Letter of the Princess de Tarente to Lady Atkyns.
“St. Petersburg, August 14-25, 1797.
“To-day, dearest Charlotte, is, by the old style, the birthday of the King of France, and also that of one of his most devoted, though least useful subjects—myself. This month is one of sad memories. It was in this month that her birthday also fell; that she left the Tuileries and entered the Temple prison; indeed, August is filled with dates unforgettable at all times to the faithful, remembered the more poignantly when the day itself recalls them. I had your letter yesterday: it gave me pleasure, dear Charlotte. When I read it I was nearly asleep, for it was three in the morning, and I had come back from a stupid ball that I had been obliged to go to.
“You are always talking to me about a diary, my dear, but I have not the courage to tell you the wretched history of my life. I am just a machine wound up. I go on for ever, but without pleasure or interest in what I do. I live on in anguish, and my letters would be very doleful if they were a faithful portrait of myself; but we are so far apart, my dear, you and I, and letters pass through so very many hands, that we must only guess at one another’s meaning—we cannot speak out. You know my heart—it will always be the same, and despite appearances, my feelings have not altered, I swear to you. But one has to be careful, when one can’t speak face to face. It is a sacrifice; but who has not sacrifices to make? How many I’ve made in the last two months! I’ve left everything to come to a country where I know nobody. Here I am friendless among strangers; naturally I am criticised, and severely. All the kindness of LL.MM.II. has aroused great expectations in society; I feel that, and, shy as I always am, I get shyer and shyer. But indeed I ought to be grateful, for I am received and treated with consideration by many people here; they take a pleasure in showing their admiration for my conduct. My conduct! Ah! when fate brought one into contact with Her, was it possible to help adoring her? What merit was there in being faithful to Her, when one could not possibly have been anything else?
“I am sorry, dear Charlotte, for all the worries that the storm caused you on shore; to tell the truth, I felt best at sea. Do believe that I am not a coward, and that I was scarcely frightened at all. The weather was rough only twice, when we were entering the Cattegat, before the Sound; I think it must have been a tribute to the shock caused by the encounter of the two seas. Then on Friday, or rather Thursday the 27th, when we were arriving at Cronstadt, the weather was very bad, and I must confess that that evening and night I did feel uneasy. It wasn’t cowardice. The captain himself was anxious, and, indeed, the heavy rain and the darkness of the night, besides the number of small rocks that stick out of the water here, and could not be seen at all on account of the darkness, made our situation pretty serious, I assure you. Thank Heaven, though, I got on very well. When the captain came to say we were at anchor, I felt a wonderful gladness, and yet, all of a sudden, I began to cry, for I could not help saying to myself: ‘Yes, I’m here! And what have I come for? Where shall I find any friends?’
“Well, Heaven has not forsaken me. If it had not found friends for me, at any rate it has found benefactors, and I am as comfortable as I could possibly have expected to be. At Court, while I stayed there, every one, beginning at the very top, was eager to show me respect and interest; and, here in the town, many people help to make my life happy and tranquil. There are little groups in which I am certain I shall enjoy myself when I am more at my ease. I am received most cordially and flatteringly; it seems a kindly, quiet sort of set; every one is eager to be nice to me, and there are not too many people. Ease, without which there is no such thing as society, is the dominant note in this set. But, Charlotte dear, don’t imagine that I’m already devoted to these folk. I shall never care deeply for any one again, nor make any other close friendship. It was She who drew us together, Charlotte; my love for you shall be my last and dearest devotion, I promise you. Good-bye, my dear; I think of you a thousand times a day; I am happy now, for I am doing something for you, and to prove my love for you is one of the ways to make me happy. If you see H.R.H. the Prince of Wales, lay my respectful homage at his feet, and tell him that my prayers follow him always. Yesterday I bought a carriage which is really quite new, and yet it only cost me 115 louis; I drove to my ball in it last night (about 13 miles from here) over a pavement that no one could imagine if they had not driven over it! My dear, in one minute I spent as much money as I did in the whole of the last year I lived in England. I use only four horses, and that shows how moderate I am, for a lady in my position ought not to have less than six. They threaten me with having to order the ‘St. Catherine’ liveries, which would cost 1200 roubles, that is, 150 louis. Compare this picture, dear Charlotte, with that of two months ago, when, with my linen frock tucked up under my arm, I was going about alone in the streets, knocking at Charlotte’s door—and now, driving about in my own carriage, drawn by four horses, with two lackeys behind, dressed out, feathers in my hair—in short, a lady of fashion! Doesn’t it seem like a dream, Charlotte? I assure you it does to me; and I assure you also, my dear, that the idea of coming seemed impossible—this world is not like the one we lived in then. The sacrifice was necessary; it had to be made; that was inevitable for both of us. I believed, at any rate, that I had to make it; and every minute I congratulate myself on having done so. Adieu! I hope you will have noticed the date of one of my letters; I am the more particular about this, since receiving yours of yesterday. Send my letters under cover to M. Withworth, your Minister here; and don’t let them be quite so thick, so as not to tax your Government too severely.
“P.S.—A thousand loving remembrances to your mother and your son. What a mania for marriage you’ve got, all of a sudden, and where are all your husbands? You hid them very well from me, for a whole year. I never beheld one of them; and you have two, my dear! I had a good laugh, I can tell you! What are their names? And when is either of the two marriages to come off?”
St. Petersburg, October 15, 1797.
“I am alone to-day, my Charlotte; a year ago this very day I was with you; I had the relief of speech, but I could not feel more deeply than I do now the terrible anniversary which this shameful day marks for us. At this hour we were on the Richmond Road. Yes, Charlotte dear, I am thinking sadly of her, whom I loved more than all the world besides, to whom I would have sacrificed anything. That thought is my one solace now; that thought stays with me still, the thought of Her, of Her alone.... It is eleven o’clock now. Where was She then? I evoke it all—the whole scene, afresh; I have read again the lamentable story of her final sufferings, and my heart is oppressed—I feel almost crazy—I know not what I want to say! I assure you, Charlotte, that it makes me happier to tell you all this; particularly to-day, when I’m so miserable, my friendship with you is a consolation—ah! you see I cannot write coherently. I feel so ill I wish I could talk to somebody, and tell them about myself; but how can I? There is no one at all to listen to me. For who can understand all that we feel about her? No one, no one. It’s better to say nothing, and I have said nothing; I haven’t spoken of the anniversary, not even to M. de C. If I wasn’t feeling so serious, I’d tell you that he bores me to death. He’s the most exacting creature in the world, and I am only sorry that I brought him with me. He has done not a bit of good here, and he is going back to you. Don’t tell him that I’ve spoken of him like this; he would be horrified. Now enough of him!