Empress of the Night (37 page)

“Does he advocate solitude, then?” Le Noiraud asks, his head cocked like that of a curious bird or an eager puppy. He knows full well she won’t resist explanations. “Wants us to become hermits? Connect with wild beasts?”

“Oh, no,” she protests. “All he says is that under peaceful shades of solitude, the mind regenerates, faculties acquire new force.”

Le Noiraud blinks and shakes his head in protest. “I don’t wish for solitude,” he mutters. “I wish to be with
you
.”

She smiles at him.

Alone, she looks through the window at the leaden sky. The rain is not welcome, for it will stop the guests from walking in the garden. It would be much better to give the young an excuse for moonlit walks.

Oh, well
. Not all can be controlled. Better to concentrate on what can be.

On her writing table lie the dispositions for the evening. The sequence of dances, seating arrangements for the chief table and the card games. Le Noiraud will sit beside her, together with Lev Naryshkin. They will keep her laughing while the young ones dance. Outside, the fireworks will display Catherine’s wheel and shooting stars so that wishes can be made. She checks the selections of flowers, wine, and brandy, the choice of china. The plates from the Green Frog service, the most suitable for bucolic thoughts. Gilded cups always look good in candlelight. The table centerpieces will display the porcelain figures from her collection of the peoples of Russia. A few chosen ones should be placed around the figurine of her, the Empress, seated on the throne.

In spite of all these efforts, she knows, the ball will not equal the ones Grishenka used to give. Without him, splendor is a shadowy word.

For months after the news from Jassy arrived, Potemkin was everywhere, in the people he once loved, in the places he inhabited, in the objects he
touched. His presence was evoked by a book with gnawed edges, for she could never stop him from chewing on anything he held in his hands, or by a broken china basket lovingly glued together in penance for a bout of anger. Catherine kept waking up to the memory of seeing him standing over her, his face gray in the semidarkness, his giant body hunched. Gazing at her for a long time and then, soundlessly, making the sign of the cross over her head.

Now, five years later, she remembers him only the way he was on that last day she saw him. In his riding boots, the black patch over his bad eye. Stumbling as he entered her room.
He’s younger than I am
, she kept telling herself, seeing how ill he looked.
He will bury me
.

Only here can she still, sometimes, recapture the richness of the past. Only here, at an odd moment like this one, in this small bedroom or in his sprawling winter garden where he once lavishly planted oleanders and bougainvillea, she may feel Grishenka’s presence at her side.

Beloved
matushka
, not seeing you makes it even harder for me to live …

Le Noiraud, whom Queenie must have fetched, uncorks a bottle with reviving salts and places it under her nose. The acrid smell of ammonia makes her gag. She swats at it, as if it were an annoying fly.

Le Noiraud wraps his arms around her. “You’ve been thinking of him again,” her lover murmurs. There is nothing but concern in his voice.

She nods.

“Cry, Katinka,” he coaxes in his silky voice. “Cry.”

It feels good to admit to grief. To let tears flow and then have them wiped off her cheeks gently. To see her own reflection flickering in Le Noiraud’s eyes.

In the end, work is always the best remedy.

She reaches for Bezborodko’s latest report on Alexander’s Polish friend, Adam, with whom her grandson has been spending so much time lately. The two have been seen in animated conversations at the embankment.
They have also ridden to the countryside around Tsarskoye Selo, where they spent whole days rambling through the fields and meadows. Seven times in August alone.

Shooting birds?

Talking
, Bezborodko writes in his report.
Of Rousseau, American democracy, and food
.

Prince Adam has come to St. Petersburg at her orders. His family, the Czartoryskis, have foolishly backed Kosciuszko’s rebellion and had their estates sequestered as a result. When they begged her forgiveness, the Empress wrote: Send your son to Russia first.

The Czartoryskis are an old Polish family. Their lines are ancient, their connections by blood or marriage impeccable. And their ambitions are vast. Now—with the new borders—they have become Russian subjects. Defeat always breeds resentment.

The Czartoryskis, her minister assures her, are fast learners. They’ve accepted what is plain to see. From now on, power comes only from the Imperial Court.

Perhaps.

It’s true that Prince Adam no longer resembles the wary guest he had been when he arrived. Polite, oh, yes, but also stiff and aloof. Now, the Dolgorukis find him charming, the Vorontzovs praise his wit and elegance. And, of course, Maria Fyodorovna considers Adam the crème de la crème. Though her daughter-in-law’s gushings have to be taken with a grain of salt. One of the Czartoryski girls married Maria’s brother.

So what have Alexander and Adam been talking about on all these long walks?

The spy’s report is not very illuminating here. The two wanderers dismissed the servants. Carried their own gear. Testimonies of a few peasants at whose huts the two sought refreshments are brief: The grand gentlemen delighted in black bread, sour cream, and especially fresh kvass straight from the root cellar.

Conclusions?

The report is clear here. Disadvantages of this friendship: Grand Duke Alexander has a tender heart and is prone to idealistic flights of
fancy. What sort of Polish nonsense might Prince Adam try to impart to a future Tsar? There is also jealousy at court, for the imperial grandson has not chosen a Russian prince of blood as his companion.

Advantages? For a future Russian Tsar, an influential Polish friend is a valuable asset. Especially one who possesses a fine, well-educated mind, one in whose company Alexander won’t be drawn into youthful mischief. Books have already been checked out of the Imperial Library: Rousseau. Tacitus. Plutarch. Cicero. Only the night before, her spies tell her, the two discussed the American principles of government for hours.

If such animated exchanges of ideas continue, Alexander might stop sneaking out of the palace to take part in his father’s Gatchina parades. A few signs point to it already. Alexander’s Gatchina uniform is still in his bedroom in a locked drawer, but he has not had it brushed for a full week.

So I advise patience, coupled with caution
, Bezborodko concludes.
Especially since nowadays, the young find confessions irresistible
.

Bezborodko is right. At court, little can be hidden away. And what is concealed, sooner or later, will be trusted to a letter, or the pages of some diary. Patience has always been Catherine’s friend.

Her eyes return to Bezborodko’s summary of Alexander and Adam’s nightlong discussion. How they first decided on a question to be resolved: What saved the American Revolution from the excesses of the French debacle? Alexander favored fate and the will of the people. Adam argued for the vastness of American territory and the lack of traditional structures.

Her son Paul is a dismal failure, an embarrassment she doesn’t deserve, but her grandson is her most precious reward. Her smart, wise, handsome grandson, whose mind she has been shaping since the day he was born. A promise so splendidly fulfilled.

Her Monsieur Alexander.

Her flesh and blood.

For she can see herself in him.

He is Russia’s future.

She is still absorbed in these thoughts when, from outside the room, muffled sobs interrupt.

“Grand Duchess Anna Fyodorovna is begging to be received,” Queenie says, a wry smile on her plump face. “On her knees.”

Queenie smells of pastries. Plums, berries, and melted butter. She must have been to the kitchens again, unable to resist the bubbling pots and sweet froth of fresh fillings.

“Now?” Catherine asks, casting a look at her desk.

The sobs do not diminish.

“Anna Fyodorovna insists,” Queenie says. “I told her to come back tomorrow, but she won’t listen. She is not herself, Your Majesty.”

“Let her in, then,” she says and sighs. If Anna is sent away now, she’ll go to Elizabeth or Alexandrine with her woes. Spoil their mood.

Queenie opens the door. Constantine’s bride rushes in. Her black hair has been hastily pinned up; red ribbons flutter behind her. The sleeves of her white morning dress are stained with soot. Was she trying to start a fire? In August? There are livid circles under her hazel eyes, and she clasps her hands and presses them to her small chest, tugging at the folds of her fichu.

A sweetly pretty girl, petite.
Piquant
, someone described her. When she first arrived in Russia, her face was all life and mirth. Now it’s tearstained.

“Your Majesty,” she mutters, placing a respectful kiss on Catherine’s hand.

“Whatever is the matter, Anna?”

Anna does not answer.

“Sit down, my child,” Catherine says, handing her a handkerchief. Instead of wiping her eyes, the girl rubs at them as if trying to erase a stubborn stain. These eyes used to be her best feature. They seemed bold and eloquent, suggesting a certain hardiness that could have served the girl well. But Anna shows little toughness now.

“I’m so sorry, Your Majesty! Please help me!”

“What are you sorry about? Have you done something wrong?”

“Oh, no,” the girl exclaims. Being sorry was just an expression she has assumed would please the Empress. Her hands, unclasped, have settled over her belly. Is she
enceinte
, perhaps? Beating Elizabeth to it!

But Anna Fyodorovna does not have the startled expression of an expectant mother.

One does not wish for these confidences. It would suit Catherine to stay away from the sordid details of her grandson’s marriage. To be spared intercessions and tears. She recalls the time of Anna’s arrival in Russia, the fetes, the soirees, the incessant escapades through the chambers of the Winter Palace to see the imperial jewels, or the grand chandeliers in the ballroom. One would hope that the little goose had been warned what an imperial marriage entails.

So why is she, the Empress and their grandmother, being treated to some sordid scene of family drama?

“There is no good way to say what you have come to say, Anna.” Her voice is as flat and curt as she can make it without sounding angry. “So just say it.”

The girl hesitates. “Your Imperial Majesty has been so kind to me …”

Married for four months already. Time for her to realize the limitations of childish dreams. Put aside her silly novels.

“Well, then, my dear child,” she says. She thinks:
You are wasting my time, taking minutes I need for matters far graver than a bride who expects a great deal of happiness where merely some is possible
.

“My husband doesn’t love me,” Anna blurts out.

So the little Princess has seen some of her dreams shattered.
God dealt you a decent enough hand, Princess
, she wants to say,
but you have to play it well
. Instead, she asks: “Why do you say that?”

“He is often despondent.”

“Why does that bother you? His disposition is as it has always been.”

“He says odd things.”

“What things?”

“That he wishes to run away and live among the soldiers. That he will dig himself a hole in the ground and live there.”

“Does he say it often?”

“Yes. And he sometimes leaves for the whole night and does not reveal to me why. Or where he goes.”

“And why do you need to know his every step?”

There is more and more hesitation in Anna’s eyes. A silly girl, forgetting how little she has brought into this marriage. Why do people need the reminders of their insignificance? Why, when left to their own devices, do they dream up countless other destinies for themselves? Her
spies report that Anna is not unwilling to respond to the advances of handsome courtiers. Was that what Constantine noticed? And is this why she is trying to discredit him?

“Your Beloved Majesty, I beg you,” Anna whimpers.

There is more. Constantine has told his wife that he married her only to stop Grandmaman from scolding.

“But this is just childish nonsense!” Catherine exclaims. “You don’t know him as well as I do. You must’ve upset him with something. He is rash in his anger. But he has a good heart and he’ll grow to love you.”

Anna drops her head, stares at the floor.

This is what it comes to. Anna Fyodorovna wants to be reassured.

“I’ve been like you,” she tells Constantine’s bride. “I came here to marry a stranger. My husband was not in love with me at first. I had to make him love me. I had to find my own place at court.

“As a Grand Duchess, I had to make myself useful to him. Share his interests. Help him with chores he considered tedious. I learned everything that was important to him. I won his trust.”

Anna Fyodorovna is staring at the floor, not daring to interrupt. Perhaps some of this story will penetrate her foolish dreams. Perhaps it will be enough.

But it’s not. The little Princess is shaking her head, pulling up the sleeves of her gown to reveal bruises, blue and yellow, on her arms. Then she opens the morning gown and lowers the chemise. The skin of her breast is mottled with welts.

There is a moment of silence. Time to consider what is possible, what can be said, and what needs to be merely hinted at.

“Have you spoken to anyone about this, Anna?” Catherine asks, carefully.

Her grandson’s bride shakes her head, but is this the whole truth? The rambling letters she writes to her mother are mostly filled with trivial details. Has she managed to send others, ones her spies didn’t intercept? Or perhaps these seemingly innocuous words she uses are part of a cipher? Though what would Maman do now but advise her daughter to be patient, speak of duty and marital obligations?