ARRIVAL AT ST. PETERSBURG — THE BEAUTIFUL GRANDDUCHESS ELISABETH — CATHERINE II. RECEIVES MME. LEBRUN — AND IS MOST GRACIOUS — PETTY COURT INTRIGUES — A VISIT TO COUNT STROGONOFF — HOSPITALITY OF THE RUSSIANS — AN AMBASSADOR AS GARDENER — PRINCESS DOLGORUKI AND HER HIDEOUS ADMIRER — THE EXTRAVAGANCES OF POTEMKIN — HIS END.

I entered St. Petersburg on the 25th of July, 1795, by the road from Peterhoff, which gave me a favourable idea of the city, for this road is lined on both sides by delightful country houses, with gardens of the best taste in the English style. Their residents have taken advantage of the soil, which is very marshy, to adorn the gardens—where there are kiosks and pretty bridges—by canals and little streams. But it is a pity that a dreadful dampness spoils this pleasant scene of an evening; even before sunset such a fog rises over the road that one seems to be enveloped in thick, dark smoke.

Magnificent as I had conceived the city to be, I was enchanted by the aspect of its monuments, its handsome mansions, and its broad streets, one of which, called the Prospekt, is a mile long. The Neva, clear and limpid, cuts through the town, laden with vessels and barks unceasingly moving up and down, and this greatly adds to the liveliness of the town. The quays of the Neva are of granite, like those of the large canals dug through the town by Catherine. On one bank of the river are splendid edifices: the Academy of Arts, the Academy of Sciences and a number of others are reflected in the Neva. There was no grander sight on a moonlight night, I was told, than the bulk of those majestic piles, resembling ancient temples. Altogether, St. Petersburg took me back to the times of Agamemnon, partly through the grandeur of the buildings and partly through the popular garb, which reminded me of the dress of antiquity.

Though I have just spoken of moonlight, I was unable to enjoy it at the time of my arrival, for in the month of July there is not a single hour of actual darkness in St. Petersburg. The sun sets at about half-past ten, and it is merely dusk until twilight, which begins half an hour after midnight, so that one can always see plainly. I have often supped at eleven o'clock by daylight.

My first care was to take a good rest, for, after Riga, the roads had been most horrible. Large stones, one on top of the other, gave my carriage, which was one of the roughest in the world, a violent shock at every moment. And the inns being so bad as to exclude every possibility of staying at them, we had jolted and jerked on to St. Petersburg without a stop.

I was far from recovered from all my fatigue—since the term of my residence in St. Petersburg had been only twenty-four hours—when a visitor was announced in the person of the French Ambassador, Count Esterhazy. He congratulated me on my arrival at St. Petersburg, telling me that he was about to inform the Empress of it and at the same time to take her orders for my presentation. Very little later I received a visit from the Count de Choiseul-Gouffier. While conversing with him I confessed what happiness it would give me to see the great Catherine, but I did not dissemble the fright and embarrassment I expected to undergo when I should be presented to that powerful Princess. "You will find it quite easy," he replied. "When you see the Empress you will be surprised at her good nature; she is really an excellent woman." I acknowledge that I was astonished by his remark, the justice of which I could scarcely believe, in view of what I had heard up to that time. It is true that the Prince de Ligne, during the charming narration of his journey in the Crimea, had recounted several facts proving that this great Princess had manners that were as gracious as they were simple, but an excellent woman was hardly the thing to call her.

However, the same evening Count Esterhazy, on returning from Czarskoiesielo, where the Empress was living, came to tell me that Her Majesty would receive me the next day at one o'clock. Such a quick presentation, which I had not hoped for, put me into a very awkward position. I had nothing but very plain muslin dresses, as I usually wore no others, and it was impossible to have an ornamental gown made from one day to the next, even at St. Petersburg. Count Esterhazy had said he would call for me at ten o'clock precisely and take me to breakfast with his wife, who also lived at Czarskoiesielo, so that when the appointed hour struck I started with serious apprehensions about my dress, which certainly was no court dress. On arriving at Mme. d'Esterhazy's, I, in fact, took note of her amazement. Her obliging civility did not prevent her from asking me, "Have you not brought another gown?" I turned crimson at her question, and explained how time had been wanting to have a more suitable gown made. Her displeased looks increased my anxiety to such a degree that I needed to summon up all my courage when the moment came to go before the Empress.

The Count gave me his arm, and we were walking across a portion of the park, when, at a ground-floor window, I espied a young person who was watering a pot of pansies. She was seventeen years old at most; her features were well formed and regular, her face a perfect oval; her fine complexion was not bright, but was of a paleness completely in harmony with the expression of her countenance, whose sweetness was angelic. Her fair hair floated over her neck and forehead. She was clad in a white tunic, a carelessly knotted girdle surrounding a waist as slender and supple as a nymph's. As I have described her, so ravishingly did this young person stand out against the background of her apartment, adorned with pillars and draped in pink and silver gauze, that I exclaimed, "That is Psyche!" It was Princess Elisabeth, the wife of Alexander. She addressed me, and kept me long enough to tell me a thousand flattering things. She then added, "We have wanted you here for a long time, Mme. Lebrun—so much so that I have sometimes dreamed you had already come." I parted from her with regret, and have always preserved a memory of that charming vision.

A few minutes later I was alone with the autocrat of all the Russias. The Ambassador had told me I must kiss her hand, in accordance with which custom she drew off one of her gloves, and this ought to have reminded me what to do. But I forgot all about it. The truth is, that the sight of this famous woman made such an impression upon me that I could not possibly think of anything else but to look at her. I was at first extremely surprised to find her short; I had imagined her a great height—something like her renown. She was very stout, but still had a handsome face, which her white hair framed to perfection. Genius seemed to have its seat on her broad, high forehead. Her eyes were soft and small, her nose was quite Greek, her complexion lively, and her features very mobile. She at once said in a voice that was soft though rather thick: "I am delighted, madame, to see you here; your reputation had preceded you. I am fond of the arts and especially of painting. I am not an adept, but a fancier." Everything else she said during this interview, which was rather long, in reference to her wish that I might like Russia well enough to remain a long time, bore the stamp of such great amiability that my shyness vanished, and by the time I took leave of Her Majesty I was entirely reassured. Only I could not forgive myself for not having kissed her hand, which was very beautiful and very white, and I deplored that oversight the more as Count Esterhazy reproached me with it. As for what I was wearing, she did not seem to have paid the least attention to it. Or else perhaps she may have been easier to please than our Ambassadress.

I went over part of the gardens at Czarskoiesielo, which are a veritable little fairyland. The Empress had a terrace from them communicating with her apartment, and on this terrace she kept a large number of birds. I was told that every morning she went out to feed them, and that this was one of her chief pleasures.

Directly after my audience Her Majesty testified her wish to have me spend the summer in that beautiful region. She commanded her stewards, of whom the old Prince Bariatinski was one, to give me an apartment in the castle, as she desired to have me near her, so that she might see me paint. But I afterward found out that these gentlemen took no pains to put me near the Empress, and that in spite of her repeated orders they always maintained that they had no lodgings at their disposal. What astonished me most of all, when I was informed of this matter, was that these courtiers, suspecting me to belong to the party of the Count d'Artois, were afraid lest I had come to get Esterhazy replaced by another Ambassador. It is probable that the Count was in connivance with them about all this, but anybody was surely little acquainted with me who did not know that I was too busy with my art to give any time to politics, even if I had not always felt an aversion to everything smacking of intrigue. Moreover, aside from the honour of being lodged with the Empress and the pleasure of inhabiting such a fine place, everything would have been stiff and irksome for me at Czarskoiesielo. I have always had the greatest need to enjoy my liberty, and, for the sake of following my own inclination, I have always infinitely preferred living in my own house.

Moreover, the reception I met with in Russia was well calculated to console me for a petty court intrigue. I cannot say how eagerly and with what kind-hearted affability a stranger is sought after in this country, especially if possessing some talent. My letters of introduction became quite superfluous; not only was I at once invited to live with the best and pleasantest families, but I found several former acquaintances in St. Petersburg, and even some old friends. First, there was Count Strogonoff, a true lover of the arts, whose portrait I had painted at Paris in my early youth. It was to us both an extreme pleasure to meet once more. He owned a splendid collection of pictures in St. Petersburg, and near the town, at Kaminostroff, a delightful Italian villa, where he gave a great dinner every Sunday. He called for me to take me there, and I was enraptured with the place. The villa stood by the high road, and its windows overlooked the Neva. The garden, whose boundaries were immense, was laid out in the English manner. A number of boats arrived from all directions, bringing visitors to Count Strogonoff's, for a number of people who were not invited to dinner came to walk in the park. The Count also allowed merchants to set up their stalls there, so that this beautiful place was enlivened with an amusing fair, especially as the costumes of the different neighbouring districts were picturesque and varied.

About three o'clock we went up on a covered terrace lined with pillars, bright daylight falling between them from every side. On one hand we enjoyed the view of the park, and on the other that of the Neva, covered with a thousand boats. The weather was the finest in the world, for the summers are splendid in Russia, a country that in July I have often found hotter than Italy. We dined on this same terrace, and the dinner was magnificent; at dessert gorgeous fruits were served, and remarkably fine melons, which seemed to me a great luxury. As soon as we sat down at table delightful instrumental music was heard, and continued throughout the dinner. The overture to "Iphigenia" was executed entrancingly. I was greatly surprised when Count Strogonoff informed me that each of the musicians played but one note; it was impossible for me to conceive how all these individual sounds could form into such a perfect whole, and how any expression could grow out of such a mechanical performance.

After dinner we took a delightful walk in the park; then, toward evening, we went back to the terrace, whence, at nightfall, we witnessed a very fine display of fireworks which the Count had had in store for us. Reflected in the waters of the Neva, these fireworks were of beautiful effect. Finally, by way of concluding the pleasures of the day, there arrived in two very narrow little boats some Indians, who danced before us. Their dances consisted in going through light movements without stirring from their places, and entertained us considerably.

Count Strogonoff's house was far from being the only one kept with such splendour. At St. Petersburg, as at Moscow, a number of noblemen owning enormous fortunes were in the habit of setting an open table, so that a well-recommended stranger was never under the necessity of having recourse to an inn. There was a dinner or a supper everywhere; nothing was embarrassing but your choice. I remember, toward the end of my stay in St. Petersburg, how Prince Narischkin, the Grand Equerry, always held open table to the extent of twenty-five or thirty covers for strangers who were recommended to him. These hospitable customs exist in the interior of Russia, whither modern civilisation has not yet penetrated. When Russian noblemen go upon visits to their estates, which are usually situated at great distances from the capital, they stop on the way in the houses of their countrymen, where, without being personally known by the host, they, their servants and their horses are taken in and treated as handsomely as possible, even should they remain a month.

I once saw a traveller who had journeyed across this vast country with two friends. All three had traversed those distant provinces as they might have done during the Golden Age, in the days of the patriarchs. They had everywhere been lodged and fed with such liberality that their purses had become almost useless. They had not been able to so much as force drink-money on the people who had waited upon them and cared for their horses. Their hosts, who for the most part were traders or husbandmen, had expressed astonishment at the warmth of their gratitude. "If we were in your country," said they, "you would do the same for us." I only wish this had been true.

The summer ends in Russia with the month of August, and there is no autumn. I often went walking at Czarskoiesielo, whose park, bounded by the sea, is one of the loveliest sights imaginable. It is full of monuments which the Empress was wont to call her caprices. There are a superb marble bridge in the Palladian style, Turkish baths—trophies of Romazoff's and Orloff's victories—a temple with thirty-two pillars, and then the colonnade and the great stairway of Hercules. The park has unrivalled avenues of trees. Opposite the castle is a long, broad lawn, and at the end of it a cherry orchard, where I remember having frequently eaten excellent cherries.

Count Cobentzel very much wished me to make the acquaintance of a woman whose cleverness and beauty I had often heard vaunted—the Princess Dolgoruki. I received an invitation from her to dine at Alexandrovski, where she had a country house, and the Count came for me to take me there with my daughter. This very large house was furnished without ostentation, and it was a great pleasure to me to watch the continual passage of the boats, in which the rowers sang in chorus. The songs of the Russian people have a somewhat barbarous originality, but are melancholy and melodious.

The beauty of Princess Dolgoruki struck me very much. Her features had the Greek character mixed with something Jewish, especially in profile. Her long, dark chestnut hair, carelessly taken up, touched her shoulders. Her figure was perfect, and in her whole person she exhibited at once nobility and grace without the least affectation. She received me with so much amiability and civility that I willingly acceded to her request that I might stay a week with her. The charming Princess Kurakin, whose acquaintance I had made, was living with the Princess Dolgoruki, these ladies and Count Cobentzel keeping house together. The company was very numerous, and no one thought of anything but amusement. After dinner we took delightful rides in handsome boats furnished with red velvet, gold-fringed curtains. A choir, preceding us in a plainer boat, charmed us with their singing, which was always perfectly exact, even at the highest notes. The day of my arrival we had music in the evening; the next day there was a delightful play. Dalayrac's "Underground" was given. Princess Dolgoruki played the part of Camille; young De la RibaussiÈre, who afterward became minister in Russia, played the boy; and Count Cobentzel, the gardener. I remember how, during the performance, a messenger arrived from Vienna with despatches for the Count, who was Austrian Ambassador at St. Petersburg, and how, at the sight of the man dressed as a gardener, he did not want to give up the despatches, this giving rise to a most diverting argument between them behind the scenes. At the end of the week, the whole of which had seemed to last but a minute, I was obliged, to my regret, to leave the hospitable roof of Princess Dolgoruki, as I had made a number of engagements to paint portraits. I, however, formed several connections at Alexandrovski which proved infinitely agreeable during my whole stay in Russia.

Count Cobentzel was passionately devoted to the Princess Dolgoruki, without her responding in the least to his importunities; but the coolness she showed toward his intentions by no means drove him away. His sole object was the happiness of being in her presence; whether in the country or in town, he scarcely ever left her for a moment. So soon as his despatches, written with great facility, were sent off, he rushed to her side and made a complete slave of himself. He was seen to fly at the least word, the least gesture of his divinity. If a play was given he took any part she offered him, even if the rÔle was not at all suited to his appearance. For Count Cobentzel, who looked about fifty, was very ugly, and squinted horribly. He was rather tall, but also extremely fat, which, however, did not prevent him from being quite active, particularly when it was a case of executing the demands of his dearly beloved Princess. Otherwise he was quick and clever, his conversation was enlivened with a thousand anecdotes which he could recount to perfection, and I always knew him as the best and most obliging of men.

What made the Princess Dolgoruki indifferent to the sighs of Count Cobentzel and to those of many other admirers was the fact that from one of them she had received attentions more brilliant than ever woman had had lavished upon her by any lovelorn king. The famous Potemkin—he who had said the word "impossible" should be ruled out of the dictionary—had testified his adoration for her with a magnificence surpassing all that we read of in the "Thousand and One Nights." When, in 1791, after making her journey in the Crimea, the Empress Catherine II. returned to St. Petersburg, Prince Potemkin remained behind in command of the army, several of the generals having brought their wives. It was then that he had occasion to meet Princess Dolgoruki. Her name, too, was Catherine, and the Prince made a great banquet for her, nominally in honour of the Empress. At table the Princess was seated by his side. At dessert, on the table were put crystal goblets full of diamonds, which were served to the ladies by the spoonful. The queen of the festival observing this luxury, Potemkin whispered to her, "Since this celebration is for you, why should you be astonished at anything?" He would spare no sacrifice to satisfy a wish or a whim of that charming woman. Learning one day that she was in want of ball slippers of a kind she usually sent for to France, Potemkin despatched an express messenger to Paris, who hastened day and night to bring back these slippers. It was well known in St. Petersburg that to afford the Princess Dolgoruki a spectacle he much desired her to see he had assaulted the fortress of Otschakoff sooner than had been agreed upon, and perhaps sooner than was prudent.

No woman, it seems to me, had greater dignity of mien and manner than Princess Dolgoruki. Having seen my "Sibyl," about which she was very enthusiastic, she wished me to make her portrait in this style, and I had the pleasure of doing her bidding to her entire satisfaction. The portrait done, she sent me a very handsome carriage, and put on my arm a bracelet made of a tress of her hair with a diamond inscription reading, "Adorn her who adorns her century." I was deeply touched by the graciousness and delicacy of such a gift.

At the time of my reaching St. Petersburg, Prince Potemkin had already been there some years, but he was still spoken of as though he had been a wizard. Some idea of what an extraordinary and high-flying imagination he had may be obtained from reading what the Prince de Ligne and the Count de SÉgur have written about the journey he arranged for the Empress Catherine II. in the Crimea; those palaces, those wooden villages built all along the route, as if by a magic wand, that huge forest going up in flames by way of fireworks for Her Majesty—the whole journey, in fact, was a fantastic affair. His niece, Countess Skavronska, said to me in Vienna, "Had my uncle known you, he would have loaded you with distinctions and riches." Certain it is that at every opportunity this famous man was generous to prodigality and luxurious to madness. All his tastes were extravagant, all his habits royal, so much so that, although he possessed a fortune exceeding that of some sovereigns, the Prince de Ligne told me that he had known him to be without money.

Favour and power had accustomed Prince Potemkin to satisfy his slightest desires. Here is an example which proves the point. One day, when the talk ran on the size of one of his adjutants, he declared that a certain officer in the Russian army—whom he named—was taller still. After every one who knew the officer in question had contradicted Potemkin, he forthwith sent off a messenger with an order to bring back with him this officer, who was then eight hundred miles away. Upon hearing that he had been sent for by the Prince, his joy was unbounded, since he believed that he had been promoted to a higher rank. His disappointment may therefore be imagined when, on his arrival in camp, he was informed that he was to be measured with Potemkin's adjutant, and that he must then return without any other reward than the fatigue of the long journey.

The man whom a long period of favour had, so to say, accustomed to reign beside the sovereign was unable to survive the thought of disgrace. Catherine II. sent to Prince Repnin her orders to treat for peace, to which Potemkin was strongly opposed. Angry as possible, he set out upon the instant in the hope of preventing the signature, but only to learn at Yassy that peace was concluded. This news was fatal to him. Already indisposed, he now fell mortally ill, which did not hinder him from at once beginning the return journey to St. Petersburg. But in a few hours his ailment grew so serious that it became out of the question for him to support the movement of a carriage. He was laid out in a meadow and covered with his cloak, and there Potemkin breathed his last sigh, on the 15th of October, 1791, in the arms of Countess Branicka, his niece. Plato Zouboff, a young lieutenant of the guard, succeeded Potemkin in the favour of the Empress, who showered honours and wealth upon him.