Empress of the Night (39 page)

Platon, gratified by having been addressed as
Votre Altesse
, asks Madame who her lucky model is now.

“Princess Dolgoruka,” Madame replies. “But if I could count on Mon Seigneur’s powers of persuasion, I would allow myself much higher hopes.”

Here it comes
, Catherine thinks,
the inevitable request
. And sure enough, after another elaborate bow that makes the ostrich feathers tremble, Madame Lebrun expresses her ardent hope that the Empress of All the Russias might, one happy day, grant a poor French exile the ultimate favor. “To paint Your Imperial Majesty’s divine countenance.”

“Perhaps in a few months,” Catherine replies. “When I have more time to pose.”

The fan in Madame’s hand flutters frantically. Her lips part in a beatific smile. “Oh, Your Majesty,” Lebrun gushes, eager to see victory even in a vague promise. “This indeed is the happiest day of my life.”

She catches sight of her grandson at the open window, staring into the smoky darkness. Alexander does not move, apparently impervious to the growing merriment of the room, the laughter, the swaying tones of the polonaise.

She would have liked to see his face, but it is turned away from her, and she can only imagine it. Pinched with apprehension, intense. Poor Monsieur Alexander, always wishing to turn back the clock and retreat to his boyhood. The best time of his life, she thinks, not without pride. Her gift to him, to all her grandchildren. The time of wonder tempered by reason. The time of wholesome joy and worthy pursuits.

You cannot be a child forever, Alexander
, she could tell him, but won’t.

It is getting late. The rain has stopped and the night is starry. On the
canal, small boats float, bathed in lantern light. Curious passengers look toward the Tauride Palace, eager to catch the glimpses of the glittering ball. “How many people are there, Graman, who have never seen me and whom I shall never see?” Monsieur Alexander asked her once. What an inquisitive child he was. So thoughtful, and so very, very clever.

The ball unfolds in its own predictable way. Hardly a moment passes before someone comes to kiss her hand and exchange a few words. At the end of the evening her hand is swollen.

Prince Adam is leading Elizabeth in a minuet, each of his gliding steps precise, like the movements in a Genevan clock. Through her lorgnette, she watches the Prince’s lean face, set in grim concentration. What is the matter with today’s youth? Why are they prone to these serious moods?

To her relief she notes that Alexander leaves his solitary post and joins the dancers with true joy on his face.
A fine open countenance
, one of the recent visitors to the court described him in his letter.
Well spoken of by everybody
.

He is dancing now with Alexandrine, holding her hand by the tips of her fingers, making her circle around him. Vishka should be reminded to send the dance master a nice gift. There should be enough snuffboxes left from the last order. With her profile carved in ivory. The dance master may not deserve the most sumptuous ones, but one set with smaller diamonds will do.

Alexandrine, her golden hair elaborately braided and adorned with roses and forget-me-nots, looks older than her fourteen years. Bolik, the fugitive, has not been forgotten. There has been a sighting by the Admiralty that sent her granddaughter into a frenzy, but the ungrateful beast managed to elude the palace grooms.

After the minuets, the orchestra begins to play a polonaise. Prince Adam must have noticed the imperial gaze, for he is bowing to her, his gloved hand on his chest. Is she the only one who notices how Elizabeth’s presence brings color to his cheeks?

Gustav Adolf is dancing with Alexandrine again, having intercepted her hand from Alexander. The child is meekly submitting herself to this tyranny. They form a most enchanting pair, two slim, young bodies gliding across the ballroom floor.

The King has made it widely known that the Russian imperial hospitality has quite overwhelmed him. He is touched not only by the magnificent entertainment he has experienced, but by the small, precious gestures of thoughtfulness. Especially the pine branches sent to the Swedish mission to make his room smell of fresh pine needles.

Alexandrine, her face a lovely rosy hue, is making a small circle around the King. When they are married, Catherine will make sure that in winter Alexandrine receives the finest caviar from Astrakhan and her favorite
varenikis
. In the summer months, she decides, she will send her granddaughter Russian silk and china, and a good supply of diamond-studded snuffboxes to give away, mere baubles but priceless enticements to win loyalty.

Alexandrine will need many good friends at the Swedish court.

The ball will continue well past midnight. After the dances end, the young men will go to the adjacent room. They’ll wrestle, take burning candles out of water with their mouths. Such simple amusements will do them good. Alexander is excellent in them. So is Constantine. The Swedish King will have to try hard to beat his future brothers-in-law.

“Find out what they are talking about,” she orders Le Noiraud, for Gustav Adolf has approached Alexander and the two of them have moved to the side of the ballroom.

As soon as the Favorite is gone, Alexandrine rushes to her side, asking breathlessly: “Did you watch me dance, Graman?”

“Yes,” she says, jokingly. “You were so clumsy.”

“I wasn’t,” Alexandrine says. “Everybody said so.”

“Everybody? Or just one person?” Catherine teases. “What has this person told you, besides praising your dancing skills?”

“That I have the most melodious voice. That I’m the most beautiful of all the young women …” Alexandrine prattles her delight. What a pleasure to see her so alive with joy. There has been no talk recently of Blessed Xenia and other martyrs or brides of Christ. If it weren’t for Bolik, the child’s happiness would be complete.

“How I envy you that you will soon see Stockholm,” she tells Alexandrine. “I hear it is a very handsome city.”

“But Graman,” Alexandrine protests. “The King hasn’t said anything of inviting me there.”

What lovely teeth this child has, small and even. Like little pearls. A blessed Princess, who will be—Catherine knows it—so happy. Whose life will be peaceful and long. She can see her granddaughter surrounded by children, beside a husband who adores her. The vision is so powerful that she squeezes her eyes shut.

“Are you feeling unwell, Graman?” the child asks anxiously.

“I’m feeling very happy tonight, my dear,” she replies and clasps her granddaughter’s hand. The small, shapely hand of a young woman, a hand she will so soon give away.

Le Noiraud is back from his errand, waiting for her permission to approach.

“Go now,” she says to Alexandrine. “You mustn’t leave your suitor alone for too long. There are many beautiful princesses here eager to steal him.”

“This is
not
true,” Alexandrine protests, just as she used to only a few years ago when told: “Oh, you’ve just missed a unicorn. Hurry, hurry, it is still in the garden. If you run, you can still see him.”

Platon tells her that the Swedish King and Alexander were speaking about the Russian
banya
. “Is it like the ones in Finland?” the King wanted to know. In Sweden, he told Alexander, they used to have
bastu
. It wasted firewood; it made morals loose. The venereal diseases spread through them like wildfire. He quoted the Swedish doctors who warn that such baths bring convulsions, loss of vision, tumors. This is why, he said, they did away with this custom. “Nothing makes the body as clean as a good sweat,” Alexander said to that. “And the women?” the King asked. “Do they go to these Russian
banyas
, too? Doesn’t the steam disfigure their bodies? Make their skins brown and shriveled?” In reply, Alexander offered to take the King with him to the palace
banya
. “You will feel like a River God,” he promised.

“And what did the King say to that?” Catherine asks Platon.

“That he will try the baths at the Tsarskoye Selo. As soon as he has a chance to go there.”

The big ballroom clock chimes eleven. It’s an old clock, not always reliable. “Why keep it?” Le Noiraud complains, but Catherine refuses to have it replaced, for it remembers the youth of Peter the Great. She has
always loved antiquities, but now old things are doubly precious to her. They have withstood dangers and the vicissitudes of chance.

Today was a good day. She has used her time well. At the Winter Palace, Anna Fyodorovna will be obliged to present herself in court dresses every morning. There will be no more bruises. Gustav Adolf is again dancing with Alexandrine, and even when he doesn’t, he cannot keep his eyes away from her.

She can rest now.

“I shall let the young play,” she tells her lover. “You may stay if you wish.”

Platon directs his cautious gaze toward the place where his brother, Valerian, leans on the marble pillar, surrounded by the prettiest maids-of-honor. Ever since his return from the Polish campaign, Valerian’s every appearance at court creates a small sensation. He is more handsome than Platon, big-shouldered and more manly. His missing leg only adds to his appeal. A Russian hero can claim his spoils.

Poor Le Noiraud, so painfully aware of anyone’s advantages in the game of passion. If only he could give her pleasure, as he used to, when her body could still feel desire. If he could make her melt in his arms, under his tongue. If he knew she waited for his touch.

Rogerson’s tonics give her nothing but gas. Or a bitter taste in her mouth that won’t go away. Inside her there is nothing but the ashen memory of what was once a delight.

In the palace yard, the servants have sprinkled the cobblestones with water. They are sweeping up the debris of the ball: torn handkerchiefs, crumpled ribbons, horse dung, spilled oats and sawdust, pieces of broken glass. The willow brooms swish. Baskets are filled and carted away. In the distance, someone is sharpening tools. She hears the soft rumble of metal grinding against a whetting stone.

Vishka has reported fifteen lost jewels and one twisted ankle. There is evidence of trysts on the library ottoman, the billiard table, and the servants’ stairs. A drunken guest has climbed into the kangaroo cage and put a hat on one of the beasts. “It was a round hat, too,” a symbol of revolutionary sentiments, Vishka declared with a sour grimace.

Revolutionary sentiments remind the Empress of the Polish prisoners, a constant source of irritation. Potemkin may have been right when he argued against partitioning Poland. “Keep the country weak, but alive,” he insisted. “Let them quarrel among themselves; then they won’t unite against us.”

Sometimes all of it is too much to bear.

On top of it, money is flowing far too freely. The water supply system in the Tsarskoye Selo is in dire need of repairs. The estimate is for 68,193 rubles.

The secretary responsible for the royal residences, Peter Turchaninov, presents her with his proposal for new furnishings of the Chinese pagodas. The cost is more than twenty-five thousand rubles.

“Why so much?” Catherine asks.

Turchaninov, a little man who bows and scrapes incessantly, is mortified. “Quality is expensive, Your Highness,” he mutters, stealing a careful look at her face, checking how much patience she still has for him. His cringing makes her long to slap him.

Among the proposed costs, the most expensive items are Holy Icons, leather armchairs, new dressing tables and chests of drawers. Fringes and tassels double the cost of the draperies.

“We can do without those,” she decides, as Turchaninov bows again. “And no one will notice.”

Turchaninov is not pleased, but he will never scrape up enough courage to try to influence her judgment. His thoughts are like ants in the unknown territories, probing the air, checking where it is safe to venture.

Other costs can be at least halved, the Empress tells him. Holy Icons must be the smallest that can be found. Imitations painted by serf artists would do. No mirror should cost more than twenty-five rubles. She doesn’t need armchairs. Black leather chairs will do just fine. There must be enough old dressing tables, chests of drawers, and washbasins in the attic. “Also,” she adds, “when you furnish new guest rooms, use the furniture we already have. Borrow pieces from the rooms and return them when they are no longer needed.”

Turchaninov seems to have shrunk even more, almost dwarfed by the papers on which he scribbles his corrections. What is he thinking? That the Tsarina of Russia is losing her mind? How can she spend hundreds of
thousands on palaces for others and begrudge herself a bit of luxury? What does this tell the foreigners who come to observe how the Russian Emperors live?

The foreigners. An ever-present chorus of critics. Their words are the mirrors Russians see themselves in.

Turchaninov has finished his scribblings and looks down at his boots. There is something he wants to say. He has an ominous grimace on his face, as if he possessed advance knowledge of a disaster. What will he tell her? That cattle no longer breed? That bread dough no longer rises?

Turchaninov is not wearing a wig, and his hair is smeared thick with pomade.
If he walks in the sun
, Catherine thinks,
it will melt and stream down his neck
. The image of her secretary with rivulets of pomade streaming down his neck strikes her as immensely funny. But she manages to stifle merriment.

“Do tell me what is on your mind,” she says and waits.

Her request unleashes a flood of words.

It is Paul. As soon as the Swedish King accepted his invitation to Gatchina, her son ordered the old trees cut down. Every single one of them. Massive oaks that remembered the time of Peter the Great, all carted away by the serfs.

Why?

To make room for a military parade!

“I just thought Your Majesty should know,” Turchaninov adds mournfully. “Trees take such a long, long time to grow.”

Queenie, who comes in as soon as Turchaninov leaves, is panting with exertion.