Thou moon! The mourner’s friend,
Oh, come and mourn with me!
—From Sir John Bowring’s Specimens of the Russian Poets, Part II.
Adrián Moyséevich Gribóvski. (1766-1833.)
Gribóvski was a Little-Russian by birth. In 1784 he was secretary to Derzhávin, the poet, who was then Governor of Olónetsk. Then he served under Potémkin, and after his death in 1791 he entered the service of Count Zúbov, Catherine’s favourite. In 1795 he was Catherine’s Secretary of State. Like so many Russian Memoirs of the eighteenth century, Gribóvski’s Memoirs not only throw light on contemporary events, but are of great importance for a correct appreciation of the literature of the time. What Gribóvski reports of the simplicity of Catherine’s private life forms the subject of Derzhávin’s Felítsa (see p. 385 et seq.).
FROM HIS “MEMOIRS”
The Empress’s [Catherine II.] manner of life was of late years the same: In the winter she resided in the large Winter Palace, in the middle story, above the right, smaller entrance. Her own rooms were few. Upon ascending a small staircase, one entered into a room where, for the immediate dispatch of the Empress’s orders, there stood behind a screen a writing table with writing material for the secretaries of state and other officers. This room faced a small court, and from it you passed into the boudoir, with its windows on the Palace Square. Here stood a toilet table. Of the two doors in this room, the one to the right led into the diamond room, the other, to the left, into the sleeping-room, where the Empress generally received her reports. From the sleeping-room one passed straight into the interior boudoir, and to the left—into the study and mirror room, from which one way led into the lower apartments, and the other, over a gallery, into the so-called Neighbouring House. In these apartments the Empress lived until spring, but sometimes she removed earlier to the Tauric Palace, which had been built by Prince Potémkin on the bank of the Nevá.
The main building of this latter palace was only one story high, on purpose, it seems, that the Empress should not be annoyed by staircases. Here her rooms were larger than in the Winter Palace, especially the study in which she received the reports. In the first days of May she always went incognito to Tsárskoe Seló, and from there she returned, also incognito, in September to the Winter Palace. Her apartments in Tsárskoe Seló were quite large and tastefully furnished. All know the magnificent gallery in which the Empress frequently took a walk, particularly on Sundays when the park was filled with a large crowd of people that used to come down from St. Petersburg. She received the reports in the cabinet, or in the sleeping-room.
The Empress’s time and occupations were arranged in the following manner: She rose at seven, and was busy writing in her cabinet until nine (her last work was on the Senate Regulations). She once remarked in her conversation that she could not live a day without writing something. During that time she drank one cup of coffee, without cream. At nine o’clock she passed into the sleeping-room, where almost in the entrance from the boudoir she seated herself in a chair near the wall. Before her stood a table that slanted towards her and also to the opposite direction, where there was also a chair. She then generally wore a sleeping-gown, or capote, of white gros de Tours, and on her head a white crêpe bonnet which was poised a little towards the left. In spite of her sixty-five years, the Empress’s face was still fresh, her hands beautiful, her teeth all well preserved, so that she spoke distinctly, without lisping, only a little masculinely. She read with eyeglasses and a magnifying glass. Having once been called in with my reports, I found her reading in this way. She smiled and said to me: “You, no doubt, do not need this apparatus! How old are you?” And when I said: “Twenty-six,” she added: “But we have, in our long service to the Empire, dulled our vision, and now we are of necessity compelled to use glasses.” It appeared to me that “we” was used by her not as an expression of majesty, but in the ordinary sense.
Upon another occasion she handed me an autograph note which contained some references for her Senate Regulations for verification, and said: “Laugh not at my Russian orthography. I will tell you why I have not succeeded in mastering it. When I came here, I applied myself diligently to the study of Russian. When my aunt, Elizabeth Petróvna, heard of this, she told my Court mistress that I ought not to be taught any more,—that I was clever enough anyway. Thus, I could learn Russian only from books, without a teacher, and that is the cause of my insufficient knowledge of orthography.” However, the Empress spoke quite correct Russian, and was fond of using simple native words, of which she knew a great number. “I am very happy,” she said to me, “that you know the order of the Chancery. You will be the first executor of my Regulations before the Senate. But I caution you that the Chancery of the Senate has overpowered the Senate, and that I wish to free it from the Chancery. For any unjust decisions, my punishment for the Senate shall be: let them be ashamed!” I remarked that not only the Senate, but also other bureaus that are guided by the General Reglement, are hampered in the transaction of their business by great inconveniences and difficulties that demand correction. “I should like very much to see those inconveniences and difficulties of which you speak to me in such strong terms. The General Reglement is one of the best institutions of Peter the Great.” Later on, I presented to her Highness my notes upon the General Reglement, which I read to her almost every afternoon of her residence in Tsárskoe Seló in 1796, and which were honoured by her undivided august approval. (These notes must be deposited with other affairs in the Archives of the Foreign College.)