GOOD-BY TO RUSSIA
DEPARTURE FROM MOSCOW -- NEWS OF THE DEATH OF PAUL -- PARTICULARS
OF HIS ASSASSINATION -- ET TU BRUTE? -- PAUL'S PRESENTIMENTS OF
PERIL -- HIS SUCCESSOR NOT AN ACCOMPLICE IN THE CRIME --
ALEXANDER I. A POPULAR MONARCH -- AN ORDER FROM AN IMPERIAL
CUSTOMER AND MODEL -- FAREWELLS TO FRIENDS -- AMONG THEM, CZAR
AND CZARINA.
When I was sufficiently restored I announced my departure and made my
adieus. Everything was done to induce me to stay. People offered to
pay more for my portraits than I had received in St. Petersburg--to
allow me all the time I required to finish them without fatiguing
myself. I call to mind now, the very day prior to my leaving, while I
was engaged in packing up on the ground floor of my house, there
suddenly appeared before me, unannounced, a man of colossal stature in
a white cloak, at whose sight I was nearly frightened to death. In
Moscow one continually saw people banished to Siberia by Paul, and
although but two French had been exiled--both authors of infamous
libels against Russia--I forthwith judged this stranger to be an
emissary of Paul. I breathed freely only when I heard him beseeching
me not to leave Moscow, and begging me to do a large likeness of his
whole family. Upon my refusal, which I made as polite as possible, the
good gentleman asked me fervently at least to give my own portrait to
the town. I acknowledge that this last request so touched my heart
as to leave me an enduring regret that my affairs and the state of
my health prevented me from complying.
[Illustration: HUBERT ROBERT
A French Painter of Repute. Born 1733. Died 1808. One of Mme. Lebrun's
Contemporaries.]
Several persons who, I doubt not, were initiated into the
revolutionary conspiracy under progress urged me to defer my departure
for a few days, promising they would go to St. Petersburg with me. But
in my complete ignorance of the plot, I persisted in starting--in
which I made a great mistake. For by waiting a little I might have
avoided the hardships I underwent on those abominable roads, again
rendered well-nigh impracticable by a thaw.
It was on the 12th of March, 1801, when I was half-way between Moscow
and St. Petersburg, that I heard the news of Paul's death. I found in
front of the posthouse a number of couriers, who were about to spread
the news in the different towns of the empire, and, since they took
all the horses, I could obtain none for myself. I was obliged to
remain in my carriage, which had been put by the roadside on the bank
of a river; such a bitter wind was blowing that it froze me.
Nevertheless, I was compelled to pass the night there. At last I
contrived to hire some horses, and I reached St. Petersburg only at
eight or nine on the morning of the following day.
I found that city in a delirium of joy; people were singing and
dancing and kissing one another in the streets; acquaintances of mine
ran up to my carriage and squeezed my hands, exclaiming "What a
blessing!" They told me that the houses had been illuminated the
evening before. In short, the death of the unhappy Prince gave rise to
general rejoicings.
None of the particulars of the dreadful occurrence were secret from
anybody, and I can aver that the accounts given me that day all
agreed. Palhen, one of the conspirators, had taken every means to
frighten Paul with a plot he alleged to have been hatched by the
Empress and her children for the purpose of seizing the throne.
Paul's habitually suspicious mind incited him only too strongly to
credit these false confidences, which enraged him to the degree of
ordering his wife and the Grand Dukes to be shut up in the fortress.
Palhen declined to obey without the Emperor's signed authority. Paul
gave his signature, and Palhen at once went to Alexander with the
document. "You see," he said, "that your father is mad, and that you
are all lost unless we forestall him by locking him up first."
Alexander, though believing his life and his family's in jeopardy, did
nothing but consent through silence to this idea, which seemed merely
to propose putting a lunatic out of harm's way. But Palhen and his
accomplices thought it necessary to go further. Five of the
conspirators undertook the assassination, one of them being Plato
Zuboff, a former pet of Catherine, whom Paul had loaded with favours
after recalling him from exile. The five penetrated into Paul's
sleeping apartment after he had gone to bed. The two guards at the
door defended it valiantly, but their resistance was fruitless, and
one of them was killed. At the sight of the infuriated men rushing in
upon him, Paul rose from his couch. As he was very powerful he made a
long fight against his murderers, who finally managed to strangle him
in an armchair. The unhappy man's last words were, "You, too, Zuboff!
I thought you were my friend!"
It seems that chance had contributed in every way to the success of
the plot. A regiment of soldiers had been brought to surround the
palace, and the Colonel, far from being in the counsels of the
conspirators, fully believed that an attempt upon the Emperor's life
was to be frustrated. A portion of the regiment went through the
garden to post themselves under Paul's window. Unfortunately, the
marching of the soldiers did not awaken him; nor did the noise of a
flock of crows, which were in the habit of sleeping on the roof, and
which burst out cawing. Had it been otherwise, the ill-fated ruler
would have had time to reach a secret staircase next to his room, by
which he could have descended to that of one Mme. Narischkin, in whom
he had full confidence. Having got thus far, nothing would have been
easier for him than to make off in a little boat always moored on the
canal beside the palace. Besides, the distrust he harboured against
his wife had caused him to double-lock the door dividing his
apartments from the Empress's. When he tried to escape through that
door it was too late, the assassins having taken the precaution to
withdraw the key. To crown all, Kutaisoff, his faithful valet, the
very day the murder was committed received a letter revealing the
conspiracy; but this man had for some time been neglecting most of his
duties, and did not open his letters punctually. Kutaisoff left the
letter disclosing the conspiracy on the table. On opening the missive
next day the unhappy man fell into such a desperate state that he
nearly died of it. The same was the case with the Colonel who had
placed his troops about the palace. This young officer, Talesin by
name, learning of the crime that had been perpetrated, felt such grief
at his deception that he went home with a raging fever, which nearly
put an end to him. I believe, in fact, that he did not long survive
the blow, all innocent that he was. But what I am sure of is that
Alexander I. went to see him every day during his illness, and
interdicted some firing exercises too near the patient's house.
Although the various impediments I have mentioned might have
interfered with Paul's killing, it must be concluded that the
contrivers of the scheme never doubted its issue. For all St.
Petersburg knew that on the night of the event a handsome young man in
the plot named S----ky drew out his watch at midnight among a passably
large company, saying: "It must all be over by this time." Paul was
dead, indeed; his body was forthwith embalmed, and for six weeks he
lay on a bed of state, his face uncovered and showing scarcely a trace
of decay, owing to the fact that it was plastered with rouge. The
Empress Maria, his widow, went to kneel in prayer every day at the
bed. She took her two youngest sons, Nicholas and Michael, such small
children that Nicholas one day asked her, "Why is papa always asleep?"
The trick employed to make Alexander I. consent to his father's
deposal--for he took no other view of the case--was a fact vouched for
to me by Count Strogonoff, one of the wisest and most upright men I
have ever known, and the best informed of all as to happenings at the
Russian court. He doubted the less how easy it had been to induce Paul
to sign the order for his wife's and children's imprisonment, as he
was aware by what fearful suspicions the mind of that poor Prince was
haunted. The very evening before the assassination there was a grand
court concert, at which the whole royal family was present. During a
moment's private conversation with Count Strogonoff, the Emperor said
to him: "No doubt you think me the happiest of men, my friend. At last
I am living in this palace of St. Michael, which I have had built and
finely fitted out according to my own tastes. I have my family about
me here for the first time. My wife is still good looking, my eldest
son is handsome, too, and my daughters are charming. There they are,
all of them, opposite me; but when I look at them I see my murderers
in them all." Count Strogonoff exclaimed, recoiling, horror-struck:
"Some one is lying to Your Majesty! This is an infamous slander!" Paul
stared at him with haggard eyes, and then, pressing his hand,
declared, "What I have just told you is the truth."
I am firmly persuaded that Alexander knew nothing of the attempt to be
made upon his father's life. If all the facts I was acquainted with at
the time were not enough, I have conviction from proof afforded by
that Prince's well-known character. Alexander I. had a noble,
magnanimous heart; not only was he always God-fearing, but he was so
honest that even in politics was he never known to resort to guile or
deceit. Very well, then--on hearing that Paul was no more his despair
was so intense that no one who went near him could doubt his innocence
of the murder. The wiliest of men could not have summoned up all the
tears he shed. In the first hours of his grief he refused to be
Emperor, and I know for certain that his wife Elisabeth threw herself
on her knees before him, imploring him to take the reins of
government. He then went to his mother, the Empress, who called to him
as soon as she set eyes upon him from afar: "Go away! Go away! I see
you all covered with your father's blood!" Alexander raised his
tearful eyes to Heaven and said, in accents coming from the soul, "I
take God to witness, mother, that I did not order this awful crime to
be done!" These few words bore such a thorough stamp of truth that the
Empress consented to listen to him, and when she learned how the
conspirators had cheated her son in the carrying out of their
enterprise, she fell at his feet with, "Then I bow to my Emperor!"
Alexander lifted her up, knelt before her in turn, took her in his
arms and bestowed every mark of respect and affection upon her. Nor
did he ever give the lie to this affection. So long as he lived never
did the Emperor Alexander refuse his mother anything, and his respect
toward her was so great that he insisted on maintaining all the
honours of court etiquette for her. Thus she always took precedence
before the Empress Elisabeth.
Paul's death occasioned none of the upheavals which too often follow
upon the departure of a ruler. All those who had participated in his
favour continued to keep the emoluments they owed to his patronage.
His valet Kutaisoff, that barber whom he made so rich, whom he had
decorated with the highest orders in Russia, remained peacefully in
the enjoyment of his master's benefactions. If there was no change in
the lot of Paul's friends, it was otherwise with his victims. Exiles
were called back, and their property was restored to them; justice was
done to all who had been sacrificed to caprices without number. In
fact, a golden era began for Russia. It was impossible to deny this at
witnessing the love, the regard and the enthusiasm of the Russians for
their new Emperor. That enthusiasm was so strong that all esteemed it
the greatest thing to have seen, to have met Alexander. If he went
walking in the Summer Garden of an evening, or if he passed along the
streets of St. Petersburg, the crowd would press about him and call
down blessings upon him, while he, the most benevolent of princes,
would answer all these demonstrations with perfect graciousness. I was
unable to go to Moscow for his coronation, but some people who were
there told me that nothing was ever more moving or more beautiful. The
transports of popular gladness vented themselves all over the city and
in the church. When Alexander placed the diamond crown on the Empress
Elisabeth's head, radiant with beauty, they formed such a lovely pair
as to evoke unbounded acclaim.
In the midst of the universal elation I was myself fortunate enough to
meet the Emperor on one of the St. Petersburg quays a few days after
my arrival. He was on horseback, and although Paul's regulations had
of course been abolished, I had my carriage stopped for the pleasure
of seeing Alexander pass. He rode up to me at once, asked me how I
liked Moscow, and whether the roads had given me any trouble. I
replied that I regretted having been unable to stay long enough in
that glorious city to see all its splendours; as for the roads, I
acknowledged they were abominable. He agreed with me, saying he hoped
to have them mended. Then, after paying me a thousand compliments, he
left me.
Next day Count Strogonoff came to me on the Emperor's behalf, with a
command to paint him at half length, and also on horseback. No sooner
was this news spread than numbers of court people rushed to my house,
asking for a copy of either portrait, they cared not which, so long as
they had one of Alexander. At any other time of my life this would
have been an opportunity to make a fortune, but alas! my physical
condition, to say nothing of the mental sufferings still besetting me,
prohibited me from taking advantage of it. Feeling unfit to work at a
full-length picture, I did a pastel bust-portrait of the Emperor, and
one of the Empress; these I intended to enlarge at Dresden or Berlin,
in case I should be obliged to leave St. Petersburg. It was not long,
in fact, before my ailments became unbearable; the doctor I consulted
ordered me to take the waters at Carlsbad.
I cannot describe the regrets I experienced at leaving St. Petersburg,
where I had spent such happy years. It was not without an aching heart
that I bade my daughter good-by, bitter though it was to see her
estranged from me, to see her completely under the thumb of a clique
headed by the vile governess whom I would accuse of everything evil. A
few days prior to my departure my son-in-law remarked that he did not
conceive how I could quit St. Petersburg at the moment most favourable
to my fortune. "You will admit," I answered, "that my heart must be
very sick. The reason you can easily guess."
Other separations I likewise found most painful. The Princesses
Kurakin and Dolgoruki, that excellent Count Strogonoff, who had given
me so many proofs of friendship--that was what I regretted far more
than the fortune I was renouncing. I remember how the dear Count came
to see me as soon as he heard I was going. He was so perturbed that he
walked up and down the studio where I was painting, muttering to
himself, "No, no; she won't go away; it is impossible!" My daughter,
who was present, thought he was turning mad. To all the kindly
proffered demonstrations of attachment I could not answer except by a
promise to return to St. Petersburg. And such was then my firm
intention.
When I had quite decided to depart I asked for an audience with the
Empress, which was immediately granted, and on presenting myself I
found the Emperor there, too. I testified my liveliest and sincerest
regrets to Their Majesties, telling them my health compelled me to
take the waters at Carlsbad, recommended to me for stoppages. To this
the Emperor affably replied: "Do not go so far in search of a remedy.
I will give you the Empress's horse, and after riding it for some time
you will be cured." I thanked the Emperor a hundred times for the
offer, but confessed that I did not know how to ride. "Well," he
resumed, "I will give you a riding-master to take you out." I cannot
say how touched I was by such kindness, and on taking leave of Their
Majesties I sought in vain for terms strong enough to express my
gratitude.
A few days after this interview I met the Empress walking in the
Summer Garden. I was with my daughter and M. de Riviere. Her Majesty
stepped up to me, saying: "Do not leave us, I beg of you, Mme. Lebrun.
Remain here and take care of your health. I cannot bear to have you
go." I assured her it was my desire and my purpose to return to St.
Petersburg for the pleasure of seeing her again. God knows I spoke the
truth, but I have, none the less, often been assailed with the fear
that my refusal to stay in Russia may have appeared as ingratitude to
Their Majesties, and that they may not have quite forgiven me.
On crossing the Russian border I burst into tears. I wanted to retrace
my journey, and I vowed I would come back to those who had for so long
heaped tokens of friendship and devotion upon me, and whose memory
is ever in my heart. But one must believe in fate, for I never again
saw the country which I still look upon as a second motherland.
[Illustration: A MOTHER AND HER DAUGHTER.]