Introduction
For years, tourists visiting the lobby of the town-hall building in the British town of Durham have been intrigued by a sculpture depicting an elderly gentleman of charming appearance, wearing elegant early 19th-century garb, bent over a guitar. One might think that this monument to Joseph Boruwłaski, depicting him dressed to attend an audience with King George IV in 1820, would not be all that extraordinary: Boruwłaski was, after all, one of Durham’s most famous residents ever. He was mentioned at considerable length in Diderot’s great Encyclopédie in the eighteenth century and later in the Encyclopaedia Britannica and many other lexicons, the press followed the events of his life as they unfolded, and when he died in 1837 reports were carried by nearly every English daily and then by newspapers on the continent. But Boruwłaski’s fame was indeed of quite an unusual sort. The encyclopaedia entries about him cannot be found in the conventional way, since they are not listed under his own name, and the above sculpture might indeed not catch the eyes of passers-by at all if it were not for the fact that this smallish, 99-centimetre figure is in fact life-sized. It was Boruwłaski’s extraordinary smallness that determined his life story and was the main source of his fame – he was the most famous dwarf in eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century Europe, and it was as such that he figured on the pages of various encyclopaedias and dictionaries (where he should be sought under the entries for dwarf in English, nain in French, or zwerg in German).
Some slight memory of Boruwłaski has survived to the present day both in Poland, where he was born, and England, where he spent more than half of his long, 98-year life. Certain mementos related to him are still preserved and displayed in Durham – his portrait, clothing, violin, and other personal effects. A few printed works on him have appeared over the years: a publication commemorating the ‘little count’ and the events of his life was printed in Durham to mark the 150th anniversary of his death, and a small brochure was also published in Ireland to commemorate his stay in Portarlington.1 He was prominent enough to rate an entry in the nineteenth-century Dictionary of National Biography, and in the twenty-first century Oxford Dictionary of National Biography,2 in 1902 his memoirs were republished in London by Henry Richard Heatley (who tried to draw together further supplementary information about Boruwłaski’s life story)3 and in 1937 he was listed in a Polish biographical dictionary.4 One Polish author paid quite a bit of attention to him in her analysis of the place of dwarfs in old Polish society, although she based herself mainly on the first edition of his memoirs and fails to mention nearly the entire English period of his life.5 Nowadays, quite a few references to Boruwłaski can be found on the Internet, where he continues to spark interest as a kind of freak of nature – and indeed, it was mainly such a role that has been ascribed to him in the collective consciousness. If Boruwłaski was and is remembered, it is as he was depicted in the Encyclopédie and how he was perceived in the eighteenth century, as a misfit noteworthy for his oddity. Confirmation of this can be found in the fact that a fragment devoted to him appeared in a recent book discussing ‘mutants.’6
And yet it seems that an attempt deserves to be made to consider Boruwłaski’s life and the description of it he left behind in his memoirs not only more thoroughly and penetratingly, but also from somewhat of a different perspective. To look upon him not just as a member of a separate society of Lilliputians – as a curious natural phenomenon – but as a sensitive and intelligent man in his own right, in a certain sense imprisoned within his own body, just as much by nature as by the role imposed upon him by ‘society at large,’ so to speak. This was a role that to some extent he was forced to accept and which indeed brought him certain benefits, but which he spent his entire life rebelling against, going to great lengths to try to liberate himself from. Perhaps that is why in the last edition of his memoirs he likened himself to Gulliver exploring the world of giants; this was not just a witty literary reference but also a kind of role-reversal: he was no longer the one that differed from the norm; rather it was the whole world surrounding him that was abnormal. This is an ingenious perspective that merits closer investigation: looking at the world of the latter eighteenth and early nineteenth century through Boruwłaski’s eyes is sure to yield a picture that is fresh and captivating, and at the same time astonishingly different from what we know about the cultural elite of the Enlightenment era.
1 T. Heron, The Little Count Joseph Boruwlaski, City of Durham, 1986; J.S. Powell, Joseph Boruwlaski his Visit to Portarlington 1795, York (no date of publication) – this is essentially a reproduction of a small fragment of Boruwłaski’s memoirs describing his stay in Portarlington, supplemented by certain details uncovered by the publisher.
2 Margot Johnson, ‘Boruwlaski, Joseph, styled Count Boruwlaski (1739–1837)’, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, online edn, Oxford University Press, Sept 2004.
3The Life and Love Letters of a Dwarf, ed. H.R. Heatley, London, 1902. This publisher gathered the most supplementary information about Boruwłaski’s life.
4 S. Wasylewski, Józef Boruwłaski. In: Polski Słownik Biograficzny, vol. 2, Kraków, 1937, p. 356. This biographical entry consists almost exclusively of a quite haphazard summary of the memoirs. Wasylewski also devoted a popular essay ‘Dama z karzełkiem’ to Boruwłaski in his book Romans prababki, Lwów, 1920.
5 B. Fabiani, Niziołki, łokietki, karlikowie, Warsaw, 1980.
6 A.M. Leroi, Mutants: on the form, varieties and errors of the human body, London, Harper Collins, 2003, pp. 170–177; This is also the standpoint from which Boruwłaski’s life story is analysed by Barbara Benedict, the author of a notable article on him (B. Benedict, ‘Displaying Difference: Curious Count Boruwlaski and the Staging of Class Identity’, Eighteenth-Century Life, vol. 30, no. 3, summer 2006, pp. 78–106), which unfortunately does not take account of the original Polish version of the present biographical essay, published two years previously (A. Grześkowiak-Krwawicz, Zabaweczka: Józef Boruwłaski – fenomen natury – szlachcic – pamiętnikarz, Gdańsk, Słowo/obraz-terytoria, 2004).
**
Dwarf of the Salons
At first glance, the fact that Joseph Boruwłaski left behind a sizeable set of published memoirs (the first version of which is included in the present volume) might seem to make the historian’s task of retracing his life and fortunes relatively easy. He even revised and expanded his written recollections several times to include subsequent years. Nonetheless, for the careful and cautious historian the job in fact proves to be much harder, despite this relatively plentiful material. Boruwłaski’s autobiographical writings need to be taken with a considerable grain of salt, so to speak, especially in this later period – when it seems the author wished to portray his life according to a certain image he had always held in his imagination, omitting many events, distorting others, and quite simply fabricating still others. He moreover sometimes dates events inaccurately, or more often (wanting to additionally cover up his real tracks?) he cautiously avoids giving any dating whatsoever. Admittedly, the earlier edition of the memoirs does represent a more credible historical source (although as we will discuss below, it too represents a kind of literary creation, and quite a successful one at that). When this first portion was initially published, nearly all the individuals involved in the depicted events were still alive and the memoirs were even expressly addressed to some of them, hence the stories are naturally retold more scrupulously and accurately. But this portion unfortunately goes no further than 1788–1790.
The present work grew largely out of research work contrasting the various versions of Boruwłaski’s memoirs to one another with a critical eye and confronting them against other historical sources, for example, accounts left behind by individuals who knew Boruwłaski, press reports, and preserved personal correspondence, in order to retrace and recount the course of his life as accurately as possible.
In this vein, we should start by dealing with the fundamental issue of our subject’s name itself and clearing up some potential misunderstandings here. Firstly, this book uses the English first name ‘Joseph,’ by which he was known in later years, although the reader should bear in mind that his true first name was in fact the Polish ‘Józef.’ Secondly, the issue of his surname has proven considerably more problematic over the years. Certain readers may wonder whether it really should be ‘Boruwłaski’ (roughly pronounced bor-oo-VWAH-ski, as the Polish crossed-L letter is pronounced like an English ‘w’), as used in this book, or perhaps the more naturally Slavic-sounding configuration ‘Borusławski’ – especially since the latter form is indeed frequently found in writings about him in nineteenth- and twentieth-century Poland? Although the first version does fall somewhat awkwardly even upon the Polish ear, we can nevertheless confirm that it is without any doubt the true and correct form: Boruwłaski used precisely this spelling in signing not only his own memoirs but also his personal letters, including ones addressed to Poles, and moreover in his lifetime he was widely known as ‘Boruwłaski’ throughout Europe. In a certain sense, further confirmation that this more awkward rendering is the correct one can be found in the broad range of other distortions and misspellings that have appeared over the years – ranging from ‘Borwslasky’ in Count de Tressan’s writings to the entry in Diderot’s Encyclopédie dealing with ‘Borwilasky.’ Here credit is due to the British for distorting the name relatively infrequently, presumably because they were in closest contact with both the man and his name in later years, and were better aware of the correct spelling from his published memoirs themselves and from newspaper reports. But then again, who knows whether certain positive connotations might have also played a certain part here? At least to the Scots, his name is reported to have conjured up an association with ‘barrel-o-whisky,’ and this is allegedly how it was pronounced during Boruwłaski’s stay in Edinburgh in 1788. Although Boruwłaski was frequently described as bearing the title ‘count,’ he in fact bore no aristocratic peerage and made no such claim. Rather, his use of the term ‘count’ in press announcements or in the final edition of his memoirs, it seems, served more to underscore his noble origins and to drive that point home to his title-accustomed Western readers. In reality Boruwłaski was born in 1739 into a family of petty nobility that struggled to make ends meet, and he never made any secret of that fact. While mention was sometimes made of a former family fortune his father had once lost, either in the service of Polish King Stanisław Leszczyński or under other unspecified circumstances, 1 the only certainty is that his was a poor family, especially after his father’s death when Joseph was just 9 years old. Their poverty was all the more tragic in that no less than three of the six children were of Lilliputian size – Joseph’s elder brother exceeded him only slightly in height, and their sister, three years Joseph’s younger, was even smaller than both her brothers at just 66 cm. Count de Tressan accused Boruwłaski’s parents of having ‘looked upon the two elder brothers like unfortunate whims of nature and left them without education,’2 but this is an unfair assertion, as Boruwłaski’s memoirs do not indicate he received any less care than his other siblings. The French count seems not to have fully realised what opportunities and needs a poor noble family in Poland’s Pokucie province actually had to educate their children, whatever their height. On the other hand, there is no doubt that the future of these three little ones must have been an especially serious concern for their parents – their height shut them off even from the few routes to success that remained open for their normal-sized brothers: the clergy, military service, and favourable marriage. Nevertheless, there was one more possibility for social advancement, quite widespread in those times: service to a powerful lord, or at least to a wealthy gentleman. In this latter case an unusual physique could actually prove to be an asset, helping pique the interest of a potential benefactor or benefactress – the kind of person Helena Stadnicka, the later Countess Tarnowska, would indeed become for the young Joseph. Importantly, as Joseph stressed in his own memoirs and as is confirmed by all contemporary sources, the whole Boruwłaski trio were not just of small size but also of very attractive appearance and proportionally built, without any of the deformations or disabilities commonly found in dwarfs. It is no surprise, therefore, that all three ultimately found themselves sponsors – just as Joseph found sponsorship with Madame Helena Stadnicka, so too his brother found protection under the Castellane Ustrzycka of Inowłódz and the sister under the Castellane Katarzyna Kossakowska, a famous hic mulier known for her biting tongue. The Boruwłaski trio’s small stature was undoubtedly the main motivation for the sponsorship of these noble ladies, who presumably wished to retain them as elegant playthings. However, their curious appearance did not in fact have to end up determining their entire career or the role they played throughout their whole lives: with time Joseph’s elder brother, if we believe his memoirs, became a steward for Madame Ustrzycka, therefore enjoying what might otherwise be a successful career for a normal nobleman of modest means. Their sister, in turn, ended up in a role that was typical for people of her height for centuries, becoming Kossakowska’s pet dwarf, but the position she eventually came to hold within the Castellane’s retinue did not differ much from that of an ordinary lady-in-waiting – again, this was a role played by many poor noblewomen.
But it was Joseph whose life would prove to be the most colourful, and at the same time the most closely linked to his physical appearance. His rightful place in life was essentially already shown to him by Stadnicka – when she dubbed him ‘Joujou,’ or little toy. This nickname, appropriate for the child he then still was, and the role that went hand-in-hand with it would accompany him into his adult life as well. As one Polish scholar wrote in a short but brilliant analysis of the lives of similar dwarfs in the eighteenth century: ‘Whether he liked it or not, the function of such a dwarf was to entertain the assembled company; that was what was expected of him. If he played that role well he would be rewarded and celebrated, if not, or if he did not wish to play such a role, he would fade into oblivion.’3 Boruwłaski’s chief task at this stage was to appeal as much as possible to the his masters, and this was something he realised quite quickly. ‘I considered it as my duty to double my efforts, that I might render myself agreeable to the husband of my benefactress’ – this is how he described his situation after Stadnicka’s marriage to Jan Tarnowski. However, his great career as a ‘dwarf of the salons,’ as a source of court entertainment who amused the greatest monarchs of his era, truly got its start once the Countess Anna Humiecka, one of the wealthiest and most influential Polish ladies of her day, took Boruwłaski under her wing at the age of 15 (or perhaps somewhat older, as the author’s dating is somewhat haphazard here).
It was with Humiecka that he embarked on his first trip, on a grand tour around Europe, beginning in late 1758 or early 1759 with a visit paid to Maria Theresa’s court in Vienna. After half a year there Humiecka set out with Boruwłaski for Munich, where they were warmly greeted by Elector Maximilian Joseph and his wife Maria Anna, the daughter of Polish King Augustus III. At the end of the same year they were hosted by the deposed Polish King Stanisław Leszczyński at his court in Lunéville. From there, in early 1760, they travelled to Paris where they spent more than a year, frequently visiting Maria Leszczyńska at Versailles and socialising with the best Parisian society. In spring of 1761 they set out on a return journey through the Netherlands, visiting the court in Lunéville again in August, and arriving, via Germany, back in Poland in autumn of the same year. We can say that Boruwłaski was fortunate that his protectress was such a grande dame of the age, able to introduce him into the royal courts and the world of salons. Or instead of using the phrase ‘introduce him’ perhaps we should state more precisely that she put him on display there – we should have no doubt (as Boruwłaski himself had no doubt) that his new protectress, although very caring, treated him as a plaything, like a rococo trinket to be shown off among high society. That is evident in the various accoutrements specifically used to enhance his peculiarity: he would get dressed up in showy costumes, frequently copies of military uniforms, such as one he called his ‘big-baton colonel’ uniform. The salon room of Humiecka’s residence in Warsaw even contained something that amounted to a doll-house for her Joujou, which had a ‘a small sofa, little tables, a small billiard set, and other games and toys.’4 Such a living plaything was of even greater value if it had ‘agreeable talents,’ as Boruwłaski himself dubbed them. Thus Humiecka took great pains to ensure the education of her Joujou – he was taught to dance in Vienna by none other than Maria Theresa’s own ballet-master Casparo Angiolini, and instructed to play the guitar in Paris by Pierre Gavinies, one of the most famous virtuosos of the day. He was then well prepared to dance the polonaise before Maria Theresa or to perform a Cossack dance on the table before the French princesses Victoire and Adélaïde in the court of their grandfather, Stanisław Leszczyński,5 in every case to his audience’s rapture. In fact he proved to be quite an able musician and when called to appear in public he would embellish his performances by playing the guitar and violin, sometimes even performing his own compositions. We must concede that the boy was also given certain general foundations of an education – Count de Tressan, describing him when he was 20 years old in 1759, wrote that he knew basic arithmetic, the dogmas of Catholic religion, passable German, and quite good French.
The latter fact was particularly important, as knowledge of French was in those times essential for entering the salons and participating in social discussion. The eighteenth century was an age of conversation – light and witty, captivating and charismatic, replete with paradoxes and adroit compliments, nimbly skipping from one topic to another, offering skilful speakers a chance to demonstrate their wit, the famous French esprit. It is telling how frequently the depiction in Boruwłaski’s memoirs of his voyage with Humiecka keeps mentioning such conversation: Maria Theresa ‘seemed much pleased with my reply,’6 Stanisław Leszczyński ‘asked several questions to which I gave satisfactory answers, seemed pleased with my replies,’ Kaunitz was ‘pretending that my conversations both amused and interested him,’ and Maria Leszczyńska ‘after having asked me many questions concerning the King her father, Bébé, and Poland, and our travels, she seemed pleased with my answers.’ Considering his young age, we might entertain certain doubts about his real ability to make all the clever and flattering ripostes he describes in his memoirs, and about his claims to have enthralled Maria Theresa with them already at the very outset of his first journey. Nevertheless, this does not appear to be just empty boasting – the truth of his words seems to be borne out by the fact that he was still remembered in Vienna as much as 20 years later, as well as by the widespread fame he began to enjoy even before the end of his first voyage with Humiecka. Boruwłaski himself would later maintain it was his stay in Paris that ultimately perfected his refinement and rendered his conversation skills graceful and unaffected, but previously to that, during his visit to Stanisław Leszczyński’s court, Count de Tressan had already described his talents in this field, writing that he ‘participates in the most gracious manner in the subtle and witty exchange of views.’ His talents in this regard are also confirmed by continued signs throughout his life of a well-developed sense of humour and ability to pay elegant compliments. He certainly knew how to use those abilities to curry favour with the high and mighty of the world when he had the chance, but as befits a true man-of-the-world he could also use them just to be gallant, with no self-seeking objective at all. For instance, when admiring a cascade in Killarney many years later while holding the helpful hand of a certain Irishman, he responded to the cries of the latter’s wife – ‘Take care, that that little gentleman does not fall’ – by turning round and, after beholding a beautiful and lovely lady, responding: ‘Madam, I fall already.’7 He knew how to embody the very essence of courtly graciousness, albeit laced with just a touch of the risqué – many such ripostes can be found in Boruwłaski’s memoirs and in others’ reminiscences of him.
Essentially from the very moment he made his début at Maria Theresa’s court, Boruwłaski shone in this role of a ‘dwarf of the salons’ (or perhaps ‘rococo dwarf’), able to amuse every audience not only with his physical appearance but also with gracious conversation, clever compliments, and witty replies. We might say that he managed to get into the salons as a kind of freak-show, yet once there he earned himself admiration as a well-refined gentleman. He certainly knew how to win the hearts of rulers and their entourages. Austria’s Maria Theresa, Stanisław Leszczyński and his daughter Maria the Queen of France, the Dutch Stadtholder, Polish King Stanisław Augustus, English Kings George III and IV – these are just some of his royal acquaintances, an impressive list many an aristocrat of the day could only have envied. However, it was not their opinion, but that of high society at large that ensured his popularity. In a certain sense he ideally fit the demands of his time, when it was no longer royal courts but rather the broader beau monde that set the standards of social values, when it was the acceptance of the high-society salons that was the ticket to fame.
The stance that the people of the age – or rather the elite of the age – took towards Boruwłaski is worthy of some deeper analysis, because it brings into excellent relief certain hallmarks of the prevailing customs as well as certain contradictions of the times. The interest shown in him, sometimes turning into outright fascination, was essentially paradoxical in that it ran counter to the professed aesthetic ideals of the Enlightenment. This was, after all, an epoch that rejected the Baroque age’s unfettered imagination and vapid curiosity in anything different, strange, or monstrous. As Jean de la Bruyère wrote in his Caractères, ‘The mania for collecting is a fondness not for what is good or beautiful but for what is rare and unique, for what one has and others have not. It is not a liking for what is perfect but for what is sought after, what is in vogue.’8 This definition accommodates Boruwłaski’s popularity very well – not to speak of truly baroque ideas like the Lilliputian feast once organised in Paris in his honour by the Farmer General Bouret, or his being served up to guests at table inside an ‘urn’ (a tureen or soup-dish) by Michal Kazimierz Ogiński. The latter act is largely reminiscent of another incident that occurred a century earlier at the behest of the Duke of Buckingham, who had his own dwarf Jeffrey Hudson served to table inside a pie. Despite what was widely proclaimed about the predominance of refinement and good taste, the people of the eighteenth century, whether they hailed from the elite or from the lower classes, still had just as much of an interest as their fathers and forefathers from previous centuries had had in all sorts of disabilities, deformities, physical defects, and anything that diverged from the norm. It suffices to glance at the press from those days to see how many advertisements there were announcing opportunities to come gaze at midgets, giants, bearded women, extremely obese or thin individuals, and so on. But while the plebs could still take a simple, genuine, and uninhibited interest in such matters, the elite now required some sort of exoneration. Boruwłaski, with his charm and intelligence, thus fit the bill ideally. There was nothing monstrous or grotesque about him; indeed his delicate build was a point of admiration. In 1760, the publisher of an English monthly wrote: ‘He is well proportioned and has nothing shocking about him.’9 Years later another writer would go a step further and state: ‘His person and mind are complete models of elegance and refinement.’10 He was different enough from normal to spark interest, yet at the same time he fit excellently into the world where he functioned. Of course, by this we mean he fit into a certain specific place and into a certain specific role in this world.
To understand precisely what place and role these were, we must go back to Boruwłaski’s stay in Lunéville in 1759 and to Count de Tressan’s account of him (included in the present volume). This account is noteworthy as the earliest and most extensive source on Boruwłaski, which moreover served as the basis for many later publications: a summary of it appeared in the Encyclopédie, it was reprinted in the annals of the French Academy, cited in the press, and continued to be referenced by nineteenth-century writers.11 More importantly, it illustrates very well how Boruwłaski was viewed by representatives of the social and intellectual elite of his day: de Tressan was not just a count and marshal in Leszczyński’s court, but also a member of the French Academy, to which his report was addressed. The place ascribed to Boruwłaski is already signalled by his very first words: ‘The Polish nobleman Mr Borwslasky [!] came to Luneville in the retinue of Countess Humiecka. [ … ] This young man may be considered the most curious being that nature has created; once one has come to know him, the Polish king’s dwarf Bébé no longer has anything surprising about him.’ Boruwłaski was therefore interesting as an even greater curiosity than Bébé; he fell into a certain group of anomalies, marvels of nature, and the virtues of his appearance or intellect would be noticed only in juxtaposition to another representative of the same group. Boruwłaski’s own somewhat later statement about Maria Leszczyńska that ‘she, till then, deemed the individuals of my species as ill-favoured by nature, as much in mind and intellectual faculties as in body, but that I had undeceived her in a very advantageous and pleasing manner’ shows that he realised very well what kind of place had been ascribed to him. His memoirs often make quite bitter mention of ‘individuals of my species,’ or even ‘our species,’ endowed with certain traits. De Tressan even believed that unlike Nicolas Ferry (Bébé’s real name), Boruwłaski was an ideal representative of his ‘species.’ The count admired the physical and intellectual differences between them, but in a certain sense these two dwarfs represented two different epochs and two different social roles. Ferry bore all the traits of a baroque court dwarf, whose intellect was irrelevant because his physical defect was all that mattered. In that case, the fact he was not just of small size but also had a quite distinctly misshapen body essentially lent him added value. Every inch of Boruwłaski, on the other hand, embodied good taste and refinement. If he was a plaything, it was a perfect one. We can say that Count de Tressan admired him not because he was a dwarf, but specifically because of what kind of dwarf he was. The count admitted that Bébé was for him a source of disgust and instilled the kind of latent fear ‘usually prompted by the degradation of our existence, while the young Pole, in contrast, instils pleasure with his appearance and intellect, he arouses interest in his feelings, and finally evokes just tenderness and a desire to soothe all pain and indignity such as his fate may entail.’ Besides, it would be wrong to state that the count considered Boruwłaski just a plaything. De Tressan’s attitude towards him was perhaps best voiced by the editor of an English newspaper, who, having cited fragments of the count’s report, asserted that Boruwłaski would be an equally intriguing point of interest for a philosopher, for a ‘man of taste,’ as well as for … an anatomist.12 De Tressan did indeed look at Joujou with the delighted eye of the rococo man-of-the-salons, but at the same time, in keeping with the spirit of the Enlightenment, he tried to analyse and pin down the phenomenon that Boruwłaski represented. This distinctive mixture of perspectives is visible in his report, where he describes both Joseph’s outward appearance and his knowledge, extols his physical as well as intellectual capabilities, and also writes about what he ate, how he slept, how he danced, and what his personality was like. On the one hand he speaks of Boruwłaski with respect as a young Polish nobleman, admires his refinement, and shows sincere sympathy for him, while on the other hand he does not hesitate to inquire about ‘individuals who served him’ and whether he was ‘of full male virility’ or to relish telling misleading tales about Boruwłaski and his siblings’ deformities at the moment of their birth. The latter element, like the detailed description of Joseph’s family, is de Tressan writing as an anatomist, attempting to explain the causes for an observed anomaly. Boruwłaski is here a ‘case,’ an interesting ‘specimen’ he recommends to his Academy colleagues for study. The philosopher in de Tressan, in turn, speaks up when the author admires how generously nature endowed its tiny creation, ‘it even seems that she wanted to compensate him for his extremely small height with charms embellishing his entire personality, including ones we are continually discovering in his intellect.’ We can say that while de Tressan looks upon Bébé as a freak of nature, Boruwłaski is for him more like a natural phenomenon. And not just for him; the same motif appears in other descriptions of Boruwłaski throughout his life, something he himself skilfully emphasised – the second edition of his memoirs was published with the English motto ‘Mysterious nature who thy works shall scan / Behold a child in size in sense a man?’ and various press announcements contained statements about how nature’s creator could be admired even in his very smallest creations.
Essentially, in Count de Tressan’s account we find to some degree an illustration of all three of Boruwłaski’s roles: as an ornament of the salons, as an unusual ‘case’ of natural history, and lastly as a miracle of nature. We also find the earliest confirmation of his intelligence and cheerful character, attested by a friendly but objective witness.
It was presumably this brochure, which appeared in late 1759 or early 1760, that contributed to Boruwłaski’s great popularity during his stay in Paris, especially because it was not just read by the scholarly academicians of its intended audience. It quickly reached all of high society, in the original or in reprints. Boruwłaski suddenly became fashionable and his fame even preceded him to the French capital, immediately generating great interest. Even before his arrival, the press (not just the French press) announced: ‘A Polish lady is impatiently expected at Paris, who is bringing with her a Polish gentleman, who is two-and-twenty years old, and but sixteen inches high. He is every way well proportioned, and his understanding is well cultivated.’13 In fact the author of this report somewhat overstated the point – Boruwłaski was at that time 28 inches tall. Still, he was shorter than Bébé, a fact he proudly stressed. Fashion was a hugely powerful force in eighteenth-century society, or at least among its upper crust; to be fashionable meant to be talked about, to have one’s sayings repeated and one’s company sought. In a word, to be fashionable meant to be at the very centre of high-society interest, and this was what Boruwłaski experienced. He writes, not without pride, that upon his return to Paris ‘the curiosity I excited drew many visitors to my protectress [ … ] for in less than a week every person of high rank at court, and every person of fashion in town, waited upon her. I cannot help expressing how infinitely I was flattered by this warm enthusiasm, and by the numberless civilities with which I was honoured.’ In fact, it seems that this situation was not entirely pleasing to Humiecka, who in a way herself ended up overshadowed by the ‘little wonder’ she had wanted to show off in the salons of Europe. The announcement cited above already leaves little doubt about who was actually being impatiently awaited in Paris and being talked about there, and this reversal of roles is illustrated even better by a statement written by Madame Geoffrin, who while praising Boruwłaski in a letter to King Stanisław Augustus described his sponsor as the ‘lady with the dwarf’ (‘la dame au nain’), clearly not even recalling her name.14 Humiecka’s dissatisfaction was evidenced by the harshness of her reaction to the quite impertinent behaviour of the Duchess of Modena – when inviting Humiecka to visit her she insisted that she should bring Joujou, or essentially ordered her to bring him along. Boruwłaski gives the best description of his own situation (although this is in reference to later events): ‘I became as fashionable as a new dress just arrived for the ladies.’15 Many years later, he would describe his successes in Paris in the final edition of his memoirs as if he had been there on his own, interacting with the best society as he himself saw fit, frequenting the intellectual salons and allegedly even meeting and astounding Voltaire himself while visiting Madame Geoffrin. However, this was just the commonplace projection of dreams onto the past. We can be certain he visited Geoffrin’s salon just as he had gone everywhere, namely brought there by Humiecka to be exhibited and shown off. We can say that he was very much in vogue precisely like a fashionable dress, becoming the favourite plaything of high society for just one season. That is how he presented these experiences in the earlier edition of his memoirs.
It is hard to say how the 20-year-old boy he then was reacted to such success, but from the standpoint of his adult years one can sense he had certain mixed feelings. While he does proudly cite favourable opinions about himself, praise the impressions he made on successive individuals he met, and list the courtesies shown to him by representatives of the highest social circles, it does seem that he treated certain events as humiliating. This we can gauge in terms of what he omits (later editions of his memoirs no longer mention the Cossack dance he performed on the table in Lunéville, or his being carried in Ogiński’s urn, or the fight in which Bébé tried to throw him into the fireplace), although from time to time he does also point out his humiliations outright. The most appalling scene recounts a conversation held in Boruwłaski’s presence about dwarfs’ sexual capabilities and about the notion of mating him with his own sister as a test: ‘from which I thought I had to conclude, not only that they believed themselves entitled to dispose of me without my advice, but even looked upon me as a being merely physical, without morality, on whom they might try experiments of every kind.’ These are the most bitter words to be found anywhere in the memoirs. We can judge how strong an impression must have been evoked by ‘the sort of contempt apparently implied in this project of uniting me with my sister,’ by the fact that Boruwłaski expressed it a quarter-century afterwards, in memoirs that were addressed to the rich and powerful of his day and which essentially constituted more an apology than a criticism of their behaviour.
On the other hand, Boruwłaski’s descriptions of his youth do not reveal much about his own emotions, offering instead more of an outsider’s perspective on events, especially his dazzling career in the courts and salons. That perspective changes only once he begins to recount his experiences related to his return to Poland. Based on the memoirs we essentially can say very little about a nearly 20-year period (1761–1780), part of which he spent at Anna Humiecka’s estate in Podole (which he does not mention at all), but a majority of which he spent with her in Warsaw. This was likely due to several factors. Although these were very turbulent times in Poland’s history – including the Confederacy of Bar insurrection, a Russian intervention, and ultimately the first partition of Poland – they were nevertheless relatively calm years in Boruwłaski’s life. As he writes in the final edition of his memoirs: ‘In this state of tranquillity my days glided away, and I thought that no kind of vexation could disturb so happy a life.’16 These times were also simply not as full of exciting events like visits to royal courts or galas thrown in his honour. Although it is undoubtedly true, as the writer notes, that his return to Poland ‘made much noise’ due to the fame he had gained during his travels, things here were similar to how they had been elsewhere and this interest was quite fleeting. Moreover, from his status as the favourite marvel of the world’s greatest salons, Boruwłaski now reverted in a certain sense to his previous role. Regardless of the rapture he may have instilled, he was still just Countess Humiecka’s dwarf. In Warsaw the Countess did not have to face any affronts similar to those in Paris, being an influential lady well connected to Poland’s most powerful families. King John III Sobieski had been one of her ancestors on the distaff side and her brothers were active in the current courtly circle: Kazimierz Rzewuski, famous for his good looks and his duels, and Franciszek Rzewuski, a friend of the King who served as Poland’s envoy to St Petersburg. She belonged to the top Varsovian society and was visited by representatives of the aristocracy as well as artists. The balls and parties she threw were famous not only in the capital itself, but were also reported in gazettes distributed out into the provinces, recounted in memoirs, and one of her masquerades was even commemorated in verse.17 Boruwłaski took part in all of this, but did so as an underling of his benefactress rather than as an independent figure, and so he writes little about it all. We know that he met the newly-elected Polish King Stanisław Augustus and his brother Kazimierz. The king was allegedly so enchanted with him that he wanted to take him under his own protection, and Madame Geoffrin definitely wanted to take him away to Paris,18 but Boruwłaski does not mention these facts. In the later edition of his memoirs he added that he had met the famous adventurer and swindler Cagliostro at this time, and that is entirely possible – the latter was indeed in Warsaw in 1780, enjoying vast but short-lived popularity among the highest circles of Varsovian society. Certain doubts are only raised by his claim that Cagliostro allegedly engaged himself in Joujou’s romantic affairs at Countess Humiecka’s instigation.19 Without any doubt, however, Boruwłaski did strike up an acquaintance with Reichsgraf Stackelberg, the Russian ambassador to Poland, who later even signed a subscription for his memoirs. We can surmise that in Countess Humiecka’s salon he came into contact with all of Poland’s elite society at that time, yet these events did not find any reflection in his memoirs. (...)
1Gazeteer, 19 Oct 1786; in the fourth and final edition of his memoirs the author writes about the loss of some estate on the Dnieper River – Memoirs of Count Boruwlaski: containing a sketch of his travels, with an account at the different courts of Europe written by himself, corrected by Mr Burdon, Durham: F. Humble, 1820, p. 15 (cited hereinafter as ‘Memoirs IV’).
2 L.E. de Tressan, Mémoire envoyé à l’Académie Royale des Sciences par M. le Comte, Paris, 1760. This quotation and others which follow are drawn from the translation of Mémoire included in this volume.
3 J. Ryba, Uwodzicielskie oblicza Oświecenia, Katowice, 1994, p. 9.
4 K.T.H. [Klementyna z Tańskich Hoffmanowa], Józef Borusławski, Przyjaciel Ludu, vol. 5, Leszno, 1838, no. 12 / 22 Sept. 1838, p. 95 ff.
5 This latter episode occurred in August 1761 and was described by Fillion de Chagrineau in his account of princesses Victoire and Adélaïde’s stay at their grandfather’s court; cf. S. Gaber, L’entourage polonais du roi Stanislas Leszczyński à Lunéville, Nancy, 1972, p. 150.
6 This quotation and others which follow are drawn from the first edition of the memoirs, included in this volume.
7Memoirs IV, p. 253.
8 J. de la Bruyere, Les Caractères, Paris, 1951, p. 406. English version taken from http://www.ourcivilisation.com/smartboard/shop/bruyere/
9London Magazine, April 1760, p. 130.
10Morning Herald, 6 May 1786.
11 For example, E.J. Wood in Giants and Dwarfs, London, 1868, p. 335, gives a translation of broad fragments of de Tressan’s report.
12Gazeteer, 19 Oct. 1786.
13Gazeteer, 31 Dec. 1759.
14 Marie Thérèse Geoffrin to Stanisław Augustus, 17 March 1771, in Correspondance inédite du roi Stanislas Auguste Poniatowski et de Mme Geoffrin (1764–1777), ed. Ch. de Mouy, Paris, 1875, p. 398.
15Memoirs IV, p. 315.
16 Ibidem, p. 46.
17 J. Koblański, ‘Oda na maski krakowskie w karnawał 1773 w bandzie J.W. Humieckiej, Miecznikowej Koronnej’, in Wiersze Józefa Koblańskiego i Stanisława Szczęsnego Potockiego zapomnianych poetów Oświecenia, ed. E. Aleksandrowska, Wrocław, 1980, p. 70.
18 M.T. Geoffrin to Stanisław Augustus, 17 December 1770, in: Correspondence inédité, p. 389. 19 J. Boruwlaski, A Second Edition of the Memoirs of the Celebrated Dwarf, a Polish Gentleman, Birmingham, 1792 (cited hereinafter as Memoirs II), p. 69.
ANNA GRZEŚKOWIAK-KRWAWICZ
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