“THIS MORNING MONSIEUR DE MAISONNEUVE CALLED AND informed me that I must write a note to the chancellor requesting to be presented to the empress mother and to the reigning empress,” Louisa noted.
The date was set for Sunday, after the imperial family attended liturgy at the palace. She had only a few days to prepare for the greatest introductions of her life. What should she wear? What should she say?
Mrs. Krehmer rescued her, taking Louisa to several hat and dressmaker shops at the silver row arcade. Milliners there knew how to dress to impress the empresses.
Thick, luxurious velvet. Rich crimson. Intricate embroidery. Hoops. Diamonds. The textures were as varied as fur is to netting. While she felt the smoothness of silks with her fingers and marveled over the intricate embroidery trim, her heart sank. The satins, silks, velvets, and accessories were as beautiful to behold as the apple was to Eve. Mrs. Adams worried about indulging in extravagance. John’s commitment to living within his means was as firmly attached to him as his head. As the gold thread glistened from the light beaming through the store’s windows, the pain of not being able to afford what she truly wanted was very real.
“I had no vanity to gratify and experience had taught me years before the meanness of an American minister’s position at a European court.” Meanness meant “meager.” The US government did not provide its diplomats with a sufficient purse to compete with other countries. America had traded royalty for representation. Diplomats from a republic were to dress and act differently than those from a monarchy. As an American newlywed living among Berlin’s diplomatic elite, Louisa had learned to live on a shoe-buckle budget.
Her financial fears came from deep roots. When her parents met with unfortunate circumstances years earlier, they fled their London creditors just weeks after Louisa and John’s London wedding, which denied the newlyweds Louisa’s dowry. The Johnsons voyaged to America and settled in Washington City. Her father later died in 1802, leaving her mother and siblings with little. As a result, Kitty was completely dependent on Louisa, “without one six-pence in the world” and “not even clothed properly.”
Seeing so many rich dress fabrics worried Louisa. Would she have to supply herself with silks and satins suitable for queens? Such a budget strain was something the Adams men had failed to consider. Had the decision been hers, she would have skipped the extravagance altogether and stayed home.
The Jane Austen in Louisa knew what smelled strongest among such social circles. Pretension perfumed European courts more than any colognes or powder puffs. Empress Elizabeth, Russia’s mid-1700s ruler, owned more than “fifteen thousand ball gowns” and thousands of pairs of shoes. No matter that imitation is the highest form of flattery, she refused to allow another woman in her court to wear her hairstyle. Extreme extravagance continued to dominate this empire. Clothing was more than ornamented fig leaves. Hats, wigs, jewels, and hoops weren’t just accessories. They were props. Clothing was costume.
Those seeking success with the czar must dress the part. Failure—especially for a woman—was not merely a fashion mistake but a fatal yarn, the unstitching of a minister’s mission. Louisa could not afford for her threads to become loose, but neither could she afford lavish threads. Dresses cost from seven hundred to sixteen hundred rubles, or two hundred to five hundred dollars, a significant sum in 1809.
Tossing temptation aside, Louisa picked a dress made of silver tissue, a cheap but pretty gauzy woven material. Her choice reflected America’s egalitarian principles while also being tasteful and elegant. She hoped it was not too simple for the czarinas or too expensive for her frugal husband.
The next question was protocol. Was she to bow to the empresses? Curtsy? Kiss hands? Storms may sink ships, but a missed kiss could cause a pretentious royal stink. She asked for help.
“In the evening we went by appointment to the Bavarian Minister’s.” Because John had dutifully left introduction cards with the other diplomats, he and Louisa could now call upon the Baron de Bray and Madame de Bray. As the only other wife of a diplomatic minister, Madame de Bray had also been introduced to the imperial family. Surely she could relay the palace’s expectations—woman to woman. However, her etiquette descriptions—such as whether or not to kiss their hands—didn’t match the ceremonial monk’s instructions.
“Her account of the forms of presentation differed very much from those we had heard before.”
Whom should Louisa believe? The master of ceremonies? Or the only other woman who had recently experienced the same presentation? Louisa was as confused as ever. She took comfort in one fact: she would not face the introduction alone. John would be at her side.
In the midst of this, Adams gave his beloved something she needed: new quarters. They moved to the Hôtel de la Ville de Bordeaux. Gone were the rats. “Somewhat better but very bad at the Hôtel de Londres,” Louisa wryly observed.
The master of ceremonies gave them one final instruction. The night before their introduction, they were to visit Countess Litta. The gossip about her was not as mysterious as the rumors about Emperor Alexander, but somewhat salacious nonetheless. Litta held a high position by virtue of heredity stemming from a less-than-virtuous history. She was the niece of Prince Potyomkin, a Russian general who was Catherine the Great’s de facto, and possibly secret, husband. Litta inherited his wealth and stature, becoming the emperor’s first dame of honor.
As their carriage clip-clopped from their new hotel over the cobblestones to the woman’s exquisite mansion, their situation was fairy tale–like. Countess Litta received them “very politely” but not warmly as Louisa recalled. “Very handsome and very fat,” she resembled a fairy godmother, not a witch—a good sign.
When the countess explained the ceremony, relief swept over Louisa faster than Cinderella’s pumpkin could turn into a carriage. Litta’s description aligned perfectly with the monk’s instructions, not Madame de Bray’s. Although the plump countess had waved her proverbial magic wand, she left open a worrisome possibility. Litta was not sure which the empresses preferred, joint or separate introductions.
“The countess told me that I was to be presented the next day directly after mass to the empress mother—But she did not know if I was to be presented to the Empress Elizabeth [Alexander’s wife] or [if] Mr. Adams [was to be presented too],” Louisa wrote, worried about entering the palace solus or sans husband.
The next morning Adams and his Eve began donning their glistening fig leaves. By 11:00 a.m., with his wig secure, John was ready for mass and meeting the empresses. Then he heard it. The sound of trotting horses came to a sudden stop outside their hotel. A uniformed messenger gave him a message. He sighed and returned to their chamber to tell his half-dressed wife the news.
The empresses were delaying Louisa’s presentation until half past two. Adams’s orders to attend the liturgy were as solid as the stone quay lining the river. He had no choice. Neither did she. They would be introduced separately. The imperial family directed this performance, and all the Adamses could do was wear their costumes, rehearse their lines, and hope for graceful entrances and exits.
“Of this Mr. Adams informed me, and I was left alone to go through all the fears and frights of the presentation perfectly alone at the most magnificent court in Europe.”
At least she had more time. For a woman in that century, putting on a full court dress was not simply pulling a dress over one’s head. The process was multilayered from inside out and top to bottom. Executing the art of dressing took precision, patience, and a partner. With the aid of chambermaid Martha Godfrey, Louisa likely slipped on her chemise, an undergarment, first. Because her white bodice was heavily trimmed with curly blond material on the sleeves and fit tightly around her bust and shoulders, she probably relied on Martha to gently ease it over her so the bodice’s details would remain uncrushed.
As she dressed, all she could do was worry, wondering if she would ascend as effortlessly as Cinderella to the palace or slink away sadly like a stepsister with ill-fitting slippers.
Meanwhile John and Mr. Harris rode to the Winter Palace, where they joined the diplomatic corps in the chapel’s antechamber. While they waited, an attendant approached Adams. The empress mother wanted to meet him before liturgy.
Adams greeted Alexander’s mother, Maria Fedorovna, the wife of the assassinated Paul. What struck him the most was not her oval face framed by tightly curled gray-brown ringlets but her curiosity about America.
“She asked whether there was not a great number of emigrants arriving there from Europe,” John recorded, explaining that migration to America had recently decreased.
“How so? I thought there were even in these times more than ever,” she replied with condescension.
Since Jefferson’s embargo and Britain’s Orders in Council, immigration had slowed.
“But it is freely admitted here,” she said, referring to Russia’s openness to trade with the United States.
“Yes, I hoped we should continue in the enjoyment of this advantage, which was important to the interests of both countries.”
As they spoke about a variety of subjects, Adams couldn’t help noticing the woman’s obvious contradictions. She was friendly and patronizing at the same time.
Concluding their conversation, he rejoined the diplomatic corps in the hall. Then he saw him, a dashing, dark-haired man with sideburns stretching from his ears to the bottom of his jaw line. Though the man was Armand Augustin Louis, marquis de Caulaincourt, his official French title was much longer: the Duc de Vicence, Grand Ecuyer de France, Ambassadeur Extraordinaire près de S. M. l’Empereur de toutes les Russies.
Wanting to clear up some confusion, Adams approached Monsieur de Caulaincourt, the French ambassador to Russia. John explained that he was sorry to have missed him when he dropped a card by his home. The Frenchman replied that he had also called upon Adams but did not find him at his hotel. Given the time that Caulaincourt said he called, John knew the Frenchman was mistaken. He had been at his hotel.
Was it miscommunication? Or pretension? Adams feared the French ambassador was starting their relationship on a lie.
Meanwhile horses left the palace and headed for Louisa’s hotel again. For the second time, one of the empresses notified her of a time change.
The confusing messages only increased Louisa’s anxiety. She slipped on her satin slippers and prepared for the next layer—stepping into her skirt, which would dominate her frame. This was the era of the Empire waist, where skirts began just below the bust and gracefully flowed to the floor. Slipping on the skirt was not as easy as sliding a leg through breeches. Men did not have to worry about whale bone hoops. Fortunately this skirt was already attached to the hoop, which made it easier to step into.
Although Louisa worried about her presentation, English ladies wore silver tissue to the British court. Surely it was a safe choice here as well. What made this fabric beautiful were its intricately woven contrasting threads. With her bodice and skirt in place, she could relax a little and take her time with the next layers, unless another palace messenger arrived to change the time again.
John had attended many church services in Boston and Quincy, where he was accustomed to sitting in a pew. The church in Russia was the Orthodox Church, which he called the Greek Church in his diary. Except for kneeling once, the diplomatic corps stood throughout the entire Orthodox liturgy at the palace chapel. Following the mass was a Te Deum, a special praise service. This ceremony gave thanks to God for France’s and Austria’s new peace. The Te Deum began with a bang, literally. Cannon fired over the Neva River from the admiralty. John watched the service unfold, which included the emperor kissing the crucifix and the archbishop kissing the emperor’s hand. What also stood out was the music, which was entirely vocal without instrument—quite unlike Congregational hymns accompanied by organs in Boston.
Louisa probably heard the cannon fire, though the sound of horses outside the hotel bothered her more. The time for her presentation changed again.
Martha hurriedly attached a train to Louisa’s backside. The material was heavy crimson, a strong contrasting color to her silver skirt and white bodice. Because heavy trains were several feet in length, women often felt they were carting a curtain behind them. On top of this Louisa added a velvet robe, which also included a train.
The sound of horses halting at the hotel haunted her again. Now her presentation was moved up, not pushed back. “And I was obliged to hurry as the last ordered me to be at the palace at 1/2 past one.”
To finish, she needed accessories. Gloves covering the forearms were popular. Fans were functional. She fastened a diamond arrow ornament in her Grecian-style hair, an up-do.
“And thus accoutered I appeared before the gentlemen of our party who could not refrain from laughter at my appearance.”
Snickering was not the confidence boost she needed, but who could blame them? After all, Messieurs Smith, Gray, and Everett spent eighty days with her dressed as a plain, floor-washing Cinderella on the deck of the Horace. Despite laughing at her fig leaves fit for a princess, they could see what Edward Savage captured in an 1801 painting, which was painted four years after Louisa and John wed. He depicted Mrs. Adams as woman with a tiny waist, attractive figure, oval face, abundant hair, and large eyes that danced above a slender nose and lips.
“And over all this luggage my fur cloak,” Louisa joked of the arctic addition. Two footmen eased her into the carriage, where she sat uncomfortably with her hoop bowing underneath her. “Off I went with a fluttered pulse quite alone in this foreign [place] among people whom I had never seen.”
Twenty days after arriving in St. Petersburg and wearing only the clothes on her back, Louisa Adams wore enough material to outfit five women. However, by dressing in full court couture, she complimented the culture’s customs.
The carriage drove through the streets toward the mammoth green Winter Palace, embellished with sixteen different opulent window designs. The powerful-looking edifice was the crowning achievement for French architect Bartolomeo Rastrelli. The palace was two tiered, with a columned bodice on top and columned skirt on bottom. Just as its occupants wore heavy layers of clothing, so the exterior was weighed down with four hundred white columns and decorative sculptures. Such was the style of extravagance, whether in architecture or in clothing fashions.
Louisa was likely too nervous to admire the palace’s exterior. What may have been beautiful to the Italian architect created great stress for Louisa. After all, Rastrelli never needed to climb the grand multiple steps while wearing two heavy trains.
“Arrived at the palace after ascending with great difficulty in the adjustment of my trappings.”
At least she made it on time.
“I was received by a gentleman and shown in a long and large hall in which I found Countess Litta superbly dressed and covered with diamonds. . . . She received me very kindly—Told me that I was to be presented to the reigning empress first.”
Empress Elizabeth was married to Emperor Alexander. Putting Louisa in the center of a hall, which faced a large folding door, Litta told her what to expect. “[She] informed me that the empress would enter by that door and that I must stand unmoved until Her Imperial Majesty walked up to me.”
Cue number one was simple: stand as still as one of the palace’s marble pillars and then move when the empress moves. The next cue was pretentious.
“When she came up I must affect to kiss her hand which Her Majesty would not permit.” While merely pretending to kiss the empress’s hand, she must make it look real by removing her glove. She must also “take care in raising my head not to touch Her Majesty.”
After telling her to practice, Litta sat next to a window to watch.
“Naturally timid I felt as if I was losing all my composure and with difficulty could command the tremor.”
The room was ornamented with marble columns kissed with gilding on top. Standing at the door were two turbaned African servants dressed “a la Turk with splendid uniforms.” They were “stationed at the doors with drawn sabers with gold handles.”
Then the doors opened, revealing a long suite of rooms, two more African servants, and the grand marshal, who also wore a brilliant costume. As they started walking toward her, she saw a regal strawberry blond man in a splendid uniform next to the empress, and a slender brunette boasting brown, Grecian-style hair. Behind them was a long train of ladies and gentlemen.
Who was the man next to the empress? The closer they came toward her, the more reality set in. She couldn’t believe it. She was being introduced to Alexander too. No message, no note, no one could prepare her for this.
“As their imperial Majesties passed the door the grand marshal fell back and the doors were nearly closed and they approached me.”
Louisa stood stock-still while the royal pair approached. A quick glance at the empress’s dress, of the same style but grander, made her relax. She had chosen the right attire. A longer stare might have made her feel as if she were looking in a mirror. With light brown hair and large eyes, Empress Elizabeth looked a lot like Louisa.
“The emperor was in uniform and the empress like myself in a rich court dress.”
She pretended to kiss their hands and dared not lift her head lest she accidentally touch them. When the ceremonial bowing was over, she relaxed a little and followed her hosts’ cues. The emperor took charge of the conversation.
Louisa spoke to him in French.
“I think the audience was of about fifteen minutes ending with some complimentary words and they withdrew as they came and I remained in the same position until the doors were re-closed—And thus ended act the first.”
In that moment she probably wanted to throw off her costume’s trappings, especially her train, but her introductions were not quite complete.
“Countess Litta who had never approached during the ceremony came up and congratulated me on the success of introduction and said the rest of it would be more simple.”
Much more relaxed for the next introduction, Louisa reflected, “We then went to the apartments of the empress mother, everything superb but not so elaborate and there, knowing my lesson, I was more at my ease.”
The empress mother tested her knowledge of St. Petersburg. Louisa also detected condescension in the woman’s questions.
“She received me very graciously and evidently expected to quiz my ignorance, putting many questions to me.”
The empress mother didn’t realize that although Louisa represented America, she had seen much of Europe’s grandeur.
“I expressed in strong language my admiration of everything and mentioned that I had seen London, Paris, Berlin, and Dresden, &cc but that I had certainly [seen] no city that equaled St. Petersburg in beauty.”
The empress responded, “Ah mon Dieu vous avez tout vue,” meaning, “My God, you have seen it all!”
The empress mother said she hoped to see Louisa again soon. After meeting the emperor’s teenage sister, Louisa’s Cinderella moment ended.
“At last I returned home with an additional budget of new ideas almost as oppressive and unsuitable as my robes—I was very much fatigued with all this variety of agitation but Madame Litta gratified me by intimating that I had got through very well.”
Louisa recorded with amusement in her journal that “the savage had been expected!!” by the empress mother.
No sooner did she remove her fancy fig leaves than another invitation from the palace arrived. They were summoned to a ball.
Suddenly their new reality was clear. With successful introductions behind them, the relationship between the United States and Russia next hinged on whether or not John and Louisa could survive the first ball of St. Petersburg’s social season.