Memoirs of the Empress Catherine II. / Written by Herself

by Empress of Russia Catherine II

The weak state of the Empress’ health, and the convulsive fits to which she was subject, very naturally made all eyes turn to the future. Count Bestoujeff, both from his position and abilities, was certainly not one of the last to do so. He knew well the antipathy that had long been excited against him in the mind of the Grand Duke. He was also well aware of the feeble capacity of this Prince, born heir to so many crowns. It was only natural that this statesman, like every one else, should wish to maintain himself in his position. For several years past he had seen me laying aside my prejudices against him; perhaps, also, he regarded me personally as the only one upon whom at that time the hopes of the public could rest, in the event of the Empress’ death.

These and such like reflections had induced him to form the plan that, on the decease of the Empress, the Grand Duke should be proclaimed Emperor of right, but that at the same time I should be declared a participator with him in the administration; that all existing offices should be continued, and that, for himself, he should receive the lieutenant-colonelcy of the four regiments of guards, and the Presidency of the three Colleges of the Empire, of that of foreign affairs, of War, and of the Admiralty. His pretensions were consequently excessive. He had forwarded me, through Count Poniatowsky, the draught of this project, written by the hand of Pougowoschnikoff. I had agreed with the former that I should thank him verbally for his good intentions towards me, but that I regarded the plan as difficult of execution. He had had this project written and re-written several times, had altered, amplified, retrenched, and appeared to be quite absorbed by it. To speak the truth, I looked upon it as the effect of mere dotage, and as a bait which the old man was throwing out in order to obtain a firmer hold on my friendship; but I did not catch at this bait, because I regarded it as prejudicial to the Empire, that every quarrel between my husband (who did not love me) and myself should convulse the state; but as the occasion for such a course did not yet exist, I did not wish to oppose an old man who, when once he took a thing into his head, was self-willed and immovable. This, then, was the project which he had found time to destroy, and concerning which he had sent me word, in order that I might tranquillize those who had been privy to it.

In the mean time, my valet de chambre, Skourine, came to tell me that the captain who guarded Count Bestoujeff was a man who had always been his friend, and who dined with him every Sunday, when he left court and went home. I said that if this were the case, and if he could be relied on, he should endeavour to sound him, and see if he would allow any communication with the prisoner. This had become the more necessary as Count Bestoujeff had communicated to Stambke, by the mode already mentioned, that he wished Bernardi to be told from him to speak the simple truth when interrogated, and to let him know what were the questions asked. When I perceived that Skourine willingly undertook to discover some means of communicating with Count Bestoujeff, I told him also to try and open some means of communication with Bernardi as well, and see if he could not gain over the sergeant or some soldier who kept guard in his quarter. On the evening of the same day, Skourine told me that Bernardi was guarded by a sergeant of the guards named Kalichkine, with whom he was to have an interview on the morrow; but that having sent to his friend the captain, who was with the Count Bestoujeff, to ask if he could see him, the latter had informed him that if he wished to see him he must come to his house; but that one of his subalterns, whom he also knew, and who was his relation, had cautioned him not to go there, because if he did, the captain would arrest him, and would make a merit of so doing at his expense, and that of this he had boasted to a confidant. Skourine therefore kept away from his pretended friend. However Kalichkine, whom I had ordered to be gained over in my name, told Bernardi all that was necessary; besides, he was only asked to speak the simple truth, and to this both willingly lent themselves.

At the end of a few days, very early one morning, Stambke came into my room, very pale and greatly frightened, and told me that his correspondence and that of Count Bestoujeff with Count Poniatowsky had been discovered; that the little horn-player had been arrested, and that there was every reason to fear that their last letters had fallen into the hands of Count Bestoujeff’s keepers; that he himself expected every moment to be dismissed, if not arrested; and that he had come to tell me this, and to take his leave of me. This information caused me no little anxiety. However, I consoled him as well as I could, and sent him away, not doubting but that his visit would tend to augment against me, if that were possible, all kinds of ill-feeling, and that I should, perhaps, be shunned as a person suspected by the Government. I was, however, well satisfied in my own mind that I had nothing to reproach myself with against the Government. With the exception of Michel Voronzoff, John Schouvaloff, the two Ambassadors of Austria and France, and those whom these parties made to believe whatever they wished, the general public, every one in St. Petersburg, great and small, was persuaded that Count Bestoujeff was innocent, and that there was neither crime nor delinquency to be laid to his charge. It was known that the day following the evening of his arrest, a manifesto had been concocted in the chamber of Ivan Schouvaloff, which the Sieur Volkoff, formerly first commissary of Count Bestoujeff, and who, in the year 1755, had absconded from his house, and after wandering some time in the woods, had allowed himself to be taken, and who was at this moment first Secretary to the Conference, had to draw up, and which they intended to publish, in order to make known the reasons which had constrained the Empress to act towards the Grand Chancellor in the way she had done. Now, in this secret conference, in which they had to torment their brains to discover offences, they agreed to state that it was for the crime of high treason, and because Bestoujeff had endeavoured to sow dissension between her Imperial Majesty and their Imperial Highnesses; and it was their wish, the very day after his arrest, to banish him to one of his estates, and deprive him of the rest of his property, without trial or judgment. But there were some who thought that it was going too far to exile a man without crime or trial, and that it was, at least, necessary to look about and see if some crime could not be laid to his charge; and if not, that, in any case, it was indispensable to make the prisoner—who, for some unknown reason, had been shorn of his offices, dignities, and decorations—pass under the judgment of Commissioners. Now, these Commissioners, as I have already stated, were Marshal Boutourline, the Procurator-General Prince Troubetskoy, the General Count Alexander Schouvaloff, and the Sieur Volkoff as Secretary. The first thing these Commissioners did was to give directions, through the department of foreign affairs, to the ambassadors, envoys, and employés of Russia at foreign courts, to send copies of the despatches which Count Bestoujeff had written to them since he had been at the head of affairs. The object of this was to discover in these despatches some crime or other. It was alleged against him that he wrote just what he pleased, and made statements opposed to the orders and wishes of the Empress; but as her Majesty neither wrote nor signed anything, it was difficult to act against her orders; and, as to verbal orders, she could hardly have given any to the High Chancellor, who for whole years had no occasion to see her; and, as for verbal orders delivered through a third party, they might as easily be misapprehended, as they might be imperfectly delivered, as well as imperfectly received and understood. But nothing came of all this except the order I have mentioned, because none of the employés gave himself the trouble of examining papers ranging over twenty years, and then copying them for the purpose of discovering crimes committed by one whose instructions and orders he himself had followed out, and with whom, therefore, however well meant his efforts, he might become implicated in any faults which might be traced in them. Besides, the mere transmission of these papers would put the crown to a considerable expense; and when, after all, they reached St. Petersburg, there would be enough in them to try the patience of many persons for many years in their attempts to discover and unravel something which, after all, they might contain. The order therefore was never executed; nay, even those who sent it at last grew tired of the business itself, and at the end of a year it was concluded by the publication of the manifesto, which they had begun to compose the day after the Chancellor’s arrest.

On the afternoon of the day on which Stambke had come to take leave of me, the Empress sent an order to the Grand Duke to dismiss him, and send him back to Holstein, for that his correspondence with Bestoujeff had been discovered, and that he deserved to be arrested, but that out of consideration for his Imperial Highness, whose minister he was, he should be left at liberty, provided he was immediately sent away. Stambke was immediately sent off, and with his departure ended my interference in the affairs of Holstein. The Grand Duke was given to understand that the Empress was not pleased at my having to meddle with them, and his Imperial Highness was himself inclined that way. I do not well remember who it was that succeeded Stambke, but I rather think it was a person named Wolff. In the next place, the Empress’ ministry formally demanded of the King of Poland, the recall of Count Poniatowsky, as a letter of his, addressed to Count Bestoujeff, had been discovered. It was innocent enough, in fact, but nevertheless was addressed to a so-called prisoner of state. As soon as I heard of the dismissal of Stambke, and the recall of Count Poniatowsky, I prepared myself to expect nothing good, and this is what I did. I summoned my valet de chambre, Skourine, and ordered him to collect and bring to me all my account books, and everything among my effects which could in any way be regarded as a paper. He executed my orders with zeal and exactitude, and when all were brought into my room I dismissed him. As soon as he left the room, I threw all the books into the fire, and when I saw them half-consumed, I recalled Skourine, and said to him, “Look here, and be witness that all my papers and accounts are burnt, in order that if you are ever asked where they are, you may be able to swear that you saw me burn them.” He thanked me for the care I took of him, and told me that a singular alteration had been made in the guard over the prisoners. Since the discovery of Stambke’s correspondence with Count Bestoujeff, a stricter watch had been kept upon him, and with this object they had taken from Bernardi the sergeant Kalichkine, and had placed him in the chamber and near the person of the late High Chancellor. When Kalichkine saw this, he asked to have some of the trusty soldiers who were under him when he was on guard at Bernardi’s. Here, then, was the most reliable and intelligent man we had introduced into the very apartment of Count Bestoujeff, without having lost all means of communication with Bernardi. In the meantime the interrogatories of the Count were going on. Kalichkine made himself known to him as a man devoted to me, and, in fact, he rendered him a thousand good offices. Like myself, he was convinced that the Chancellor was innocent, and the victim of a powerful cabal—and such, also, was the persuasion of the public. As for the Grand Duke, I saw that they had frightened him, and had led him to suspect that I was aware of the correspondence of Stambke with the state-prisoner. I perceived that his Royal Highness was almost afraid to speak to me, and avoided entering my apartment, where I remained for the time, quite alone, seeing no one. I would not, in fact, allow any one to come to me, fearing to expose them to some misfortune or inconvenience, and when at court, in order to be avoided, I refrained from approaching any one I thought likely to be compromised by my notice. On the last days of the Carnival there was to be a Russian play at the court theatre, and Count Poniatowsky begged me to be present, because rumours had been spread that it was intended to send me back to my own country, to prevent my appearance in public, and I know not what besides, and that every time I did not appear at court or at the theatre, every one was anxious to know the reason of my absence, as much perhaps from curiosity as from interest in me. I knew that the Russian drama was one of the things his Imperial Highness least liked, and even to talk of going there was enough to displease him seriously. On this occasion, too, in addition to his dislike of the national drama, he had another and more personal objection, namely, that it would deprive him of the company of the Countess Elizabeth Voronzoff; as she was in the ante-chamber along with the other maids of honour, it was there that his Imperial Highness enjoyed her conversation or her company at play. If I went to the theatre these ladies were obliged to follow me—a circumstance which annoyed his Imperial Highness, who had then no other resource than to retire to his own apartments to drink. Notwithstanding all this, as I had promised to go to the play, I sent a message to Count Alexander Schouvaloff, desiring him to order a carriage for me, as I intended that day to go to the play. The Count came and told me that my intention of going to the theatre was anything but agreeable to the Grand Duke. I replied that as I formed no part of the society of his Royal Highness, I thought it would be the same to him whether I was alone in my room or in my box at the theatre. He went away, winking his eyes, as he always did whenever anything disturbed him. Some time afterwards, the Grand Duke came into my room. He was in a fearful passion, screaming like an eagle; accusing me of taking pleasure in enraging him, and saying that I had chosen to go to these plays because I knew he disliked them; but I represented to him that he ought not to dislike them. He told me that he would forbid my having a carriage. I replied that if he did I should go on foot, and that I could not imagine what pleasure he could find in compelling me to die of ennui in my rooms, with no other company but my dog and my parrot. After a long and very angry dispute on both sides, he went away, in a greater rage than ever, and I still persisted in my intention of going to the play. When it got near the time for starting, I sent to ask Count Schouvaloff if the carriages were ready; he came and told me that the Grand Duke had forbidden any to be provided for me. Then I became really angry, and told him that I would go on foot, and that if he forbade the ladies and gentlemen from attending me I would go alone; and, besides, that I would write and complain to the Empress, both of the Duke and of him. “What will you say to her?” he asked. “I will tell her,” I said, “the manner in which I am treated, and that you, in order to secure for the Grand Duke a rendezvous with my maids of honour, encourage him to prevent my going to the theatre, where I might, perhaps, have the pleasure of seeing her Imperial Majesty; and besides this, I will beg of her to send me back to my mother, because I am weary of, and disgusted with, the part I play here: left alone and deserted in my room, hated by the Grand Duke, and not liked by the Empress, I want to be at rest, and a burden to no one; I want to be freed from the necessity of making every one who approaches me unhappy, and particularly my poor servants, of whom so many have been exiled, because I was kind to them, or wished to be so. It is thus that I shall write to her Imperial Majesty, and I will see, moreover, whether you yourself will not be the bearer of my letter.” My gentleman got frightened at the determined tone I assumed; he left me, and I sat down to write my letter to the Empress in Russian, making it as pathetic as I could. I began by thanking her for the kindness and favours with which she had loaded me ever since my arrival in Russia, saying that, unfortunately, the event proved that I did not deserve them, since I had only drawn upon myself the hatred of the Grand Duke and the very marked displeasure of her Imperial Majesty; that as I was unhappy and shut up in my own room, where I was deprived of even the most innocent amusements, I begged her earnestly to put an end to my sufferings, by sending me to my relations in any manner she judged proper; that as for the children, as I never saw them, though living in the same house with them, it made little difference to me whether I was in the same place with them or some hundreds of leagues distant; that I was well aware that she took better care of them than my poor powers would enable me to do; that I ventured to entreat her to continue this care of them; that confident of this, I would pass the rest of my time with my relations, in praying for her, the Grand Duke, my children, and all those who had done me either good or evil; but that my health was reduced by grief to such a state, that I did what I could to preserve my life, at least; and that with this object I addressed myself to her for permission to go to the waters, and thence to my relations.

Having written this letter, I summoned Count Schouvaloff, who, on entering, informed me that the carriages I had ordered were ready. I told him, while handing him my letter for the Empress, that he might inform the gentlemen and ladies who did not wish to accompany me to the theatre, that I would dispense with their attendance. The Count received my letter, winking his usual wink, but as it was addressed to her Imperial Majesty, he dared not refuse it. He also gave my message to the equerries and ladies, and it was his Imperial Highness who decided who was to go with me, and who was to remain with him. I passed through the ante-chamber, where I found him seated with the Countess Voronzoff, playing at cards in a corner. He rose, and she also, when he saw me—a thing which, on other occasions, he never did. In this ceremony I replied by a low curtsey, and passed on. I went to the theatre, where the Empress did not come on that occasion. I fancy it was my letter which prevented her. On my return, Count Schouvaloff told me that her Imperial Majesty would have an interview with me herself. The Count would seem to have informed the Grand Duke of my letter and the reply of the Empress, for, although from that time he never set foot in my room, he used his utmost endeavours to be present at the interview which the Empress was to have with me, and it was considered that this could not well be refused. While waiting for this interview to take place, I kept myself quiet, in my own apartments. I felt persuaded that if the Schouvaloffs had had any idea of sending me home, or of frightening me with the threats of doing so, I had taken the best method of disconcerting the project; for nowhere were they likely to meet with greater resistance to it than in the mind of the Empress herself, who was not at all inclined to strong measures of this kind; besides, she remembered the old misunderstandings in her own family, and certainly would not wish to see them renewed in her time. Against me there could be only one point of complaint, which was, that her worthy nephew did not appear to me the most amiable of men, any more than I appeared to him the most amiable of women; and, as regarded this nephew, her opinions exactly coincided with my own. She knew him so well that for many years past she could not spend a quarter of an hour in his society without feeling disgust, or anger, or sorrow, and in her chamber, when he happened to be the subject of conversation, she would either melt into tears at the misfortune of having such a successor, or she would be unable to speak of him without exhibiting her contempt, and often applied to him epithets which he but too well merited. I have proofs of this in my hands, having found among her papers two notes written by her own hand, to whom I do not know, though one of them appears to have been for John Schouvaloff, and the other for Count Rasoumowsky, in which she curses her nephew, and wishes him at the devil. In one occurs this expression, “My damned nephew has greatly vexed me;” and in another she says, “My nephew is a fool, the devil take him.” Besides, my mind was made up, and I looked upon my being sent away, or not, with a very philosophic eye. In whatever position it should please Providence to place me, I should never be without those resources which talent and determination give to each one according to his natural abilities, and I felt myself possessed of sufficient courage either to mount or descend without being carried away by undue pride on the one hand, or being humbled and dispirited on the other. I knew that I was a human being, and, therefore, of limited powers, and then incapable of perfection, but my intentions had always been pure and good. If from the very beginning I had perceived that to love a husband who was not amiable, nor took any pains to be so, was a thing difficult, if not impossible; yet, at least, I had devoted myself both to him and his interests with all the attachment which a friend, and even a servant, could devote to his friend and master. My counsel to him had always been the very best I could devise for his welfare, and, if he did not choose to follow it, the fault was not mine, but that of his own judgment, which was neither sound nor just. When I came to Russia, and during the first years of our union, had this Prince shown the least disposition to make himself supportable, my heart would have been opened for him, but when I saw that of all possible objects I was the one to whom he showed the least possible attention, precisely because I was his wife, it is not wonderful I should find my position neither agreeable nor to my taste, or that I should consider it irksome, or even painful. This latter feeling I suppressed more resolutely than any other; the pride and cast of my disposition rendered the idea of being unhappy most repugnant to me. I used to say to myself, happiness and misery depend on ourselves; if you feel unhappy, raise yourself above unhappiness, and so act that your happiness may be independent of all eventualities. With such a disposition I was born with a great sensibility, and a face, to say the least of it, interesting, and which pleased at first sight, without art or effort. My disposition was naturally so conciliating, that no one ever passed a quarter of an hour in my company without feeling perfectly at ease, and conversing with me as if we had been old acquaintances. Naturally indulgent, I won the confidence of those who had any relations with me, because every one felt that the strictest probity and good-will were the impulses which I most readily obeyed, and, if I may be allowed the expression, I venture to assert, in my own behalf, that I was a true gentleman, whose cast of mind was more male than female, though, for all that, I was anything but masculine, for, joined to the mind and character of a man, I possessed the charms of a very agreeable woman. I trust I shall be pardoned for giving this candid expression of my feelings, instead of seeking to throw around them a veil of false modesty. Besides, this very writing must prove what I have asserted of mind, disposition, and character.

I have just said that I was pleasing, consequently half the road of temptation was already traversed, and it is in the very essence of human nature that, in such cases, the other half should not remain untracked. For to tempt, and to be tempted, are things very nearly allied, and, in spite of the finest maxims of morality impressed upon the mind, whenever feeling has anything to do in the matter, no sooner is it excited than we have already gone vastly farther than we are aware of, and I have yet to learn how it is possible to prevent its being excited. Flight alone is, perhaps, the only remedy; but there are cases and circumstances in which flight becomes impossible, for how is it possible to fly, shun, or turn one’s back in the midst of a court? The very attempt would give rise to remarks. Now, if you do not fly, there is nothing, it seems to me, so difficult as to escape from that which is essentially agreeable. All that can be said in opposition to it will appear but a prudery quite out of harmony with the natural instincts of the human heart; besides, no one holds his heart in his hand, tightening or relaxing his grasp of it at pleasure.

But to return to my narrative. The morning after the play, I gave out that I was unwell, and kept my room, waiting patiently for the decision of her Imperial Majesty upon my humble request. However, the first week in Lent I judged it prudent to go to my duty, in order to show my attachment to the Orthodox Church. The second or third week of Lent brought me another bitter affliction. One morning after I had risen, my servants informed me that Count Alexander Schouvaloff had sent for Madame Vladislava. This I thought somewhat strange. I waited her return anxiously, but in vain. About an hour after noon, Count Schouvaloff came to apprise me that her Majesty the Empress had thought fit to remove Madame Vladislava from me. I burst into tears, and said, that of course, her Imperial Majesty had a right to remove or place with me whomsoever she pleased, but that I was grieved to find, more and more, that all who came near me were so many victims devoted to the displeasure of her Imperial Majesty; and that in order that there might be fewer such victims, I begged and entreated him to request her Majesty to send me home to my relations as soon as possible, and thus put an end to a state of things which compelled me to be continually making some one or other miserable. I also assured him that the removal of Madame Vladislava would not serve to throw any light upon anything whatever, because, neither she nor any one else possessed any confidence. The Count was about to reply, but hearing my sobs, he began to weep with me, and told me that the Empress would herself speak to me on the subject. I entreated him to hasten the moment, which he promised to do. I then went to my attendants, related what had occurred, and added that if any duenna I happened to dislike took the place of Madame Vladislava, she might make up her mind to receive from me the worst possible treatment, not even excepting blows; and I begged them to repeat this wherever they pleased, so as to deter all who might wish to be placed about me from being in too great haste to accept the charge, for that I was tired of suffering, and as I saw that my mildness and patience had produced no other result than that of making everything connected with me go from bad to worse, I had made up my mind to change my conduct entirely. My people did not fail to repeat all I wished.

The evening of this day, during which I had wept a great deal, walking up and down my room, much agitated both in mind and body, one of my maids, named Catherine Ivanovna Cheregorodskaya, came into my bed-room, where I was quite alone, and said to me very affectionately, and with many tears, “We are all very much afraid you will sink under these afflictions; let me go to-day to my uncle—he is your own confessor as well as the Empress’—I will talk to him, and tell him everything you wish, and I promise you he will speak to the Empress in a manner that will give you satisfaction.” Perceiving her good disposition towards me, I told her without reserve the state of matters; what I had written to her Imperial Majesty, and everything else. She went to her uncle, and, having talked the matter over, and disposed him to favour my cause, she returned about eleven o’clock to tell me that her uncle advised me to give out in the course of the night that I was ill, and wanted to confess, and thus send for him, in order that he might be able to repeat to the Empress what he should hear from my own lips. I very much approved of this idea, and promised to carry it out, and then dismissed her, thanking both herself and uncle for the attachment they displayed for me. Accordingly, between two and three o’clock in the morning, I rang my bell. One of my women entered. I told her I felt so unwell that I wished to confess. In place of a confessor, Count Alexander Schouvaloff came running to me. In a weak and broken voice I renewed my request that my confessor should be sent to me. He sent for the doctors, and to these I said that it was spiritual succour I stood in need of; that I was choking. One felt my pulse, and said it was weak; I replied that my soul was in danger, and that my body had no further need of doctors. At length my confessor arrived, and we were left alone. I made him sit by the side of my bed, and we had a conversation of at least an hour and a-half in length. I described to him the state of things past and present; the Grand Duke’s conduct to me, and mine towards him; the hatred of the Schouvaloffs, and the constant banishment, or dismissal, of my people, and always of those who had grown most attached to me, and, finally, the hatred of her Imperial Majesty, drawn upon me by the Schouvaloffs; in short, the whole present position of affairs, and what had led me to write to the Empress the letter in which I demanded to be sent home, and I begged him to procure me a speedy reply to my prayer. I found him with the best disposition possible for serving me, and by no means such a fool as he was reported to be. He told me that my letter did and would produce the effect I wished; that I must persist in my demand to be sent home, a demand which most certainly would not be complied with, because such a step could not be justified in the eyes of the public, who had their attention directed towards me. He agreed that I had been treated very cruelly; that the Empress, having chosen me at a very tender age, had abandoned me to the mercy of my enemies; and that she would do far better to banish my rivals, and especially Elizabeth Voronzoff, and keep a check upon her favourites, who had become the blood-suckers of the people, by means of the new monopolies which the Schouvaloffs were every day devising, besides which, they were daily giving the people cause to complain of their injustice, as witness the affair of Count Bestoujeff, of whose innocence the public were persuaded. He concluded by telling me that he would immediately proceed to the Empress’ apartments, where he would wait until she awoke, in order to speak to her on the subject; and that he would then press for the interview which she had promised me, and which ought to be decisive; and that I would do well to keep my bed: he would add, he said, that grief and affliction might cause my death, if some speedy remedy were not applied, and I was not removed, by some means or other, from my present condition where I was left, alone and abandoned by every one. He kept his word, and painted so vividly to the Empress my unfortunate state, that she summoned Count Alexander Schouvaloff, and ordered him to inquire if my condition would allow me to come and speak to her the following evening. Count Schouvaloff came to me with this message, and I told him for such an object I would summon all the strength I had left. Towards evening I rose, and Schouvaloff informed me that, after midnight, he would accompany me to the apartments of her Imperial Majesty. My confessor sent me word by his niece, that everything was going on well, and that the Empress would speak to me that evening. I therefore dressed myself about ten o’clock at night, and lay down fully dressed upon a couch, where I fell asleep. About half-past one, Count Schouvaloff entered the apartment, and told me that the Empress had asked for me. I arose, and followed him. We passed through several ante-chambers, entirely empty, and on arriving at the door of the gallery, I saw the Grand Duke enter by the opposite door, and perceived that he too was about to visit the Empress. I had never seen him since the day of the play; even when I had given out that my life was in danger, he neither came nor sent to inquire after my health. I afterwards learned that on this very day he had promised Elizabeth Voronzoff to marry her if I happened to die, and that both were rejoicing greatly at my condition.

Having at last reached her Imperial Majesty’s room, I there found the Grand Duke. As soon as I perceived the Empress, I threw myself at her feet, and begged her earnestly, and with tears, to send me back to my relations. The Empress wished to raise me, but I remained at her feet; she appeared more grieved than angry, and said to me, with tears in her eyes, “Why do you wish me to send you home? Do you not remember that you have children?” I replied, “My children are in your Majesty’s hands, and cannot be better placed, and I trust that you will not abandon them.” She then said to me, “But what excuse should I give to the public in justification of this step?” “Your Imperial Majesty,” I replied, “will state, if you think fit, the causes which have brought upon me your Majesty’s displeasure, and the hatred of the Grand Duke.” “But how will you manage to live when you are with your relatives?” I replied, “As I did before your Majesty did me the honour of bringing me here.” To this she answered, “Your mother is a fugitive; she has been compelled to retire, and has gone to Paris.” “I am aware of this,” I said; “she was thought to be too much attached to the interests of Russia, and the King of Prussia has therefore persecuted her.” The Empress again bid me rise, which I did, and she walked away from me to some distance, musing.