It was a typical Russian wintry day with a tremendous blizzard blowing, and blinding snow falling. Sentries were stationed at intervals through the streets of the village, saluting all the imperial carriages as they went by, although no occupant could be seen; and having passed through it we entered the park and soon drew up at the door of the small palace where the Emperor always resides, and which, white itself, looked that day like a fairy palace rising up amid the snow.
Nothing could be more strikingly different from that white world without, however, than the warmth and richness of colour within. On every side there were brilliant and unfamiliar liveries and dazzlingly rich uniforms. An official, of huge physique, wearing several medals, with a broad gold band round his head, from which, on its right side, stuck out a curious bunch of dark feathers, in velvet and lace dress, and with breeches and silk stockings—there was no one the least like him in the crowd of attendants—at once came forward and led me away to a dressing-room in which to leave my furs and change into my robes. He then conducted me through one beautiful room after another, each one richly furnished and adorned with beautiful china, paintings, ikons, trophies, and presents from different parts of the empire, until at length we reached a small room where a number of officers in brilliant uniforms were seated and evidently in attendance.
One of them, the Conte de Grabbé, at once came forward and welcomed me, chatting pleasantly until a servant, very quietly attired like an English butler, came out from a room opposite and, holding the door open, signified that I was to enter.
There was no introduction or announcement of any kind, and, as I entered, the Emperor was already standing there to meet me, smiling pleasantly and encouragingly, with extended hand.
“It is very kind in your Imperial Majesty,” I said, “to allow me to come and see you in this informal way.”
“It is very kind in you to come and see us, bishop,” he replied, so cheerily and unaffectedly, that away went every bit of diffidence and sense of constraint, and, to my great relief and gratitude, I found myself talking as naturally as to an intimate friend. I say “gratitude” because, being put so entirely at ease, able to say all that it was in my mind to say, and ask anything that it was in my mind to wish to know, enabled me to get a clear idea of the Emperor’s attractive personality, and even, as he spoke quite freely, of some at least of the opinions and principles which must rule his conduct and shape his policy and government.
“He gives you confidence,” a diplomatist who had had many official audiences with him said to me one day, and that exactly describes the effect he produces. He talked freely of all things before the public mind just then—of the approaching Coronation of King George, for whom he expressed a more than cousinly regard and respect; of domestic duties and family life as the ideals which shape the destinies of races; of the Russian Church, particularly asking if its dignitaries had welcomed me; of our English Church; of travelling; of my own impressions of Russia and other things. It was quite astonishing afterwards to recall the ground we had covered in that interview. And before I left he inquired:—
“When will you be coming to Russia again, bishop?”
“Next year, sir,” I said; “for I believe I am to go to Siberia.”
“Siberia! How interesting! I’ve never yet been to Siberia. Then you’ll come and tell us all about it when you return, won’t you?”