In the palace of the Hermitage, where they were walking together, the emperor had led the poet into a gallery of pictures that contained the portraits of all the Romanoffs, from Michel Fedorovitch to the last reigning sovereign, and had ordered him to improvise some verses on each.
Pouchkine obeyed; but coming to the portrait of Nicholas, he was silent.
"Well, Pouchkine," said the emperor, "what have you to say of me?"
"Sire!"
"Some flattery, of course? I don't wish to hear it; so tell the truth."
"Your majesty permits me?"
"I order you. Believe in my imperial word, you shall not suffer."
"So be it, sire."
And he wrote the famous distich: