasinski. London, June 6, 1831.
2 Ibid. Krasinski to Reeve. Geneva, June 12, 1831.
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? 54 The Anonymous Poet of Poland
of our glory has departed--but let our name disappear if only
Poland stays. Although appearances may be strong against
me, although I am now rotting far away from Poland, although
perhaps before long disgrace will fall and hang over my head,
believe that Zygmunt's heart is Polish, and will not cease to be
so till its last moment. Love me if you can still love one who
is remaining in Geneva while his brothers die. Believe, if you
still care to believe me, that the obstacle on my way must be
a weighty one when so far I have not been able either to re-
move it or pass over it. Good-bye, Stas'. Good-bye. Perhaps
God will give me such a blessing that before long I shall be
crying out at your side: "Hurrah, and death to the Mus-
covites. " Good-bye. I love you and adore your courage1.
Krasinski was now completely unnerved by the sus-
pense he suffered in his father's silence, and by mental
conflict2. He confided to Reeve how "in the silence
of the night" he was preparing himself for the hour,
when, with the arrival of his father's letter, his decision
must be made; an hour "more terrible than that of
death, because a decision is preceded by a struggle that
exhausts the soul, and death is merely a victory gained
over us3. "
In the intervals of grappling with his own problem,
in his ever increasing sadness as the news from Poland
grew worse, Krasinski took to his writing and excessive
reading to deaden grief. The sufferings of his mind
were now telling upon his body. Racked with pain, he
spent the nights over his pen and books, with fatal
injury to his eyes, already half blinded by weeping.
He told Reeve that the only hours in which he could
be said to live were those in which he poured out his
sorrows in the figure of an autobiographical story.
This story--Adam le Fou--is only known to us from
1 Given by Dr Kallenbach, Zygmunt Krasinski. See Appendix to
Vol. II, pp. 435. 436.
2 J. Kallenbach, op. cit.
3 Correspondance. Krasinski to Reeve. Geneva, June 21, 1831.
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? The Sacrifice
55
the scraps of French translations from the Polish that
Krasinski enclosed in his letters to Reeve. It presents
an idealized picture of Reeve as Lord Henry Gram ; a
Marie who stands for Henrietta Willan; while Kra-
sinski himself is represented as Adam, maddened by his
fate, Adam being one of Krasinski's own names.
Couched in a Byronic vein, it runs on the same lines as
the personal confidences that fill Krasinski's letters to
Reeve during the Rising. Adam sees himself despised
as a coward by the girl he loves; his name contemned,
his friends estranged. There seems to have been some
vague hope in Krasinski's mind that this story might
in a future day vindicate his honour by showing those
who held him cheap what his inaction in the war had
cost him1. But his idea came to nothing. Reeve
clamoured for it in vain: the Anonymous Poet would
never consent to divulge his name, or drag his father's
conduct into the public gaze2. The work breaks off
unfinished. Its remembrance of the Coliseum that had
so deeply affected Krasinski was afterwards ennobled
and purified in Iridion.
"I dreamt among the ruins," says Adam. "The ancient
world overthrown at my feet before a wooden cross. . . the
memories of my enslaved country, ran together in my brain.
I was comforted to contemplate Rome lying low in clay and
mud; for in my childhood I had sworn vengeance on another
Rome, and, as I trampled on the first, I thought that some
day I would trample on the second. " {Adam le Fou. )
Discussions on literary topics with Reeve afforded
Krasinski's overstrained mind some relief. He gave
Reeve a little lecture that proved to be strangely ap-
propriate, not to Reeve, but to Krasinski himself.
1 "Perhaps one day it will be the only proof that will witness in my
favour. " Corresfondance. Krasinski to Reeve. Geneva, July 25, 1831.
a J. Kallenbach, Zygmunt Krasinski.
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? 56 The Anonymous Poet of Poland
You ought not to hurry to finish your poem. Wait from
day to day now; life will become harder for you and, in pro-
portion to the load, your powers will grow. . . Laocoon, you
will wrestle; and from the struggle and the fight stars will
burst forth, I mean thoughts, unknown flights, stronger, more
gigantic, to the beautiful and sublime, because you will be
surrounded by baseness and ugliness. . . Till now, Henry, you
have only been a man in your moments of poetry, while you
walked in the circle of a child. But now, when your circle is
enlarged, when you are a man among men, struggling every
minute, you will be above man in your poetry, for to be a poet
is to carry his present reality to the past or future. . . to heaven
or hell1.
Then the Anonymous Poet, whose inspiration was
now clamouring for release, tells the friend, whom he
still believed possessed of gifts far greater than his own,
that at last he is convinced that he too has:
a spark of poetry in my bosom, very imperfect, it is true, as
rhythm is wanting in me. The proof is that, without any hope
of men ever reading me, I write and write. . . What is it to
be a poet if not to have a superabundance of thoughts which
rush in torrents over the surface of the soul, and which boil
there until they find an outlet? It matters little to him if this
outlet reaches the ears of men or the void, so long as he rids
himself of that fire which burns him, and gives him not one
moment's breathing space2.
On a July afternoon there is a glimpse of Krasinski
for once, in the thick of his troubles, at play. He went
to the garden of Reeve's adored Constance to steal a
rose for his friend.
In the road which passes the garden hedge I met the
Sautter father talking to a neighbour, while a string of oxen
plied before him. Between my teeth I murmured a Damn and
tied my horse to a little gate behind. Then I paced up and
down the road in the attitude of a man who awaits his adver-
sary to fight a duel. At last he [Sautter] came towards me,
and appeared to be considering me. I gave him back look for
1 Correspondance. Krasinski to Reeve. Geneva, June 23, 1831.
2 Ibid. July 13, 1831.
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? The Sacrifice
57
look and, seeing that he wouldn't learn any more about me, he
went off in the direction of the cornfields. I thought the
opportunity favourable, and I leaped the hedge. But at the
same instant two enormous dogs rushed out of a thicket, and
attacked me. I drew out my dagger and, thanks to the blade
that I presented at their heads, I made an honourable retreat
as far as the gate where I jumped on my horse. But there
behold! there was father Sautter, who reappeared among the
ears of corn on the other side. Caught between two fires, I
behaved with an astonishing presence of mind: for I pacified
the dogs by whistling and making friendly signs to them. As
for father Sautter, when I saw him passing out on my right
ten steps away from me, I stretched myself out on my saddle,
I laid my head on the neck, my feet on the back of my horse,
and I made as if I were going to sleep. The lawful proprietor
of Bourdigny passed by, looking at me with a smile, as if I
had given him the impression of being an oddity, then he
retreated to his house, leaving me for company his two amiable
Cerberuses. . . Like a falcon dying of hunger I swooped upon a
rose and another flower which I arranged in my pocket-book,
and that I shall send you as soon as they are dried.
This letter was still open when the courier came
in from Petersburg.
"What can I say to you, my dear Henry? My distress only
grows worse. My father writes to me with a heart-rending
tenderness. He tells me he is ready to make a sacrifice of
himself and his child to his country; but he implores me to
wait, and declares that he will shortly join me. Henry, what
would you do if you were in my place? Ah ! what need have
I to ask another what he would do? I see that I am ruined.
I am a fool, I am a coward, I am a wretched being, I have the
heart of a girl, I do not dare to brave a father's curse. I ex-
pected an imperious, violent, forcible letter, and I was prepared
for a decisive, terrible, forcible struggle too. . . But when
yesterday's letter arrived; when instead of threats, I found
prayers; instead of fury, I saw blessings; instead of commands,
supplications; instead of sentiments at the thought of which
I shuddered, a love of Poland piercing through each word, all my
strength melted into tears "--these three words are in English.
"I had prepared my arm to strike a blow; and, when it fell,
I found no resistance. . . I am touched to tenderness, full of
affection for my father, for his bitter misfortunes, and I have
no longer sufficient strength to decide. That is my condition.
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? 58
The Anonymous Poet of Poland
You can cast on my head the curse of a friend ; but I tell you
I am no longer myself. I have, however, answered, promising
nothing, still saying that if the opportunity presents itself I
shall go to Poland. But where is that opportunity? .
