To the burdensome, immovable Byzantine decorum he opposed the manners
of the pothouse, the tedious Granovitaya Palata was transformed under
him into a palace of debauchery; instead of the legal succession to the
throne he, on one occasion, endowed the Tsar with the right of appointing
his successor; on another occasion, wrote to the Senators that they
should themselves select the most suitable one in case he should perish
in a Turkish prison, and thereupon took the crown from his own son to
give it to the servant-girl who, after passing through many men’s hands,
had come into his. He left vacant the post of the most holy Patriarch,
forbade the display of holy relics, and wiped dry all the sorrowing tears
of the wonder-working ikons. In the land of unalterable precedence, he
placed above all the rest the plebeian Menshikov, he associated with
foreigners, even with negroes, got drunk in the company of skippers and
sailors, rioted in the streets—in fact, in every way outraged the rigid
propriety of the Old Russian life and the dignified formality of a Tsar.
He set the tone. His successors maintained it, exaggerating and
distorting it; for half a century after him, there was one unbroken orgy
of drink, blood, and debauchery—_l’ultimo atto_, as an Italian writer
expresses it, _d’una tragedia representata nel un lupanar_.
Where was orthodoxy, where was the principle of monarchy and chivalry, in
all this?
If in the second half of the reign of Catherine the tragic character
pales, the _locale_ remains the same; the history of Catherine II. cannot
be read aloud before ladies. Versailles, corrupted in the monarchical
style, looked with as much astonishment at the debauchery of the Russian
court as at the philosophical liberalism of Catherine II., for the French
court did not understand that the foundations of the Imperial power in
Russia were utterly different from those on which the Royal power of
France was founded.
When Alexander said at Tilsit to Napoleon that he did not agree with the
significance which the latter ascribed to the hereditary character of
the Tsardom, Napoleon thought that he was deceiving him. When he said to
Madame de Staël that he was only a ‘happy accident,’ she took it for a
phrase. But it was a profoundly true saying.
Moved to wrath by the cowardice of the German sovereigns, the Emperor
Alexander said in his proclamation of 22nd February 1813 to their
subjects: ‘Terror restrains your Governments, do not let that hold you
back; if your sovereigns, under the influence of cowardice and servility,
do nothing, then the voice of their subjects must be heard and must
compel the rulers who are leading their peoples into slavery and misery
to lead them into freedom and honour.’
The fact is, that Alexander retained a full understanding of the
tradition of Peter the Great; he was too close to the first period of
Imperial rule to pose as the military pope of all the reactions. Indeed,
it was with obvious doubt and uncertainty that he read the police reports
of Sherwood and Mayboroda.
With no doubt and no reflection, Nicholas sat down in his place and made
of his power a machine which was to turn Russia back in her tracks. But
the Tsardom ceased to be strong as soon as it became conservative. Russia
had given up everything human, she had given up peace and freedom, and
had gone into the German bondage only to escape from the cramped and
stifling condition which she had outgrown. To turn her back by the same
means was impossible.
It is only by going forward towards real objects, it is only by more
and more actively promoting the development of the national forces with
humane education, that the Tsardom can maintain itself. The oil with
which the engines on the new railways are greased will be better for
anointing the Tsars at their coronation than the holy unguents of the
Uspensky Cathedral.
Whether our interpretation of the Imperial rule is correct will be
clearly and vividly shown by the excellent memoirs of Princess Dashkov.
Our object will be fully attained if our brief sketch of its contents
drives readers to open the book itself.
* * * * *
In the year 1744, the Empress Elizabeth and the Grand Duke Peter stood
godfather and godmother to Ekaterina, the baby daughter of Count Roman
Vorontsov, brother of the great Chancellor. The Vorontsovs belonged
to that small number of oligarchic families which, together with the
paramours of the Empresses, ruled Russia at that time as they liked,
while the country passed abruptly from one reign to another. They played
the master in the Empire, just as nowadays in the houses of wealthy
landowners house-serfs govern districts far and near.
The Empress Elizabeth was loved, not at all because she deserved it, but
because her predecessor, Anna Ivanovna, had kept Bühren, a German, as
steward, and we Russians cannot endure German stewards. She was nearer to
the people than Anna Ivanovna and Anna Leopoldovna; in addition to the
blood of Peter, she had all the defects of the Russian character—that is,
she sometimes had regular drinking bouts, and every evening drank till
she could not wait for her maids to undress her, but ripped her laces and
her dresses off. She used to go on pilgrimages, fasted, was superstitious
and passionately fond of fine clothes—she left fifteen thousand dresses;
above all, she loved precious stones, as our wealthy merchants’ wives do,
and probably had just as much taste as they, of which we can judge by the
fact that she had a whole room decorated with amber.
The gentry in those days lived on quite a different footing with their
serfs from now; there was a certain intimacy and familiarity between
them, and, in spite of outbursts of domineering, they felt the novelty of
their power and the necessity of support.
All of a sudden, for instance, Elizabeth takes Shuvalov and drives with
him to Count Vorontsov’s to drink tea, to try on his Hungarian jacket, to
gossip with him a little, while if any one told lies too wildly she would
clip or cut out his tongue according to the degree of his guilt; and
all this in a motherly, homely way without fuss, while she refused from
motives of humanity to sign a single death-warrant.
When the Empress’s god-daughter had reached the age of fourteen she had
measles: measles and smallpox were no joke in those days, and almost
reached the proportions of a political crime; measles or smallpox might
attack Paul, that future hope of all Russia! A special Imperial decree
forbade families in which there was this terrible illness to have any
contact with the court. Our sick countess was hurriedly packed up and
sent off into the country some fifty miles away; it must be assumed that
the air there was not bad for the measles. With the countess were sent an
old German lady and the rigidly decorous widow of a Russian major: the
clever, plucky, and lively girl, on recovering from measles, almost died
of boredom with her two companions; luckily, she found in the country a
fairly good library. At fourteen our young countess knew four languages
besides Russian, which she did not know, but after her marriage learnt
thoroughly to please her mother-in-law. She did not attack novels but
Voltaire, Bayle, and so on. Reading became a passion with her, yet books
did not dispel her depression; she pined, and went back to Petersburg
languid and unwell. The Empress sent her own doctor to her—and that
doctor was Boerhaave; he said there was nothing wrong, that she was
physically well, but that her imagination was ailing—in fact, that she
was fourteen.
After Boerhaave, relations from all parts pounced on the poor girl, and
with inexhaustible cruelty undertook to entertain her, to distract her
mind, to feed her up; they tormented her with questions and advice. While
she only asked for one thing, to be left in peace; she was at the time
reading Hélvetius’ _De l’Entendement_.
The remedy soon arrived of itself.
One evening the young countess, who was fairly free to make her own
arrangements, went to Madame Samarin’s and stayed to supper, ordering the
carriage to be sent to fetch her home. At eleven o’clock the carriage
drove round and she came out; but the night was so fine and there was
no one in the streets, so she went home on foot, accompanied by Madame
Samarin’s sister. At the corner they met a tall graceful, man, who was
acquainted with her companion; he began talking to the latter, and
addressed a few words to the young countess.
The countess arrived home and dreamed of the handsome officer. The
officer arrived home in love with the handsome countess.
No need to lose precious time; the countess was no longer a child (it was
1759), and she was fifteen; the officer was young, handsome, brilliant,
and very tall, he was in the Preobrazhensky regiment, and belonged to an
old family. The relations blessed the match, the Empress sanctioned it,
and they were married. And so our young countess became Princess Dashkov.
A year and a half after their wedding, being on the eve of her second
confinement, she remained alone in Moscow, while her husband went to
Petersburg. His furlough was over, and he was asking for an extension of
leave. The Grand Duke was at that time in command of the Preobrazhensky
regiment; he would have given Dashkov the extension of leave at once,
but the position was serious, and he wanted to make friends with his
officers. The Empress was almost breathing her last; the Shuvalovs, the
Razumovskys, and the Panins were intriguing with and without the Grand
Duchess in favour of Paul, even in favour of the luckless Ivan—and most
of all in their own favour. The Grand Duke was not liked; he was not a
bad man, but he had every quality that the Russian temperament detests in
the German—_gaucherie_, a coarse heartiness, a vulgar tone, a pedantry
and a haughty self-complacency bordering on contempt for everything
Russian. Elizabeth, though herself perpetually tipsy, could not forgive
him for being drunk every evening. Razumovsky hated him for wanting to
make Gudovitch Hetman; Panin for his guard-room manners; the Horse Guards
for preferring his Holstein soldiers to them; the ladies for his inviting
actresses and German women of all sorts to sit down at his banquets
beside them; while the clergy detested him for his undisguised contempt
for the Orthodox Church. Seeing that Elizabeth’s end was near, and afraid
of being deserted by every one, the tactless Peter attempted to make up
to his officers and win their favour, and set about it with excessive
clumsiness. Among others he wanted to make sure of Dashkov, who was in
command of a company; and therefore, without refusing him his leave, he
invited him to Oranienbaum.
Dashkov, after his interview with Peter, set off for Moscow; on the way
he was taken ill with a sore throat and feverishness. Anxious not to
worry his wife, he bade them take him to his aunt, Madame Novosiltsov,
for he fancied that the pain in his throat was somewhat easier, and that
his voice was coming back a little; instead of that, the illness turned
out to be quinsy, and he was soon in a high fever.
At that very time, Prince Dashkov’s mother, with her sister, Princess
Gagarin, was sitting in our young princess’s bedroom, together with a
midwife, expecting the birth of the child in a few hours. The young
mother was still able to move about, and she went to fetch something in
another room, where her maid had long been awaiting her. The girl told
her in secret of her sick husband’s return, saying that he was at his
aunt’s, and begging her mistress not to betray her, as all were strictly
forbidden to tell her the news. The young princess uttered a shriek at
these unexpected tidings; recovering herself, she went upstairs to the
bedroom, as though nothing had happened, assured them that they were all
mistaken, that her confinement was not coming so soon, and persuaded
them to go and rest, promising by all that was holy to send for them if
anything should happen.
No sooner had the old ladies retired than the young princess flew with
all the impetuosity of her character to entreat the midwife to take
her to her husband. The kind-hearted German thought she had gone out
of her mind, and began trying in her Silesian accent to dissuade her,
continually adding: ‘No, no, I shall have to answer to God afterwards for
the slaughter of the innocent.’ The princess told the midwife resolutely
that, if she would not accompany her, she should go alone, and no force
on earth should stop her. The old woman was worked upon by terror,
but when the young lady told her that they must go on foot that her
mother-in-law might not hear the crunch of the sledge-runners, she again
resisted and stood motionless, ‘as though her legs had sent down roots
into the floor.’ At last this difficulty, too, was overcome; but on the
stairs the young princess’s pains returned, and so violently that the
midwife tried to dissuade her, but, clutching on to the stair-rail, she
was not to be turned from her resolution.
They walked out of the gate, and in spite of the pains reached the
Novosiltsovs’ house. Of the interview with her husband she remembered
only that she saw him pale, ill, lying unconscious, that she only had
time to take one look at him, and fell in a swoon on the floor. In this
condition the Novosiltsovs’ servants carried her on a stretcher home,
where, however, no one had suspected her absence. Fresh and more acute
pains restored her to consciousness, she sent for her husband’s mother
and aunt, and an hour later gave birth to her son Mihail.
At six o’clock in the morning her husband was brought into the house;
his mother put him in another room, forbidding any intercourse between
the two sick-rooms on the pretext that the young mother might catch the
quinsy, though in reality from a petty jealousy. The young couple at once
began a sentimental correspondence, which was, of course, attended with
much more risk for the young mother than quinsy, which is not in the
least infectious, could be; they were writing notes to each other at all
hours of the day and night, till the old lady found them out, scolded the
maids, and threatened to take away pens, pencils, and paper.
A woman who was capable of such love and such determination in getting
her own way in spite of danger, fear, and pain was bound to play a great
part in the times in which she lived and in the circle to which she
belonged.
On the 28th of July 1761, the Dashkovs moved to Petersburg. ‘The day,’
she said, ‘which twelve months later became so memorable and so glorious
for my country.’
In Petersburg she found awaiting her an invitation from the Grand Duke
to move to Oranienbaum. She did not want to go, and her father had
difficulty in persuading her to take his summer villa not far from
Oranienbaum. The fact is that by then she could not endure the Grand
Duke, while she was sincerely devoted to his wife. Before she had left
her father’s house she had been presented to the Grand Duchess; Catherine
had been gracious to her, the clever and highly cultured girl had taken
her fancy. With the smile, the _abandon_ with which Catherine for thirty
years fascinated all Russia, and the diplomatists and learned men of all
Europe, she won the devotion of Princess Dashkov for ever. From the first
interview the young girl loved Catherine passionately, ‘adored her’ as
schoolgirls adore their elder companions; she was in love with her as
boys are in love with women of thirty.
On the other hand, she felt as genuine an aversion for her godfather,
Peter. And a pleasant person he was, there is no denying. We shall see it
directly.
Her own sister, Elizaveta Romanovna, was openly Peter’s mistress. He
considered that Saltykov and Poniatowski, the fortunate predecessors
of the Orlovs, Vassiltchikovs, Novosiltsovs, Potyomkins, Lanskys,
Yermolevs, Korsakovs, Zoritches, Zavodovskys, Mamonovs, Zubovs, and a
whole phalanx of stalwart _virorum obscurorum_ gave him the right not to
be over-niggardly in his affairs of the heart, and not to conceal his
preferences.
His attitude to his wife was already such that, on Princess Dashkov’s
first being presented to him, he said to her: ‘Allow me to hope that you
will bestow upon us no less time than upon the Grand Duchess.’
For her part the impetuous young princess did not dream of concealing
her preference for Catherine. The Grand Duke observed it, and a few days
later led the young princess aside, and said to her, ‘in the simplicity
of his head and the kindness of his heart,’ as she puts it: ‘Remember
that it is safer to have to do with simple, honest people like your
sister and me than with great intellects who squeeze every drop out of
you and then throw you out of window like the skin of an orange.’
Princess Dashkov evasively observed that the Empress had expressed her
urgent desire that they should show respect equally to the Grand Duchess
and to His Highness.
Nevertheless, she could not avoid sometimes attending the Grand Duke’s
drinking-parties. These festivities were of a German barrack-room
character, coarse and drunken. Peter, surrounded by his Holstein generals
(that is, in her words, by corporals and sergeants of the Prussian army,
sons of German artisans whose parents did not know what to do with them,
and sent them for soldiers on account of their dissolute habits), with
the pipe always between his lips, sometimes went on drinking till his
flunkeys carried him out.
At one such supper-party in the presence of the Grand Duchess and
numerous visitors, the conversation turned on Tchelishtchev, a sergeant
of the Guards, and his supposed _liaison_ with the Countess Hendrikov, a
niece of the Empress.
Peter, who was already very drunk, observed that Tchelishtchev ought
to have his head cut off as a warning to other officers not to get up
love affairs with the female relations of the royal family. The Holstein
sycophants expressed their approval and sympathy by every possible token,
while the young princess could not refrain from observing that it seemed
to her very inhuman to inflict the death penalty for so trivial a crime.
‘You are still a child,’ answered the Grand Duke, ‘your words prove it;
otherwise you would know that to be sparing with the death penalty means
to encourage insubordination.’
‘Your Highness,’ answered Princess Dashkov, ‘you are trying to frighten
us; with the exception of the old generals, all of us who have the honour
to be sitting at your table belong to a generation which has never seen
the death penalty in Russia.’
‘That does not signify,’ retorted the Grand Duke; ‘fine sort of order
there has been in everything in consequence. I tell you, you are a child
and know nothing about these things.’
All remained silent. ‘I am ready,’ the young princess replied, ‘to
acknowledge that I am incapable of understanding you; but I cannot help
rejoicing when I think that your aunt is still on the throne and is still
well and strong.’
All eyes were turned upon the bold young woman. The Grand Duke did not
answer in words; he confined himself to putting out his tongue—a charming
trick to which he often resorted instead of a verbal reply, especially
when he was in church.
This conversation, which was the beginning of Princess Dashkov’s
political career, was the more remarkable for the fact that these
Nero-like speeches were uttered by the mildest man in the world, who had
never put any one to death. There were a large number of the officers of
the Guards and of the cadets sitting at the table, and Princess Dashkov’s
words were carried with lightning swiftness all over the town. They gave
her a great notoriety, which at first she was far from appreciating, and
which made of her one of the centres, and almost the principal one, round
which discontented officers rallied. At first the young princess was
delighted that the Grand Duchess was exceedingly pleased by her answer.
‘Time,’ she mournfully adds, ‘had not then taught me how dangerous it is
to tell the truth to sovereigns; if they can sometimes forgive it, their
courtiers never do.’
Her affection for Catherine increased. Elizabeth was then living at
Peterhof, and there the Grand Duchess was permitted _once a week_ to
see her son. On her way back from the Palace she usually drove to the
Dashkovs’, took the princess with her, and kept her for a whole evening.
When it was impossible to visit her, Catherine wrote a brief note to her;
from this there sprang up the friendly, intimate correspondence between
them which lasted even after the Dashkovs had left the summer villa. They
write about literature, about their day-dreams, about Voltaire, and about
Rousseau, in verse and in prose.
‘Such verse and such prose!’ writes Catherine, ‘and at seventeen! I
entreat you not to neglect such a talent. Perhaps I am not altogether an
impartial critic; your flattering attachment to me is to blame for your
having chosen me for the subject of your poem. Blame me for pride if you
like, but still I will say that it is long since I have read such correct
and such poetical work.’
Catherine, too, sends her essays and very emphatically insists that
they are to be shown to no one. ‘In the circumstances under which I
am compelled to live, everything serves as a ground for unpleasant
suppositions.’ She is so anxious that she begs Princess Dashkov to have
letters addressed to her maid, Katerina Ivanovna, and burns them when she
has read them. What she calls ‘trifling grounds’ may be surmised from one
letter in which she again speaks of her manuscript. The young princess
had returned it to her with much praise, assuring her that she had never
let it go out of her own hands. Not a word is said of the contents of the
manuscript, but it is evident from the following words (letter 21): ‘You
relieve me of my duties in regard to my son; I see in that a fresh proof
of the goodness of your heart. I was profoundly agitated by the tokens of
devotion with which I was greeted by the people on that day. I have never
been so happy.’
That letter was written soon after Elizabeth’s death, but we have not yet
reached that stage of our narrative.
Towards the end of December 1761, there was a rumour that Elizabeth was
very ill.
Princess Dashkov was lying in bed with a very bad cold when the news
reached her. The thought of Catherine’s danger struck her; she could no
more lie still in bed with it than with the thought of her husband’s
illness; and so, wrapped in a fur coat, on the frosty night of the 20th
of December, she set off for the wooden palace on the Moika, where the
royal family lived at that time. Not wishing to be seen, she left the
carriage at a little distance from the Palace, and walked towards the
little entrance at the side of the Grand Duchess’s apartments, though
she did not know the way to them. Fortunately she met Katerina Ivanovna,
the Grand Duchess’s maid; the latter said that the Grand Duchess was in
bed; but Princess Dashkov insisted on being announced, saying that she
absolutely must see her at once. The maid, knowing her and her devotion
to the Grand Duchess, obeyed. Catherine, who knew the Princess Dashkov
was seriously ill, and so would not have come out at night in the frost
without specially important reasons, ordered her to be shown up.
At first she showered reproaches on the princess for not taking care of
herself, and, seeing that she was cold, said to her: ‘Dear princess,
first of all you must get warm; come, get into my bed’; and only after
tucking her up, she asked her at last what was the matter.
‘In the present position of affairs,’ said Princess Dashkov, ‘when the
Empress has only a few days, perhaps a few hours, to live, you must,
without loss of time, take measures against the danger with which you are
threatened and steps to avert it. For God’s sake, trust me; I will show
you that I am worthy of your trust. If you have any definite plan, make
use of me, dispose of me, I am at your service.’
Catherine burst into tears and, pressing her friend’s hand to her heart,
said: ‘I assure you that I have no plan whatever; there is nothing I can
do, and I imagine that all that is left me is to await the course of
events with fortitude. I resign myself to the will of God, and rest all
my hopes on Him alone.’