Empress of the Night (30 page)

“How could I’ve forgotten my beauty,” he murmurs, extracting a piece of blood sausage from a black lacquered box he carries in his pocket. “You can have it, Pani, but only if Her Majesty permits.”

“Her Majesty has no objections,” she mutters, without lifting her eyes from the report on Jewish religious laws she had requested. Until Russia’s borders moved eastward, the Empire had no Jews. Now many thousands have become her subjects.

She can hear Pani devour the treat and sniff for more. “Have some dignity, Pani,” the Count scolds. “You’ll get what you deserve!”

Before she puts the quill away, she adds one last comment, requesting a full description of
kahal
courts. Gribovsky, her secretary, needs to be reminded that a summary doesn’t mean omissions of basic facts.

Bezborodko’s portfolio of gold-leaf leather looks imposing, but most likely her minister won’t even open it. Like Potemkin, he can quote whole documents after reading them once. He never takes notes, confident that even hours later he’ll be able to dictate her directives to his secretary without a single distortion.

Pani, the creature of habit, whimpers again and is promptly rewarded with another piece of blood sausage. The silly dog almost chokes as she greedily devours the treat.

“When did they arrive?”

“Well past midnight, Majesty,” Alexander Andreyevich says, taking out a white handkerchief from his breast pocket. He pats his forehead first, before wiping his greasy fingers, one by one, and folding the handkerchief into a neat square. “On account of the aurora borealis, which the Swedish King insisted on admiring for two full hours. Oblivious of what a rare and exquisite Russian jewel awaits him here. And what hospitality.”

Bezborodko, a wise flatterer, uses soft colors and a delicate pencil. He will not besmear the picture he wishes to adorn with a coarse brush and a great deal of whitewash. Like a skillful doctor, he proportions his doses to the constitution of his patient. He knows when hints work best and when to be direct. Platon should stop sulking at him and take note.

“The King, Gustav Adolf, his uncle, the Regent, twenty-three courtiers, and over a hundred servants,” the Count continues. “They are all at the Swedish mission. The young King woke up at dawn, read the Bible for one hour before requesting a simple breakfast of buttered bread and strong coffee.”

“Handsome?” Catherine asks.

“Exceedingly,” Bezborodko replies, twisting his full, red lips into a bemused grin.

“Come, come, Alexander Andreyevich,” she says indulgently. “Out with it. Quickly.”

Bezborodko raises his index finger and declares in a solemn voice: “
The Lord said, give and it shall be given to you. Weeping may endure for the night but joy comes in the morning. Destiny is God’s will …
Such are the pearls of Swedish wisdom.”

His Swedish Majesty, God bless his sweet youth, claims the privilege of uttering all thoughts that please him. So far these moral maxims please him the most. The result not so much of an overly religious disposition, perhaps, as the dire lack of a more worthy occupation. Gustav Adolf is a kind of unfinished man of the world, affable but still timid and wavering.

His uncle, the Regent, believes he can control him.

“I know it on good authority that the Regent of Sweden is weak, pleasure loving, and credulous,” her minister continues. “Especially awed by anything that smacks of mystery and supernatural powers. In Stockholm, he visits Mademoiselle Arfvidsson, the same clairvoyant who claims to have predicted the late King’s assassination.”

“Weak?” Catherine probes. “Or cunning?”

Bezborodko nods. He, too, agrees that the Regent is capable of annoying but clever ruses to raise the stakes and force Russia’s hand. Gustav Adolf’s engagement with Princess Louise of Mecklenburg was such an idea. The necessity to break the current ties is now being used as a bargaining position. The Mecklenburgs themselves are of no consequence. Too weak to afford even a sulk. But the Swedes stand to pocket a fortune for the change of royal sentiments.

“I’ve taken the liberty of assuring Mademoiselle Arfvidsson’s favorable prophecy.” Bezborodko’s voice rises with a theatrical glee. “For a hundred rubles, both coffee grounds and tarot cards foretold Gustav Adolf’s betrothal at the end of a long journey and delivered a few good omens for the linked future of Sweden and Russia.” When he smiles, his whole face lights up, his eyes sparkle. The small gap between his two front teeth gives him an impish air.

Absolute perfection, she, the Empress, likes to remind her two grandsons,
is unattainable, but some people manage to arrive pretty near it. Here in front of her is a perfect courtier. A trifler with triflers, serious with the serious, always in tune with those who pipe, and yet underneath it all, a man of steel, sharp like the Damascus blade.

They talk for a while longer about matters closer at hand.

In the Fortress of Peter and Paul, the Polish prisoners have been issued another set of interrogation booklets. Since the last round yielded little but grandiose statements about the trampled rights of their beloved Motherland, this time questions have been replaced by direct instructions: List names of those who aided you in your rebellion; supplied you with weapons, food, money; and printed your manifestos. Their leader, Kosciuszko—kept under surveillance in a comfortable room in the Commandant’s house—is attended by the best surgeon. His wounds are healing well. The rumors, most likely started by Americans, have no basis in reality. There is not the slightest danger of amputation.

“In a few more months, Your Majesty,” her minister assures her, “the Polish cauldron will stop bubbling over.”

She nods in agreement.

Bezborodko requests permission to depart. His reports will come—as they always do—with the morning dispatches.

“Go!”

The Count is already at the door when he pauses, as if he has just remembered something. “I’ve taken one more liberty on Your Majesty’s behalf. In Sweden there is a custom of placing freshly cut pine branches on the floor before visitors arrive, to make the air smell sweet. Two days ago, I sent a cartload of pine branches to the Swedish mission.”

A self-satisfied grin blossoms on Bezborodko’s sensuous lips. “The King, I’m told, has been touched by Your Majesty’s thoughtful hospitality. To tears.”

Of all of her granddaughters, Alexandrine is the prettiest, with clear blue eyes, her hair falling in honeyed coils. She has the fluid grace of a ballerina. It is easy to forget that she was such an ugly baby, with a tuft of hair that wouldn’t fall off or grow.

“It’s best to let nature take its course,” Queenie counseled. In all matters
of love, her servant thinks herself an expert. Claims dreams that predict betrayals. Visions that foretell unexpected encounters, reveal hidden passions, trysts cleverly concealed. Queenie spots love bites and hands passing sweet notes. Gifts too lavish or intimate to be innocuous. To her undying satisfaction, Queenie foresaw Mister Redcoat’s treachery. Only in her own case does Queenie blunder. “Why would I wish a husband, madame?” she once asked. “To order me around? Tell me what I cannot do?”

In the blue drawing room, Alexandrine’s eyes dart to the ceiling, to the painted figures of Truth and Wisdom surrounded by a rosy-cheeked brood of plump children. For the last few weeks, Miss Williams has been assigning readings from Swedish history and geography. A few stories of the Vikings, and then, to capitalize on Alexandrine’s love for animals, a great deal about elk, reindeer, and the habits of seals.

By the window stand two giant pots in which blooming lemon trees display their yellow fruit against green, shiny foliage. Lemons, the gardeners tell the Empress, are rare plants: They can bloom and bear fruit at the same time.

The blue drawing room is close enough to St. George’s Hall for the music of the peacock clock to reach them. The elaborate golden clock was Potemkin’s gift, and an endless source of fascination for all her grandchildren. Alexandrine and her brothers loved to sneak into the Hall to watch the owl, peacock, and cockerel perform their little dance numbers. The cockerel was Constantine’s favorite, which didn’t stop him from sticking his finger into its beak and damaging it.

“I always liked the owl best.” Alexandrine laughs, jerking her head like an automaton and flapping her hands, a pretty accurate imitation of a machine that must have delighted her brothers once. “Even though it was in a cage.”

Alexander favored the peacock, for it was the biggest of them all. “And,” Alexandrine adds, her right hand making a graceful half-circle in the air, “it bowed so grandly and spread its tail. It’s so amusing now, Graman, but we used to imagine we could shrink and go to live with them.”

Her granddaughter is speaking too fast, forgetting the importance of enunciation. There is still so much she has to learn.

The court, Queenie assures her, is all excitement and joy. Everyone says Grand Duchess Alexandrine deserves all happiness available to us on this earth. Though, once she leaves for Sweden, the dear child will be sorely missed. The servants are already speculating on who will be going with her. Our Russian seamstress? The preserve maker? The pastry cook? The chocolatier?

“Remember how you always chose Gustav Adolf’s portrait?” Catherine interrupts Alexandrine’s chatter, patting the ottoman seat beside her. “Every time I showed it to you?”

“Yes, Graman.”

Alexandrine sits down gingerly, her gaiety subsiding as abruptly as it erupted, her cheeks now crimson with embarrassment. Her pink satin gown is decorated with white ribbons. The only jewels she wears are a single string of pearls. There is a faint smell of singed hair around her. The hairdresser should be more careful with his curling iron.

That had been their favorite game, a grandmother showing her eldest granddaughter portraits of eligible men sent by foreign courts, together with letters that detailed the advantages of a possible union. The sizes of kingdoms, strengths of alliances, the luster of connections and lineage. “Whom do you like best of all, Alexandrine?” she’d ask, and Alexandrine, dimples in her plump cheeks, would always point shyly at the Swedish heir to the throne.

“You’ll see him soon,” Catherine says now. “In his Swedish flesh and blood. Are you happy that he has come?”

Her granddaughter’s eyes seek the comfort of the Anatolian carpet with its octagonal patterns of elephant’s feet. “Yes, Graman. Only …”

“Only what, my dear?”

There is silence, uncomfortable and painful. Alexandrine is struggling with herself, knowing it is too late to hide a thought already announced. Where is it coming from, Catherine thinks, in all her grandchildren? This strain of timorous submission? Even Alexander has it, though he at least tries to hide it, knowing how it vexes her. He who had never been coddled or swaddled when he was a baby. Taught not to fear the dark. Allowed to explore whatever took his fancy. His questions were never ridiculed, always patiently answered.

“Isn’t … the King … already engaged?”

“But he is not married, is he?” Catherine answers lightly. There is no need to tell Alexandrine more than that. All the child needs is to be comforted. A few words will do, a clear line of reasoning:

“The King doesn’t care for Princess Louise, Alexandrine.”

“How do you know that, Graman?”

“He has made no attempt to even meet her. And he has come hundreds of miles to see you.”

Alexandrine’s eyes blink. “Why would the King even like me?” she wonders.

So far Miss Williams has made little progress in teaching Alexandrine how to overcome her fears. Although the day before, in her diary, the child wrote how she had made herself stand on a Gatchina bridge, the small wooden one in the park, over a waterfall. For a count of twenty-five breaths. With water roaring underneath. The bridge she always used to run over as fast as she could.
Why would it collapse just when I stood there?
she wrote.
Was I that important? Or was my fear a veil that covered my lack of true humility before God?

Catherine puts her arm around her granddaughter, pulls her closer. The child’s cheek rests on her bosom. “Because you are beautiful and sweet and graceful, my darling. And very, very important.”

Alexandrine’s body is soft, pliant. Trembling now, for the child is sobbing.

Let her cry. Hasn’t she herself always cried with much ease? From joy and pain. Frustration and the heady whirl of success. Tears are a cure, a release. Better than words. Better than Grandmother’s assurances. Tears will be more plentiful once Alexandrine is in Stockholm. Without her brothers and sisters. Without her Graman to come to in moments of doubt.

When the sobbing subsides, she lifts her granddaughter’s face up. “Spit,” she orders, presenting a handkerchief. Alexandrine obeys with a shy giggle. This, too, is an old childhood ritual. Wetting a handkerchief with saliva to wipe a stricken face. Her brothers would always poke their tongues out, or make monkey faces.

They both laugh at the memory.

“How are the Gatchina roses this summer, Alexandrine?” she asks. “Have you painted any?”

“The pink ones. I’ve found a beautiful rosebush near the bridge.”

There is an imprint on Alexandrine’s cheek where she had pressed it to her grandmother’s gown. Acorns and oak leaves woven from gold thread.

“The little wooden bridge over the waterfall?”

Alexandrine pauses for a moment before she nods and whispers, “Yes, Graman. That’s the one. How did you guess?”

When Alexandrine leaves, Catherine rings for Queenie.

Her maid knows her habits well, for she comes in with a bowl of birdseed and a cane. The cane is sturdy, made of ebony, with an ivory handle set in silver, its end carved into a lion’s head. “Venetian design,” Le Noiraud calls it, with an air of authority that she neither questions nor confirms.

Before opening the window, Queenie insists on wrapping a thick woolen shawl around her mistress’s shoulders. Everything is dangerous now—a chill, a sudden gust of the wind, an exertion she wouldn’t have given a second thought before.

The Empress submits herself patiently to Queenie’s fussing.