by Jane Cook
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. He 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. 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 Berlin Decree in 1806. 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.
In Alexander’s mind, as he told Adams that day, the only objective now was to bring England “to reasonable terms on the subject.”
Who was a friend? 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 agreed, indicating 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, confessing that he had not visited Vienna or Paris. Dresden was small. Berlin’s modern parts were beautiful, but not the ancient ones.
“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 confessed.
Bluntness nearly burst from John’s mouth in response. He wanted to point out that the czar recently increased this evil by acquiring Finland. The diplomat in Adams, however, demurred on this topic and the problem with the American sailors detained in Denmark. 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 may have 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.
His father had accomplished a similar feat. As the first American minister to England, the senior Adams was similarly introduced to King George III. England’s acceptance of Adams’s credentials was a colossal triumph for independence. While Russia was not an enemy, the country was not a friend, either. Now it was. On the world stage, this was an opening curtain moment for the United States, which longed to be treated for what it was—a sovereign nation completely independent of England.
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 ministerial husbands to St. Petersburg. The other diplomats who held the same rank of minister were either unmarried or left their wives behind in their native countries. Why couldn’t John have done the same?
Here 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.
Had communication been faster, John and his father might have written letters inquiring of the expectations of diplomats’ wives of Adams’s rank in Russia. However, the Internet in 1809 was as inconceivable as traveling to the moon. Neither did they have time to write letters to the US envoys in France or England to inquire about corresponding customs in Russia. Yet the Adams men also saw something in Louisa that she could not see. As a British-born American, she could act like a princess and a republican at the same time—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. While she could act like a princess, Louisa now urgently needed a Cinderella gown.
14
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. The textures were as varied as fur is to netting. 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. Mrs. Adams 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.
Her financial fears came from deep roots. When her parents met with unfortunate circumstances years earlier, they fled their London creditors just weeks after Louisa and John’s London wedding, which denied the newlyweds Louisa’s dowry. The Johnsons voyaged to America and settled in Washington City. Her father later died in 1802, leaving her mother and siblings with little. As a result, Kitty was completely dependent on Louisa, “without one six-pence in the world” and “not even clothed properly.”
Seeing so many rich dress fabrics worried Louisa. Would she have to supply herself with silks and satins suitable for queens? Such a budget strain was something the Adams men had failed to consider. Had the decision been hers, she would have skipped the extravagance altogether and stayed home.
The Jane Austen in Louisa knew what smelled strongest among such social circles. Pretension perfumed European courts more than any colognes or powder puffs. Empress Elizabeth, Russia’s mid-1700s ruler, owned more than “fifteen thousand ball gowns” and thousands of pairs of shoes. No matter that imitation is the highest form of flattery, she refused to allow another woman in her court to wear her hairstyle. Extreme extravagance continued to dominate this 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, 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 asked for help.
“In the evening we went by appointment to the Bavarian Minister’s.” Because John had dutifully left introduction cards with the other diplomats, he and Louisa could now call upon the Baron de Bray and Madame de Bray. As the only other wife of a diplomatic minister, Madame de Bray had also been introduced to the imperial family. Surely she could relay the palace’s expectations—woman to woman. However, her etiquette descriptions—such as whether or not to kiss their hands—didn’t match the ceremonial monk’s instructions.
“Her account of the forms of presentation differed very much from those we had heard before.”
Whom should Louisa believe? The master of ceremonies? Or the only other woman who had recently experienced the same presentation? Louisa was as confused as ever. 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 gossip about her was not as mysterious as the rumors about Emperor Alexander, but somewhat salacious nonetheless. Litta held a high position by virtue of heredity stemming from a less-than-virtuous history. She was the niece of Prince Potyomkin, a Russian general who was Catherine the Great’s de facto, and possibly secret, husband. Litta 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. Litta’s description aligned perfectly with the monk’s instructions, not Madame de Bray’s. Although the plump countess had waved her proverbial magic wand, she left open a worrisome possibility. Litta was not sure which the empresses preferred, joint or separate introductions.
“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 and 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 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. For a woman in that century, putting on a full court dress was not simply pulling a dress over one’s head. The process was multilayered from inside out and top to bottom. Executing the art of dressing took precision, patience, and a partner. With the aid of chambermaid Martha Godfrey, Louisa likely slipped on her chemise, an undergarment, first. Because her white bodice was heavily trimmed with curly blond material on the sleeves and fit tightly around her bust and shoulders, she probably relied on Martha to gently ease it over her so the bodice’s details would remain uncrushed.
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 noticing 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. Though the man was Armand Augustin Louis, marquis de Caulaincourt, 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 Monsieur de Caulaincourt, the French ambassador to Russia. John explained 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 a lie.
