The Comte de Rechberg’s Work on the Governments of the Russian Empire—The King of Bavaria—Polish Poem of Sophiowka—Madame Potocka, or the Handsome Fanariote—Her Infancy—Particulars of her Life—A Glance at the Park of Sophiowka—Subscription of the Sovereigns—Actual State of Sophiowka.

The Comte Charles de Rechberg had written an interesting work on the fifty-two governments of the Russian Empire. The book, both historical and picturesque, deals with the ethnology of the peoples from the Great Wall to the Baltic, and from the Crimea to the Pole. It contains an exact description of the various provinces considered in their political and commercial aspects, and researches on the archÆological curiosities still to be found there, which study is calculated to elucidate some migrations of the primitive peoples. The greatest lavishness had been displayed in this publication, which was enhanced by magnificent coloured engravings. The price, which varied from 1800 to 2500 francs, might have been an obstacle to the success of the work; fortunately Rechberg found one of the most powerful auxiliaries in his sovereign, the King of Bavaria. From having been the patron of the Altar, that excellent prince wanted to become the patron of the Book. He recommended it everywhere, with that particularly happy-go-lucky and paternal unaffectedness which made him positively worshipped by every one. He solicited subscriptions, and thanks to this benevolent intervention, the comte disposed of a great number of copies. Such a success, obtained in a gathering of so many diverse personages, gave me the idea of likewise printing a work, inspired by the Muse of Poetry. In 1811 I had spent at Tulczim, the seat of Comtesse Sophie Potocka, a twelvemonth which was practically tantamount to a whole lifetime if counted by the happiness vouchsafed to me then. Very often I accompanied the countess to Sophiowka, a garden situated close to Humeng, and one of the most charming creations the mind could conceive. The Comte FÉlix Potocki, in order to immortalise the woman whom he worshipped, had given proof of a magnificence in taste which surpassed everything Europe had to show of that kind. Trembecki, the most celebrated poet of Poland, had at the age of seventy recovered all the fire of his youth, and composed on that garden a poem which practically passes for a masterpiece. There are, in fact, few educated Poles who do not know some fragments of that poem by heart.

This double claim to immortality was worthy of the woman whose beauty was proverbial, and whom fortune had been pleased to guide from an obscure position to the summit of the most opulent and conspicuous nobility of Europe. Her history would constitute a remarkable episode of her own time if there were nothing in her life but the extraordinary fact of having been sold twice—in the first place by her mother, in the second by her husband. But when one has seen, as I have, the pomp of her fÊtes, the unprecedented value of her precious ornaments, the grandeur of her palaces, and the extent of her power, then one becomes confounded at those elevations of fortune due to love—to nothing but love, that magician without a rival. Madame Potocka was born at Constantinople. It is well known that the great Greek families residing in that city have experienced all the vicissitudes of fortune as a consequence of revolutions. It is not surprising, therefore, to see in the Fanariote quarter the members of those ancient and princely races pass, at one fell stroke, from extreme opulence to extreme poverty, and often be obliged to engage in this or that profession, if not in a downright trade. In a small street, not far from the palace of Sweden, there lived a poor artisan, though he was an undoubted descendant of the Commenius family. He had several children, and among these a girl whose nascent beauty was the admiration of the whole of the neighbourhood, and the envy of all her companions. M. de B——, a French gentleman, secretary to the embassy, was one day slowly riding through the streets of Pera, accompanied by a janissary of the Palais de France. Near the tomb of the Comte de Bonneval, who became a Turkish subject, the rider perceived a group of children, and among them a young girl, between thirteen and fourteen, such as only the beautiful race of Greece can produce. Struck by her beauty, he gives her a sign to come up to him, and, a diplomatic functionary being a kind of power at Pera, the child obeys. The marquis gets off his horse, asks the child’s name, and begins to inquire about her family. ‘My name is Sophie,’ replies the child. ‘We are Greeks by origin, and from what my mother says, well born, but a series of misfortunes has reduced us to work for our living. My father is a baker.’ The marquis is absolutely dazzled by the child’s beauty, he is touched by the sound of her voice, he admires her mind, at once innocent and precocious. After a few other questions, he leaves Sophie, telling her, however, that he will expect her mother at the French Embassy. Next morning the poor woman is true to the appointment. Interrogated about her position, she confesses, amid bitter tears, that they are very poor, and that their labour is insufficient to keep the relentless creditors from the door. Thereupon the marquis proposes to take care of her daughter, to take her to France, and winds up by offering the mother fifteen hundred piastres to provide for her most pressing needs. The mother at first refuses. There is, however, to begin with, the money which would put an end to their difficulties; and, moreover, the brilliant future for her well-beloved daughter. Finally, after many tears, hesitations, and heart-burnings, she gives her consent to the great sacrifice. The document surrendering her daughter duly signed and sealed, she receives in exchange the fifteen hundred piastres—a very feeble compensation for the treasure she was handing over: a monstrous transaction from our point of view no doubt, but less surprising in a country where one is accustomed to see a woman become an article of barter. Invested with paternal rights, M. de B—— scrupulously discharged them. He improved Sophie’s education, which, as may be easily imagined, had been more than neglected. He lavished all his care upon her, gave her professors, and, art seconding nature, Sophie at sixteen had grown into a model of beauty and perfection in every genre. At that time he was recalled by his Court, and, to spare his pupil the dangers of a sea-voyage, he intended to come back by way of Poland and Germany. After traversing European Turkey, he reached Kaminiek Podolski, the first fortress of the Russian frontier.

The Comte Jean de Witt, the descendant of the great Dutch Pensionary, was its governor. He welcomed the noble traveller with the utmost courtesy and attention, and induced him to stay for some little time at Kaminiek; but the desire for the marquis’s company and the consideration due to his rank were not the only causes of the comte’s pressing invitation. The general had not been proof against Sophie’s charms, and had become passionately enamoured of her. Informed by her of her real position, knowing that she was neither servant nor mistress, but simply a kind of chattel for fifteen hundred piastres, he did not scruple to follow up his love-declaration by an offer of marriage. The comte, a very handsome man, and barely thirty, was already lieutenant-general, and in great favour with Catherine the Second. The far-seeing Greek girl was sensible enough not to refuse this first chance, and without a moment’s hesitation she accepted the hand offered to her.

Nevertheless, it was perfectly plain to both that the diplomatist would not willingly part with a possession on which he set so much store. The general-governor therefore bided his time until his excellency took a solitary ride outside the fortress. To guard against surprise, he had the drawbridges raised, then repaired to the church with Sophie, and a priest gave the young couple his blessing. While the ceremony was drawing to an end, to the ringing of all the steeples of Kaminiek, his excellency presented himself before the moat of the place, asking to be let in. He was informed of what had happened, and to corroborate the story they showed him the marriage-certificate duly signed and sealed, and in accordance with the dÉnouement of every well-constructed comedy.

And in order to spare the handsome delinquent the severe reproaches which in reality her ingratitude and her hurried desertion would have fully justified, the general sent word to the members of his excellency’s suite to pack up their traps and to join their chief without the walls. They were also to take back all the gifts Sophie had received from the marquis, not even excepting the fifteen hundred piastres of the primary contract; and the young bride added a letter full of excuses for having disposed of her hand and heart without the permission of her second father. M. de B—— could only give vent to his anger, not unjustified, by imprecations on and reproaches to those who were not to blame. Perfectly convinced, though, that he could not remain all his life contemplating the walls of the fortress, and that there was no probability of the two Courts suspending amicable relations to revenge an affront without a remedy, and to enforce restitution of another Helen to another Menelaus, the marquis pursued his journey, determined not to be caught a second time trafficking with a merchandise no doubt precious in its way, but only precious when it is given and not sold.

After a honeymoon which lasted several years, and during which a son was born to him, the Comte de Witt obtained leave of absence, and journeyed to all the Courts of Europe with his beautiful Greek. Practically, theirs was a triumphal procession. The wondrous beauty of the girl, enhanced by all the sensuous and piquant charms of the East, transformed the tour into a kind of series of fairy tales. It was at that period that the Prince de Ligne, who at first gave me all those particulars, afterwards confirmed by Sophie herself, saw her at the Court of France. He subsequently saw her at the siege of IsmaËl, where she was particularly distinguished by Prince Potemkin. Kings, statesmen, warriors, philosophers—all gave one the idea, in their intercourse with the beauteous Sophie, of Socrates, Pericles, and Alcibiades crowding around Aspasia to purify their taste and to sharpen the edge of their oratory.

The second period of her life was practically a marvellously fit completion of the first. The Comte FÉlix Potocki, at the commencement of the troubles in Poland, had, by the influence of his rank and his immense fortune, gathered around him a great party. Momentarily absent from his Court, he was on his way back from Italy when, at Hamburg, he fell in with Comte and Comtesse de Witt. He became ardently enamoured of Sophie, and without entering into the details of a story which, though short enough, was full of incidents, I pass to the dÉnouement, which he accelerated in a novel fashion. Nothing is easier in Poland than a divorce. The abuse of the law is carried to such an extent that I have known a M. Wortzel who had no fewer than four living wives bearing his name. The Comte Potocki took advantage of this state of things. Having taken all the necessary measures beforehand, he went to see the Comte de Witt one morning.

‘I can no longer live without your wife,’ he said. ‘I am certain that I am not indifferent to her. I prefer to owe my happiness to you, and to preserve an eternal gratitude. Here are two documents. The one is an act of divorce, and only wanting your signature; your wife’s is already there. The other is a voucher for two millions of florins to be paid by my banker this morning. Let us terminate this affair in an amicable way, or in another way if you like, but let’s terminate it.’

The husband, no doubt, remembered the drawbridges of Kaminiek. He made the best of a bad business, like the French embassy-secretary, and signed; and handsome Sophie, from Comtesse de Witt as she was, became that same day Comtesse Potocka, this time adding to the prestige of her beauty the advantage of a wealth which had not its equal in Europe. At one moment there seemed even a higher destiny in store for her, when in 1791 the majority of the grandees of Poland had agreed to sacrifice a part of their privileges to procure the appeasement of their country. Catherine, to give more importance to this confederation, decided that Potocki should be its chief. To induce him to accept the position, she even dangled the crown before his eyes. One day, at the end of a solemnity, she took her diadem from her brow and placed it on the head of Potocki, saying, ‘This would suit you admirably well, comte.’

Everybody knows the sequel of this comedy, and how the pledges were kept. When that dream was over, Potocki simply studied to make the woman he idolised thoroughly happy. The art, the talent, the pomp and splendour of various parts of the world were all called into requisition to add to her happiness. To satisfy her desires and her slightest fancies, he absolutely realised all that the imagination may conceive in the way of fairy tales. One day she expressed a wish for a set of pearl ornaments. The count asked for a twelvemonth to offer one worthy of her. He sent to every capital of Europe and Asia the drawing of a pearl, and informed the jewellers that he would pay a thousand louis for each one that equalled the model in size and brilliancy. They gathered a hundred, and at the next St. Sophia’s day he clasped round the charming neck of his wife a necklace worth a hundred thousand louis.

At the death of Comte Potocki, Sophie practically found herself at the head of his colossal fortune, either in virtue of direct personal gift or as the trustee of the children born of her second marriage. It was shortly after this that I made her acquaintance at St. Petersburg, and accompanied her to her estate at Tulczim. Even at that period the celebrated Sophie was a most ravishing creature. Her beauty was really marvellous, and reminded me of nothing so much as the models the Greek statuaries of old must have employed to create their divinities.

It would require volumes to convey an idea of the life led at Tulczim. Sophie saw life from so high a point that she no longer seemed to belong to the world surrounding her, which her beauty kept incessantly at her feet. It was not that she was vain or imperious, but she was beautiful, and she knew it. This never-ceasing worship had made an idol of her, and from the altar on which they had placed her, she paid the incense with a look and the praise with a smile. Queen in virtue of her beauty, she seemed to say, ‘The world—I am the world!’ Her palace was the temple of hospitality. The stranger who came to ask an asylum was royally put up for a fortnight: horses, carriages, and servants were placed at his disposal, without his being obliged to show himself to his hostess, but on the sixteenth day he was to present himself, if only in order to take his leave. And that sort of thing, be it remembered, was practised, not under the tent of the Arab of the desert, nor in the hut of a Laplander, but in an enchanted palace of which Sophie was the Fairy Queen. No wonder that she often said, ‘People have paid me visits at Tulczim which have lasted for three years.’ I remember, among others, a fÊte she gave to Madame Narischkine, Alexander the First’s friend. It lasted for three days. About the same period I accompanied her on a journey to the Crimea, to take possession of some territory which had been granted to her by an imperial favour, and on the site of which she wished to found a town named Sophiopolis.

At the eastern point of the Crimea there uprises a double promontory. On that spot stood the temple whose priestess was Iphigenia. Between those two promontories lies the delightful valley where reigns eternal spring. The olive- and orange-trees grow wild. The Greeks, fitly to render homage to the beauty of the spot, called it Kaloslimen. It was there that Sophiopolis was to be erected. We got to the summit of Cape Laspi. The countess built a pavilion there whence she could inspect the works. It was on the same spot that Catherine II. was struck with admiration at the sight of the picture unfolded before her, regretting that the Euxine, which rose to the horizon, hid Constantinople from her.

Wishing to perpetuate the memory of the woman whom he had so deeply loved, Comte Potocki decided that the gardens should bear the name of Sophie, and should surpass in magnificence, as well as in taste, all that antiquity and modern times had that was most remarkable. To realise this project he chose a vast space, where savage nature could lend itself to the embellishments of art. He employed two thousand peasants as navvies for ten years, and spent twenty millions. Enormous masses of rock were transported and rivers turned out of their courses. Finally, near a spot which is only known by the exile of Ovid, he realised among the steppes of Yedissen what the imagination of Tasso could lend to the gardens of Armida. During my stay at Tulczim, I often visited that beautiful garden, and I always remained in ecstasies before that unique creation. I did not wonder that it had revived the septuagenarian muse of Trembecki. Seduced by the hope of acquitting towards that noble family of Potocki a debt of gratitude, I attempted, during my stay at Tulczim, to translate into French verse the beautiful inspirations of the Polish bard. When my task was finished, I desired to enhance the work, by investing it with a splendour that might complement its literary merit. The Comte Jean Potocki came to my aid with his profound knowledge, and Mr. William Allan, an English landscape-painter, to-day the President of the Royal Academy of Painting in Edinburgh, lent me the magic of his brush. I intended to publish the work in France, when the desire to witness in Vienna the unique scenes being enacted there brought me to the capital of Austria. Having witnessed the success obtained by the Comte de Rechberg, thanks to the assistance of King Maximilian, surrounded by all the masters of art grouping themselves around this gathering of sovereigns, I bethought myself of placing my verses under the patronage of the European celebrities whom the Congress had brought together. I began to take steps, and to solicit, with the hope of inscribing them at the head of my translation, names of celebrity which should serve it as an Ægis. The familiar footing on which everybody was living with every one else in Vienna obviated much of the difficulty which my efforts would have cost elsewhere. With nearly all the sovereigns it was sufficient to present oneself to be received, without asking for a special interview. In a few days my subscription list was full. The Emperor and Empress of Russia were the first to put their names down for several copies. The Kings of Prussia, Denmark, Bavaria, and, in short, every illustrious personage in Vienna, followed suit. I had Polish type cast. The printing was confided to the presses of the celebrated Strauss. Krudner did the engravings. Nothing was spared to invest the publication with all the beauty to which it could lend itself. The first copies had just been ‘pulled’ when the news reached us of the landing of Napoleon at Cannes. From that moment people troubled very little about literature and poetry, but there were a great many diplomatic conferences, declarations, and preparations for war. Nearly all the subscribers left Vienna without taking their copies. I myself left the city a little while afterwards to go to Paris; and of the whole of my attempt there only remained the recollection of the gracious reception of the sovereigns, and one of the most curious collections of autographs in the hands of any author. Men in Vienna—Russians and Poles—without distinction subscribed for the publication of the songs of Trembecki. People little dreamt that, fifty years later, that beautiful garden would be taken away from the family of its founder, confiscated in consequence of the last revolution of Poland. Sophieowka has been added to the domains of the Emperor of Russia. They have even taken away its name, which it owed to love. To-day it is called Czaritzine-Gad (the garden of the Czarina). There is, however, something more powerful than arms, than conquests, than the decrees of kings. It is the empire of memory and of poesy. The beautiful verses of Trembecki will endure, and in ages to come people will always pronounce the name, and the only name of Sophieowka.