CHAPTER VI.
THE RELEASE.
Thus passed days, months, and years; their monotony and awful silence being interrupted only by reports of artillery fired every day, one for waking-time, another for retiring to rest, besides general salutes on the birthdays of the members of the imperial family, and every time when the Empress went out or returned to her palace. Makarow, who had frequently before come to inquire after my health, had not appeared for the last four months,—being engaged in conferences with the Persians, whom the Court of Russia was stirring up against their Shah. We seemed to be entirely forgotten, when, on the 17th November 1796, my servant, when attending me at dinner, told me that something extraordinary must have happened, as he had noticed an appearance of mystery, and a continual whispering among the soldiers, and that he had even heard some unconnected sentences, such as: “At last there is no longer any mistake, and the truth has appeared,” or, “Nothing can be done without the Archbishop of Nowogorod.” This was sufficient to make me guess the happy event which alone could break my chains. “The old fury is dead,” said I immediately to my servant, “and we shall soon be free. Take away, I cannot eat any more, and pay the greatest attention to every thing the soldiers say.” “It will be of no avail,” answered he, “as I have seen the Praporszczyk assembling them, and speaking to them with an air of importance and menace; there is no doubt of his ordering them to keep the secret.” I soon convinced myself that my Francis had not been deceived. After dinner, the officer went out, and all our soldiers were standing in the corridor, each at the door of his prisoner. When an event is concerned, which is to decide on our happiness, we would wish to have it a thousand times repeated and confirmed. Thus I was all ear. I took off my slippers, and approached the door on tiptoe to listen attentively. The silence which prevailed in the place was of great use to me on this occasion. I heard the soldiers saying to each other: “Great changes will take place. It is said that all those who have served thirty years will be allowed to return home.”—“May God grant it!” said they all with a deep sigh. “We shall have a Czar at last,” said one of them. “It is a long time since that has been the case,” replied the other; our old Matuszka,[1] has amused herself, I think, sufficiently.” “More than sufficiently,” said Makar, with whom I was best acquainted,” every body has his turn. I hope our unfortunate prisoners will now be released.” I love, uttered by a beautiful and adored lady, could not, I think, have given me more pleasure than the conversation of these honest men.
On the following morning I heard a triple discharge of all the cannon of the fortress and the town, and saw all the soldiers in the casemates, who were not on duty, dressed better than usual, and with their Praporszczyk at their head marching to church. My trusty guard Makar afterwards glided into my room, and told me in a subdued and trembling voice: “The officer forbade us to speak under the penalty of an hour's flogging; do not betray me then; the Empress is dead,” and went out. I immediately began to hum the Psalm de profundis, and informed Kapostas, to whom I had already communicated the first reports, that there was no doubt the news was true. Bonneau and Kilinski learnt it also, the information being communicated, as usual, through the medium of the commodités.
Eight days had already elapsed, and my confidants were bringing me from all parts intelligence of great changes which the new Sovereign was making in the administration, but as to our fate nothing as yet transpired. Although I well knew that a Prince, who had waited for thirty years the time of his accession to the throne, had to think about much more important things than the release of poor prisoners, I did not fail, however, to feel rather uneasy.
It was about that time that I had a quarrel with my rude Proparszczyk. The physician, at his last visit, prescribed for my weakness and giddiness Hoffman's white drops; a small phial of these drops was left with the Proparszczyk, and I sent for it; the corporal brought it, and after I took a dose, he wished to return it, but I refused. “The physician,” said he “gave orders not to leave it in your hands, for it is a poison.” “The physician,” replied I, “could not say such a thing, and if he did he is a fool.” In short, the corporal insisted on having back the phial, and I persisted in refusing; at last he went out to report the fact to his officer, and immediately the latter entered my room, the violence of his passion having changed the paleness of his face to blue and green, and caused a nervous quivering of the lips. “The corporal,” said he, “has reported to me that you decline returning the phial.” “Yes, for I may want it every instant.” “That cannot be; you must give it back immediately.” “I won't.” “What! will you rebel here? I will employ force.” “Try if you dare;” and with that I put the phial in my pocket. “Corporal,” exclaimed he with rage, “take the phial from him.” The latter approached and attempted to grasp me by the arm, when I turned suddenly, seized my chair, and was ready to hurl it at him, uttering at the same time a scream which shook the prison. My assailants thereupon made their exit, and the Praporszczyk threatened to report this occurrence to the Procurator General.—“And I will take my pen and write to him also,” answered I, “nay, I will do more, I will write to the Empress herself.” I spoke on purpose of the Empress to disconcert the fellow, and to deprive him of the least suspicion that I could be acquainted with anything concerning the change which had just happened. In less than half an hour my letters were ready, the one to Makarow, and the other to the Procurator General. I sent for a light and sealing wax, when my knave, as cowardly as insolent, coming and ordering the soldier to withdraw, became very humble and sweet. “What is that quarrel which took place between us?”—“You were the cause of it yourself,” answered I, “I do not allow any one to use force against me with impunity, and you shall answer for it.”—“I did only my duty, notwithstanding that, I will not send my report, if you do not send your letters. Why make a criminal law-suit of a mere fit of anger, and, besides, you raised the chair against me.”—“You gave orders to employ force, and I was ready to repulse it.” “Your crime is greater.”—“That is what remains to be decided.” After this exchange of words, he seemed to consider the matter for some time, and knowing perhaps already that the Emperor took much interest in us, and appeared to be disposed to set us at liberty, and fearing, moreover, that I would denounce his robberies and villanies, he bowed low and said: “If I have had the misfortune to offend you, I am very sorry for it, and beg your pardon.” Saying this, he took my hand, and kissed it. “Enough,” replied I gravely, tearing my two letters. From that time he was as mild as a lamb. On Sunday, 27th November, Makar, who went to General Kosciuszko to bring my dinner, being on duty in the evening, entered my room beaming with joy and more than half drunk. He told me that on that very day the Emperor himself had paid a visit to the General, and informed him that he was free, as well as all the other Polish prisoners; that there was a great feast in the kitchen, that every body was regaling himself, and that he had been feasted too. He related the circumstances of this visit, but in his own manner, that is to say, so that I could hardly understand the half of it. I made out only that the ministers were at first opposed to Marshal Potocki’s release and mine, but that the Emperor decided like a master, and wished us all to be free. My joy was beyond all description; I did not wish to give drink to my friend Makar, for he had drunk enough already, but I made him a present of a shirt and a handkerchief.
On the following day, Monday, the 28th, nothing new. On Tuesday, I was told that General Kosciuszko had gone in a carriage to the Imperial palace, and had been admitted to the Emperor's presence, that my liberation had been decided upon, and that I should leave the prison immediately. Wednesday, nevertheless, passed, and nobody came to release me. Next night I became very uneasy, but I attributed these delays to the embarrassments and multiplicity of business of all the public officers, under the new reign, and whilst I was taking, as usual, my melancholy walks in the dark, I saw the Praporszczyk enter my cell. He immediately ordered the soldier to leave the room, and said: “As a proof of my attachment to you, I will entrust you with a secret of the greatest importance.” “What is it?” said I, with an astonished air. He bowed low. “Our immortal sovereign has deigned to die.” At this I scarcely refrained from bursting out into laughter, but soon feigning an exclamation of surprise: “Is it possible?” said I, “when? how?” “Several days ago, and after a short illness, but such was the will of St. Nicholas; we must be humbly resigned to it; it is a great loss, but I hope the Emperor will indemnify us for it.” “Do you think that event will bring any change in our fate?” He remained silent for a long time. “You will not betray me?” said he then, in a low voice. “No,” said I, “I give you my word for it.” Although there was nobody in my room, yet he approached to my ear, and said in a very low tone of voice: “The soldiers who brought your dinner to-day, informed me that they were told not to come for it any more, as you were expected yourself to-night in town.”—“Heaven be blessed!” exclaimed I. “I thank you a thousand times for your good news; but it is already late, and they do not come.”—“It is very likely,” said the Praporszczyk, “that on account of the darkness of the night, they will not come to take you until to-morrow morning.” When he went out, I heard from the soldiers the confirmation of that news. I immediately communicated it to Bonneau and Kapostas, telling them that they might expect to hear the same tidings soon, and assuring them that if I should be released before them, the first use I would make of my liberty, would be to labour to the utmost to procure theirs. At the same time, for celebrating so happy an event, I ordered three small pieces of candle to be lighted, and made astonishing largesses to the soldiers, in wine, shirts, handkerchiefs, &c.
I went to bed very late, and for once it was joy which prevented me from sleeping. It was now for the last time that I rested upon that miserable bed. My long sufferings, the end of which I did not expect so soon, were to be finished in a few hours; I was to be free, to see men again, to see, above all, my friends, and soon my parents? With what joy, mingled with affecting feelings, did I anticipate the moment when I should be able to embrace them. I got up very early, ordered my servant to pack up the few things I had, and waited with the greatest impatience the happy arrival of Makarow. I received from Bonneau a letter full of anxiety, enclosing another to the Minister of Foreign Affairs, and desiring me to forward it to its destination, in case he should not be immediately released. I expressed once more, in terms equally strong and sincere, my desire to labour with all zeal for his liberation. As to the release of Kapostas and Kilinski, I was quite easy. But nine, ten, eleven o’clock struck; the corporal returned from town, and still no news! I felt impatient, when, at half-past eleven, I heard a great noise in the corridor; the door opened, and the Inspector of the prison, Makarow, entered my cell quite out of breath. Pretending to know nothing, I began by reproaching him for having neglected us so long. “I am out of breath,” said he, “I cannot speak.” He sat down upon my bed; I took my place at his side, and, after a few minutes of silence, he drew a paper from his pocket and read me the order of the Emperor, signed with his own hand, which restored me to liberty. He then embraced and congratulated me. The humble manner in which the Praporszczyk bowed then to me, as he expressed his delight at my release, made me smile.—“And my companions,” said I to Makarow, “are they free too?” “They will be, I believe, but the order is not yet despatched: in the meantime, have your beard shaved immediately, as I have not a moment to lose, we must start directly.” “Why shall I shave my beard,” said I, “there was no harm in letting it grow for two years; there should not be any in appearing with it before my friends.” “That cannot be,” replied he, somewhat angrily, “if you desire to go out immediately you must be shaved.” “Go then,” said I, “see the other prisoners; and console them, as my departure would make them uneasy.” He went out, and whilst he was visiting them, they first cut, and then shaved my beard. I took my fur boots, cap and pelisse, and when Makarow returned I was ready.
I have already mentioned that I brought with me twenty or thirty books, I now asked Makarow to allow me to present them to the prison, which he permitted. Although the unfortunate who suffer there after me, may not know to whom they are indebted for this legacy, the idea of alleviating, though for a short time, their painful life, gives me the sweetest satisfaction, whenever I think of it.
I cannot express the emotion I felt in crossing the threshold of the prison. Having passed the draw-bridge, and the fortress, we bent our steps towards the Neva, which we crossed on the ice. The action of the fresh air, the brightness of the sky, the sight of a splendid city, with its granite and bronze quays, its multitude of noisy people, its carriages and sledges, produced a sort of strange stunning giddiness, and a rush of blood to my head. We passed through the town in sledges. Whilst on our way, Makarow said: “There were great debates in the Council, great opposition to your release, but you are free at last; pray be cautious, the least thing might ruin you.” I thanked him for the interest he took in me, and I must here do him the justice to say, that during all my captivity, he behaved to me as a feeling and sympathizing man. We stopped before the house where Mostowski, Zakrzewski, and his friend Sokolnicki were imprisoned. What an interview! We remained for a long time in each other's arms, shedding tears, sobbing, and unable to utter a single word. I found them changed, Mostowski particularly was much thinner; and they found me look ten years older. Makarow, before leaving, told us that the very same evening we were to take the oath of allegiance to the Emperor in the presence of Samoilow.
When we were relieved from the oppressive emotion of tenderness and joy, my friends communicated to me the following particulars about the death of the Empress. She had spent the night, as usual, with Zubow, rose on the 16th November, in good health and high spirits, took two large cups of coffee, and joked for some time with her chamber-maid. When she began to write, she felt it necessary to go to her closet. This was about seven o'clock in the morning. The ministers arrived soon after with their portfolios to work with her as usual; and as they did not find her in the apartments, they waited. One hour passed; the Great Sovereign did not appear. Zatharia, her valet de chambre and confidant, thinking that she had gone to the Hermitage, her garden, went to look for her among those magic bowers, where, though the thermometer stood at 30 degrees below zero out of doors, the orange tree, jasmine, and tuberose intertwined their flowers, and embalmed the air with the sweetest fragrance. He did not find her there; uneasy, distressed, he sought her in all the apartments, and, at last, opened the door of the commodités. He uttered a cry,—the ministers rushed forward. The immortal Catherine, the mistress of one-third of the inhabited globe, had fallen on one side in her chaise percée, her garments in the greatest disorder, and scarcely affording a decent concealment from the gaze of the astonished spectators. They removed her to bed; she opened her eyes for a moment, but did not speak, being utterly insensible. Soon every assistance of art became useless; all her body appeared inanimate, except the abdomen, which moved convulsively.
As soon as the event was known, the Chamberlain Ilinski, a young Pole, who, since the partition, was attached to the person of the Grand Duke Paul Petrowicz, went in all speed to carry the intelligence to this Prince at Gatschina, his country seat. This eagerness was the source of many favours which were soon lavished on him; but either on account of the fickleness of the prince, or the giddiness of the courtier, they did not last long. In less than two hours the Grand Duke was already at the bed-side of his august mother, who was, as I have already said, motionless, except the abdomen, which still continued to heave. Severine Potocki, who was that day on duty, told me that this imperfect death of Catherine occasioned the courtiers the greatest perplexity; for they were in presence of two sovereigns; the one was, a few hours ago, mistress of their fortunes and life, and might, perhaps, yet recover, because she still moved; the other, in the vigour of life and health, was already touching with the end of his fingers the sceptre, which he would very probably hold firmly and long. Now, zeal or indifference for one or the other might equally compromise them, and prove equally dangerous. In this cruel dilemma, they took the abdomen of their sovereign as a compass to guide their actions and movements; it moved with force, they quickly surrounded the bed and uttered mournful lamentations; its motion began to slacken, and still more quickly, with an air half joyful, half respectful, they hurried to surround the Grand Duke. This manœuvring of fear and flattery lasted during thirty hours without intermission, as the abdomen did not cease to move until twelve o'clock on the following morning, when the immortal Catherine died for good and all. On examining the body, they found that a vessel had burst in the head, and that the blood was suffused over the brain. The Grand Duke was immediately proclaimed Emperor, and took the reins and whip of government, handling them with the impatience of a young coachman, who, for a long time, has eagerly desired to drive alone.
I was, of course, very anxious to learn the particulars of the new Emperor's interview with General Kosciuszko and Marshal Potocki, and before I pursue my own personal narrative, after leaving the prison, I must relate here what has been communicated to me on the subject. It was on Sunday, 27th November 1796, that Paul I., accompanied by his eldest son, the Grand Duke Alexander, and several lords and officers of his suit, went in person to Orlow palace, where General Kosciuszko was guarded. On entering his apartment, he said, that having hitherto been able merely to pity his fate, he was delighted that the time had come, when, by restoring him to liberty, he could, in some degree, make amends for the long sufferings he had endured. “You are free,” said he, “I wished to be the bearer of this happy news myself.” Although Kosciuszko ought to have been prepared for this visit, he was so astonished, and so much struck, that he remained long silent and unable to utter a single word. The Emperor touched, and perhaps flattered with his embarrassment, spoke to him mildly, sat beside him, endeavoured to make him feel at ease, and to inspire him with confidence. At length Kosciuszko thanked him, and asked whether the other Polish prisoners were to be released. “They will be,” answered the Emperor, “though there was great opposition in my council as to Potocki and Niemcewicz; they believe them too dangerous. Will you give me,” added he, “your word and guarantee for their good behaviour?” Kosciuszko replied that he was sure of me, but that he could not pledge himself to any thing respecting Marshal Potocki, without previously having an interview with him. “I will have his word,” said he, “before pledging mine.” Paul appeared much pleased with this trait of prudence, which showed how sincere Kosciuszko's intentions were, and expressing his satisfaction, told him that he was at liberty to go and see Potocki whenever he desired. Kosciuszko asked leave to retire to America, which he granted, and promised him the means of facilitating the voyage. The Grand Duke Alexander was so affected with Kosciuszko's weak and melancholy state, that, on his leaving him, he embraced him several times with tears in his eyes.
On the following day, Marshal Potocki, being too ill to be able to go out, Kosciuszko went to see him. They agreed that it would be highly imprudent to bargain upon the conditions of our release, and that we were obliged to yield and to promise everything. During the conversation, Marshal Potocki asked him: “Is your friend Niemcewicz already free?”—“No,” replied the General,—“How can you,” replied he, “lose a moment without going to the Emperor and asking his liberation, because his enemies will take advantage of the least delay, in order to ruin him again.” Koscuiszko went accordingly, on the third day after this, to the Emperor, with a list of the Polish prisoners who were still incarcerated; my name was at the top of it. This list was remitted to the Emperor, and the order immediately signed. But, in the mean time, Paul I. called personally upon Potocki. During this visit, he showed much wit and humour, and joined to his kindness and generosity a grace, which increased their value. “I know,” said he to Potocki, “that you have suffered much, that you have been a long time ill-treated and persecuted, but under the last reign all honest men were so, and I myself the first. My ministers were strongly opposed to your liberation; none supported my opinion, and I know not how it has prevailed. These gentlemen,” said he, alluding to his ministers, “were, in general, strongly inclined to lead me by the nose, but, unfortunately for them, I have got none.” And saying this, he passed his hand over his face, which slipped down it perpendicularly, as on a plain surface, being hardly impeded by a prominence marking the place where the nose ought to have been. “You are free,” continued he, “but promise me to be quiet. Reason itself should show you the necessity of this. New attempts would only draw upon you new misfortunes. I have always been opposed to the partition of Poland. This was an act equally unjust and impolitic, but it is accomplished. For the restoration of your country, the unanimous consent of the three powers to give back what they have taken is necessary. Is there the least probability that Austria, and particularly Prussia, would return their shares? Shall I alone restore mine? shall I weaken myself, whilst they are strengthened? Impossible. Shall I alone carry on war to compel them to it? Still less. My empire is too much in need of peace. You see, then, that you must submit to circumstances, and be quiet.” Marshal Potocki, touched with the Emperor's great frankness and kind disposition towards him, promised sincerely to be peaceable.
From this time, the general topic of the conversation in town and at the court was, the extraordinary favour which the Polish prisoners enjoyed, and how the omnipotent sovereign, who never went to see the first seigneurs of his empire, lowered himself so much as to visit rebels! The Russians were alarmed, and the Polish traitors trembling with fear, put their ladies into the field to intrigue and calumniate. But George Wielhorski, lately created Court-Marshal, a cunning and crafty man, the same that, in 1792, deserted his country, and participated in the plots formed against it, served them with more address. Much more jealous of the glory which our attempts to save Poland, and our very misfortunes had acquired us, than afraid of the distinctions conferred upon us, loaded with favours at the court, but dishonoured in the public opinion, Wielhorski could not wipe away his disgrace, except by making us in some way participate in it. He consequently persuaded the Emperor to bestow estates on Kosciuszko and Potocki, the principal leaders of the revolution, and thus to oblige all other Polish prisoners to take the oath of fealty as Russian subjects. Paul I. was pleased with the idea. Potocki and Kosciuszko received a thousand peasants each, and the latter, in spite of his entreaties, was obliged to take the oath of allegiance first, and we followed his example. By this political stratagem patriotic citizens were compelled to declare themselves Russian subjects, and to receive by force gifts from the hands which had enslaved their country. Wielhorski, with his friends, seeing his efforts crowned with success, believed that the weight of his ignominy would now be alleviated, and his political character confounded with ours, but he remained, very probably, alone in this opinion, as neither the public nor posterity will be deceived by this gross and cunning subterfuge. But this man's want of principle arose more from vicious habits than nature. I remember, when at college, that he was considered the most amiable gentleman at the court of Warsaw, and I saw him as such on my début in society; ruined, however, by gambling, vain, and accustomed to luxury, he sacrificed to his cupidity and ambition, all the duties of a citizen.
I did not fail immediately to avail myself of my liberty, and went to visit my friends and companions in misfortune. I called first upon Marshal Potocki, whom I found, if possible, still more broken down than Mostowski.—This was a new scene of emotion and tears; he asked me to show him the scar of my wound, and kissed it. Thence I went to Kosciuszko's; I found him lying upon his chaise longue, with his head enveloped in bandages, and one leg entirely lifeless; but I was still more affected on perceiving that his voice was almost gone, and that there was great confusion in his ideas. He seemed struck with terror, spoke but in low tones, and whenever we raised our voices, he made signs with his finger to warn us that the servants were listening, and that they were all spies. After the first embraces and mutual congratulations; “I know that you have suffered much,” said he, “but you must complete your sacrifice; you must do me one favour, and promise to go with me to America.”—“You are aware of my attachment to you,” said I, “but after so many misfortunes, after so long an absence from home, I should be glad to see my paternal hearth, and to settle my family affairs, which, as you know, are in a very ruinous state.”—“But have I not enough now,” said he, “for us both!”—“I should be sorry,” said I, “to be burdensome to you,—I will first go and gather the remains of my small patrimony.”—“I set out in eight days,” said he, “look at the state in which I am, see if I am able to go alone, if I am not in need of a friend to take care of me, can you abandon me?” And he began to shed tears. “Enough,” exclaimed I, “no, I will not abandon you; I will go with you.” He tenderly embraced me. Thus the very same day on which I broke the fetters with which my enemies had loaded me, friendship laid new ones on me.
In the evening I went with Wawrzecki, Zakrzewski, and Mostowski, at Samoilow's, to undergo the sad ceremony of taking the oath. Notwithstanding our remonstrance that many of us, since the partition, were Prussian or Austrian subjects, we were strictly ordered to obey. The formula of the oath was terrible. We swore not only fealty and obedience to the Emperor, but we promised to shed blood for his glory; we pledged ourselves to reveal all, that we ever should learn, dangerous to his person or empire; we declared, moreover, that in whatever quarter of the world we might be, a single word of the Emperor would oblige us to leave everything, and hasten to his person. This oath was in Polish, dictated by a Catholic priest.
After this revolting ceremony Samoilow embraced my companions, and was already advancing towards me, when, casting his eyes upon the portrait of Potemkin, his uncle, and very probably remembering what I had said and written on this singular and barbarous man, he suddenly drew back, as if he had touched a serpent. I saw, the same evening, several countrymen of mine, who, since the partition, either having charges at the court, or hoping to recover, under the new reign, their estates which were confiscated by Catherine, lived at St. Petersburgh. There were, amongst others, Ilinski, who, through his new favour with the Emperor, had greatly contributed to our liberation; Severine Potocki; Potocki, Palatine of Belz; Princess Radziwill, and the prince Palatine of Wilna, whose brother had just married a niece of mine; Madame Dzialymska, whose husband lived in exile on the shores of the Arctic Ocean; Prince Stanislaus Poniatowski, nephew to the King, and Ancuta his secretary.—The sight of all these persons caused me most lively emotions. I do not know whether it was the effect of joy, or the sudden transition from the silence of prison to the bustle of society, but I had the appearance of an idiot. I was astonished at the least thing, I sought words, and hardly could find them; a little air on the piano-forte made me weep. It was with the greatest joy, and with tears in my eyes, that I saw the two young Princes, Adam and Constantine Czartoryski, the sons of him who has always given me the greatest proofs of his interest and friendship. These young noblemen, brought up according to the strictest principles of virtue and patriotism, had been compelled to come, during the last reign, to St. Petersburgh, to solicit the restoration of their father's extensive estates, which had been confiscated. Both received commissions in the guards, and were appointed gentlemen in waiting to the Empress; they bore with reluctance the burden and odium of their fetters. Their sister had married Prince Louis Würtemberg, the brother of the reigning Empress. Bad treatment, and particularly the treasons of the Prince in our campaign of 1792, had compelled the Princess to divorce him, and this was one of the causes of the persecution of this family.
Next Sunday was appointed for our presentation to the Emperor and the Empress. According to etiquette, we were all dressed in deep mourning, which consisted of a coat with three buttons in front, and cuffs varying in breadth, according to the rank of the person, black buckles, sword and hat covered with crape; no powder on the hair. In this attire we were pretty nearly like chimney-sweeps. Lately treated as a criminal, behold me now, all at once, at court before two sovereigns; the one dead, lying in state, and still surrounded with all the imperial pomp: the other in the full exercise of supreme power. This court seemed to me more strange than imposing; it exhibited a curious assemblage of the different representatives, and various costumes of numerous nations subject to the Russian sceptre. Here might be seen gentlemen in waiting, who, though in mourning, looked elegant and graceful, and had all the appearance of Molière's Marquisses; there, a Metropolitan[2] with his long, grey beard, his high cap, his stole and cross. Who is that dark man with black moustache and beard, caftan, wide trowsers, and yellow morocco slippers? He is a Tartar from the Crimea. And those two young men with shaved heads, and with rich girdles round their loins? The one is a Georgian and the other a Circassian. And yonder, that knot of deformed monsters, with two small holes in lieu of eyes? These are Kalmouk officers. I also met there my ci-devant countrymen forming part of this motley multitude. In short, it would be impossible to see anywhere such a medley, such a variegated mosaic.
The corps of chevaliers-gardes who perform the service within the palace is splendid; it is composed of nearly one hundred gentlemen, selected from the youngest and handsomest officers. It was the stud of Catherine II. Nothing can equal the richness and magnificence of the uniform in which these gentlemen are attired. They wear white justaucorps, having white velvet collars and facings, with lace upon every seam; this lace is surmounted by broad embroideries; a kind of light silver breastplate; massive silver chains falling from the shoulders upon the breast; Roman helmets of gilded silver, with large ostrich feathers; and, as if that was not enough, thick massive silver plates adorning both sides of their boots, all the length of the leg. The crowd of courtiers already filled the apartments, when I saw all at once this crowd moving, separating left and right, and opening before a man wearing five ribbons and a miniature of the Empress in his button hole, set with large diamonds. This was Zubow, the widowed lover of Catherine II, rather a pretty than a handsome man, with large black eyes, but an exhausted and excessively worn out countenance. This creature, who crawled rather than walked, was nobody now; such is, however, the force of habit, that the crowd of courtiers still bowed before Zubow as at the time of his grandeur. He bent his steps to the large hall, where the body of the deceased was lying. Curiosity drew me thither, but, as I did not like the ceremony, and was not inclined to throw myself on my knees and kiss the hand of a corpse, I stopt at the door. Upon a state bed above a flight of twelve steps, lay the inanimate remains of her who, a few days ago, was the absolute sovereign of one-third of the world. She was dressed in a Russian velvet robe, trimmed with sables, and richly embroidered around with gold. Crown, sceptre, globe, and a quantity of orders and ribbons were displayed upon the steps of the catafalque. The deceased Empress had still her court as in her life-time. Chamberlains, ladies and gentlemen in waiting, body-guards, respectfully surrounded her, and stood day and night, being only relieved every third hour. This was a very hard time for the courtiers, who, besides their service at the court of a living monarch, had to guard a dead Empress and the body of an Emperor who had been strangled thirty years ago.
Paul I, on the day of his accession to the throne, unable to avenge the death of his father Peter III, resolved at least to make amends for the injuries done to his memory. It was known that this Emperor, after a tragical end, was privately buried in the church of St. Alexander-Newski. Paul went thither immediately, accompanied by Bezborodko and only one of his aides-de-camp. There was but one monk who knew the place where the body had been deposited. Paul descended with him into the vault, caused the coffin to be opened, and saw nothing but ashes and some remains of uniform, buttons and boots. Moved to tears, he gave orders for a state-bed like that of his mother to be immediately erected in the same church, and appointed officers of his court to do duty there as in the palace; then, he went twice a day, in the morning and evening, to worship the dead, as they call it, bowing respectfully three times before them, and kissing his mother's hand. The Empress, princes and princesses, courtiers, and after them all persons decently dressed, were admitted to this honour. The same ceremony was performed at Catherine's coffin as at that of Peter III, with this difference, that as there was nothing to be kissed at the Emperor's, a genuflection was made instead. The air of weakness and emotion with which Zubow prostrated himself before the body of his late mistress was really a curious sight. It was, doubtless, the first time that he had kissed that hand gratuitously; formerly, it was always the more open to him the more he pressed it.
The Emperor, not satisfied with having thus revived the memory of his father, wished still to take a little vengeance on his lady, who had so neatly dispatched him. “My father and my mother,” said he, “were disunited during their life; I wish to unite them at least after their death. Let, then, a hall be prepared, where the two coffins may be exhibited, one beside the other.” He said,—and in a few days the hall was ready. It was adorned with all the emblems of sovereignty, and escutcheons of all the governments and provinces belonging to this immense empire; there were five crowns: those of the kingdom of Kazan, Astrakan, Siberia, and Taurida or Crimea; ducal coronets were numberless. Sceptres, globes, swords, in short, everything recalled to the imagination that, in those icy regions, so many millions of men are the property of a single master. As soon as the preparations were terminated, the removal of the ashes of Peter III. was ordered. I saw this procession, which was, undoubtedly, the most magnificent pageant that had ever been witnessed. The corps of cadets, four regiments of guards, and ten thousand of the troops composing the garrison of St. Petersburgh, were drawn up in a line from the imperial palace to the Church of St. Alexander Newski, where the remains of Peter III. were deposited. The Emperor, with all his family, betook himself thither at a very early hour; and as soon as the day dawned, that is to say, at ten o'clock, the procession began. It was opened by a detachment of horse-guards, then came a detachment of the cadets, and four companies of guards; after them the different departments of government, each having its minister at its head, followed by sixty heralds, armed cap-a-pie, each leading a caparisoned horse, entirely covered with black cloth; each of those heralds represented one of the governments or provinces of which the Russian empire is composed; the horses wore escutcheons or coats of arms. With what sorrow did I perceive the escutcheons of the provinces lately wrested from Poland! Those heralds proceeded in a file, one after another; then followed the dignitaries and great officers of state, bearing various emblems of royalty—crowns, sceptres, swords, ducal coronets, orders, and ribbons of every colour and description. Then appeared the hearse, drawn by eight grey horses, with housings, and surmounted by an immense coffin, hung with crimson velvet, and bordered with gold fringes and tassels. This was immediately followed by the imperial family; namely, all the little princesses, first the oldest ones, after them the beautiful Princess Alexandra Paulowna, the two Grand-Dukes with their Grand-Duchesses, the Empress, and last of all, the Emperor himself, surrounded by the first dignitaries of the empire. Various detachments of the troops closed the procession. Though the thermometer stood, on this day, eighteen degrees below the freezing point of Réaumur, they proceeded all in slow and stately pace, and seemed to be attired in dresses suitable for the occasion, and the rank of each, at least as far as the outward appearance was concerned. When the procession had reached the palace, they placed the coffin of Peter III. beside that of the Empress, where they were exhibited during eight days, and exposed to the comparison and malignant talk of the courtiers and the public. They were then removed with the same ceremonies to the Cathedral of St. Peter and Paul, where they were again exhibited for three weeks, after which they were lowered into their vaults for ever.
Our presentation at court took place according to the customary etiquette; the Court-Marshal pronounces your name, and you are obliged to fall upon your knees and kiss the Emperor's hand. The same ceremony is repeated before the Empress. I remember that, on leaving the Emperor, I awkwardly advanced in a straight line towards his august-consort. “Heavens! what are you doing,” exclaimed the two chamberlains standing beside me, “you turn your back to the Emperor;” and immediately they seized me by both arms, turned me like a horse in a riding-school, and made me pass through the drawing-room in a diagonal line. My reluctance to kiss the Emperor's hand was compensated by the delight in raising my lips to that of the Empress, which was white, full and smooth, and deliciously perfumed. The Empress is remarkably handsome, and it was with pleasure, I must own, that I threw myself upon my knees before her. The same ceremony did not seem equally agreeable before her husband, but I was obliged to perform it. It was shocking to see even ladies subjected to that humilation; they wore large mourning dresses, with a crape, two yards at least of which, falling from their heads behind, trailed on the ground, and they had, besides, a large langue of black velvet upon their foreheads. These appeared like so many Andromaches at the feet, I was going to say, of Achilles; but the comparison would not be correct. Once being engaged in a lively conversation with a countrywoman of mine, and falling upon the subject of these genuflexions: “After all,” said she, “it is a thing of no consequence to see me at his feet; but, as he is so plain, I would be much more sorry to see him at mine.”
I will not expatiate farther upon the etiquette, ceremonies, and pageantry of the court, as I saw just as much of them as was necessary to prevent me compromising myself.
The ceremonies of the Greek church, without being splendid, are more overcharged than those of the Catholic. The mass is chanted by a chorus composed of forty young men; its air is very sweet. After the service, the officiating priest pronounces a benediction on the Emperor, who takes his hand as if to kiss it, but the priest dexterously withdraws it, and presents to him a crucifix, and it is by this trick that they avoid the ancient Russian custom, according to which the Czar himself is obliged to kiss the hand of the priest.
There are in St. Petersburgh many curious, interesting, and even rare objects to be seen. I am now sorry for not having visited them, but, at that time, every thing was some how or other indifferent to me, and it was only by chance that once, being with my friends in the apartments of the Empress, I saw her collection of diamonds. Upon a table of the apartment are placed the crown, sceptre, and globe; the imperial crown is a huge mass of beautiful jewels; the diamond weighs 779 carats, and is in the shape of a small spoon, being round on one side, and flat on the other. Catherine gave for it 2,250,000 French livres, and an annuity of 100,000. The merchant who sold it soon died. Another jewel which is to be seen in this collection, is a ruby of the finest water, of the size of a hen's egg; it adorns the sceptre. Gustavus III, King of Sweden, during his visit to St. Petersburg in 1777, presented it to the Empress. The remainder fell short of my expectations; there were large glass cases on the tables, as in jewellers' shops, filled with chains, watches, boxes, and caskets, all garnished with rather paltry diamonds. They were, certainly, much inferior to the collection of Augustus III, King of Poland, and Elector of Saxony, which is shown at Dresden, in the apartment called Grüne-Gewölbe, a collection which, in choice and taste, is not, I believe, surpassed by that of any other sovereign.
During my short stay at St. Petersburgh I associated with none but Poles, and only with those whose past conduct and opinions being congenial with mine, rendered their society interesting. The room was, however, filled with a different class of my countrymen, cowards and traitors, who, joining the Russians whilst the nation struggled for independence, plotted, and even fought against their own country. Catherine had already rewarded their treason by gifts, honours and places, but as Paul I, at his accession to the throne, opened a new field for favours, those vile insects rushed first upon it, and scarcely had a few days of the new Emperor's reign elapsed when they had already secured villages and whole towns, to indemnify themselves for the losses they pretended to have sustained by their zeal and attachment to Russia. Our release, the kindness and generosity which the Emperor had shown to Kosciuszko and Potocki, excited not only their envy, but also their apprehensions. They thought, even, that if I was to remain longer at St. Petersburgh, I might succeed in getting into the Emperor's favour, and doing great harm to their interests. I was informed of these apprehensions, and laughed heartily at them. One day, however, whilst I was dining with General Kosciuszko, an officer came from Mr. Archarow, the Lieutenant of the Petersburgh police, and requested me to accompany him immediately to the house of the latter. I knew what Archarow was: I knew, also, that from his house victims were sent either to prison or Siberia. Though I was sure of having neither done nor even spoken anything that could draw new misfortune upon me, still I was aware what calumny could do, and this summons to appear before the Minister of Police, as well as the precaution taken in delivering it, could not but alarm me. I rose, and had scarcely time to say to the General: “I know the danger I am exposed to, pray, do not abandon me.” My carriage was at the door, I got into it with the officer, and soon found myself at the Lieutenant's mansion. They ushered me into a large apartment, saying that his Excellency was out, and that I must wait for him. I looked into the court, and saw three or four kibitkas, or small chariots, in which prisoners are sent to Siberia, and Cossacks and officers moving backwards and forwards, as if preparing for a journey. This sight of course increased my fears, and I had not the least doubt that, in consequence of some infamous information, I was to be one of the passengers for whom they were waiting. Resigned to my fate, I was already planning my life in the icy desert; I counted how much money I had, and found about thirty ducats in my pocket; fearing, however, that I might be searched, I slipped them under my shirt, and awaited the event. But one, two o'clock struck, night came on, and his Excellency not having returned, I remained in darkness, a prey to all sorts of apprehensions, until at last, I was called and ushered into his cabinet. “It is you, Sir,” said he, “who have just been set at liberty by the Emperor?”–“Yes, Sir,” said I.–“And you incur his displeasure again, Sir?”–“How so, in what manner?” said I.–“You have paid a visit to a lady in waiting to the Empress, without the leave of the court.”—“Where and when?” said I, “I go nowhere but to see my friends, and I have not the honour of knowing any of the ladies you speak of; allow me to ask her name?”—“That is not the question,” replied he, “but the Emperor pardons you this time, and I advise you not to remain too long in St. Petersburgh. Adieu.”—I got into the carriage, and returned to General Kosciuszko; I related to him my adventure, and said that there must have been a mistake, or I must have been mistaken for another. I afterwards went to Marshal Potocki's, where I found all my friends assembled. They received me with transports of joy, and told me, that as soon as they had learned that I was carried off, though the motive was as incomprehensible to them as to me, they sent immediately Mostowski to General Kosciuszko, who enjoyed the greatest favour of us all at the Court, to inquire whether he had already asked your release, and if he had not done so, to urge him to do it.
I asked every one if they understood any thing regarding the enigmatic accusation of the Police Lieutenant, but they all agreed that there must have been a misunderstanding, and that I must have been taken for another person. On the following day I went in the evening to the Duchess of Courland,[3] to whom I related my adventure, and the perplexity into which it had thrown me. “I will explain all that to you,” said she. “You remember that, being urged by your friend Mostowski, you paid, a few days ago, a visit to the old Princess Czetwertynska, whose husband being amongst the first that sold themselves to Russia, was sentenced and hanged during the revolution. Well then, this Princess, who breathes only hatred and vengeance against you all, and particularly against you, as Kosciuszko's intimate friend, has played you the trick of which you are speaking. You had forgotten that she had just been appointed lady in waiting to the Empress, but she remembered it too well, as she and all of her stamp dread you, and try by every possible means to frighten you, and to make you leave St. Petersburgh as soon as possible. I was petrified at such a dark calumny.
This circumstance having shown me that not only the oppressors of my country, but even my own countrymen might ruin me on the first opportunity, I impatiently awaited the day appointed for our departure. My word was given to Kosciuszko, and I could not recall it, my business and farewell letters were written, every moment which I passed in that horrible capital was filled with anxieties and alarms, which the temper of the new monarch was of such a nature as fully to justify. This prince, if we may once more use a trivial comparison, drove the carriage of the state like a young and foolish coachman, sometimes he proceeded along a straight and smooth road, sometimes he turned from it, right or left; and, as if he wished to try his strength and skill, he struck against all the stones, went by hops, skips and jumps, caught mile-stones, and made the frightened passengers tremble in their seats. His edicts and regulations were stamped, at the same time, with the greatest wisdom and the greatest folly; the dismissal of a perverse minister, the abolition of an odious court of justice, or the introduction of a new shape of hats and waist coats, were to him matters of the same importance. Fond of his authority, even to jealousy, the palace revolutions, so frequent in Russia, and those of another kind which had taken place in France, caused him continual uneasiness. In order to convince himself that he could do everything, and that he was really a sovereign, he did nothing but reign from five o'clock in the morning, to eleven at night; at every moment one heard of a favour or a banishment, the release of one prisoner, or the incarceration of another; the panic was general, and one would have believed himself shut up in a besieged city, where a shell might fall upon any head without distinction. Nobody dared to speak; all were so afraid, that even in carriages we only whispered, lest the coachman should hear.
Whenever I passed through the quays, and saw, on the other side of the Neva, the bastions of the fortress, where I had suffered so long, the horror I felt made me turn away my eyes. But gratitude as well as justice obliges me to say that these fears and alarms, being consequences of despotism, existed in the same degree under the last reign. Catherine, however, exercised her tyranny with a degree of hypocrisy unknown to her son. It is our constitution, perhaps, that produces our virtues and vices. The springs of his, being long subdued by fear, burst forth violently as soon as the power of pressure was removed. The Emperor Paul is passionate, but, I believe, not a bad man. Imbued with the principle that nations are the property of sovereigns, and ought blindly to obey their caprices, the least contradiction is, in his eyes, an unpardonable crime, and then, there is no excess which he is not capable of committing; there is no reflection,—no limit either to his favour or his resentment. He would send Suwarow into the heart of Kamtchatka, as quickly, and with the same facility as he would declare him his equal, and give orders that the people should throw themselves upon their knees before him. It is not known whether those fits of madness frequently noticed in him, are a disease generally common to crowned heads, or, as it is said, the effect of a drink which his mother used to give him. Whatever it may be, certain it is, that had not Catherine died suddenly, Paul I. would never have ascended the throne; for it is no longer a secret that she wished to declare him unfit for governing, and to appoint as her successor the young Grand Duke Alexander-Pawlowicz. The people having already obtained from Paul some relief, and the soldiers an increase of pay, prefer him to Catherine, but it is not so with the aristocracy. He sows less corruption and spares them less. It is very fortunate for him that his Empress (a rare instance!) is fond neither of intrigue nor power, and that Alexander-Pawlowicz, the presumptive heir to the throne, is a prince endowed with the most amiable qualities, otherwise he would not have reigned six months. In spite of all these extravagancies and follies, Paul I. had one virtue, which princes believe they may dispense with, I mean justice, even in politics. He was the only one of all the allied monarchs who took up arms without any view of aggrandizement or interest. He said himself, and I have no doubt sincerely, that, if he had reigned at the time, far from co-operating in the partition of Poland, he would have been strongly opposed to it.
The preparations for our voyage were completed on the 18th of December. The Emperor presented to General Kosciuszko a splendid carriage, made on purpose that he might travel lying; he gave him also a beautiful pelisse, a large sable cap, a portable cooking apparatus, and a complete set of table linen of the finest description. He presented to me a beautiful pelisse, and a sable cap. Kosciuszko went to the palace to thank him. When he reached the foot of the staircase, he was placed in the rolling chair of the late Empress, which was waiting him, and was drawn by the gardes du corps through a long suite of apartments, filled with the lords of the Court, to the bed-room of the Emperor, where he received him surrounded with all his family. Paul I, the Empress, the young Grand Dukes, and Grand Duchesses, loaded Kosciuszko with kindness and caresses, and entreated him to write to them. The Empress asked him to send her some seeds from America, and she made him a present of a collection of cameos representing all her family, and of a splendid turning-lathe, valued at one thousand roubles.
Whilst Kosciuszko was with the Emperor, the princes, and princesses, I was with my friends and companions in misfortune. I took leave of them, and felt that it was for ever. We shed many tears. We at last left St. Petersburgh on the following morning, Monday, 19th December 1796.
POSTSCRIPT.
I wrote these Notes three years and a half after my release. The cheerfulness, the disposition to gaiety, which formerly constituted the main features of my character, are to be perceived, even when I am relating my misfortunes. But their recollection is not therefore the less terrible; they have left an impression upon my mind which nothing can efface. Having served my country, and suffered for it, I see it torn and annihilated, and, after so many calamities, sufferings, and treasons, indifferent to every thing, I desire only tranquillity. My life cannot now be long; no matter in what part of the earth my ashes find a tomb.
J. THOMSON, PRINTER, MILNE SQUARE.
- ↑ Matuszka, which is in Russian the diminutive of mother, was the familiar name that the people gave to the Empress Catherine.
- ↑ A Bishop.
- ↑ Ann Dorothea, born Countess de Medem, third wife of Peter, the last Duke of Courland, to whom she was married on the 6th of November 1779. The affairs of Courland having required her presence at Warsaw, in 1790, she remained there for a long time, and took a lively interest in the hopes and enthusiasm of the Poles at that time. She died at Löbichan, on the 20th August 1821. Her youngest daughter, Dorothea, born the 21st August, 1793, married the Duke de Dino.