Curse Not the King (33 page)

“If he would only abdicate,” murmured Alexander, and Pahlen smiled. “It might save him, as well as many others.… He could live somewhere in peace, be properly tended.…”

“And you could ascend the throne and complete your grandmother's plans, Highness.”

“But he'd never agree, Pahlen! To hint even at such a thing would mean death!”

“There are some circumstances where he might be persuaded to listen to reason. I could arrange it. Given time.”

“What of Anna Gagarine, Rastopchine and the rest? They'd never advise him to give up the crown.”

Pahlen folded his hands behind his back, and they resumed their walk, while he considered.

“I've thought of that, Highness. And that's the first thing we must do. We must separate these adherents from your father. I think that is something you can leave to me.…”

It was not an idle promise, and the Count proved it by getting rid of Alexei Araktchéief in September of that year.

¹
A closed carriage for prisoners.

15

Paul's great fortress was rising on the site of the old wooden Summer Palace; the labour of thousands of workmen had built the foundations and raised part of the walls of a huge stone edifice.

Crowds gathered to watch the work in progress and to murmur that this was the Czar's new home, specially constructed in the style of a medieval castle, surrounded by a deep moat. Here he would be safe from the dangers that threatened him, dangers so real in his mind that police infested his cities, spying and arresting. And in the atmosphere of terror and suspicion that was spreading throughout Russia, thanks to the savage zeal of Araktchéief, the Emperor's reforms were overlooked.

The serfs in whose favour he had legislated were treated with appalling harshness by their owners, who vented their anger with the Czar upon them, so that their plight was almost more wretched than before. In their misery and ignorance, the people blamed the Czar, their fear and misunderstanding fanned by persistent propaganda issued by Pahlen, who, as Military Governor of Petersburg, ordered the most frightful and absurd barbarities, at the same time proclaiming them to be Paul's instructions.

The legend of the “Death's Head” Czar was spreading fast and gaining a firm hold on the minds of the people, until the seventies which had always been a part of peasant existence and the lot of the Russian soldiery were traced back to his order, and he was reviled accordingly.

Also, the war which had broken out with France destroyed the country's hope of peace after the expensive wars of Catherine's reign.

For a time the shadows cleared when news of the great victories won by Suvarov heartened the populace and pleased the Court. But even in this the balance tipped in Paul's disfavour.

Suvarov, unorthodox, brilliant, devoted to the memory of the dead Empress Catherine, before whom he made the Sign of the Cross when received in audience—Suvarov had won for Russia. And Suvarov hated the Czar, jeered at the new Prussian discipline, laughed at drill as the amusement of parade ground soldiers, and, following the magic Russian formula of eccentricity, piety and a God-given instinct on the battlefield, routed the armies of Republican France and offered the Corsican General Bonaparte his first serious challenge in the war. Suvarov had brought victory to the Russian arms, but it was no credit to the Emperor Paul.…

Once or twice a week, the Czar drove to the site of the new Michael Palace to watch the progress, and accompanied by Anna, Princess Gagarine, he walked among the skeleton foundations, describing the towers, the thick doors and impregnable walls of his stronghold.

Anna, who loathed the gloomy building, humoured his enthusiasm, wondering why his persistent childish trust in the safety of the Michael Palace always filled her with unhappiness and dread.

“It will be like a prison,” she told him one afternoon, as they stood by their carriage, watching hundreds of workmen shoring up the sides of the freshly-dug moat.

“Nonsense, my darling. It will be the safest place in Russia. No memories of revolution, no ghosts of my predecessors to haunt it. Nothing! We'll begin a new life there; I can't wait to take up residence; and when I show you the plans drawn up for your apartments you'll like it too!”

A much more enthusiastic response was provided by von Pahlen, who often suggested to his Emperor that they should visit the building. Paul was delighted and flattered that the project should interest his friend as much as it did himself. In fact there was something miraculous in the similarity of taste and sentiment that existed between them, the man he had once disgraced had gradually enlisted his affection and secured his trust to an astonishing degree, for Paul was naturally suspicious, and deeply sensitive to atmosphere. He lived in his disloyal, discontented Court and sensed that they hated him because he had disarranged their extravagant, careless lives, and that with all their hearts they wished him dead. He knew instinctively that the passive indifference of Marie Feodorovna had been replaced by watchful partisanship for her eldest son, that though she humbled herself to Anna Gagarine until the spectacle of her indignity disgusted him, the motive was only love of Alexander. And above all, he suspected the Grand Duke.

There had been a surface truce between them, played out far too convincingly by the new Czarevitch, and it had lasted uneasily for the first year of Paul's reign. Now the pretence was fading; everything about the smooth, effeminate grandson of Catherine Alexeievna seemed spurious. Open rebellion would have secured the Czar's respect; hostility, even insults, he would have understood and seen in them some shadow of himself in his fierce, fearless youth, when all the power of Catherine had not been strong enough to make him bend. But the sly, evasive tactics of his son repelled him, filling him with angry hatred, while the reports of Alexander's wishes to retire to Switzerland and live in private with his wife aroused his father's rage and disbelief.

He confided his loathing of his son to Anna Gagarine who echoed it, and to Pahlen, who listened at first and was noncommittal. Then he began to agree, apparently regretful, adding an occasional poisonous word that fanned Paul's suspicions and directed his thoughts to more sinister channels.

Lately the Czar walked with his arm linked through Pahlen's and stood by the site of his stone palace, leaning on his worst enemy, sometimes pressing his other hand to his eternally aching head.

“It will be a glorious building, Sire,” the Count declared. “Where will the Grand Duke Alexander's apartments be?”

Paul looked at him, and his mouth set ominously.

“I haven't made up my mind, Pahlen,” he said slowly. “They may yet be in the Schüsselburg.”

The Count's face was expressionless, but he made a mental note to repeat the remark to the Grand Duke.

“Come home, now, Sire, you seem tired,” he said solicitously, and Paul smiled and nodded.

“We'll go then; you're a good fellow, Pahlen. I believe I grow more fond of you every day … you and Anna. God's death, how bleak my life would be without you both! I wish you'd try and make friends with her; it would please me if you liked each other better, you're both so dear to me.”

“I will try, Sire. I have always tried, for I admire the Princess and I'd give anything to win her favour. But she's a woman, and jealous, I think. You mustn't heed her, Sire; it's quite natural that since she loves you, she hates me … she can't bear to share you, even with an old man!”

That explanation of his mistress's dislike banished a doubt which had been tormenting him for some time. She was jealous, Pahlen said. Of course, that was it; jealousy! Therefore in this case her instincts, usually so sure, need not be trusted.…

“They say it will take another year to finish,” he remarked, looking back at the shell of the palace named after St. Michael the Archangel, the guardian of God.

“Perhaps less, Sire. I'll see what can be done to speed the work.… Take care, Sire, take care! You nearly stumbled on that beam.… Permit me, take my arm once more.…”

As Paul entered his carriage the Count turned quickly and looked once more at the great stone building, surrounded by the muddy, yawning moat, and smiled behind his master's back.

As Paul said so often, no one could possibly get in, but by the same rule, if the assassins should chance to be inside, no one could possibly get out either.…

The fall of Araktchéief had left a void in Paul's household and for many weeks it seemed to the uneasy Court that that dreaded personality, so long synonymous with the reign of the new Czar, must suddenly appear in his old place, restored to favour and vested with all his former power. But the months went by and no word reached the exile, while Alexander's confidence in Pahlen steadily increased.

A tiny slip had caused Araktchéief's downfall; he, the inhuman instrument of Paul's will, had allowed himself a little family feeling. He concealed the theft of some military stores to protect his brother who was in command of the post, and that gave Pahlen the chance to ruin him.

The Count murmured the story to the Czar, explaining that an innocent man had been blamed for the crime, with Araktchéief's knowledge. He felt it his duty to prevent an injustice, he declared uncomfortably, even though it pained him that he must expose his master's lifelong friend. Paul's reaction had been doubly violent in proportion to his trust; Araktchéief, on whose complete loyalty and integrity he had relied for countless years, had proved himself a liar and a cheat, ready to sacrifice a subordinate to the punishment merited by his own kin.…

Blinded by anger and disappointment, Paul banished and disgraced the one man who might have protected him, and most ironically, transferred his trust to Pahlen. And when the Count befriended a certain Hanoverian German named Bennigsen, the Czar received him and gave him a place at Court. Bennigsen was a tall, harsh-featured man, with a violent and bloodthirsty nature, ready for any kind of crime, provided profit to himself were guaranteed.

He hated Paul, who had punished him for inefficiency before Pahlen had rescued him, and he was quite prepared to help his benefactor murder him, so that the Emperor lived from that day onwards with his two assassins at his heels.

Together they laid their plan, while each of them sounded his friends in the army and the Court, enlisting support for what they meant to do, hinting that the Grand Duke Alexander was the power for whom they spoke. And those who had lost privileges under Paul, who saw in him a menace to their comfort, or disapproved of his policy, gave their consent to the project for his assassination.

Pahlen insisted upon one condition; they must wait until the Czar had moved into the Michael Palace, for he had determined that Paul's stronghold should prove to be his tomb; and to this malevolent proviso the rest of the conspirators agreed.

But there was one man whose favour with the Emperor stood as high as Pahlen's, one man who could never be frightened or bought over from his master. Rastopchine held the position of Postmaster General, which enabled him to keep a watch on all correspondence, thanks to the rigid censorship; and he also controlled the Foreign Ministry. His removal was an absolute necessity, and only Pahlen, whose determination matched his hate, believed that it could be brought about.

It was Bennigsen who queried the fate of Anna, Princess Gagarine, while her royal lover was being done to death.

Pahlen shrugged. “She's only a woman after all, perhaps a little dangerous, but easy to deal with when the time comes.
I
have our precious Emperor's complete confidence, and nothing she can do can shake it!”

But of all Paul's friends, friends gradually disappearing into banishment or given conveniently isolated posts, thanks to the tireless counsels of Pahlen, it was Anna Gagarine who struck a decisive blow to save the Czar.

Paul had not tired of her, as their enemies had hoped. Instead his love for her increased with time, and his enjoyment of her deepened through intimacy. To her he first confided the secret plan of making peace with France, and admitted that his mother's nationalism was already stirring in him. England, Prussia and Austria had strained his patience and roused his suspicions: he was tired of shedding Russian blood, when no real danger menaced Russia. Often, a strange dream recurred to him, a dream of conquest as wild and enormous as anything ever conceived by Catherine, the greatest of all eighteenth-century Imperialists, and this vision he shared with his mistress.

“Peace with France, my Anna! Why should I fight Napoleon for England and Austria, when I can ally myself with him and share the spoils of the world? France and Russia together … there's nothing we couldn't do! He can have Europe, my darling, and I—I shall turn to the East!”

“The East?” she questioned.

“India! That is my plan.”

“You would take India from the English?” she whispered in amazement, and he nodded.

“While they fight France I can invade and conquer India. In the meantime the great European powers would be waging a war that must leave them all weakened, no matter who wins. Then Russia would be master of the world, my love!”

His ugly face was flushed, his eyes bright, and the nerve in his cheek throbbed with excitement; he held her in his arms and kissed her, and for a moment they were silent, each envisaging the same dream.

“If I succeed, I'll lay the treasures of the earth at your feet, Annushka,” he said, pressing his lips against her hair.

She drew away from him then, gently, so that he knew her troubled rather than angry.

“There's only one treasure that I want, Paul Petrovitch, and you've already given it to someone else.”

“It shall be taken from them. Name it!”

“Put away Marie Feodorovna and make me your wife. Let that be your gift to me when you take India!”

He came close to her, encircling her with his arm, and looked intently into her face. “Marry you, Anna … make you Empress.… Is that what you ask?”