I AM WRITING on the 14th of July, 1839, just fifty years after the taking of the Bastille, which event occurred on the 14th of July, 1789. The coincidence of these dates is curious. The marriage of the son of Eugène de Beauharnais[1] has taken place on the same day as that which marked the commencement of our revolutions, precisely fifty years ago.
I have just returned from the palace, after having witnessed, in the Imperial Chapel, all the Greek ceremonies of the marriage of the Grand Duchess Marie with the Duke of Leuchtenberg.
I will endeavor to describe in detail, but in the first place I must speak of the emperor.
The predominant expression of his countenance is that of a restless severity, which strikes a beholder at the first glance, and, in spite of the regularity of his features, conveys by no means a pleasant impression. Physiognomists pretend, with much reason, that the hardness of the heart injures the beauty of the countenance. Nevertheless, this expression in the Emperor Nicholas appears to be the result of experience rather than the work of nature. By what long and cruel sufferings must not a man have been tortured, when his countenance excites fear, notwithstanding the voluntary confidence that noble features inspire!
A man charged with the management and direction, in its most minute details, of some immense machine, incessantly fears the derangement of one or other of its various parts. He who obeys, suffers only according to the precise measure of the evil inflicted: he who commands, suffers first as other men suffer, and afterwards, that common measure of evil is multiplied a hundredfold for him by the workings of imagination and self-love. Responsibility is the punishment of absolute power.
If he be the primum mobile of all minds, he becomes the center also of all griefs: the more he is dreaded, the more is he to be pitied.
He to whom is accorded unlimited rule, sees, even in the common occurrences of life, the specter of revolt. Persuaded that his rights are sacred, he recognizes no bounds to them but those of his own intelligence and will, and he is, therefore, subject to constant annoyance. An unlucky fly, buzzing in the Imperial Palace during a ceremony, mortifies the emperor; the independence of nature appears to him a bad example: everything which he cannot subject to his arbitrary laws becomes, in his eyes, as a soldier who, in the heat of battle, revolts against his officer. The emperor of Russia is a military chief, and every day with him is a day of battle.
Nevertheless, at times some gleams of softness temper the imperious looks of this monarch; and then, the expression of affability reveals all the native beauty of his classic features. In the heart of the husband and the father, humanity triumphs for a moment over the policy of the prince. When the sovereign rests from his task of imposing the yoke upon his subjects, he appears happy. This combat between the primitive dignity of the man and the affected gravity of the sovereign, appears to me worthy the attention of an observer: it occupied mine the greater part of the time I passed in the chapel.
The emperor is above the usual height by half a head; his figure is noble, although a little stiff; he has practiced from his youth the Russian custom of girding the body above the loins, to such a degree as to push up the stomach into the chest, which produces an unnatural swelling or extension about the ribs that is as injurious to health as it is ungraceful in appearance.
This voluntary deformity destroys all freedom of movement, impairs the elegance of the shape, and imparts an air of constraint to the whole person. They say that when the emperor loosens his dress, the viscera, suddenly giving way, are disturbed for a moment in their equilibrium, which produces an extraordinary prostration of amazing strength. The bowels may be displaced,—they cannot be got rid of.
The emperor has a Grecian profile, the forehead high, but receding; the nose straight, and perfectly formed; the mouth very finely cut; the face, which in shape is rather a long oval, is noble; the whole air military, and rather German than Slavic. His carriage and his attitudes are naturally imposing. He expects always to be gazed at, and never for a moment forgets that he is so. It may even be said that he likes this homage of the eyes.
He passes the greater part of his existence in the open air, at reviews, or in rapid journeys. During summer, the shade of his military hat draws across his forehead an oblique line, which marks the action of the sun upon the skin. It produces a singular effect, but is not disagreeable, as the cause is at once perceived.
In examining attentively the fine person of this individual, on whose will hangs the fate of so many others, I have remarked, with involuntary pity, that he cannot smile at the same time with the eyes and the mouth; a want of harmony which denotes perpetual constraint, and which makes one remember, with regret, that easy natural grace, so conspicuous in the less regular but more agreeable countenance of his brother, the Emperor Alexander. The latter, always pleasing, had yet, at times, an assumed manner. The Emperor Nicholas is more sincere; but he has an habitual expression of severity, which sometimes gives the idea of harshness and inflexibility. If, however, he is less fascinating, he is more firm than his late brother; but then, it must be added, that he has also a proportionately greater need of firmness. Graceful courtesy insures authority by removing the desire of resistance. This judicious economy in the exercise of power is a secret of which the Emperor Nicholas is ignorant; he is one who desires to be obeyed where others desire to be loved.
The figure of the empress is very elegant; and, though she is extremely thin, I find an indefinable grace about her whole person. Her mien, far from being haughty, as I had been informed, is expressive of an habitual resignation. On entering the chapel, she was much affected, and I thought she was going to faint. A nervous convulsion agitated every feature of her face, and caused her head slightly to shake. Her soft blue, but rather sunken eyes, told of deep sufferings supported with angelic calmness. Her look, full of feeling, has the more power, from its appearing unconscious of possessing any. Faded before her time, and so weak, that it is said she cannot live long, her person gives the idea of a passing shadow, or of something that belongs no more to earth. She has never recovered from the anguish she had to undergo on the day of her accession to the throne, and conjugal duty has consumed the rest of her life.
She has given too many idols to Russia, too many children to the emperor. “Exhausting herself in Grand Dukes! What a destiny!” said a great Polish lady, who did not think herself obliged to speak reverently with her lips of what she hated in her heart.
Everyone sees the state of the empress, but no one mentions it. The emperor loves her: when confined to her chamber by illness, he attends her himself, watches by her bedside, and prepares and administers her medicine. No sooner is she better, than he destroys her health with the excitement of fêtes and journeys; but the moment that danger is again apprehended, he renounces all his projects. Of the precautions that might prevent illness he has a horror. Wife, children, servants, relations, favorites,—all in Russia must follow in the Imperial vortex, and smile on till they die. All must force themselves to conform to the wish of the sovereign, which wish alone forms the destiny of all. The nearer anyone is placed to the Imperial sun, the more is he a slave to the glory attached to his situation. The empress is dying under the weight of this slavery.
Everyone here knows this, but no one speaks of it; for it is a general rule never to utter a word which can excite much interest: neither he who speaks, nor he who listens, must allow it to be seen that the subject of conversation merits continued attention, or awakens any warm feelings. All the resources of language are exhausted in order to banish from discourse, idea and sentiment, without, however, appearing to repress them, which would be gauche. The excessive constraint which results from this prodigious labor,—prodigious especially through the art with which it is concealed,— embitters the life of the Russians. Such a torment serves as an expiation for the men who voluntarily deprive themselves of the two greatest gifts of God—mind and its organ, speech; in other words, thought and liberty.
The more I see of Russia, the more I approve the conduct of the emperor in forbidding his subjects to travel, and in rendering access to his own country difficult to foreigners. The political system of Russia could not survive twenty years’ free communication with the west of Europe. Listen not to the fictions of the Russians: they mistake pomp for elegance, luxury for politeness, a powerful police, and a dread of government, for the fundamental principles of society. According to their notions, discipline is civilization. They forget that men in the wild can have gentle mores and soldiers can be quite cruel. Notwithstanding all their pretensions to good manners, their showy education, their precocious corruption, and their facility of comprehending and appropriating the materialism of life, the Russians are not yet civilized. They are enrolled and drilled Tartars, and nothing more.
I wish it not to be inferred that they are therefore to be despised: the more their mental rudeness is concealed under the softer forms of social intercourse, the more formidable I consider them. As regards civilization, they have been hitherto contented with exhibiting its appearance; but if ever they should find an opportunity of revenging their real inferiority upon us, we shall have to make a tremendous expiation for our advantages.
This morning, after dressing myself in haste, in order to repair to the Imperial Chapel, I entered my carriage, and followed that of the French ambassador, through the squares and streets that led to the palace, examining with curiosity all that presented itself in the way. The troops which I observed in the approaches to the palace, were less magnificent than I had been led to expect, though the horses were certainly superb. The immense square which separates the dwelling of the sovereign from the rest of the city, was crossed in various directions by lines of carriages, servants in livery, and soldiers in a variety of uniforms. That of the Cossacks is the most remarkable. Notwithstanding the concourse, the square, so vast is its extent, was not crowded.
In new states there is a void everywhere; but this is more especially the case when the government is absolute: it is the absence of liberty which creates solitude, and spreads sadness.
The equipages of the courtiers looked well without being really elegant. The carriages badly painted, and still worse varnished, are of a heavy make. They are drawn by four horses, whose traces are immoderately long. A coachman drives the wheel horses; a little postilion, clothed in the long Persian robe similar to that of the coachman, rides on a fore horse, seated upon, or rather in, a hollow saddle, raised before and behind, and stuffed like a pillow. This child, called, I believe, in German the Vorreiter,[2] and in Russian the faleiter, is always perched upon the right, or off-side leader; the contrary custom prevails in all other countries, where the postilion is mounted on the left, in order to have the right hand free to guide his other horse. The spirit and power of the Russian horses, which have all some blood, though all have not beauty, the dexterity of the coachmen, and the richness of their dress, greatly set off the carriages, and produce altogether an effect which, if not so elegant, is more striking and splendid than that of the equipages of the other courts of Europe.
I was occupied with a crowd of reflections which the novelty of the objects around me suggested, when my carriage stopped under a grand peristyle, where I descended among a crowd of gilded courtiers, who were attended by vassals as barbaric in appearance as in reality. The costume of the servants is almost as brilliant as that of their masters. The Russians have a great taste for splendor, and in court ceremonies this taste is more especially displayed.
In descending from the carriage rather hastily, lest I should be separated from the persons under whose guidance I had placed myself, my foot struck with some force against the curb stone, which had caught my spur. At the moment, I paid little attention to the circumstance; but great was my distress when, immediately afterwards, I perceived that the spur had come off, and, what was still worse, that it had carried with it the heel of the boot also. Having to appear in this dilapidated state, for the first time, before a man said to be as precise as he is great and powerful, seemed to me a real misfortune. The Russians are prone to ridicule; and the idea of affording them a subject for laughter at my first presentation, was peculiarly unpleasant.
What was to be done? To return under the peristyle to search for the remnant of my boot was quite useless. To leave the French ambassador and return home, would, in itself, be the way to create a scene. On the other hand, to show myself as I was, would ruin me in the estimation of the emperor and his courtiers; and I have no philosophy against ridicule to which I voluntarily expose myself. The troubles that pleasure draws one into at a thousand leagues from home, appear to me unbearable. It was so easy not to go at all, that to go awkwardly were unpardonable. I might hope to conceal myself in the crowd; but, I repeat, there never is a crowd in Russia; and least of all, upon a staircase like that of the new Winter Palace, which resembles some decoration in the opera of Gustavus. This palace is, I believe, the largest and most magnificent of all existing royal or imperial residences.
I felt my natural timidity increase with the confusion which so ludicrous an accident produced, until, at length, fear itself supplied me with courage, and I began to limp as lightly as I could across the immense rooms and stately galleries, the length and strong light of which I inwardly cursed. The Russians are cool, quick-sighted quizzes, possessing, like all the ambitious, little delicacy of feeling. They are, besides, mistrustful of strangers, whose judgment they fear, because they believe we have but little good feeling towards them. This prejudice renders them censorious and secretly caustic, although outwardly they appear hospitable and polite.
I reached, at length, but not without difficulty, the further end of the Imperial Chapel. There all was forgotten, including even myself and my foolish embarrassment; indeed, in this place the crowd was more dense, and no one could see what was wanting to my equipment. The novelty of the spectacle that awaited me, restored my coolness and self-possession. I blushed for the vexation which my vanity as a disconcerted courtier had produced, and with the resumption of my part as simple traveler in the scene, recovered the composure of a philosophic observer.
One word more upon my costume. It had been the subject of grave consultation: some of the young people attached to the French legation had advised the habit of the national guard. I feared, however, that this uniform would displease the emperor, and decided upon that of a staff officer, with the epaulettes of a lieutenant-colonel, which are those of my rank.
I had been warned that the dress would appear new, and that it would become, on the part of the princes of the Imperial family, and of the emperor himself, the subject of numerous questions which might embarrass me. Hitherto, however, none have had time to occupy themselves with so small an affair.
The Greek marriage rites are long and imposing. Everything is symbolical in the Eastern church. The splendors of religion shed a luster over the solemnities of the court.
The walls and roof of the chapel, the vestments of the priests and of their attendants, all glittered with gold. There are here riches enough to astonish the least poetical imagination. The spectacle vies with the most fanciful description in the Arabian Nights; it is like the poetry of Lalla Rookh, or the Marvelous Lamp,—that Oriental poetry in which sensation prevails over sentiment and thought.
The Imperial Chapel is not of large dimensions. It was filled with the representatives of all the sovereigns of Europe, and almost of Asia; with strangers like myself, admitted in the suite of the diplomatic corps; with the wives of the ambassadors, and the great officers of the court. A balustrade separated us from the circular enclosure, within which the altar was raised. It had the form of a low square table. Places in the choir were reserved for the Imperial family: at the moment of our arrival they were vacant.
I have seen few things that could compare with the magnificence and solemnity which attended the entrance of the emperor into this chapel, blazing with gold. He appeared, advancing with the empress, and followed by the court retinue. All eyes were immediately fixed upon him and his family, among whom the betrothed pair shone conspicuously. A marriage of inclination celebrated in broidered vestments, and in a place so pompous, was a novelty which crowned the interest of the scene. This was repeated by everyone around me; for my own part I cannot give credit to the marvel, nor can I avoid seeing a politic motive in all that is said and done here. The emperor perhaps deceives himself, and believes that he is performing acts of paternal tenderness, while in the bottom of his heart he may be secretly influenced in his choice by the hope of personal advantage.
It is with ambition as with avarice; misers always calculate, not excepting even the moment when they believe they are yielding to disinterested sentiments.
Although the court was numerous, and the chapel small, there was no confusion. I stood in the midst of the corps diplomatique, near the balustrade which separated us from the sanctuary. We were not so crowded as to be unable to distinguish the features and movements of each of the personages whom duty or curiosity had there brought together. No disorder interrupted the respectful silence that was maintained throughout the assembly. A brilliant sun illuminated the interior of the chapel, where the temperature had, I understood, risen to 30 degrees. We observed in the suite of the emperor, clothed in a long robe of gold tissue, and a pointed bonnet, likewise adorned with gold embroidery, a Tartar khan, who is half tributary, and half independent of Russia. This petty sovereign had come to pray the emperor of all the Russias to admit among his pages a son twelve years old, whom he had brought to Petersburg, hoping thus to secure for the child a suitable destiny. The presence of this declining power served as a contrast to that of the successful monarch, and reminded me of the triumphal pomps of Rome.
The first ladies of the Russian court, and the wives of the ambassadors of the other courts, among whom I recognized Mademoiselle Sontag, now Countess de Rossi, graced with their presence the circumference of the chapel. At the lower end, which terminated in a brilliant, painted rotunda, were ranged the whole of the Imperial family. The gilded ceiling reflecting the ardent rays of the sun, formed a species of crown around the heads of the sovereigns and their children. The attire and diamonds of the ladies shone with a magic splendor in the midst of all the treasures of Asia, which beamed upon the walls of the sanctuary, where royal magnificence seemed to challenge the majesty of the God whom it honored, without forgetting its own.
All this gorgeous display is wonderful, especially to us, if we recall the time, not distant, when the marriage of the daughter of a czar would have been scarcely heard of in Europe, and when Peter I declared, that he had a right to leave his crown to whomsoever he pleased. How great a progress for so short a period!
When we reflect on the diplomatic and other conquests of this power, which not long since was considered as of but little importance in the civilized world, we are almost led to ask ourselves if that which we see is not a dream. The emperor himself did not seem to be much accustomed to what was passing before him; for he was continually leaving his prayers, and slipping from one side to the other, in order to remedy the omissions of etiquette among his children, or the clergy. This proves that in Russia, even the court has not yet finished its education. His son-in-law was not placed quite correctly, whereupon he made him shift his position by about two feet. The grand duchess, the priests themselves, and all the great functionaries of the court seemed to be governed by his minute but supreme directions. I felt that it would have been more dignified to leave things as they were, and I could have wished that when once in the chapel, God only had been thought of, and each man had been left to acquit himself of his functions, without his master so scrupulously rectifying each little fault of religious discipline, or of court ceremonial: but in this singular country the absence of liberty is seen everywhere; it is found even at the foot of the altar. Here the spirit of Peter the Great governs the minds of all.
During the mass at a Greek marriage, there is a moment when the betrothed drink together out of the same cup. Afterwards, accompanied by the officiating priest, they pass three times round the altar, hand in hand, to signify the conjugal union, and the fidelity which should attend their walk through life. All these acts are the more imposing, as they recall to mind the customs of the primitive church.
The above ceremonies being ended, a crown was next held for a considerable time over the head of each of the newly married pair; the crown of the grand duchess, by her brother the hereditary grand duke, the position of which the emperor himself (once more leaving his prayer desk) took care to adjust, with a mixture of good nature and of minute attention that would be difficult to describe.
The crown of the Duke of Leuchtenberg was held by the Count de Pahlen, Russian ambassador at Paris, and son of the too celebrated and too zealous friend of Alexander. This recollection, banished from the conversation, and perhaps from the thoughts, of the Russians of these days, did not cease to occupy my mind the whole time that the Count de Pahlen, with the noble simplicity which is natural to him, was engaged in the performance of an act envied, doubtless, by all who aspired to court favor. That act was an invocation of the protection of Heaven, upon the head of the husband of Paul the First’s grandchild! The strange coincidence most probably occurred to no one except myself. It appears that tact and propriety are here necessary only for those who possess no power. Had the recollection of the fact which occupied my mind, occurred to that of the emperor, he would have commissioned some other individual to hold the crown over the head of his son-in-law. But in a country where they neither read nor speak of public affairs, nothing has less to do with the events of today, than the history of yesterday; power consequently sometimes acts inadvertently, and commits oversights which prove that it sleeps in a security not always well advised. Russian policy is not shackled in its march either by opinions or actions; the favor of the sovereign is everything. So long as it lasts, it supplies the want of merit, of virtue, and even of innocence in the man on whom it is lavished; and, in the same manner, when it is withdrawn, it deprives him of everything.
Everyone contemplated with a species of anxious interest the immobility of the arms which sustained the two crowns. The scene lasted for a considerable time, and must have been very fatiguing for the performers. The young bride is extremely graceful; her eyes are blue, and her fair complexion has all the delicate freshness of early youth: openness and intelligence united, form the predominant expression of her face. This princess and her sister, the Grand Duchess Olga, appear to me the two most beautiful persons at the Russian court:—happy unison of the advantages of rank and the gifts of nature.
When the officiating bishop presented the married pair to their august parents, the latter embraced them with a warmth that was affecting. The moment afterwards, the empress threw herself into the arms of her husband—an effusion of tenderness which would have better suited a chamber than a chapel: but in Russia the sovereigns are at home everywhere, not excepting the house of God. The tender emotion, however, of the empress appeared altogether involuntary, and therefore did not shock the feelings. Woe to those who could find anything to ridicule in the emotions produced by true and natural feeling! Such exhibitions of sensibility are sympathetic. German kindheartedness is never lost; there must indeed be soul, when feeling is allowed to betray itself even upon the throne.
Before the benediction, two doves were, according to custom, let loose in the chapel; they quickly settled on a gilded cornice which jutted out directly over the heads of the wedded pair; and there they never ceased billing and cooing during the whole mass. Pigeons are well off in Russia: they are revered as the sacred symbol of the Holy Ghost, and it is forbidden to kill them: fortunately, the flavor of their flesh is not liked by the Russians.
The Duke of Leuchtenberg is a tall, well-made young man, but there is nothing distingué in his features. His eyes are handsome, but his mouth projects and is not well formed. His figure is good without being noble: a uniform becomes him, and supplies that want of grace that may be observed in his person. He looks more like a smart sublieutenant than a prince. Not one relation on his side had come to St. Petersburg to assist at the ceremony.
During the mass he appeared singularly impatient to be alone with his wife; and the eyes of the whole assembly were directed, by a kind of spontaneous sympathy, towards the two pigeons perched above the altar.
At one part of the Greek marriage ceremony everyone is obliged to kneel. Before prostrating himself with the others, the emperor cast around the assembly a searching, and by no means pleasing glance. It appeared as though he would assure himself that no one remained standing—a superfluous precaution: for though there were among the foreigners present both Catholics and Protestants, it never, I am certain, entered into the thoughts of one not to conform, externally, to all the ceremonies of the Greek church.
The possibility of a doubt on such a point justifies some of my previous observations, and authorizes my repeating that a restless severity has become the habitual expression of the physiognomy of the emperor.
In these times, when revolt pervades, as it were, the very air, perhaps autocracy itself begins to fear lest some insult should be offered to its power. Such an idea would clash disagreeably, and even terrifically, with the notions which it preserves of its rights. Absolute power is most to be feared when it is itself under the influence of fear. In noticing the nervous affection, the weakness, and the emaciated frame of the empress, I called to mind what this interesting woman must have suffered during the revolt at the time of her accession to the throne. Heroism repays itself; it is by fortitude, but a fortitude that exhausts life.
I have already said that everybody had fallen on their knees, and, last of all, the emperor; the lovers were united; the Imperial family and the crowd arose; the priests and choir chanted the Te Deum, and discharges of artillery, outside, announced the consecration of the marriage to the city. The effect of this exquisite music, mingled with the thunder of the cannon, the ringing of the bells, and the distant acclamations of the people, was inexpressibly grand. All musical instruments are banished from the Greek church, and the voices of human beings only there celebrate the praises of God. This rigor of the Oriental ritual is favorable to the art of singing, preserving to it all its simplicity, and producing an effect in the chants which is absolutely celestial. I could fancy I heard the heart-beating of sixty millions of subjects— a living orchestra, following, without drowning, the triumphal hymn of the priests. I was deeply moved: music can make us forget for one moment even despotism itself.
I can only compare these choruses without accompaniment, to the Miserere as sung during the Passion Week in the Sixtine Chapel at Rome; but the chapel of the Pope is but the shadow of what it formerly was. It is one ruin more amid the ruins of Rome. About the middle of the last century, when the Italian school shone in its brightest luster, the old Greek chants were re-arranged, without being spoilt, by composers who were brought to Petersburg from Rome. The works of these strangers are chefs d’oeuvre, which is mainly owing to all their talent and science having been applied in subservience to the works of antiquity. Their classic compositions are executed with a power worthy of the conception. The soprano, or children’s parts—for no woman sings in the Imperial Chapel—are perfectly correct; the bassos have a strength, depth, and purity, that exceed anything I recollect having heard elsewhere.
To an amateur of the art, the music of the Imperial Chapel is alone worth a journey to Petersburg. The sweet, the powerful, and all the finest shades of expression, are observed with a depth of feeling and a skill which cannot be too much admired. The Russians are musical; this cannot be doubted by those who have heard the music in their churches. I listened without daring to breathe, and I longed for my learned friend Meyer-beer to explain to me the beauties which I so deeply felt, but which I was unable to comprehend. He would have understood them by the inspiration they would have communicated, for his admiration of models is expressed by his rivaling them.
During the Te Deum, at the moment when the two choirs were responding to each other, the tabernacle opened, and the priests were seen, their heads adorned with sparkling tiaras of jewels, and their bodies clothed in robes of gold, over which their silver beards fell majestically; some of these beards reach as far as the waist. The assistants make as dazzling an appearance as the priests. This court is certainly magnificent, and the military costume shines also in all its splendor. I saw with delight the people bringing to God the homage of their riches and their pomp. The sacred music was listened to by a profane auditory with a silence and attention which would alone give an effect to chants less sublime than these. God was there, and his presence sanctifies even the court: the world and sense were nothing more than accessory objects— the reigning thought was heaven.
The officiating archbishop did not disgrace the majesty of the scene. If not handsome, he is venerable; his small figure is like that of a weasel, but his head is white with age. He has a careworn and sickly appearance; a priest, old and feeble, cannot be an ignoble object. At the close of the ceremony the emperor came and bent before him, respectfully kissing his hand.
The autocrat never fails to give an example of submission, when there is a hope that such an example may be of profit to himself. I was interested in the poor archbishop, who appeared dying in the midst of his glory. The majestic figure of the emperor with his noble countenance, bending before the representative of religious power—the youthful couple—the Imperial family—the spectators—in short, the whole assemblage that filled and animated the chapel, formed a subject for a picture. Before the ceremony, I thought the archbishop would have fainted. The court kept him waiting a long time, unmindful of the saying of Louis XVIII, that “Punctuality is the politeness of kings.” Notwithstanding the cunning expression of his countenance, this old man inspired me with compassion. He was so feeble, and yet he sustained fatigue with so much patience, that I pitied, if I did not respect him; for whether his patience was the result of piety, or of ambition, it was cruelly tried.
The religious ceremony in the Greek chapel was followed by a second nuptial benediction by a Catholic priest, which took place in one of the halls of the palace, consecrated to this pious use for the day only. After these two marriages, the wedded pair and their family met at table. I, not having permission to witness either the Catholic marriage or the banquet, followed the greater number of the courtly crowd, and went out to breathe a less stifling air, congratulating myself on the little effect that my dilapidated boot had produced. Some persons, however, spoke to me of it laughingly, and that was all. Both in good and in evil, nothing that merely regards ourselves is as important as we fancy it.
On departing from the palace, I found my carriage again without any trouble. There is never, I repeat, a large concourse in Russia. The space is always too vast for what is done there. This is the advantage of a country where there is no nation. In a community thus ordered, a crowd would be equivalent to a revolution.
The void which is everywhere observable, causes the public structures to appear too small for the places in which they stand: they seem lost in space. The column of Alexander passes for being higher than that of the Place Vendôme, owing to the dimensions of its pedestal. The shaft consists of one single block of granite, the largest that has ever been shaped by the hand of man. This immense column, raised between the Winter Palace and the crescent which forms the other extremity of the square, when viewed from the palace, appears to the eye as nothing more than a pole, and the houses around might be taken for palisades. In the square, a hundred thousand men can perform their maneuvers, without its appearing filled or thickly peopled. It is enclosed by the Winter Palace, the façades of which are rebuilt on the model of the old palace of the Empress Elizabeth. Here is at least a relief to the eyes, after the poor and frigid imitations of the monuments of Athens and Rome. The style is that of the Regency, or Louis XIV degenerated, but the scale is very large. The opposite side of the square is terminated by a semicircle or crescent of buildings, in which are established the bureaus of various ministers of state. These edifices are mostly constructed in the ancient Grecian style. Singular taste! Temples erected to clerks! The buildings of the Admiralty are in the same square. Their small pillars and gilded turrets produce a picturesque effect. An avenue of trees ornaments the square opposite this spot, and renders it less monotonous. On the other side of the immense Russian Champ de Mars stands the church of St. Isaac, with its colossal peristyle, and its brazen dome, still half concealed by the scaffolding of the architect. Farther on, is seen the palace of the Senate, and other structures still in the form of pagan temples. Beyond, in an angle of this long square, at its extremity on the Neva, stands the statue of Peter the Great, which disappears in immensity like a pebble on the shore. These above-named edifices contain material enough to build an entire city, and yet they do not complete the sides of the great square of Petersburg: it is a vast field, not of wheat, but of pillars. The Russians may do their best to imitate all that art has produced of beautiful in other times and other lands; they forget that Nature is stronger than man. They never sufficiently consult her, and therefore she is constantly revenging herself by doing them mischief. Masterpieces have only been produced by men who have listened to, and felt the power of Nature. Nature is the conception of God; art is the relation between the conceptions of man and those of the power which has created and which perpetuates the world. The artist repeats on earth what he has heard in heaven; he is but the translator of the works of the Deity; those who would create by their own models produce only monsters.
Among the ancients, the architects reared their structures in steep and confined spots, where the picturesque character of the site added to the effect of the works of man. The Russians, who flatter themselves they are reproducing the wonders of antiquity, and who, in reality, are only caricaturing them, raise their soi-disant Grecian and Roman structures in immense plains, where they are almost lost to the eye. The architecture proper for such a land would not be the colon-nade of the Parthenon, but the tower of Peking. It is for man to build mountains, when nature has not undulated the surface of the earth; but the Russians have raised their porticoes and pediments without thinking of this, and without recollecting that on a flat and naked expanse, it is difficult to distinguish edifices with so small an elevation. We still recognize the steppes of Asia in cities where they have pretended to revive the Roman Forum. Muscovy is more nearly allied to Asia than to Europe. The genius of the East hovers over its soil. The semicircle of edifices opposite the Imperial Palace, if observed sideways, at a proper distance, has the effect of an incomplete ancient amphitheater. If examined more nearly, we see only a series of decorations that have to be replastered every year, in order to repair the ravages of the winter. The ancients built with indestructible materials under a favorable sky; here, under a climate which destroys everything, they raise palaces of wood, houses of plank, and temples of plaster; and, consequently, the Russian workmen pass their lives in rebuilding during the summer, what the winter has demolished. Nothing resists the effects of this climate; even the edifices that appear the most ancient have been reconstructed but yesterday; stone lasts here no better than lime and mortar elsewhere. That enormous piece of granite which forms the shaft of the column of Alexander, is already worn by the frost. In Petersburg it is necessary to use bronze in order to support granite; yet notwithstanding these warnings, they never tire of imitating the taste of southern lands. They people the solitudes of the pole with statues and historical bas-reliefs, without considering that in their country monuments are even more evanescent than memories. Petersburg, in its present state, is but the scaffolding of a structure—when the structure is finished, the scaffolding will be removed. This chef d’oeuvre, not of architecture but of policy, is the New Byzantium, which, in the deep and secret aspirations of the Russian, is to be the future capital of Russia and of the world.
Facing the palace, an immense arcade pierces the already noticed semicircular range of buildings, and leads into the Morskoe Street. Above the enormous vault is placed a chariot with six horses in bronze, guided by I know not what kind of allegorical or historical figure. I doubt whether there could be elsewhere seen anything in such bad taste as this colossal gate opening under a house, and flanked on either side by ordinary dwellings, whose vicinity has nevertheless not prevented its being, under Russian architects, converted into a triumphal arch. I question the merit of the workmanship of the chariot, statue, and horses; but were they ever so good, they are so ill placed that I should not admire them. In objects of art, it is the harmony and keeping of the whole which invite to the examination of details; without merit in the conception, what avails a delicacy in the execution? Everything here is mean, although colossal; for in architecture it is not the dimensions of the walls which constitute excellence, but the purity of the style.
I cannot cease marveling at the passion they have conceived here for light, aerial structures. In a climate where there is sometimes a difference of eighty degrees between the temperature of winter and of summer, what have the inhabitants to do with porticoes, arcades, colonnades, and peristyles? But the Russians are accustomed to regard even nature as a slave. Obstinate imitators, they mistake their vanity for genius, and believe themselves destined to renew, on a scale yet larger than the original, all the wonders of the world. Such creations of the Russian sovereigns as I have hitherto seen, have evinced, not the love of the arts, but the love only of self.
Among other boasts, I hear it said by many Russians, that their climate also is ameliorating! Will God, then, connive at the ambition of this grasping people? Will He give them up even the sky and the breeze of the South? Shall we see Athens in Lapland, Rome at Moscow, the riches of the Thames in the Gulf of Finland, and the history of nations reduced to a question of latitude and longitude?
While my carriage, after leaving the palace, was crossing rapidly the immense square I have been describing, a violent wind raised immense clouds of dust, and I could only see, as through a veil, the equipages that were passing in all directions. The dust of summer is one of the plagues of Petersburg; it is so troublesome that I even wish for the winter snow. I had scarcely reached my hotel when a tremendous storm burst forth. Darkness at midday, thunder without rain, a wind which blew down houses, and, at the same time, a suffocating temperature, were the greeting which Heaven gave during the nuptial banquet. The superstitious viewed these signs as ominous, but soon became reassured by observing that the storm did not last long, and that the air was purer after it than before. I recount what I see, without sympathizing with it, for I have no interest here but that which actuates a curious and attentive stranger. There is between France and Russia a Chinese wall—the Slavic language and character. In spite of the notions with which Peter the Great has inspired the Russians, Siberia commences on the Vistula.
Yesterday, at seven o’clock, I returned to the palace with several other foreigners, in order to be presented to the emperor and empress.
It is easy to perceive that the former cannot for a single instant forget what he is, nor the constant attention which he excites; he studies attitude incessantly,—from whence it results that he is never natural, not even when he is sincere. He has three expressions, not one of which is that of simple benevolence. The most habitual appears to be that of severity. Another, though rarer expression, suits perhaps better his fine face—it is that of solemnity; a third is that of politeness, in which are mixed some shades of gentleness and grace, that serve to temper the chill produced by the two former. But notwithstanding this grace, there is still something which injures the moral influence of the man; it is, that each expression is assumed and cast off at will, without the least trace of one remaining to modify the one next adopted. For such change we are not prepared, and it therefore appears like a mask, that can be put on or off at pleasure. Let not my meaning of the word mask be misunderstood,—I employ it according to its strict etymology. In Greek, hypocrite means an actor: the hypocrite was a man who masked himself to perform a play. I would only say, then, that the emperor is always engaged in acting his part.
Hypocrite or actor are ill-sounding words, especially in the mouth of one who professes to be impartial and respectful. But it appears to me that, to intelligent readers—and it is only such that I address—words are nothing in themselves; their importance depends upon the sense that is given to them. I do not say that the physiognomy of this prince lacks candor, but it lacks natural expression. Thus, the chief evil under which Russia suffers, the absence of liberty, is depicted even on the countenance of its sovereign: he has many masks, but no face. Seek for the man, and you still always find the emperor.
I believe this remark may be turned to his praise; he acts his part conscientiously. He would accuse himself of weakness were he to be for a single moment plain and simple, or were he to allow it to be seen that he lived, thought, and felt as do common mortals. Without seeming to partake of any of our affections, he is always governor, judge, general, admiral, prince,—never anything more, never anything less. He will surely grow weary of all this effort as he advances in life; yet it will place him high in the opinion of his people, and perhaps of the world, for the multitude admire the efforts which astonish them,—they pride themselves in seeing the pains that are taken to dazzle them.
Those who knew the Emperor Alexander, eulogize that prince on entirely different grounds. The qualities and the faults of the two brothers were altogether opposite; there was no resemblance, and likewise no sympathy between them. In this country, the memory of a defunct emperor is little honored, and in the present instance inclination accords with the policy that would always have the preceding reign forgotten. Peter the Great is more nearly resembled by Nicholas than by Alexander, and he is more the fashion at the present day. If the ancestors of the emperors are flattered, their immediate predecessors are invariably calumniated.
The present emperor never lays aside the air of supreme majesty, except in his family intercourse. It is there only that he recollects that the natural man has pleasures independent of the duties of state; at least, I hope that it is this disinterested sentiment which attaches him to his domestic circle. His private virtues no doubt aid him in his public capacity, by securing for him the esteem of the world; but I believe he would practice them independently of this calculation.
Among the Russians, sovereign power is respected like religion, the obligations and authority of which stand independently of the personal merit of its priests: the virtues of the prince being superfluous, are so much the more sincere.
If I lived at Petersburg I should become a courtier, not from any love of place or power, nor from any puerile vanity, but from the desire of discovering some road that might reach the heart of a man who differs from all others. Insensibility is not in him a natural vice, it is the inevitable result of a position which he has not chosen, and which he cannot quit.
To abdicate a disputed power would be sometimes a revenge, to abdicate an absolute power would be an act of cowardice.
The singular destiny of an emperor of Russia inspires me, first, with a lively emotion of curiosity, and afterwards with a feeling of pity. Who would not commiserate the state of this glorious exile? I cannot tell whether the Emperor Nicholas has received from God a heart susceptible of friendship, but I feel as though the desire of testifying a disinterested attachment to a man to whom society refuses equals, might take the place of ambition. The danger even, would give to such zeal the charm of enthusiasm. What! it will be said, attachment for a man who has nothing of humanity about him; whose severe physiognomy inspires a respect always mingled with fear, whose firm and fixed looks, in excluding familiarity, command obedience, and whose mouth, when it smiles, does not harmonize with the expression of the eyes; attachment for a man, in short, who never for a moment forgets to play his part as an absolute monarch!
And wherefore not? This want of harmony, this apparent harshness, is not a crime but a misfortune. I view in it a forced habit, not a natural character; and believing that I can see into this man, whom you calumniate as much by your fears and your precautions as your flatteries, I feel all that it must cost him to perform his duty as a sovereign, and I would not abandon so pitiable a deity of earth to the implacable envy and the hypocritical submission of his slaves. To find again the neighbor in the prince, to love him as a brother, would be a religious vocation and a work of charity that would gain the blessing of Heaven.
The more we see of the court, more especially of the court of Russia, the greater compassion must we feel for him who has to preside over it. It is a theater, on whose boards the actors pass their life in rehearsals. No one knows his part, and the day for the representation never arrives, because the manager is never satisfied with the proficiency of his corps. Actors and managers thus pass their life in preparing, correcting, and perfecting their interminable drama of society, the title of which is “The Civilization of the North.” If it be so fatiguing to the audience, what must it be to the performers!
The emperor is, by extraction, more a German than a Russian. The fineness of his features, the regularity of his profile, his military figure, his bearing, naturally a little stiff, all remind one of Germany rather than of Muscovy. His teutonic temperament must have been long schooled and fettered ere he could have become, as he now is, a thorough Russian. Who knows?—he was perhaps born a plain, good-natured man! If so, what must he not have endured before he could appear only as the chieftain of the Slavs? The obligation of achieving a continual victory over himself in order to reign over others, will explain much in the character of the Emperor Nicholas.
Far from inspiring me with dislike, these things attract me. I cannot help viewing with interest one feared by the rest of the world, and who is, in reality, only so much the more to be commiserated.
To escape as much as possible from the constraint which he imposes on himself, he is as restless as a lion in a cage, or a patient in a fever; he is constantly moving on foot or on horseback; reviewing, carrying on a little war, sailing, maneuvering his fleet, giving and receiving fêtes. Leisure is that which is most dreaded at this court; whence I conclude that nowhere else is ennui so much felt. The emperor travels incessantly; he journeys over at least fifteen hundred leagues every season, and he has no notion that others have not the strength to do as he does. The empress loves him, and dreads leaving him; she therefore follows him as well as she can, and is dying of the fatigues and excitement consequent upon this life.
So complete an absence of quiet and regularity must be injurious to the education of their children. The young princes do not live sufficiently isolated to avoid the evil influences which the frivolity of a court always in motion, the absence of all interesting and connective conversation, and the impossibility of meditation, must exert upon their character. When I think of the distribution of their time, I have little hope even of the talents which they exhibit; I fear just as I would for the enduring beauty of a flower whose roots were not in their natural soil. Everything is founded on appearance in Russia; whence it is that everything inspires mistrust.
I was presented this evening, not by the French ambassador, but by the grand master of the ceremonies. Such was the order of the emperor, of which I was previously informed by our ambassador. I cannot tell whether this is the usual proceeding, but it was the manner in which I was presented to their Imperial Majesties.
All the foreigners admitted to the honor of approaching their persons were assembled together in one of the drawing rooms which they would have to cross in proceeding to open the ball. We arrived at the appointed hour, and had to wait a long time for the appearance of the illustrious personages.
There were with me two or three French, a Pole, a Genevese, and several Germans. The opposite side of the room was occupied by a row of Russian ladies, assembled there to pay their court.
The emperor received us with a refined and graceful politeness. At the first glance it was easy to recognize a man who, notwithstanding his power, is obliged and accustomed to humor the self-love of others.
In order to intimate to me that I might, without displeasing him, survey his empire, His Majesty did me the honor of saying that it was at least necessary to see Moscow and Nizhny before a just idea of the country could be formed. “Petersburg is Russian,” he added, “but it is not Russia.”
These few words were pronounced in a tone of voice that could not be forgotten, so strongly was it marked by authoritativeness and firmness. Everybody had spoken to me of the imposing manners, the noble features, and the commanding figure of the emperor, but no one had prepared me for the power of his voice: it is that of a man born to command. In it, there is neither effort nor study, it is a gift developed only by habitual use.
The empress, seen at close quarters, has a most winning expression of countenance, and the sound of her voice is as sweetly penetrating as that of the emperor’s is naturally imperious.
She asked me if I came to Petersburg with the simple object of traveling. I replied in the affirmative. “I know that you are a curious observer,” she continued.
“Yes, madame,” I answered, “it is curiosity which brings me to Russia; and this time, at least, I think I shall not regret having yielded to a passion for travel.”
“You really think so?” she replied, with a gracefulness of manner that was very charming.
“It appears to me that there are objects so wonderful in this country, that to believe them requires that we should see them with the eyes.”
“I should wish you to see much, and to view favorably.” “This wish of Your Majesty’s is an encouragement.” “If you think well of us you will say so, but it will be useless; you will not be believed: we are ill understood, and people will not understand us better.”
These words, in the mouth of the empress, struck me, on account of the preoccupation of idea which they discovered. I fancied also that she meant to manifest a kind of benevolence towards me, which was expressed with a politeness and a simplicity that are rarely seen.
The empress, the moment she speaks, inspires confidence as well as respect. Through the reserve which the language and usages of court render compulsory, it is easy to see that she has a heart. This misfortune imparts to her an indescribable charm. She is more than an empress, she is a woman.
She appeared to be suffering from extreme fatigue. The thinness of her person is quite shocking. The agitation of the life she leads is consuming her, and they say that the ennui of a life more calm would be equally harmful.
The fête which followed our presentation was one of the most magnificent that I have ever seen. The admiration and astonishment with which each reception room of this palace (rebuilt in a year) inspired the whole court, imparted a dramatic interest to the formal pomp of the usual ceremonies. Every hall and every painting was a subject of surprise to the Russians themselves, who now, for the first time, saw the marvelous abode which the word of their god had caused to spring from its ashes. What an effort of human will, I exclaimed, as I contemplated each gallery, sculpture, and painting. The style of the ornaments calls to mind the age in which the palace was originally founded, and what I saw appeared already ancient. They copy everything in Russia, not excepting even the effects of time. These wonders inspired the crowd with an admiration that was contagious, and my internal indignation at the means by which the miracle was created, began to diminish. If I could feel such an influence after only two days’ abode here, what allowance should not be made for the men who are born, and who pass their life in the air of the Russian court, that is, in Russia! for it is the air of the court which is breathed from one end of the empire to the other. Even the serfs, through their relations with their lords, feel the influence of that sovereign will which alone animates the country; the courtier, who is their master, is for them the image of the Emperor, and the court is present to the Russians wherever there is a man to command and men to obey.
Elsewhere, the poor are either beggars, or unruly members of society; in Russia, they are all courtiers. The courtier is found in every rank of society, and for this reason it is that I say the court is everywhere. There is, between the sentiments of the Russian nobles and those of men of family in ancient Europe, the same difference that there is between the courtier and the aristocrat, or between emotions of vanity and of pride: true pride, which is almost as rare as virtue, is virtue. Instead of abusing courtiers, as Beaumarchais and so many others have done, these men, who, whatever may be said, are like other men, deserve pity. Poor unfortunate courtiers! they are not the monsters that our modern plays and romances, or our revolutionary journals, describe; they are merely weak creatures, corrupted and corrupting, as much as, but not more than others who are less exposed to temptation. Ennui is the curse of riches, still it is not a crime; vanity and interest are more strongly excited, and therefore more eagerly sought in a court than on any other stage of action, and these passions abridge life; but if the hearts they agitate are more tormented, they are not more perverse than those of other men. Human wisdom would accomplish much if it could succeed in showing to the multitude how much it ought to feel of pity, instead of envy, towards the possessors of a fancied good.
I saw them dancing in the very place where they had themselves nearly perished under blazing ruins, and where others had since actually died, in order that they might be amused on the day appointed by the emperor. This thought made me reflect in spite of myself, and shed (for me) a gloom over the entire fête. Elsewhere, liberty gives birth to a feeling of gladness which is favorable to illusion; here, despotism suggests meditations which make it impossible to deceive oneself.
The kind of dance that is most common at the grand fêtes of this country, does not disturb the course of ideas. The company promenade in a solemn step to the sound of music, each gentleman taking his partner by the hand. In the palace hundreds of couples thus follow in procession, proceeding from one immense hall to another, winding through the galleries, crossing the drawing rooms, and traversing the whole building in such order or direction as the caprice of the individual who leads may dictate. This is called dancing la Polonaise. It is amusing at first, but for those destined to dance it all their lives, balls must, I think, be a species of torture.
The polonaise at Petersburg recalled to my memory the Congress of Vienna, where I had danced it in 1814. No etiquette was observed in the European fêtes celebrated on that occasion; everyone’s place in the dance was regulated by chance, though in the midst of all the monarchs of the earth. My fate had placed me between the Emperor Alexander and his consort, who was a princess of Baden. All at once the line of the dancing couples was stopped without our perceiving the reason, as the music continued playing. The emperor, growing impatient, put his head over my shoulder, and addressing himself to the empress, told her, in a very rude tone, to move on. The empress turned, and perceiving behind me the emperor, with a lady as his partner for whom he had for some days past betrayed a violent passion, she retorted with an expression altogether indescribable, “Toujours poli!” The autocrat bit his lips as he caught my eye, and the line of dance again moved forward.
I was dazzled with the splendor of the great gallery; it is now entirely gilded, though before the fire, it was only painted white. That disaster has served to minister to the taste which the emperor has for the magnificent.
What appeared to me more splendid even than the ballroom in the Winter Palace, was the gallery in which supper was served. It is not entirely finished, and the lights in temporary paper transparencies had a fantastic appearance which did not displease me. So unexpected an illumination in honor of the marriage day, did not certainly correspond with the general decorations of the magical palace, but it produced a light clear as that of the sun, and this was enough for me. One of the results of the progress of commercial economy is, that we no longer see in France anything but tapers; there seem to be yet in Russia real wax candles. The supper table was splendid: at this fête everything was colossal, everything was also innumerable of its kind; and I scarcely knew which most to admire, the superb effect of the whole or the magnificence and the quantity of the objects considered separately. A thousand persons were seated together at the table.
Among these thousand, all more or less blazing with gold and diamonds, was the khan of the Kirgiz, whom I had seen at the chapel in the morning. I remarked also an old queen of Georgia, who had been dethroned thirty years previously. The poor woman languished unhonored, at the court of her conqueror. Her face was tanned like that of a man’s used to the fatigues of the camp, and her attire was ridiculous. We are too ready to laugh at misfortune when it appears under a form that does not please us. We should wish to see a queen of Georgia rendered more beautiful by her distress; but I here saw just the contrary, and, when the eyes are displeased, the heart soon becomes unjust. It was not generous, but I confess I could not help smiling to see a royal head crowned with a kind of shako, from whence hung a very odd-looking veil. All the other ladies wore trains; but the queen of the East had on a short embroidered petticoat. There was much of the worn-out and wearied courtier in her expression, and her features were ugly. The national dress of the Russian ladies at court is antique and striking. They wear on the head a kind of tower, formed of rich stuff, and somewhat resembling in shape the crown of a man’s hat, lowered in height and open at the top. This species of diadem is generally embroidered with jewels: it is very ancient, and imparts an air of nobleness and originality to handsome persons, while it singularly enhances the ugliness of plain ones. Unfortunately, these last are very numerous at the Russian court, whence people seldom retire, except to die, so attached are the aged courtiers to the posts which they there hold. In general, female beauty is rare at Petersburg; but among the higher classes, the charm of graceful manners often supplies the want of elegant forms and regular features. There are, however, a few Georgian women who unite the two advantages. These females shine amid the women of the North, like stars in the profound darkness of a southern night. The shape of the court robes, with their long sleeves and trains, gives to the whole person an Oriental aspect which, in a large assembly thus robed, has a very imposing effect.
An incident, singular enough in its character, has afforded me a specimen of the perfect politeness of the emperor.
During the ball, a master of the ceremonies had indicated to such of the foreigners as appeared for the first time at this court, the places that were reserved for them at the supper table. “When you see the ball interrupted,” he said to each of us, “follow the crowd into the gallery, where you will find a large table laid out; take the side to the right, and seat yourselves in the first places you find unoccupied.”
There was but one table, laid with one thousand plates, for the corps diplomatique, the foreigners, and all the attendants at court; but at the entrance of the hall, on the right-hand side, was a little round table laid for eight.
A Genevese, an intelligent and well-educated young man, had been presented the same evening in the uniform of a national guardsman, a dress which is in general anything but agreeable to the emperor; nevertheless, the young Swiss appeared perfectly at home. Whether it was owing to natural assurance, republican ease, or pure simplicity of heart, he seemed neither to think of the persons around him, nor of the effect that he might produce upon them. I envied his perfect self-confidence, which I was far from participating. Our manners, though very different, had the same success; the emperor treated us both equally well.
An experienced and intelligent person had recommended to me, in a tone half serious, half jocose, to maintain a respectful and rather timid air if I wished to please the monarch. The counsel was quite superfluous, for if I were to enter the hut of a coal miner, in order to make his acquaintance, I should experience some little degree of physical embarrassment, so naturally do I shrink from society. A man has never German blood without showing it; I possessed, therefore, naturally, the degree of timidity and reserve requisite to satisfy the jealous majesty of the czar, who would be as great as he wishes to appear, if he were less prepossessed with the notion that those who approach him are likely to fail in respect. This concern of the emperor does not, however, always operate; of which, and of the natural dignity of that prince, the following is an instance:—
The Genevese, far from partaking of my old-fashioned modesty, was perfectly at his ease. He is young, and has about him all the spirit of the age, mingled with a simplicity of his own; and I could not but admire his air of assurance each time the emperor addressed him.
The affability of the monarch was soon put by the young Swiss to a decisive proof. On passing into the banquet hall, the republican, turning towards the right, according to the instruction he had received, observed the little round table, and intrepidly seated himself before it, though there was no other person to keep him company. The moment after, the crowd of guests being placed, the emperor, followed by some officers who enjoyed his special confidence, advanced and took his seat at the same table at which was placed the worthy Swiss national guardsman. I should state that the empress was not at this table. The traveler remained in his chair with the imperturbable ease which I had already so much admired in him, and which, under the circumstances, was really miraculous.
A seat was wanting, for the emperor had not expected this ninth guest; but, with a politeness the completeness of which was equivalent to the delicacy of a kind heart, he spoke in a low voice to a servant, directing him to bring a chair and another plate, which was done without any noise or trouble.
Being placed at the extremity of the great table, close to that of the emperor’s, this procedure could not escape my observation, nor, consequently, that of him who was its object. But this happily constituted young man, far from troubling himself because he perceived he had been placed contrary to the intention of the sovereign, maintained, with the most perfect sangfroid, a conversation with his two nearest neighbors, which lasted during the whole meal. I thought to myself, he has good sense; he wishes to avoid a scene: but, no doubt, he only waits the moment when the emperor rises, to approach him, and to offer some word of explanation. Nothing of the kind! When supper was over, the young Swiss, far from excusing himself, seemed to view the honor he had received as nothing more than was quite natural. On returning to his lodging, he would doubtless inscribe, with the most perfect simplicity, in his journal—“Supped with the emperor.” However, His Majesty rather abridged the pleasure: rising, before the guests who sat at the great table, he passed round, behind our chairs, all the while desiring that we should remain seated. The hereditary grand duke accompanied his father; I observed that young prince stop behind the chair of a great English nobleman, the Marquis ———, and exchange some jest with young Lord ———, son of the same marquis. The foreigners remained seated, like everybody else, answered the prince and the emperor with their backs turned, and continued eating.
The above exhibition of English politeness shows that the emperor of Russia has greater simplicity of manners than have many of the owners of private houses.
I had scarcely expected to find at this ball a pleasure altogether foreign to the persons and objects around. I allude to the impressions which the great phenomena of nature have always produced in me. The temperature of the day had risen to 30 degrees, and notwithstanding the freshness of the evening, the atmosphere of the palace during the fête was suffocating. On rising from table, I took refuge in the embrasure of an open window. There, completely abstracted from all that passed around, I was suddenly struck with admiration at beholding one of those effects of light which we see only in the North, during the magic brightness of a polar night. It was half-past twelve o’clock, and the nights having yet scarcely begun to lengthen, the dawn of day appeared already in the direction of Archangel. The wind had fallen: numerous successive and regular belts of black and motionless clouds divided the firmament into zones, each of which was irradiated with a light so brilliant, that it appeared like a polished plate of silver; its luster was reflected on the Neva, to whose vast and unrippled surface it gave the appearance of a lake of milk or of mother-of-pearl. The greater part of Petersburg, with its quays and spires, was, under this light, revealed before my eyes; the whole formed a perfect composition of Brueghel’s. The tints of the picture cannot be described by words. The domes of the church of St. Nicholas stood in the relief of lapis lazuli against a sky of silver; the illuminated portico of the Exchange, the lamps of which were partially quenched by the dawning day, still gleamed on the water of the river, and was reflected—a peristyle of gold: the rest of the city was of that blue which we see in the distances of landscapes by the old painters. This fantastic picture, painted on a ground of ultramarine, and framed by a gilded window, contrasted, in a manner that was altogether supernatural, with the light and splendor of the interior of the palace. It might have been said that the city, the sky, the sea, and the whole face of nature, had joined in contributing to the magnificence of the fête given to his daughter by the sovereign of these immense regions.
I was absorbed in the contemplation of the scene, when a sweet and penetrating female voice suddenly aroused me with the question—“What are you doing here?”
“Madame, I am indulging in admiration. I can do nothing else today.”
It was the empress. She stood alone with me in the embrasure of the window, which was like a pavilion opening on the Neva.
“As for me, I am suffocating,” replied Her Majesty. “It is less poetical, I admit; but you are right in admiring this picture; it is magnificent!” Continuing to contemplate it, she added—“I am certain that you and I are the only persons here who have remarked this effect of light.”
“Everything that I see is new to me, madame; and I can never cease to regret that I did not come to Russia in my youth.”
“The heart and the imagination are always young.” I ventured no answer; for the empress, as well as myself, had no longer any other youth but that of which she spake, and of this fact I did not wish to remind her; she would not have given me the time, nor, indeed, should I have had the boldness, to tell her how many indemnifications may be found to console us for the flight of years. On retiring, she said, with a grace which is her distinguishing attribute, “I shall recollect having suffered and admired with you”: and she afterwards added, “I do not leave yet; we shall meet again this evening.”
I am very intimate with a Polish family, which is that of the woman whom the empress loves best—the Baroness ———. This lady was brought up in Prussia with the daughter of the king, has followed that princess to Russia, and has never left her. She has married in Petersburg, where she has no other office but that of friend to the empress. Such constancy is honorable to both. The baroness must have been speaking well of me to the emperor and empress, and my natural timidity—a flattery so much the more refined as it is involuntary—has completed my good fortune.
On leaving the dining room to pass into the ballroom, I again approached a window. It opened into the interior court of the palace. A spectacle was there presented to me very different, but quite as unexpected as the former. The grand court of the Winter Palace is square, like that of the Louvre. During the ball, this enclosure had been gradually filling with people. The light of the dawning day had become more distinct; and in looking on the multitude, mute with admiration, motionless, fascinated, as it were, by the splendors of its master’s palace, and drinking in, with a sort of timid, animal delight, the emanations of the royal festival, I experienced an impression of pleasure. At last, then, I had found a crowd in Russia: I saw nothing below me but men: and so close was the press, that not an inch of earth could be discovered. Nevertheless, in despotic lands, the diversions of the people, when they approach those of the prince, always appear to me suspicious. The fear and flattery of the low, and the pride and hypocritical generosity of the great, are the only sentiments which I can believe to be genuine among men who live under the regime of the Russian autocracy.
In the midst of the fêtes of Petersburg, I cannot forget the journey of the Empress Catherine into the Crimea, and the façades of villages, made of planks or painted canvas, and set up, in the distance, at every quarter league of the route, in order to make the triumphant sovereign believe that the desert had become peopled under her reign. A spirit similar to that which dictated these illusions still possesses the minds of the Russians; everyone masks the evil, and obtrudes the good before the eyes of his Imperial master. There is a permanent conspiracy of smiles, plotting against the truth, in favor of the mental satisfaction of him who is reputed to will and to act for the good of all. The emperor is the only man in the empire who lives; for eating and drinking is not living.
It must be owned, however, that the people had come here voluntarily; nothing appeared to compel them to remain under the windows of the emperor: they were amusing themselves, therefore, but it was only with the pleasures of their masters, and, as Froissart says, very sorrily. The headdress of the women, and the Russian, that is to say the Persian, costume of the men in their long robes and brightly colored sashes, the variety of colors, and the immobility of each individual, created the illusion of an immense Turkish carpet, spread entirely over the court by the magician who presides here over every miracle:—a parterre of heads,—such was the most striking ornament of the palace of the emperor during the night of his daughter’s nuptials. The monarch thought as I did, for he pointed out to the foreigners, with much complacency, the silent crowd, whose presence alone testified his participation in the happiness of its master. It was the vision of a people on their knees before the invisible gods. Their majesties are the divinities of this Elysium, where the inhabitants, trained to resignation, invent for themselves a felicity made up of privation and sacrifices.
I begin to perceive that I am here talking like the radicals in Paris. But, though a democrat in Russia, I am not the less in France an obstinate aristocrat: it is because a peasant in the environs of Paris is freer than a Russian lord, that I thus feel and write. We must travel before we can learn the extent to which the human mind is influenced by optical effects. This experience confirms the observation of Madame de Staël, who said, that in France, “One is always the Jacobin or the ultra of someone else.”
I returned to my lodgings overwhelmed with the grandeur and magnificence of the emperor, and yet more astonished at seeing the disinterested admiration of his people for the good things which they do not possess, nor ever will, and which they do not dare even to regret. If I did not daily see to how many ambitious egotists liberty gives birth, I should have difficulty in believing that despotism could make so many disinterested philosophers.
[1]Eugène de Beauharnais was the son of Empress Josephine and her first husband. —Ed.
[2]The fore rider.