Charles Dickens

                           THE SERF OF POBEREZE


     The materials for the following tale were  furnished  to  the  writer
while traveling last year near the spot on which the  events  it  narrates
took place. It is intended to convey a notion of some  of  the  phases  of
Polish, or rather Russian serfdom (for, as truly explained by one  of  the
characters in a succeeding page, it is Russian), and of  the  catastrophes
it has occasioned, not only in Catherine's time, but occasionally  at  the
present. The Polish nobles--themselves in  slavery--earnestly  desire  the
emancipation of their serfs, which Russian domination forbids.

     The small town of Pobereze stands at the foot of  a  stony  mountain,
watered by numerous springs in the district  of  Podolia,  in  Poland.  It
consists of a mass of miserable Cabins, with a  Catholic  chapel  and  two
Greek churches in the midst, the  latter  distinguished  by  their  gilded
towers. On one side of the market-place stands the only inn,  and  on  the
opposite side are several shops, from whose doors  and  windows  look  out
several dirtily dressed Jews. At a little distance, on a hill covered with
vines and fruit-trees, stands the Palace, which does not, perhaps, exactly
merit such an appellation, but  who  would  dare  to  call  otherwise  the
dwelling of the lord of the domain?

     On the morning when our tale opens, there had issued from this palace
the common enough command to the superintendent of the estate, to  furnish
the master with a couple of strong boys, for service in the stables, and a
young girl to be employed in the wardrobe. Accordingly, a  number  of  the
best-looking young peasants of Olgogrod assembled in the avenue leading to
the palace. Some were accompanied by their sorrowful and weeping  parents,
in all of whose hearts, however, rose the faint whispered  hope,  "Perhaps
it will not be _my_ child they will choose!"

     Being brought into the court-yard of the palace, the Count Roszynski,
with the several members of his family, had come out to pass in review his
growing subjects. He was a  small  and  insignificant-looking  man,  about
fifty years of age, with deep-set eyes and overhanging  brows.  His  wife,
who was nearly of the same age, was immensely stout, with  a  vulgar  face
and a loud, disagreeable voice. She made herself ridiculous in endeavoring
to imitate the manners and bearing of the aristocracy, into  whose  sphere
she and her husband were determined to force themselves, in spite  of  the
humbleness of their origin. The  father  of  the  "Right-Honorable"  Count
Roszynski was a valet, who, having been a great favorite with his  master,
amassed sufficient money to enable his son, who inherited it, to  purchase
the extensive estate of Olgogrod, and with it the sole  proprietorship  of
1600 human beings. Over them he had complete control; and,  when  maddened
by oppression, if they dared resent, woe unto them! They could  be  thrust
into a noisome dungeon, and chained by one hand from the light of day  for
years, until their very existence was forgotten by all except  the  jailor
who brought daily their pitcher of water and morsel of dry bread.

     Some of the old peasants say that Sava, father of the  young  peasant
girl, who stands by the  side  of  an  old  woman,  at  the  head  of  her
companions in the court-yard, is immured  in  one  of  these  subterranean
jails. Sava was always about the Count, who, it was said, had brought  him
from some distant land, with his little motherless child. Sava placed  her
under the care of an old man and woman, who had the charge of the bees  in
a forest near the palace, where he came occasionally  to  visit  her.  But
once, six long months passed, and he did not come! In vain  Anielka  wept,
in vain she cried, "Where is my father?" No father appeared.  At  last  it
was said that Sava had been sent to a long distance with a  large  sum  of
money, and had been killed by robbers. In the ninth year of one's life the
most poignant grief is quickly  effaced,  and  after  six  months  Anielka
ceased to grieve. The old people were very kind to her, and loved  her  as
if sue were their own child. That Anielka might be chosen to serve in  the
palace never entered their head, for who would be so barbarous as to  take
the child away from an old woman of seventy and her aged husband?

     To-day was the first time in her life that she had been so  far  from
home. She looked curiously on all she saw,--particularly on a  young  lady
about her own age, beautifully dressed, and a youth of eighteen,  who  had
apparently just returned from a ride on horse-back, as he held a  whip  in
his hand, whilst walking up and down examining the boys who were placed in
a row before him. He chose two amongst them, and the boys were led away to
the stables.

     "And I choose this young girl," said Constantia Roszynski, indicating
Anielka; "she is the prettiest of them all. I do not like ugly faces about
me."

     When Constantia returned to the drawing-room,  she  gave  orders  for
Anielka to be taken to her apartments, and placed under  the  tutelage  of
Mademoiselle Dufour, a  French  maid,  recently  arrived  from  the  first
milliner's shop in Odessa. Poor girl! when they  separated  her  from  her
adopted mother, and began leading her toward the palace, she rushed,  with
a shriek of agony, from them, and grasped her old protectress  tightly  in
her arms! They were  torn  violently  asunder,  and  the  Count  Roszynski
quietly asked, "Is it her daughter, or her grand-daughter?"

     "Neither, my lord,--only an adopted, child."

     "But who will lead the old woman home, as she is blind?"

     "I will, my lord," replied one of his servants, bowing to the ground;
"I will let her, walk by the side of my horse, and  when  she  is  in  her
cabin she will have her old husband,--they must take care of each other."

     So saying, he moved away with the rest of the peasants and domestics.
But the poor old woman had to be dragged along by  two  men;  for  in  the
midst of her shrieks and tears  she  had  fallen  to  the  ground,  almost
without life.

     And Anielka? They did not allow her to weep long. She had now to  sit
all day in the corner of a room to sew. She was expected to do  everything
well from the first; and if she did not, she  was  kept  without  food  or
cruelly punished. Morning and evening she had to  help  Mdlle.  Dufour  to
dress and undress her mistress. But Constantia, although she  looked  with
hauteur on everybody beneath her, and expected to be slavishly obeyed, was
tolerably kind to the poor orphan. Her true torment began, when, on laving
her young lady's room, she had to assist  Mdlle.  Dufour.  Notwithstanding
that she tried sincerely to do her best, she was  never  able  to  satisfy
her, or to draw from her naught but harsh reproaches.

     Thus two months passed.

     One day Mdlle. Dufour went very early to confession, and Anielka  was
seized with an eager longing to gaze once more in peace and freedom on the
beautiful blue sky and green trees, as she used to do when the first  rays
of the rising sun streamed in at the window of the  little  forest  cabin.
She ran into the garden. Enchanted by  the  sight  of  so  many  beautiful
flowers, she went farther and farther along the smooth and winding  walks.
till she entered the forest. She who had  been,  so  long  away  from  her
beloved trees, roamed where they were  thickest.  Here  she  gazes  boldly
around. She sees no one! She is alone! A little farther on she meets  with
a rivulet which flows through the forest. Here she remembers that she  has
not yet prayed. She kneels down, and with hands clasped and eyes  upturned
she begins to sing in a sweet voice the Hymn to the virgin.

     As she went on she sang louder and with increased fervor. Her  breast
heaved with emotion, her eyes shone with unusual brilliancy; but when  the
hymn was finished she lowered her head,  tears  began  to  fall  over  her
cheeks, until at last she sobbed aloud. She might have  remained  long  in
this condition, had not some one come behind her, saying, "Do not cry,  my
poor girl; it is better to sing than to weep."  The  intruder  raised  her
head, wiped her  eyes  with  his  handkerchief,  and  kissed  her  on  the
forehead.

     It was the Count's son, Leon!

     "You must not cry," he continued; "be calm,  and  when  the  filipony
(peddlers) come, buy yourself a pretty handkerchief." He then gave  her  a
ruble and walked away. Anielka, after concealing the coin in  her  corset,
ran quickly back to the palace.

     Fortunately, Mdlle. Dufour had not yet returned, and  Anielka  seated
herself in her accustomed corner. She often took out the  ruble  to,  gaze
fondly upon it, and set to work to make  a  little  purse,  which,  having
fastened to a ribbon, she hung round  her  neck.  She  did  not  dream  of
spending it, for it would have deeply grieved her to part with the gift of
the only person in the whole house who had looked kindly on her.

     From this time Anielka remained always in her young mistress's  room;
she was better dressed, and Mdlle. Dufour ceased to persecute her. To what
did she owe this sudden change?  Perhaps  to  a  remonstrance  from  Leon.
Constantia ordered Anielka to sit beside her  whilst  taking  her  lessons
from her music masters, and on her going to the drawing-room, she was left
in her apartments alone. Being thus more kindly treated. Anielka  lost  by
degrees her timidity; and when her young mistress,  whilst  occupied  over
some embroidery, would tell her to sing, she did  so  boldly  and  with  a
steady voice. A greater favor awaited her.  Constantia,  when  unoccupied,
began teaching Anielka to read in Polish; and  Mdlle.  Dufour  thought  it
politic to follow the example of her mistress,  and  began  to  teach  her
French.

     Meanwhile, a new kind of torment commenced. Having easily learnt  the
two languages, Anielka acquired an irresistible passion for reading. Books
had for her the charm of the forbidden fruit, for she could only  read  by
stealth at night, or when her mistress went visiting in the  neighborhood.
The kindness hitherto shown her for a time, began to relax. Leon  had  set
off on a tour, accompanied by his old tutor, and a bosom friend, as young,
as gay, and as thoughtless as himself.

     So passed the two years of Leon's absence. When he returned,  Anielka
was seventeen, and had become tall and handsome. No one who had  not  seen
her during this time, would have recognized her. Of this number was  Leon.
In the midst of perpetual gayety and change, it was not possible he  could
have remembered a poor peasant  girl;  but  in  Anielka's  memory  he  had
remained as a superior being, as her benefactor, as the only one  who  had
spoken kindly to her, when poor, neglected, forlorn! When in  some  French
romance she met with a young man of  twenty,  of  a  noble  character  and
handsome  appearance,  she  bestowed  on  him  the  name  of   Leon.   The
recollection of the kiss be had given her ever brought a burning blush  to
her cheek, and made her sigh deeply.

     One day Leon came to his sister's room. Anielka was there, seated  in
a corner at work. Leon himself had considerably changed; from a boy he had
grown into a man. "I suppose, Constantia," he said, "you  have  been  told
what a, good boy I am, and with what docility I shall submit myself to the
matrimonial yoke, which the Count and Countess have provided for me?"  and
he began whistling, and danced some steps of the Mazurka.

     "Perhaps you will be refused," said Constantia coldly.

     "Refused! Oh, no. The old Prince has already given his  consent,  and
as for his daughter, she is desperately in love with  me.  Look  at  these
moustachios; could anything be more irresistible?" and he glanced  in  the
glass and twirled them round his fingers;  then  continuing  in  a  graver
tone, he said, "To tell the sober truth, I cannot say that I  reciprocate.
My intended is not at all to my taste. She is nearly thirty, and so  thin,
that whenever I look at her, I am reminded of my  old  tutor's  anatomical
sketches. But,  thanks  to  her  Parisian  dress-maker,  she  makes  up  a
tolerably good figure, and looks well in a Cachemere. Of all  things,  you
know, I wished for a wife with an imposing appearance, and  I  don't  care
about love. I find it's not fashionable, and only exists  in  the  exalted
imagination of poets."

     "Surely people are in love with  one  another  sometimes,"  said  the
sister.

     "Sometimes," repeated Anielka, inaudibly. The dialogue had  painfully
affected her, and she knew not why. Her heart beat quickly, and  her  face
was flushed, and made her look more lovely than ever.

     "Perhaps. Of course we profess to adore  every  pretty  woman,"  Leon
added abruptly. "But, my dear sister, what a  charming  ladies'  maid  you
have!" He approached the corner, where Anielka sat,  and  bent  on  her  a
coarse familiar smile. Anielka,  although  a  serf,  was  displeased,  and
returned it with a glance full of dignity. But when her eyes rested on the
youth's handsome face, a feeling, which had been  gradually  and  silently
growing in her young and inexperienced heart, predominated over her  pride
and displeasure. She wished ardently to recall herself to  Leon's  memory,
and half unconsciously raised her hand to the little  purse  which  always
hung round her neck. She took from it the rouble he had given her.

     "See!" shouted Leon, "what a droll girl; how  proud  she  is  of  her
riches! Why, girl, you are  a  woman  of  fortune,  mistress  of  a  whole
rouble!"

     "I hope she came by it honestly," said the old Countess, who at  this
moment entered.

     At this insinuation, shame and indignation kept Anielka, for a  time,
silent. She replaced the money quickly  in  its  purse,  with  the  bitter
thought that the few happy moments which had  been  so  indelibly  stamped
upon her memory, had been utterly forgotten by Leon. To clear herself, she
at last stammered out, seeing they all looked at her inquiringly, "Do  you
not remember, M. Leon, that you gave me this coin two  years  ago  in  the
garden"?"

     "How odd!" exclaimed Leon, laughing, "do you expect  me  to  remember
all the pretty girls to whom I have given money? But  I  suppose  you  are
right, or you would not have treasured up this unfortunate rouble as if it
were a holy relic. You should not be a miser, child; money is made  to  be
spent."

     "Pray put an end to these jokes,"  said  Constantia  impatiently;  "I
like this girl, and I will not have her teased. She  understands  my  ways
better than any one, and often puts me in a good humor with her  beautiful
voice."

     "Sing something for me pretty damsel," said Leon, "and  I  will  give
you another rouble, a new and shining one."

     "Sing instantly," said Constantia imperiously.

     At this command Anielka could no longer stifle her grief; she covered
her face with her hands, and wept violently.

     "Why do you cry?" asked her mistress impatiently; "I cannot bear  it;
I desire you to do as you are bid."

     It might have been from the constant habit of slavish obedience, or a
strong feeling of pride, but Anielka instantly ceased weeping. There was a
moment's pause, during which the old Countess went grumbling  out  of  the
room. Anielka chose the Hymn to the Virgin she had warbled in the  garden,
and as  she  sung,  she  prayed  fervently;--she  prayed  for  peace,  for
deliverance from the acute emotions which had been aroused within her. Her
earnestness gave an intensity of expression to the melody, which  affected
her listeners. They were silent for some  moments  after  its  conclusion.
Leon walked up and down with  his  arms  folded  on  his  breast.  Was  it
agitated with pity for the accomplished  young  slave?  or  by  any  other
tender emotion? What followed will show.

     "My dear Constantia," he said, suddenly stopping  before  his  sister
and kissing her hand, "will you do me a favor?"

     Constantia looked inquiringly in her brother's face without speaking.

     "Give me this girl"

     "Impossible!"

     "I am quite in earnest," continued Leon, "I wish to offer her  to  my
future wife. In the Prince her father's private chapel they  are  much  in
want of a solo soprano."

     "I shall not give her to you," said Constantia."

     "Not as a free gift, but in exchange.  I  will  give  you  instead  a
charming young negro--so black. The women in St. Petersburgh and in  Paris
raved about him: but I was inexorable: I half refused him to my princess."

     "No, no," replied Constantia; "I shall be lonely without this girl, I
am so used to her."

     "Nonsense! you can get peasant girls by the dozen; but a black  page,
with teeth whiter than ivory, and purer than pearls; a perfect original in
his way; you surely cannot withstand. You will kill half the province with
envy. A negro servant is the most fashionable thing going, and yours  will
be the first imported into the province."

     This argument was irresistible. "Well," replied Constantia, "when  do
you think of taking her?"

     "Immediately; to-day at five o'clock," said Leon; and he went merrily
out of the room.

     This then was the result of his cogitation--of Anielka's Hymn to  the
Virgin. Constantia ordered Anielka to prepare  herself  for  the  journey,
with as little emotion as if she had exchanged away a lap-dog,  or  parted
with parrot.

     She obeyed in silence. Her heart was full. She went into  the  garden
that she might relieve herself by weeping unseen. With one hand supporting
her burning head, and the other pressed  tightly  against  her  heart,  to
stifle her sobs, she wandered on mechanically till she  found  herself  by
the side of the river. She felt quickly for her purse, intending to  throw
the rouble into the water, but as quickly thrust it back  again,  for  she
could not bear to part with the treasure. She felt as if  without  it  she
would be still more an orphan. Weeping bitterly, she  leaned  against  the
tree which had once before witnessed her tears.

     By  degrees  the  stormy  passion  within  her  gave  place  to  calm
reflection. This day she was to go away; she was to dwell beneath  another
roof, to serve another mistress. Humiliation! always humiliation!  But  at
least it would be some change in her life. As she  thought  of  this,  she
returned hastily to the palace that she might not, on the last day of  her
servitude, incur the anger of her young mistress.

     Scarcely was Anielka attired in her prettiest dress, when  Constantia
came to her with a little box, from which  she  took  several  gay-colored
ribbons, and decked her in them herself, that the serf might do her credit
in the new family. And when Anielka, bending down  to  her  feet,  thanked
her, Constantia, with marvelous condescension, kissed her on her forehead.
Even Leon cast an admiring glance upon her. His servant soon after came to
conduct her to the carriage, and showing her where to seat  herself,  they
rolled off quickly toward Radapol.

     For the first time in her life Anielka rode in a carriage.  Her  head
turned quite giddy, she could not look at the trees  and  fields  as  they
flew past her; but by degrees she became more accustomed to  it,  and  the
fresh air enlivening her spirits, she performed the rest of the journey in
a tolerably happy state of mind. At last  they  arrived  in  the  spacious
court-yard before the Palace of Radapol, the dwelling of a once  rich  and
powerful Polish family, now partly  in  ruin.  It  was  evident,  even  to
Anielka, that the marriage was one for money on the one side, and for rank
on the other.

     Among other renovations at the castle, occasioned by the  approaching
marriage, the owner of it, Prince Pelazia, had obtained  singers  for  the
chapel, and had engaged Signer Justiniani, an Italian,  as  chapel-master.
Immediately on Leon's arrival, Anielka was presented to him. He  made  her
sing a scale, and pronounced her voice to be excellent.

     Anielka found that, in Radapol, she was treated with  a  little  more
consideration than at Olgogrod, although she had often to  submit  to  the
caprices of her new mistress, and she found less  time  to  read.  But  to
console herself,  she  gave  all  her  attention  to  singing,  which  she
practiced several hours a day. Her naturally  great  capacity,  under  the
guidance of the Italian, began to develop itself steadily. Besides sacred,
he taught her operatic music. On one occasion Anielka sung an aria  in  so
impassioned and masterly style, that the enraptured Justiniani clapped his
hands for joy, skipped about the room, and not  finding  words  enough  to
praise her, exclaimed several times, "Prima Donna! Prima Donna!"

     But the lessons were  interrupted.  The  Princess's  wedding-day  was
fixed upon, after which event she and Leon were to  go  to  Florence,  and
Anielka was to accompany them. Alas!  feelings  which  gave  her  poignant
misery still clung to her. She despised herself for her weakness; but  she
loved Leon. The sentiment was too deeply implanted  in  her  bosom  to  be
eradicated; too strong to be resisted. It was the first love  of  a  young
and guileless heart, and had grown in silence and despair.

     Anielka was most anxious to know something of  her  adopted  parents.
Once, after the old prince had heard her singing, he asked her with  great
kindness about her home. She replied, that she was an orphan, and had been
taken by force from those who had so kindly supplied the place of parents,
Her apparent attachment to the old bee-keeper and his wife so pleased  the
prince, that he said, "You are a good child. Anielka, and to-morrow I will
send you to visit them. You shall take them some presents."

     Anielka, overpowered with gratitude, threw herself at the feet of the
prince. She dreamed all night of the happiness that was in store for  her,
and the joy of the poor, forsaken, old people; and when the  next  morning
she set off, she could scarcely restrain  her  impatience.  At  last  they
approached the cabin; she saw the forest, with its  tall  trees,  and  the
meadows covered with flowers. She leaped from the carriage, that she might
be nearer these trees and flowers,  every  one  of  which  she  seemed  to
recognize. The weather was beautiful. She breathed with avidity  the  pure
air which, in imagination, brought to her the kisses and caresses  of  her
poor father! Her foster-father was, doubtless, occupied with his bees; but
his wife?

     Anielka opened the door of the cabin; all was  silent  and  deserted.
The arm-chair on which the poor old woman used to sit, was overturned in a
corner. Anielka was chilled by a fearful presentiment.  She  went  with  a
slow step toward the bee-hives; there she saw a  little  boy  tending  the
bees, whilst the old man was stretched on the ground beside him. The  rays
of the sun, falling on his pale and sickly face, showed that he  was  very
ill. Anielka stooped down over him, and said, "It is  I,  it  is  Anielka,
your own Anielka, who always loves you."

     The old man raised his head, gazed upon her with a ghastly smile, and
took off his cap.

     "And my good old mother, where is she?" Anielka asked.

     "She is dead!" answered the  old  man,  and  falling  back  he  began
laughing idiotically. Anielka wept. She gazed earnestly on the worn frame,
the pale and wrinkled cheeks, it which scarcely a sign of  life  could  be
perceived; it seemed to her that he had suddenly fallen  asleep,  and  not
wishing to disturb him, she went to the carriage for  the  presents.  When
she returned, she took his hand. It was cold. The poor old bee-keeper  had
breathed his last!

     Anielka was carried almost senseless  back  to  the  carriage,  which
quickly returned with her to the castle. There she revived a  little;  but
the recollection that she was now quite alone in the world,  almost  drove
her to despair.

     Her master's wedding and the journey to Florence were a dream to her.
Though  the  strange  sights  of  a  strange  city  slowly  restored   her
perceptions, they did not her cheerfulness. She felt as if  she  could  no
longer endure the misery of her life; she prayed to die.

     "Why are you so unhappy?" said the Count Leon kindly to her, one day.

     To have explained the cause of her wretchedness would have been death
indeed.

     "I am going to give you  a  treat,"  continued  Leon.  "A  celebrated
singer is to appear to-night in the theater. I will send you to hear  her,
and afterward you shall sing to me what you remember of her performances."

     Anielka went. It was a new era in her  existence.  Herself,  by  this
time, an artist, she could forget her griefs, and  enter  with  her  whole
soul into the beauties of the art she now heard  practiced  in  perfection
for the first time. To  music  a  chord  responded  in  her  breast  which
vibrated powerfully. During the performances she was at  one  moment  pale
and trembling, tears rushing into her eyes; at another, she was  ready  to
throw herself at the feet of the cantatrice, in an ecstacy of  admiration.
"Prima donna,"--by that name the public called on  her  to  receive  their
applause, and it was  the  same,  thought  Anielka,  that  Justiniani  had
bestowed upon her. Could she also  be  a  prima  donna?  What  a  glorious
destiny! To be able  to  communicate  one's  own  emotions  to  masses  of
entranced listeners; to awaken in them, by the power of the voice,  grief,
love, terror.

     Strange thoughts continued to haunt her on her return home.  She  was
unable to sleep. She formed desperate plans. At last she resolved to throw
off the yoke of servitude, and the still more painful slavery of  feelings
which her pride disdained. Having learnt the address of the  prima  donna,
she went early one morning to her house.

     On entering she said, in French, almost incoherently,  so  great  was
her agitation--"Madam, I am a poor serf belonging to a Polish  family  who
have lately arrived in  Florence.  I  have  escaped  from  them;  protect,
shelter me. They say I can sing."

     The  Signora  Teresina,  a  warm-hearted,  passionate  Italian,   was
interested by her artless earnestness. She said,  "Poor  child!  you  must
have suffered much,"--she took Anielka's hand in hers. "You  say  you  can
sing; let me hear you." Anielka seated herself on an ottoman. She  clasped
her hands over her knees, and tears fell  into  her  lap.  With  plaintive
pathos, and perfect truth of intonation, she prayed in song. The  Hymn  to
the Virgin seemed to Teresina to be offered up by inspiration.

     The Signora was astonished. "Where," she asked, in wonder, "were  you
taught?"

     Anielka narrated her history, and when she had  finished,  the  prima
donna spoke so kindly to her that she felt as if she  had  known  her  for
years. Anielka was Teresina's guest that  day  and  the  next.  After  the
Opera, on the third day, the prima donna made  her  sit  beside  her,  and
said:--

     "I think you are a very  good  girl,  and  you  shall  stay  with  me
always."

     The girl was almost beside herself with joy.

     "We will never part. Do you consent, Anielka?"

     "Do not call me Anielka. Give me instead some Italian name."

     "Well, then, be Giovanna. The dearest friend I ever had  but  whom  I
have lost--was named Giovanna," said the prima donna.

     "Then, I will be another Giovanna to you."

     Teresina then said, "I hesitated to receive you at  first,  for  your
sake as well as mine; it you are safe now. I learn that  your  master  and
mistress, after searching vainly for you, have returned to Poland."

     From this time Anielka commenced  an  entirely  new  life.  She  took
lessons in singing every day from the Signora. and got  an  engagement  to
appear in inferior characters at the theater. She had now her own  income,
and her own servant--she, who till then had been obliged to serve herself.
She acquired the Italian language rapidly, and soon passed for a native of
the country.

     So passed three years. New and varied impressions failed, however, to
blot out the old ones. Anielka arrived at great perfection in her singing,
and even began to surpass the prima donna, who was losing her  voice  from
weakness of the chest. This sad discovery changed the cheerful  temper  of
Teresina. She ceased to sing in public; for she could not endure to excite
pity, where she had formerly commanded admiration.

     She determined to retire. "You," she  said  to  Anielka,  "shall  now
assert your claim to the first rank in the vocal art.  You  will  maintain
it. You surpass me. Often, on hearing you sing, I have scarcely been  able
to stifle a feeling of jealousy."

     Anielka placed her hand on Teresina's shoulder, and kissed her.

     "Yes," continued Teresina, regardless of everything  but  the  bright
future she was shaping for her friend. "We will go  to  Vienna--there  you
will be understood and appreciated. You shall sing at the  Italian  Opera,
and I will be by your side--unknown, no longer sought, worshiped--but will
glory in your triumphs. They will be a repetition of my own;  for  have  I
not taught you? Will they not be the result of my work!"

     Though Anielka's ambition was fired, her heart was softened, and  she
wept violently.

     Five months had scarcely elapsed, when  a  _furore_  was  created  in
Vienna by the first appearance, at  the  Italian  Opera,  of  the  Signora
Giovanna. Her enormous salary at once  afforded  her  the  means  of  even
extravagant expenditure. Her  haughty  treatment  of  male  admirers  only
attracted new ones; but in the midst of her triumphs she thought often  of
the time when the poor orphan of Pobereze was cared for  by  nobody.  This
remembrance made her receive the flatteries of the crowd with an  ironical
smile; their fine speeches fell coldly on her ear,  their  eloquent  looks
made no impression on  her  heart:  _that_,  no  change  could  alter,  no
temptation win.

     In the flood of unexpected success a new misfortune overwhelmed  her.
Since their arrival at Vienna, Teresina's health rapidly declined, and  in
the sixth month of Anielka's operatic reign she expired, leaving  all  her
wealth, which was considerable, to her friend.

     Once more Anielka was alone in the world. Despite all the honors  and
blandishments of her position, the old feeling of desolateness  came  upon
her. The new shock destroyed her health. She was unable to appear  on  the
stage. To sing was a painful effort; she grew indifferent to  what  passed
around her. Her  greatest  consolation  was  in  succoring  the  poor  and
friendless, and her generosity was most conspicuous to  all  young  orphan
girls without fortune. She had never ceased to love her native  land,  and
seldom appeared in society, unless it was to meet her countrymen. If  ever
she sang, it was in Polish.

     A year had elapsed since the death of the Signora Teresina, when  the
Count Selka, a rich noble of Volkynia, at that time in  Vienna,  solicited
her presence at a party. It was impossible to refuse  the  Count  and  his
lady, from whom she had received great kindness. She went. When  in  their
saloons, filled with all the fashion and aristocracy in Vienna,  the  name
of Giovanna was announced, a general murmur was heard. She  entered,  pale
and languid, and proceeded between the  two  rows  made  for  her  by  the
admiring assembly, to the seat of honor beside the mistress of the house.

     Shortly after, the Count Selka led her to the  piano.  She  sat  down
before it, and thinking what she  should  sing,  glanced  round  upon  the
assembly. She could not help feeling that the admiration which beamed from
the faces around her was the work of her own merit, for had she  neglected
the great gift of nature--her voice, she could not have excited it. With a
blushing cheek, and eyes sparkling with honest pride, she struck the piano
with a firm hand, and from her seemingly weak and  delicate  chest  poured
forth  a  touching  Polish  melody,  with  a  voice  pure,  sonorous,  and
plaintive. Tears were in many eyes, and the beating  of  every  heart  was
quickened.

     The song was  finished,  but  the  wondering  silence  was  unbroken.
Giovanna leaned exhausted on the arm of the chair, and cast down her eyes.
On again raising them, she perceived a gentleman who gazed fixedly at her,
as if he still listened to echoes which had not yet died within  him.  The
master of the house, to  dissipate  his  thoughtfulness,  led  him  toward
Giovanna. "Let me present to you, Signora," he said,  "a  countryman,  the
Count Leon Roszynski."

     The lady trembled; she silently bowed, fixed her eyes on the  ground,
and  dared  not  raise  them.  Pleading  indisposition,  which  was  fully
justified by her pallid features, she soon after withdrew.

     When on the following day Giovanna'a  servant  announced  the  Counts
Selka and Roszynski, a peculiar smile played on her lips,  and  when  they
entered, she received the latter with the cold and formal politeness of  a
stranger. Controlling the feelings of her heart, she schooled her features
to an expression of indifference. It was manifest from Leon's manner, that
without the remotest recognition, an  indefinable  presentiment  regarding
her possessed him. The Counts had called to know if Giovanna had recovered
from her indisposition. Leon begged to be permitted to call again.

     Where  was  his  wife?  why  did  he  never  mention  her?   Giovanna
continually asked herself these questions when they had departed.

     A few nights after, the Count Leon arrived  sad  and  thoughtful.  He
prevailed on Giovanna to sing one of her Polish melodies; which  she  told
him had been taught, when a child,  by  her  muse.  Roszynski,  unable  to
restrain the expression  of  an  intense  admiration  he  had  long  felt,
frantically seized her hand, and exclaimed, "I love you!"

     She withdrew it from his grasp, remained silent for  a  few  minutes,
and then said slowly, distinctly, and  ironically,  "But  I  do  not  love
_you_, Count Roszynski."

     Leon rose from his seat. He pressed his hands to his  brow,  and  was
silent. Giovanna remained  calm  and  tranquil.  "It  is  a  penalty  from
Heaven," continued Leon, as  if  speaking  to  himself,  "for  not  having
fulfilled my duty as a husband toward one whom I  chose  voluntarily,  but
without reflection. I wronged her, and am punished."

     Giovanna turned her eyes upon him. Leon continued, "Young, and with a
heart untouched, I married a princess about ten years older  than  myself,
of eccentric habits and bad temper. She treated me  as  an  inferior.  She
dissipated the fortune hoarded up with so much care by my parents, and yet
was ashamed on account of my origin to be called by my name.  Happily  for
me, she was fond of visiting and amusements.  Otherwise,  to  escape  from
her, I might have become a gambler, or worse; but, to avoid meeting her, I
remained at home--for there she seldom  was.  At  first  from  ennui,  but
afterward from real delight in the occupation, I gave myself up to  study.
Reading formed my mind and heart. I became a changed  being.  Some  months
ago my father died, my sister went to Lithuania, whilst my mother, in  her
old age, and with her ideas,  was  quite  incapable  of  understanding  my
sorrow. So when my wife went to the baths for the benefit  of  her  ruined
health, I came here in  the  hope  of  meeting  with  some  of  my  former
friends--I saw you--"

     Giovanna blushed like one detected; but speedily recovering  herself,
asked with calm pleasantry, "Surely you do  not  number  _me_  among  your
former friends?"

     "I know not. I have been bewildered. It  is  strange;  but  from  the
moment that I saw you at  Count  Selka's,  a  powerful  instinct  of  love
overcame me;  not  a  new  feeling;  but  as  if  some  latent,  long-hid,
undeveloped sentiment had suddenly  burst  forth  into  an  uncontrollable
passion. I love, I adore you. I--"

     The Prima Donna interrupted him--not with speech,  but  with  a  look
which awed, which chilled him. Pride,  scorn,  irony  sat  in  her  smile.
Satire darted from her eyes.  After  a  pause,  she  repeated  slowly  and
pointedly, "Love _me_, Count Roszynski?"

     "Such is my destiny," he replied. "Nor, despite your  scorn,  will  I
struggle against it. I feel it is my fate ever to love you; I fear  it  is
my fate never to be loved by you. It is dreadful."

     Giovanna witnessed the Count's emotion with sadness. "To  have,"  she
said  mournfully,  "one's  first,  pure,  ardent,   passionate   affection
unrequited, scorned, made a jest of, is indeed a bitterness, almost  equal
to that of death."

     She  made  a  strong  effort  to  conceal  her  emotion.  Indeed  she
controlled it so well as to speak the rest with a sort of gayety.

     "You have at least been candid, Count Roszynski; I will  imitate  you
by telling a little history that occurred in your  country.  There  was  a
poor girl born and bred a serf  to  her  wealthy  lord  and  master.  When
scarcely fifteen years old, she was torn from  a  state  of  happy  rustic
freedom--the freedom of humility and content--to be  one  of  the  courtly
slaves of the Palace. Those who did not laugh at  her,  scolded  her.  One
kind word was vouchsafed to her, and that came from the  lord's  son.  She
nursed it and treasured it; till, from long concealing and restraining her
feelings, she at last found that gratitude  had  changed  into  a  sincere
affection. But what does a man of the world care for the love of  a  serf?
It does not even flatter his vanity. The young nobleman did not understand
the source of her tears and her grief, and he made a present of her, as he
would have done of some animal, to his betrothed."

     Leon, agitated and somewhat enlightened, would have interrupted  her;
but Giovanna said, "Allow me to finish my tale. Providence did not abandon
this poor orphan, but permitted her to rise to distinction by  the  talent
with which she was endowed by nature. The wretched serf of Pobereze became
a celebrated Italian cantatrice. _Then_ her former  lord  meeting  her  in
society, and seeing her admired and courted  by  all  the  world,  without
knowing who she really was, was  afflicted,  as  if  by  the  dictates  of
Heaven, with a love for this same girl,--with a guilty love"--

     And Giovanna rose, as she said this, to remove herself  further  from
her admirer.

     "No, no!" he replied earnestly; "with a pure and holy passion."

     "Impossible!" returned Giovanna. "Are you not married?"

     Roszynski vehemently tore a letter from his vest, and  handed  it  to
Giovanna. It was sealed with black, for it announced the death of his wife
at the baths. It had only arrived that morning.

     "You have lost no time," said the cantatrice, endeavoring to  conceal
her feelings under an iron mask of reproach.

     There was a pause. Each dared not speak. The Count knew--but  without
actually and practically believing what  seemed  incredible--that  Anielka
and Giovanna were the same person--_his slave_. That terrible relationship
checked him. Anielka, too, had played her part to the  end  of  endurance.
The long cherished tenderness, the faithful love of  her  life  could  not
longer be wholly mastered. Hitherto they had spoken in  Italian.  She  now
said, in Polish,

     "You have a right, my  Lord  Roszynski,  to  that  poor  Anielka  who
escaped from the service of your wife in Florence; you can force her  back
to your palace, to its meanest work; but"--

     "Have mercy on me!" cried Leon.

     "But," continued the serf of Pobereze, firmly, "you cannot  force  me
to love you."

     "Do not mock--do not torture me more; you are sufficiently  revenged.
I will not offend you  by  importunity.  You  must  indeed  hate  me!  But
remember that we Poles wished to give freedom to our serfs; and  for  that
very reason our country was invaded and dismembered by despotic powers. We
must therefore continue to suffer slavery as it  exists  in  Russia;  but,
soul and body, we are averse to it; and when our country once more becomes
free, be assured no shadow of slavery will remain in the land. Curse  then
our enemies, and pity us that  we  stand  in  such  a  desperate  position
between Russian bayonets and Siberia, and the hatred of our serfs."

     So saying, and without waiting for a  reply,  Leon  rushed  from  the
room. The door was closed. Giovanna listened to the sounds  of  his  rapid
footsteps till they died in the street. She would have followed, but dared
not. She ran to the window. Roszynski's carriage was rolling rapidly away,
and she exclaimed vainly, "I love you, Leon; I loved you always!"

     Her tortures were unendurable. To relieve them she  hastened  to  her
desk, and wrote these words:

     "Dearest Leon, forgive me; let the past be forever forgotten.  Return
to your Anielka. She always has been, ever will be, yours!"

     She dispatched the missive. Was it too late, or would  it  bring  him
back? In the latter hope she retired to her chamber, to execute  a  little
project.

     Leon was in despair.  He  saw  he  had  been  premature  in  so  soon
declaring his passion after the news of his wife's  death,  and  vowed  he
would not see Anielka again for several months. To calm his agitation,  he
had ridden some miles into the country. When  he  returned  to  his  hotel
after some hours, he found her note. With the wild delight it  had  darted
into his soul, he flew back to her.

     On regaining her saloon a new  and  terrible  vicissitude  seemed  to
sport with his passion--she was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  Had  the  Italian
cantatrice fled? Again he was in despair-stupefied with disappointment. As
he stood uncertain how to act, in the midst of the  floor,  he  heard,  as
from a distance, an Ave Maria poured forth in tones  he  half  recognized.
The sounds brought  back  to  him  a  host  of  recollections:  a  weeping
serf--the garden of his own palace. In a state of new rapture he  followed
the voice. He traced it to an inner  chamber,  and  he  there  beheld  the
lovely singer kneeling in the costume of a Polish serf. She rose,  greeted
Leon with a touching smile, and stepped forward with serious  bashfulness.
Leon extended his arms; she sank into them; and in that fond  embrace  all
past wrongs and sorrows were forgotten! Anielka  drew  from  her  bosom  a
little purse, and took from it a piece of silver, It was the rouble.  Now,
Leon did not smile at it. He comprehended the sacredness  of  this  little
gift, and some tears of repentance fell on Anielka's hand.

     A few months after, Leon wrote to the steward of Olgogrod to  prepare
everything splendidly for the reception of his second wife.  He  concluded
his letter with these words:

     "I understand that in the dungeon beneath my palace  there  are  some
unfortunate men, who were imprisoned during my father's lifetime. Let them
be instantly liberated. This is my first act of gratitude to God, who  has
so infinitely blessed me!"

     Anielka longed ardently to behold her native land. They  left  Vienna
immediately after the wedding, although it was in the middle of January.

     It was already quite dark when the carriage, with  its  four  horses,
stopped in front of the portico of the  palace  of  Olgogrod.  Whilst  the
footman was opening the  door  on  one  side,  a  beggar  soliciting  alms
appeared at the other, where Anielka was seated. Happy to perform  a  good
action as she crossed the threshold of her new home,  she  gave  him  some
money; but the man, instead of thanking her, returned her  bounty  with  a
savage laugh, at the same time scowling at her in the fiercest manner from
beneath his thick and shaggy brows. The strangeness of  this  circumstance
sensibly affected Anielka, and clouded her  happiness.  Leon  soothed  and
reassured her. In the arms of her beloved husband she forgot all  but  the
happiness of being the idol of his affections.

     Fatigue and excitement made the night most welcome. All was dark  and
silent around the palace, and some hours of the  night  had  passed,  when
suddenly flames burst forth from several parts of the  building  at  once.
The palace was enveloped in fire; it raged furiously. The  flames  mounted
higher and higher; the windows cracked with a fearful sound, and the smoke
penetrated into the most remote apartments.

     A single figure of a man was seen stealing over the snow,  which  lay
like a winding-sheet on the solitary waste; his cautious steps were  heard
on the frozen snow as it crisped beneath his tread. It was the beggar  who
had accosted Anielka. On a rising ground he turned to gaze on the terrible
scene.

     "No more unfortunate creatures will now be doomed to pass their lives
in your dungeons," he exclaimed. "What was _my_ crime? Reminding my master
of the lowness of his birth. For this they tore me from my only  child--my
darling little Anielka; they had no pity even for her  orphan  state;  let
them perish all!"

     Suddenly a young and beautiful creature rushes wildly to one  of  the
principal windows: she makes a violent effort to escape. For a moment  her
lovely form, clothed in white,  shines  in  terrible  relief  against  the
background of blazing curtains and walls of fire, and as  instantly  sinks
back into the blazing  element.  Behind  her  is  another  figure,  vainly
endeavoring to aid her--he perishes also: neither of them  are  ever  seen
again!

     This appalling tragedy horrified even the perpetrator of  the  crime.
He rushed from the place, and as he heard the crash of the falling  walls,
he closed his ears with his hands, and darted on faster and faster.

     The next day some peasants discovered the body of  a  man  frozen  to
death, lying on a heap of snow--it was that of  the  wretched  incendiary.
Providence, mindful of his long, of his cruel imprisonment and sufferings,
spared him the anguish of knowing that the mistress of the palace  he  had
destroyed,  and  who  perished  in  the  flames,  was  his   own   beloved
daughter--the Serf of Pobereze!