Terrible Tsarinas: Five Russian Women in Power (11 page)

To prevent any protest against this blind rigor on the part of the legal authorities, Bühren created a new regiment of the Guard, the Ismailovsky Regiment, and gave the command not to a Russian soldier (they were wary of them, at the top!), but to a Baltic nobleman, Karl Gustav Loewenwolde, the brother of the Grand Master of the court, Reinhold Loewenwolde. This elite unit joined the Semyonovsky and Preobrazhensky regiments in order to supplement the forces available for maintaining law and order.

Their instructions were simple: every living person within the country must be rendered incapable of doing harm. The most famous dignitaries were, on the basis of their prominence in itself, the most highly suspect in the view of the chancellery’s henchmen. It was practically a crime not to have German or Baltic ancestors in one’s lineage.

Frightened and indignant, Anna Ivanovna’s subjects certainly considered Bühren responsible for these evils, but they also blamed the tsarina. The boldest dared to mutter among themselves that a woman is congenitally unable to govern an empire and that the curse inherent in her gender had been communicated to the Russian nation, guilty of imprudently entrusting its destiny to her.

Even the errors of international politics were blamed on her; of course, that was actually Ostermann’s area of responsibility. This character of such limited capability and such unlimited ambition was cocksure of his diplomatic genius. His initiatives in this field cost the country dearly. For one thing, in order to please Austria, he intervened in Poland - thus making trouble with France, favored the candidature of Stanislaw Leszczynski. Then, after the crowning of Augustus III, he thought it would be an astute maneuver to swear never to partition the country; this did not convince anyone and did not earn him any gratitude. Moreover, counting on support from Austria - which as usual would let him down - he went to war with Turkey. Münnich achieved a series of successes on the battlefield, but the losses were so heavy that Ostermann was constrained to sign a peace accord. At the Congress of Belgrade, in 1739, he even asked France to mediate - meanwhile trying to bribe the envoy from Versailles - but the results he obtained were contemptible: he managed to hang onto Russia’s rights in the Azov peninsula, with the proviso that the area not be fortified, and he gained a few acres of steppe between the Dniepr and the southernmost Bug. In exchange, Russia promised to demolish the fortifications at Taganrog and to give up its merchant fleet and warships in the Black Sea, leaving all free navigation to the Turkish fleet. Russia’s only territorial gain during Anna’s reign was the effective annexation of Ukraine, which was placed under Russian control in 1734.

Internationally, Russia was seen as a weak and disoriented nation, but inside the country new and absurd aspirants to the throne were cropping up everywhere. This phenomenon was nothing new. Since the epidemic of false Dmitris appeared at the death of Ivan the Terrible, the obsession with miraculously resurrected tsareviches had become an endemic and national disease. Nevertheless, this turmoil in public opinion, however ludicrous it might be, was starting to disturb Anna Ivanovna. She saw the trend as an increasingly specific threat to her legitimacy, and Bühren encouraged that view.

She feared above all that her aunt Elizabeth Petrovna might have a belated renewal of popularity, since she was the sole living daughter of Peter the Great. There was a chance that among the nobility the same specious arguments that (thankfully) had failed to compromise her own coronation might enjoy a resurgence, and not so innocuously this time. Moreover, she found her rival’s beauty and natural grace intolerable. It was not enough for her to eject the tsarevna from the palace in the hope that the court, and everyone else, would end up forgetting all about this spoilsport.

To forestall any attempt to transfer power to another lineage, she even thought, in 1731, of an authoritative modification of the family rights in the house of Romanov. Having no child of her own and being extremely concerned over the future of the monarchy, she adopted her young niece, the only daughter of her elder sister Catherine Ivanovna and Charles Leopold, prince of Mecklenburg.

The little princess was brought to Russia in the twinkling of an eye. The gamine was only 13 years old at the time. Lutheran by confession, she was re-baptized as an Orthodox and had her first name changed from Elizabeth to Anna Leopoldovna; she became the second most eminent figure in the empire, after her aunt Anna Ivanovna. She grew into an insipid teenager with a fair complexion; there wasn’t much sparkle in her eye, but she had enough brains to manage a conversation (provided that the subject was not too serious). As soon as she reached the age of 19, her aunt, the tsarina, who was a good judge of a woman’s physical and moral resources, decreed that she was ready for marriage. Suitable prospects were hastily sought.

Of course, Anna Ivanovna turned her attention first toward what she liked to think of as her homeland, Germany. That land of discipline and virtue was the only place to find husbands and wives worthy of reigning over barbarian Muscovy. Charged with discovering a
rara avis
amidst the flocks of crowing roosters, Karl Gustav Loewenwolde went out to see what he could see. Upon his return, he recommended either Margrave Charles of Prussia or Prince Anthony Ulrich of Bevern, of the house of Brunswick, brother-in-law of the crown prince in Prussia. Personally, he was inclined in favor of the second candidate, whereas Ostermann, with his special interest in foreign relations, was inclined toward the first. The advantages and disadvantages of the two champions were debated before Anna Ivanovna, without consulting the interested party who would, however, have her word to say, for she was already over the age of 20.

To tell the truth, the empress had only one goal in all this political-marital machination: to have her niece bring a child into the world as soon as possible, in order to make it heir to the crown, which would cut short any maneuvers by external parties. But who would be more likely to impregnate sweet Anna Leopoldovna faster, Charles of Prussia or Prince Anthony Ulrich?

Hesitating, they had Anthony Ulrich brought in to be presented to Her Majesty. One glance was enough for the Empress to evaluate the applicant: a decent young man, polished, weak. Certainly not appropriate for her niece - nor for the country, for that matter. But the omniscient Bühren was anxious to build him up. And time was of the essence, for the girl was not sitting idle, herself.

She had recently fallen in love with Count Charles Maurice of Lynar, Saxon minister at St. Petersburg. Fortunately, the king of Saxony had recalled the diplomat and posted him to another station. Heartbroken, Anna Leopoldovna immediately threw herself into another passion. This time, it was a woman: Baroness Julie Mengden. They quickly became inseparable. How far did they take their intimacy? They were the chief butt of gossip at the court and in the embassies; “a lover’s passion for a new mistress is nothing, compared to this,” noted the English minister Edward Finch.6 On the other hand, the Prussian minister Axel of Mardefeld was more skeptical; he wrote to his king, in French: “Nobody can understand the source of the Grand Duchess’s [Anna Leopoldovna] supernatural attraction to Juliette [Julie Mengden]; so I am not surprised that the public accuses this girl of following the tastes of the famous Sapho… a black calumny,… for the late empress, on similar charges, made this young lady undergo a rigorous examination,… and the commission’s report was favorable in that they found that she is a girl in every part, without any appearance of maleness [sic].”7 Given the danger that this deviant love represented, Anna Ivanovna decided that it was time to take action. A bad marriage would be better than a prolonged delay. As for the virgin’s tender feelings, Her Majesty laughed them off. This little person, whose grace and innocence had charmed her at first, had become annoying over the years; she had become demanding, and had a disappointingly obstinate temperament. Certainly, she had adopted Anna not to make her happy, as she had claimed hundreds of times, but to put more distance between the throne and Tsarevna Elizabeth Petrovna, whom she hated. Anna Leopoldovna’s only value in her eyes was as a smokescreen, a last resort, or a convenient womb to be used. So let her settle for someone like Anthony Ulrich for husband! Even that was too good for an airhead like her!

Despite the fiancée’s tears, the wedding took place on July 14, 1739. The majestic ball that followed the bridal blessing bedazzled even the most bilious diplomats. The bride wore a gown of silver thread, heavily embroidered. A diamond crown shone with the light of a thousand flames in her thick dark hair, with luscious braids. However, she was not the star of the ball. In her fairytale toilette, she looked out of place in this company. Among all the joyful faces, hers was marked by melancholy and resignation. And she was eclipsed by the beauty, the smile and the poise of the Tsarevna Elizabeth Petrovna who, according to protocol, had to be invited to temporarily come out of retirement at Ismailovo. Dressed in a gown of rose and silver, very much décolleté, and scintillating with her mother’s jewels (the late Empress Catherine I), it seemed as though it was she, and not the bride, who was enjoying the most wonderful day of her life. Even Anthony Ulrich, the brand new husband so little appreciated by Anna Leopoldovna, had eyes only for the tsarevna, the unwanted guest, whose defeat this ceremony was supposed to confirm. Obliged to observe her rival’s triumph, hour after hour, the tsarina’s hatred only grew. This creature that she thought she had cut down was still rearing its head.

As for Anna Leopoldovna, she suffered like a martyr, knowing she was only a puppet with her aunt pulling the strings. What distressed her most of all was the prospect of what awaited her in bed, after the candelabra were extinguished and the dancers had dispersed. An expiatory victim, she understood very well that while all these people were pretending to be happy over her good fortune, nobody was in fact concerned about her feelings, nor even her pleasure. She was not there to be happy, but to be inseminated.

When the so-dreaded moment arrived, the highest ladies and the wives of the leading foreign diplomats accompanied Anna Leopoldovna, in procession, to the bridal suite to participate in the traditional “bedding of the bride.” This was not exactly the same ceremony as that which Anna Ivanovna had imposed on her two buffoons, condemned to freeze all night in the “house of ice”; and yet, the effect was the same for the young woman, forcibly married. She was shaken to the bone, not by cold but by fear, at the thought of the sad destiny that awaited her with a man that she did not love. When the ladies in her retinue finally withdrew, she gave in to deep panic and, giving the slip to her chambermaids, she fled to the gardens of the Summer Palace. And there, in tears, she spent the first night of her married life.

Hearing of this scandalous marital truancy, the tsarina and Bühren called in the poor girl and, preaching, reasoning, begging and threatening, demanded that she carry through at the first opportunity. Sequestered in the next room, a few young ladies of honor observed the scene through a crack in the door. At the height of the discussion, they saw the tsarina, flushed with anger, slap her recalcitrant niece full in the face. The lesson bore fruit: one year later, on August 23, 1740, Anna gave birth to a son. He was immediately baptized as Ivan Antonovich (son of Anthony). The tsarina, who for several months had been suffering from a vague ailment that the doctors were hesitant to put a name to, was suddenly reinvigorated by “the great news.” Transported with joy, she required that all Russia rejoice in this providential birth. As always, accustomed to obey and make believe, her subjects celebrated riotously.

But among them, several prudent thinkers asked themselves by what right a brat of thoroughly German origin (since he was Brunswick-Bevern by his father, and Mecklenburg-Schwerin by his mother), and whose only connection to the Romanov dynasty was through his great-aunt Catherine I, wife of Peter the Great (herself of Polish-Livonian origin), should be promoted right from the cradle to the rank of true heir to the Russian crown? By virtue of what law, what national tradition was the Tsarina Anna Ivanovna assuming the power to designate her successor? How could it be that she had no advisor at her side with enough respect for the history of Russia to hold her back from taking such a sacrilegious initiative? However, as usual, they kept these offensive comments to themselves, not wishing to run afoul of Bühren who, although he was German too, claimed to know better than any Russian what was appropriate for Russia.

At one time, he had vaguely thought of marrying his own son, Peter, to Anna Leopoldovna. This plan had failed because of the princess’s recent union with Anthony Ulrich; now, the favorite was anxious to ensure indirectly his future as acting Head of State. He considered it all the more urgent to advance his pawns on the chessboard since Her Majesty’s health was worsening by the day. There was a concern that she was suffering from a complicated renal impairment due to the effects of “being over the hill.” The doctors talked of “stones.”

Despite her sufferings, the tsarina still had periods of lucidity. Bühren took advantage of this to ask one last favor: to be named Regent of the empire until the child - who had been just proclaimed heir to the throne - came to majority. This brazen request unleashed the indignation of the dying empress’s other councilors: Loewenwolde, Ostermann and Münnich. They were soon joined in their palace plot by Cherkassky and Bestuzhev.

After hours of secret discussions, they agreed that the greatest danger ahead was by no means their compatriot Bühren, but the clique of Russian aristocrats, who still had not accepted being brushed aside. In the final analysis, they reckoned, given the danger that some champion of the old-stock nobility would make an attempt to seize power, it would be preferable, for the German clan, to support their dear old accomplice Bühren. Thus, these five confederates (three of whom were of Germanic origin while the two others had ties to foreign courts) decided to place the destiny of the empire in the hands of a character who had never shown any concern for the traditions of Russia and who had not even taken the trouble to learn the language of the country that he claimed to govern. Having come to this resolve, they so advised Bühren - who had never doubted that they would see things his way.