After occupying her seat, of which I spoke above, the Empress rang a bell, and the valet of the day, who uninterruptedly remained outside the door, entered and, having received his order, called in the persons. At that time of the day, the Chief Master of Police and the Secretary of State waited daily in the boudoir; at eleven o’clock there arrived Count Bezboródko; for the other officers certain days in the week were set apart: for the Vice-Chancellor, Governor, Government Procurator of the Government of St. Petersburg, Saturday; for the Procurator-General, Monday and Thursday; Wednesday for the Superior Procurator of the Synod and Master General of Requests; Thursday for the Commander-in-Chief of St. Petersburg. But in important and urgent cases, all these officers could come any other time to report.
The first one to be called in to the Empress was the Chief Master of Police, Brigadier Glázov. He made a verbal report on the safety of the capital and other occurrences, and presented a note, written at the office irregularly and badly on a sheet of paper, containing the names of arrivals and departures on the previous day of people of all conditions who had taken the trouble to announce their names at the toll-house, for the sentinels stopped no one at the toll-house, nor inquired anything of them,—in fact there existed then no toll-gates; anybody received a passport from the Governor at any time he asked for it, and without any pay, and could leave the city whenever he wished: for this reason the list of arrivals and departures never could be very long. After the Chief Master of Police left, the Secretaries of State who had any business had themselves announced by the valet, and were let in one by one. I was one of them. Upon entering the sleeping-room, I observed the following ceremony: I made a low obeisance to the Empress, to which she responded with a nod of her head, and smilingly gave me her hand, which I took and kissed, and I felt the pressure of my own hand; then she commanded me to take a seat. Having seated myself on the chair opposite, I placed my papers on the slanting table, and began to read. I suppose the other reporting officers acted in the same way, when they entered the room of the Empress, and that they met with the same reception.
About eleven o’clock the other officers arrived with their reports, as mentioned above, and sometimes there came Field-Marshal Count Suvórov Rýmnikski, who then, after the conquest of Poland, resided at St. Petersburg. When he entered, he first prostrated himself three times before the image of the Holy Virgin of Kazán, which stood in the corner, to the right of the door, and before which there burned an undying lamp; then he turned to the Empress, prostrated himself once before her, though she tried to keep him from it, and, taking him by the hand, lifted him and said: “Mercy! Alexander Vasílevich, are you not ashamed to act like that?” But the hero worshipped her and regarded it as his sacred duty to express his devotion to her in that manner. The Empress gave him her hand, which he kissed as a relic, and asked him to seat himself on the chair opposite her; two minutes later she dismissed him. They used to tell that Count Bezboródko and a few others prostrated themselves in the same way before her, but not before the Holy Virgin.
At these audiences in the Winter and Tauric Palaces, the military officers wore uniforms, with their swords and shoes, but boots on holidays; civil officers wore during week-days simple French coats, but on holidays gala dresses; but at Tsárskoe Seló, both the military and civilians wore dress-coats on week-days, and only on holidays the former put on uniforms, and the latter French coats with their swords.
The Empress was busy until noon, after which her old hair-dresser, Kozlóv, dressed her hair in her interior boudoir. She wore her hair low and very simple; it was done up in the old fashion, with small locks behind her ears. Then she went into the boudoir, where we all waited for her; our society was then increased by four spinsters who came to serve the Empress at her toilet. One of them, M. S. Aleksyéev, passed some ice to the Empress, who rubbed her face with it, probably in order to show that she did not like any other washes; another, A. A. Polokúchi, pinned a crêpe ornament to her hair, and the two sisters Zvyerév handed her the pins. This toilet lasted not more than ten minutes, and during that time the Empress conversed with some one of the persons present, among whom there was often the Chief Equerry, Lev Sergyéevich Narýshkin, and sometimes Count Strogonóv, who were her favourite society. Having bid the company good-bye, the Empress returned with her maids into the sleeping-room, where she dressed herself for dinner, with their aid and with the aid of Márya Sávishna, while we all went home. On week-days the Empress wore simple silk dresses, which were all made almost according to the same pattern, and which were known as Moldavian; the upper garment was usually of lilac or greyish colour, and without her decorations,—her lower garment white; on holidays she wore a brocade gown, with three decorations—the crosses of St. Andrew, St. George and St. Vladímir, and sometimes she put on all the sashes that belong to these decorations, and a small crown; she wore not very high-heeled shoes.
Her dinner was set for two o’clock. During the week there were generally invited to dinner, of ladies, the Maid of Honour Protásov and Countess Branítski; of gentlemen, Adjutant-General P. V. Pássek, A. A. Narýshkin, Count Strogonóv, the two French emigrants, the good Count Esterházy and the black Marquis de Lambert, at times Vice-Admiral Ribas, Governor-General of the Polish provinces Tutolmín, and finally the Marshal of the Court, Prince Baryatínski. On holidays there were invited also other military and civil officers who lived in St. Petersburg, down to the fourth class, and, on special celebrations, down to the sixth class. The ordinary dinner of the Empress did not last more than an hour. She was very abstemious in her food: she never breakfasted, and at dinner she tasted with moderation of not more than three or four courses; she drank only a glass of Rhine or Hungarian wine; she never ate supper. For this reason she was, in spite of her sixty-five years and industrious habits, quite well and lively. At times, indeed, her legs swelled and sores were opened up, but that only served to purify her humours, consequently was advantageous for her health. It is asserted that her death took place solely through the closing up of these sores.
After dinner all the guests immediately departed. The Empress was left alone: in summer she sometimes took a nap, but in winter never. She sometimes listened, until the evening assembly, to the foreign mail which arrived twice a week; sometimes she read a book, or made cameo imprints on paper; this she did also during the reading of her mail by P. A., or Count Markóv, or Popóv; but the latter was rarely invited to read, on account of his poor pronunciation of French, though he was nearly always present in the secretary’s room. At six o’clock there assembled the aforementioned persons, and others of the Empress’s acquaintance whom she specially designated, in order to pass the evening hours. On Hermitage days, which were generally on Thursdays, there was a performance, to which many ladies and gentlemen were invited; after the performance they all went home. On other days the reception was in the Empress’s apartments. She played rocambole or whist, generally with P. A., E. V. Chertkóv and Count Strogonóv; there were also card-tables for the other guests. At ten o’clock the Empress retired to her inner apartments; at eleven she was in bed, and in all the rooms reigned a deep silence.
Gavrílo Petróvich Kámenev. (1772-1803.)
Kámenev wrote very few poems, and his reputation rests on his ballad Gromvál, which is remarkable for its flowing verse, the first two lines being in dactylic measure, and the last two lines of each stanza in anapests. Its main importance, however, lies in the fact that it was the first successful attempt at Romantic verse in the Russian language. Púshkin said of him: “Kámenev was the first in Russia who had the courage to abandon the classic school, and we Russian Romantic poets must bring a fitting tribute to his memory.”