American Phoenix, Pt. 6 of 6: Déjà Vu & Eve's Leaves #Russia
Adapted from American Phoenix, a book about John Quincy and Louisa Adams and their diplomatic mission to #Russia by Jane Hampton Cook
American Phoenix
Adams and his Eve were nearly naked and ashamed.
After a harrowing voyage, John Quincy and Louisa Adams arrived in St. Petersburg, Russia, in October 1809 with literally only the clothes on their back. Their ship was swept out to sea before their trunks could be delivered to their hotel.
They are quickly thrust into the razzle and dazzle of the palace life of Emperor Alexander, who was Russia's czar. Making the wrong impression on him and his advisers could sink Adams’s diplomatic mission of securing recognition of U.S. sovereignty and convincing the czar to openly allow trade between America and Russia. Failure would send Adams home in shame.
In case you missed it:
Part 1: “I Fear the Emperor or Russia is Half an American”
Part 2: Goodbye Boston Birches
Part 3: Danish Prey and 300 Trapped Americans
Part 4: Patriot Character & All the World’s a Stage
Part 5: Baltic Circle
Déjà Vu
“I had in the year 1781 dined at the same house, much in the same style, with . . . then the French minister at this court.”
As John Quincy Adams entered the home of Count Romanzoff, Emperor Alexander’s foreign minister, for a dinner with the other diplomats in the fall of 1809, he experienced déjà vu. Decades earlier during the American Revolution, as a teenager, Johnny had briefly journeyed to St. Petersburg with his father’s able secretary, Francis Dana.
The Continental Congress had commissioned Dana to secure Russia’s official recognition of America. Young Johnny’s ability to speak French impressed Dana so much that he asked him to accompany him as his interpreter. They had traveled by land to St. Petersburg.
The president of the Continental Congress wrote Dana that “the great object of your negotiation is to engage Her Imperial Majesty to favor and support the sovereignty and independence of these United States.”
Russia’s leader at the time was Catherine the Great. Of German descent, Catherine had come to power after the murder of her husband, Peter III, in 1762. Because she’d projected an image of Russia as an enlightened and progressive place, if Catherine recognized America as an independent nation, then the rest of Europe would follow.
Adams had watched hope fade from Dana’s eyes as each day passed without receiving an invitation to meet Russia’s empress. On one of those days in waiting, they had dined with the French minister to Russia. He’d lived in the house now occupied by Romanzoff.
When Catherine refused Dana’s credentials—and thus officially had ignored the sovereignty of the United States—Johnny departed by traveling in a postal coach to join his father in the Netherlands.
Now he was experiencing déjà vu. Not only had he sat previously for dinner in this highly ornate house, but the grandeur of the scene and guests had also been identical to his memory.
“This was a diplomatic dinner, in the style of the highest splendor; about forty-five persons at table.”
The guests included diplomats of various ranks from France, Sweden, Bavaria, Holland, and Portugal, among others. Absent was an English ambassador.
Though once an ally, Great Britain and Russia were at odds because of their opposite relationships with France. Just as he had experienced years before, John did not know a foreign soul in the room. If Emperor Alexander accepted his credentials, then—unlike Dana—he would soon be an equal among the men at the table—so he hoped.
Something new, however, caught his attention.
“The rest of the company were strangers to me. But they were all covered in stars and ribbons—beyond anything that I had ever seen.”
Some of the diplomates wore eight-pointed embroidered silver stars. Others wore medals and bold ribbons signifying victorious battles.
Right then and there, John made a decision. He would not be wearing stars or ribbons. A wig and a little waistcoat embroidery were all the fuss he could fashion. After all, these men represented royalties, but Adams represented a republic. He must dress the part.
Romanzoff took an interest in Adams. He showed off his collections, including superb Parisian porcelain vases. One of his favorites was a splendid bound edition of French poems. John wasn’t sure which meant more to Romanzoff, the book or the fact that Napoleon, the French emperor, had given it to him.
As Adams studied the splendor surrounding him at Romanzoff’s dinner, the weight of succeeding where Dana had failed sank in.
“The house—the company—the exhibitions . . . led my mind so forcibly to the mutability of human fortunes, that it shared but little in the gorgeous scene around me.”
How could politely praising gifts of Napoleon in a baroque Russian mansion help to solve America’s problems? How could any American rise to prominence in the United States by way of Europe, especially in royal Russia?
An important piece of political news soon arrived at this dinner and distracted him from his worries.
“We heard this day that the peace between Austria and France was concluded.” Romanzoff announced the accord, a boon to Russia, at the diplomatic dinner.
The problems between Austria and France began years earlier when French general Napoleon Bonaparte took power in a coup and became the first consul of France in 1799. Renewing the French war against England in 1803, he made himself France’s emperor a year later.
Napoleon sought to isolate British trade throughout Europe by issuing his infamous Berlin Decree in 1806. Because he could not defeat the English militarily, he sought to destroy them economically. He forbade France, countries under his conquering military influence, and his allies from trading with British ships. This was Napoleon’s Continental System.
In 1807 Russia and Prussia, without Austria, came to terms with France through the Treaties of Tilsit. Russia’s Alexander reluctantly agreed to join Napoleon’s Continental System, which forced him to let go of long-standing trade ties with England. In return Napoleon agreed to underwrite Alexander’s quest to capture Finland away from the Swedes.
Now Austria was finally at peace with both France and Russia. Under the clinking of glasses, Romanzoff toasted the new accord as beneficial to Russia and Europe.
With the weight of Austria’s alliance lifted from his mind, maybe Emperor Alexander was ready to receive Adams as his newest diplomat. So, he hoped.
Before the evening ended, the chancellor pulled John Quincy aside. His demeanor was direct.
Ah, hope vanished from John’s heart as soon as Romanzoff began speaking French. The message was clear. Emperor Alexander was still confined. He would not be able to receive Adams’s credentials for several more days at least.
“But he [Count Romanzoff] repeated that the mission was agreeable to him.”
With his introduction to the czar postponed, John spent the next day leaving cards of introductions at the mansions of the other diplomats.
“The formalities of these court presentations are so trifling and insignificant in themselves, and so important in the eyes of princes and courtiers, that they are much more embarrassing to an American than business of real importance,” John reflected.
At the same time, he tried to rescue his wife from the rats at their hotel.
“The style of expense is so terrible here it seems as if it would be impossible for us to stay here—we are in pursuit of lodgings but can procure none,” Louisa moaned.
Within a few days, another palace messenger boasting gold fringe on his shoulders arrived at their hotel.
“The emperor signified . . . that he would receive Mr. Adams,” Louisa wrote in relief.
The wait was over. As John put his arm through his silk waistcoat and buttoned his jacket to prepare for the meeting, he may have wondered about the mysterious Emperor Alexander. Was the grandson of Catherine the Great wise and benevolent or prickly and petty? Did he have character, or was he a caricature of royalty? Who were his allies? His friends? Did he keep his friends close and his enemies closer?
John did not know the answers to these questions as he rolled his silk stockings to his knees and buckled his shoes, but he knew one thing for sure. One question lingered under the cigar smoke of taverns throughout Russia. Was Alexander involved in the mad murder of his foolish father, Paul?
Because so many Russian nobles—as many as eighty—were aware of the conspiracy at the time, it was impossible to believe that the prince was completely ignorant of the plot. However, Alexander was so likable— and powerful—that no one wanted to believe he was involved, either.
Soon the moment arrived. A carriage whisked John away from the hotel and took him to the Winter Palace, a mint-green giant towering above the Neva River. Greeting him was a medieval-looking man dressed in a dark velvet robe with a wide white collar and feather in his black velvet cap. The master of ceremonies resembled a cross between an American pilgrim and a medieval monk. He escorted John along the palace’s checkerboard parquet floors and white marble columns to the emperor’s cabinet room.
John stood stock-still as the ceremonial monk announced: “the minister plenipotentiary from the United States of America to His Imperial Majesty the emperor of all Russia.”
Standing before him was thirty-two-year-old Emperor Alexander, a tall, blondish red-headed man with cheery apple cheeks dotting his long oval face.
The emperor stepped forward to greet him.
“Sir, I am happy to see you here,” Emperor Alexander said in French.
Adams bowed according to his instructions and presented his credential letters.
“The president of the United States hopes His Imperial Majesty would consider the mission as a proof of the president’s respect for His Majesty’s person and character, and of his desire to multiply and to strengthen the relations of friendship and commerce between His Majesty’s provinces and the United States,” Adams said, delivering his most important and rehearsed lines.
The emperor dished out compliments, noting, “The system of the United States was wise and just.”
Just as quickly as the formalities began, so they ended. The emperor suddenly led John away from the door to a window overlooking the Neva River.
The emperor mysteriously lowered his tone “to avoid being overheard.”
Without servants or courtiers standing nearby, Alexander could now freely talk business. That meant politics. He was ready to reveal who was a friend and who was not.
England was clearly a foe to Russia. In Alexander’s view the only obstacle to peace across Europe was “the obstinate adherence of England to a system of maritime pretensions which was neither liberal nor just.”
English stubbornness was none other than Britain’s 1807 Orders in Council, a response to Napoleon’s 1806 Berlin Decree. The Orders in Council declared an English blockade of the whole continent of Europe. The purpose was to prevent France and its allies from trading with anyone without first going through Britain.
Napoleon retaliated further with the Milan Decree in 1807, which allowed authorities at French-controlled ports to seize any ship that first called at a British port. Thus, any merchant boat entering a British port could be taken by a French vessel. Any ship entering a Continental port, or one under Napoleon’s military influence, could be taken by a British ship. The result was a power struggle, a tug-of-war at sea.
Alexander told Adams that day that the only objective now was to bring England “to reasonable terms on the subject.”
Alexander explained that Russia’s friendship with France was essential to security throughout Europe.
Napoleon had assured Alexander that he was not trying to conquer England but “make her recognize the only fair and equitable principles of neutral navigation in time of war.”
Adams responded by saying that America sought neutrality among Europe’s quarrels. Despite problems between France and England, he hoped His Majesty could offer the United States assurances of fair trade. The emperor signaled that Russia and America could be useful to each other.
Alexander explained that this new relationship with America gave him great pleasure and “everything that depended on him he should be happy to contribute towards increasing the friendly intercourse between them.” The emperor relaxed even more. Business aside. Now it was time to get to know the latest addition to his diplomatic corps. He peppered John with questions.
Had he been in St. Petersburg before? Explaining his role as translator for Dana, John poured on the diplomatic charm.
“I had then admired the city as the most magnificent I had ever seen.”
The czar’s curiosity continued unabashed. What were the largest US cities? Populations? What did they look like?
Adams boasted that New York and Philadelphia were the largest in America. New York’s population was ninety-six thousand. Philadelphia’s was nearly fifty-four thousand. Both were elegant cities with buildings three and four stories high.
They formed “handsome and convenient dwelling houses suitable to the citizens of a republic but which in point of splendor and magnificence could not vie with the buildings of St. Petersburg, which to the eye of a stranger appeared like a city of princes.”
Topping his compliments, John added that St. Petersburg was the most magnificent city of Europe and the world. The emperor smiled.
“Petersburg had the advantage of being a city entirely modern and built upon a plan,” he replied, asking his new friend about the weather in his hometown of Boston.
Adams explained that Massachusetts experienced six months of winter.
“Then, we have two months more here,” Alexander said.
All the gravel, stone, or iron in the world could not make a road better than a few hours of frost, boasted Alexander. Such natural roads were an advantage to Russia’s mammoth size. But size was also one of its greatest evils.
“It was very difficult to hold together so great a body as this empire,” the emperor complained.
Bluntness nearly burst from John’s mouth. He wanted to point out that the czar had recently increased this evil by acquiring Finland. The diplomat in Adams, however, demurred on this topic.
He also wanted to bring up the problem with the American sailors detained in Denmark but decided to wait. He needed to build trust with Alexander, which would take time, before he could successfully broach such a sensitive subject.
Saying he was pleased that the choice of minister had fallen on Adams, the emperor closed their cordial conversation. He added that he hoped Adams should find his residence there agreeable. At the moment John would have been happy to simply find an affordable hotel sans rats, but again, he kept his mouth shut.
Whisked away by the monk, Adams left the palace and boarded his carriage.
No doubt this reserved man concealed his pride as he walked into the hotel lobby. As soon as he closed the door of his chamber, he embraced Louisa with joy, telling his best friend the good news.
He did it. Without wearing obnoxious ribbons and stars, he donned the suit of a diplomat just the same. He had accomplished something no other American had done. Adams had just established diplomatic ties with Russia at the level of minister—a high rank respected by European countries.
Alexander's acceptance of Adams as an American diplomat was an opening curtain moment for the United States on the world stage. With such a stellar starting point, perhaps envoy Adams could soon have enough success to put him back on track, allowing him to return to America within a year.
Though proud of her husband’s Prince Charming start, all was not well with Louisa. Her nausea had subsided, but she made a startling discovery. She was going to be more alone in St. Petersburg than she expected.
“Madame de Bray was young and very pretty and the only lady of the corps diplomatic besides myself,” she observed sadly.
Louisa and the Bavarian minister’s wife were the only wives who had accompanied their diplomatic husbands to St. Petersburg. The other diplomats who held the same rank of minister were either unmarried or had left their wives behind in their native countries.
Louisa had given up her God-given responsibility to her sons, endured the worst ocean voyage of her life, and landed with only the clothes on her back, only to discover that she was not expected to come after all.
Yet, Louisa held a gift that she couldn’t fully appreciate in this moment. As a British-born, French-speaking American, she could act like a princess and a republican at the same time. These were excellent qualities for a woman unofficially representing the United States in Europe.
So far, the Russian government had ignored her, except to rummage through her clothing during customs inspections. While her husband reveled in his achievement, Louisa hoped to hide behind her plain white cambric shawl and other clothes from her trunks. She could be content to stay at home with Charles while her husband spent the next year at diplomatic dinners.
No such luck.
Three days later, the ceremonial monk jubilantly called on them. Adams’s meeting with the czar went so well that it was time for both of them to be introduced to the czar’s leading ladies. The emphasis was on Mrs. Adams. Louisa now urgently needed a Cinderella gown.
Eve’s Leaves
“This morning Monsieur de Maisonneuve called and informed me that I must write a note to the chancellor requesting to be presented to the empress mother and to the reigning empress,” Louisa noted.
The date was set for Sunday, after the imperial family attended liturgy at the palace. She had only a few days to prepare for the greatest introductions of her life. What should she wear? What should she say?
Mrs. Krehmer rescued her, taking Louisa to several hat and dressmaker shops at the silver row arcade. Milliners there knew how to dress to impress the empresses.
Thick, luxurious velvet. Rich crimson. Intricate embroidery. Hoops. Diamonds. While she felt the smoothness of silks with her fingers and marveled over the intricate embroidery trim, her heart sank. The satins, silks, velvets, and accessories were as beautiful to behold as the apple was to Eve.
Louisa worried about indulging in extravagance. John’s commitment to living within his means was as firmly attached to him as his head. As the gold thread glistened from the light beaming through the store’s windows, the pain of not being able to afford what she truly wanted was very real.
“I had no vanity to gratify and experience had taught me years before the meanness of an American minister’s position at a European court.”
Meanness meant meager. The US government did not provide its diplomats with a sufficient purse to compete with other countries. America had traded royalty for representation. Diplomats from a republic were to dress and act differently than those from a monarchy. As an American newlywed living among Berlin’s diplomatic elite, Louisa had learned to live on a shoe-buckle budget.
Extreme extravagance dominated the Russian Empire. Clothing was more than ornamented fig leaves. Hats, wigs, jewels, and hoops weren’t just accessories. They were props. Clothing was costume.
Those seeking success with the czar must dress the part. Failure—especially for a woman—was not merely a fashion mistake but a fatal yarn, the unstitching of a minister’s mission. Louisa could not afford for her threads to become loose, but neither could she afford lavish threads. Dresses cost from seven hundred to sixteen hundred rubles, or two hundred to five hundred dollars, which was a significant sum in 1809.
Tossing temptation aside, Louisa picked a dress made of silver tissue, a cheap but pretty gauzy woven material. Her choice reflected America’s egalitarian principles while also being tasteful and elegant. She hoped it was not too simple for the czarinas or too expensive for her frugal husband.
The next question was protocol. Was she to bow to the empresses? Curtsy? Kiss hands? Storms may sink ships, but a missed kiss could cause a pretentious royal stink. She took comfort in one fact: she would not face the introduction alone. John would be at her side.
In the midst of this, Adams gave his beloved something she needed: new quarters. They moved to the Hôtel de la Ville de Bordeaux. Gone were the rats.
“Somewhat better but very bad at the Hôtel de Londres,” Louisa wryly observed.
The master of ceremonies gave them one final instruction. The night before their introduction, they were to visit Countess Litta, the niece of Prince Potyomkin, a Russian general who had been Catherine the Great’s de facto, and possibly secret, husband. Litta had inherited his wealth and stature, becoming the emperor’s first dame of honor.
As their carriage clip-clopped from their new hotel over the cobblestones to the woman’s exquisite mansion, their situation was fairy tale–like.
Countess Litta received them “very politely” but not warmly as Louisa recalled. “Very handsome and very fat,” she resembled a fairy godmother, not a witch—a good sign.
When the countess explained the ceremony, relief swept over Louisa faster than Cinderella’s pumpkin could turn into a carriage. She was ready.
“The countess told me that I was to be presented the next day directly after mass to the empress mother—But she did not know if I was to be presented to the Empress Elizabeth [Alexander’s wife] or [if] Mr. Adams [was to be presented too],” Louisa wrote, worried about entering the palace solus or sans husband.
The next morning Adams and his Eve began donning their glistening fig leaves. By 11:00 a.m., with his wig secure, John was ready for mass followed by meeting the empresses. Then he heard it. The sound of trotting horses came to a sudden stop outside their hotel. A uniformed messenger gave him a message.
He sighed and returned to their chamber to tell his half-dressed wife the news. The empresses were delaying Louisa’s presentation until half past two.
Adams’s orders to attend the liturgy were as solid as the stone quay lining the river. He had no choice. Neither did she. They would be introduced to the empresses separately.
The imperial family directed this performance, and all the Adamses could do was wear their costumes, rehearse their lines, and hope for graceful entrances and exits.
“Of this Mr. Adams informed me, and I was left alone to go through all the fears and frights of the presentation perfectly alone at the most magnificent court in Europe.”
At least she had more time. As she dressed, all she could do was worry, wondering if she would ascend as effortlessly as Cinderella to the palace or slink away sadly like a stepsister with ill-fitting slippers.
Meanwhile John and Mr. Harris rode to the Winter Palace, where they joined the diplomatic corps in the chapel’s antechamber. While they waited, an attendant approached Adams. The empress mother wanted to meet him before liturgy.
Adams greeted Alexander’s mother, Maria Fedorovna, the wife of the assassinated Paul. What struck him the most was not her oval face framed by tightly curled gray-brown ringlets but her curiosity about America.
“She asked whether there was not a great number of emigrants arriving there from Europe,” John recorded, explaining that migration to America had recently decreased.
“How so? I thought there were even in these times more than ever,” she replied with condescension.
Since Jefferson’s embargo and Britain’s Orders in Council, immigration had slowed.
“But it is freely admitted here,” she said, referring to Russia’s openness to trade with the United States.
“Yes, I hoped we should continue in the enjoyment of this advantage, which was important to the interests of both countries.”
As they spoke about a variety of subjects, Adams couldn’t help but notice the woman’s obvious contradictions. She was friendly and patronizing at the same time.
Concluding their conversation, he rejoined the diplomatic corps in the hall.
Then he saw him, a dashing, dark-haired man with sideburns stretching from his ears to the bottom of his jaw line. The man’s English title was long: Armand Augustin Louis, marquis de Caulaincourt. But his official French title was much longer: the Duc de Vicence, Grand Ecuyer de France, Ambassadeur Extraordinaire près de S. M. l’Empereur de toutes les Russies.
Wanting to clear up some confusion, Adams approached the French ambassador to Russia. John explained to Monsieur de Caulaincourt that he was sorry to have missed him when he dropped a card by his home. The Frenchman replied that he had also called upon Adams but did not find him at his hotel.
Given the time that Caulaincourt said he called, John knew the Frenchman was mistaken. He had been at his hotel.
Was it miscommunication? Or pretension? Adams feared the French ambassador was starting their relationship on pretension at best and a lie at worst.
Meanwhile horses carrying a messenger left the palace and headed for Louisa’s hotel again. For the second time, one of the empresses notified her of a time change.
The confusing messages only increased Louisa’s anxiety. She slipped on her satin slippers and prepared for the next layer—stepping into her skirt, which would dominate her frame.
This was the era of the Empire waist, where skirts began just below the bust and gracefully flowed to the floor. Slipping on the skirt was not as easy as sliding a leg through breeches. Men did not have to worry about whale bone hoops. Fortunately, this skirt was already attached to the hoop, which made it easier to step into.
With her bodice and skirt in place, she could relax a little and take her time with the next layers, unless another palace messenger arrived to change the time again.
Louisa probably heard the cannon fire, though the sound of horses outside the hotel bothered her more. The time for her presentation changed again.
Martha hurriedly attached a train to Louisa’s backside. The material was heavy crimson, a strong contrasting color to her silver skirt and white bodice. Because heavy trains were several feet in length, women often felt they were carting a curtain behind them. On top of this Louisa added a velvet robe, which also included a train.
The sound of horses halting at the hotel haunted her again. Now her presentation was moved up, not pushed back.
“And I was obliged to hurry as the last ordered me to be at the palace at 1/2 past one.”
She fastened a diamond arrow ornament in her Grecian-style hair, an up-do.
“And thus accoutered I appeared before the gentlemen of our party who could not refrain from laughter at my appearance.”
Snickering was not the confidence boost she needed, but who could blame them? After all, Messieurs Smith, Gray, and Everett had spent eighty days with her dressed as a plain, floor-washing Cinderella on the deck of the Horace.
“And over all this luggage my fur cloak,” Louisa joked of the arctic addition.
Two footmen eased her into the carriage, where she sat uncomfortably with her hoop bowing underneath her.
“Off I went with a fluttered pulse quite alone in this foreign [place] among people whom I had never seen.”
Twenty days after arriving in St. Petersburg with only the clothes on her back, Louisa Adams wore enough material to outfit five women. However, by dressing in full court couture, she complimented the culture’s customs.
The carriage drove through the streets toward the mammoth green Winter Palace, embellished with sixteen different opulent window designs.
“Arrived at the palace after ascending with great difficulty in the adjustment of my trappings.”
At least she made it on time.
“I was received by a gentleman and shown in a long and large hall in which I found Countess Litta superbly dressed and covered with diamonds. . . . She received me very kindly—Told me that I was to be presented to the reigning empress first.”
Empress Elizabeth was married to Emperor Alexander. Putting Louisa in the center of a hall, which faced a large folding door, Litta told her what to expect.
“[She] informed me that the empress would enter by that door and that I must stand unmoved until Her Imperial Majesty walked up to me.”
Cue number one was simple: stand as still as one of the palace’s marble pillars and then move when the empress moves. The next cue was pretentious.
“When she came up I must affect to kiss her hand which Her Majesty would not permit.”
While merely pretending to kiss the empress’s hand, she must make it look real by removing her glove.
She must also “take care in raising my head not to touch Her Majesty.”
After telling her to practice, Litta sat next to a window to watch.
“Naturally timid I felt as if I was losing all my composure and with difficulty could command the tremor.”
The room was ornamented with marble columns kissed with gilding on top. Then the doors opened, revealing a long suite of rooms, two African servants, and the grand marshal, who also wore a brilliant costume.
As they started walking toward her, she saw a regal strawberry blond man in a splendid uniform next to the empress, and a slender brunette boasting brown, Grecian-style hair. Behind them was a long train of ladies and gentlemen.
Who was the man next to the empress? The closer they came toward her, the more reality set in. She couldn’t believe it. She was being introduced to emperor Alexander, too. No message, no note, no one had prepared her to meet him.
“As their imperial Majesties passed the door the grand marshal fell back and the doors were nearly closed and they approached me.”
Louisa stood stock-still while the royal pair approached. A quick glance at the empress’s dress, of the same style but grander, made her relax. She had chosen the right attire. A longer stare might have made her feel as if she were looking in a mirror. With light brown hair and large eyes, Empress Elizabeth looked a lot like Louisa.
“The emperor was in uniform and the empress like myself in a rich court dress.”
She pretended to kiss their hands and dared not lift her head lest she accidentally touch them. When the ceremonial bowing was over, she relaxed a little and followed her hosts’ cues. The emperor took charge of the conversation.
Louisa spoke to him in French.
“I think the audience was of about fifteen minutes ending with some complimentary words and they withdrew as they came and I remained in the same position until the doors were re-closed—And thus ended act the first.”
In that moment she probably wanted to throw off her costume’s trappings, especially her train, but her introductions were not quite complete.
“Countess Litta who had never approached during the ceremony came up and congratulated me on the success of introduction and said the rest of it would be more simple.”
Much more relaxed for the next introduction, Louisa reflected, “We then went to the apartments of the empress mother, everything superb but not so elaborate and there, knowing my lesson, I was more at my ease.”
The empress mother tested her knowledge of St. Petersburg. Louisa also detected condescension in the woman’s questions.
“She received me very graciously and evidently expected to quiz my ignorance, putting many questions to me.”
The empress mother didn’t realize that although Louisa represented America, she had seen much of Europe’s grandeur.
“I expressed in strong language my admiration of everything and mentioned that I had seen London, Paris, Berlin, and Dresden, &cc but that I had certainly [seen] no city that equaled St. Petersburg in beauty.”
The empress responded, “Ah mon Dieu vous avez tout vue,” meaning, “My God, you have seen it all!”
The empress mother said she hoped to see Louisa again soon. After meeting the emperor’s teenage sister, Louisa’s Cinderella moment ended.
“At last I returned home with an additional budget of new ideas almost as oppressive and unsuitable as my robes—I was very much fatigued with all this variety of agitation but Madame Litta gratified me by intimating that I had got through very well.”
No sooner did she remove her fancy fig leaves than another invitation from the palace arrived. They were summoned to a ball.
Suddenly their new reality was clear. With successful introductions behind them, the relationship between the United States and Russia next hinged on whether or not John and Louisa could survive the first ball of St. Petersburg’s social season.
Who would prove to be the greater threat, Russia or France? The stakes they would soon face would pit national sovereignty over global control.
If you are interested in reading the rest of the story, American Phoenix by Jane Hampton Cook is available on Amazon.