Terrible Tsarinas: Five Russian Women in Power (17 page)

La Chétardie was at last recalled by his government, and he was preparing for his final audience before leaving the palace when Elizabeth called him in and spontaneously suggested that he accompany her on the pilgrimage she wished to make to the [Holy Trinity] Troitsky-St. Sergievsky Monastery, just north of Moscow.* [*
Ed. note
: This was one of the earliest and most influential religious centers in Russia and, indeed, helped to concentrate power in Moscow during the Middle Ages.] Flattered by this return to grace, the ambassador traveled with her to this high holy place. Lodged very comfortably with the tsarina’s retinue, he did not leave her side for eight days. To be frank, Elizabeth was delighted by this discreet “companionship.” She took La Chétardie with her to visit the churches as well as in the drawing rooms. The courtiers were already whispering that the “Gaulois” was about to replace Maurice of Saxony in Her Majesty’s favor.

But, as soon as the little imperial band returned to St. Petersburg, La Chétardie had to admit that once more he had begun to rejoice too soon. Getting a hold on herself after a brief and very feminine lapse, Elizabeth once again took a very cool, even distant, tone with La Chétardie, as in their earlier conversations. Time and again, she made appointments with him and then broke them, and one day when he complained to her about Bestuzhev, whose ostracism of France was close to an obsession (according to the Fernchman), she set him in his place with a few sharp words. “We do not condemn people before proving their crimes!”6 However, the day before La Chétardie’s departure, she sent him a snuffbox studded with diamonds, with her portrait in miniature in the middle.

The day after this necessary separation from a character who charmed and irritated her by turns, Elizabeth was as sad as if she had lost a dear friend. While La Chétardie was stopped at a stagehouse along the way, an emissary from Elizabeth caught up with him. The man handed him a note in a sealed envelope, bearing only the words: “France will be in my heart forever.”7 That sounds like the wail of a lover who has been forsaken - but by whom? By an ambassador? By a king? By France itself? Her feelings must have been quite confused, by now. While her subjects may have been entitled to dream, that innocent diversion was off limits for her. Abandoned by someone whom she had always claimed was of no importance, it was time to come back to reality and to focus on the succession to the throne, rather than thinking about her life as a woman.

On November 7, 1742, she published a proclamation solemnly dubbing Duke Charles Peter Ulrich of Holstein-Gottorp Grand Duke, crown prince and Imperial Highness, under the Russian name of Peter Fyodorovich. She took this occasion to confirm her intention not to marry. In fact, she was afraid that if she married a man of lower rank, or a foreign prince, she would be letting down not only the brave men of the
Leib-Kompania
but all the Russians who were so attached to the memory of her father, Peter the Great. Better to remain unwed, she thought. To be worthy of the role that she intended to play, she would have to forego any union officially sanctioned by the Church and remain faithful to her image as the maiden-tsar, “the imperial Virgin,” already celebrated by Russian legend.

On the other hand, she was beginning to see that the youth whom she had selected to be her heir, whom she had had baptized into the Orthodox faith under the name of Peter Fyodorovich and who had so very little Russian blood in his veins, was never going to forget his true fatherland. In fact, despite the efforts of his mentor, Simon Todorsky, Grand Duke Peter always returned instinctively to his origins. Besides, it was hard not to continue worshiping his native Germany when everything about the society, the streets and the shops of St. Petersburg reflected its influence so strongly. It was clear that the majority of influential people in the palace and in the ministries spoke German more fluently than Russian, and along the very luxurious Nevsky Prospect, many of the stores were German; elsewhere, signs of the Hanseatic League were in evidence, and there were plenty of Lutheran churches. When Peter Fyodorovich showed up at a barracks guardroom, during a walk about town, the officer he addressed would often answer him in German. And with every reminder of his homeland, Peter regretted being exiled in this city that, despite its splendors, meant less to him than the most trivial village of Schleswig-Holstein.

Forced to acclimatize himself, he took an aversion to the Russian vocabulary, Russian grammar, and Russian ways. He resented Russia for not being German, and he took to saying, “I was not born for the Russians, and I do not like them!” Living at the center of this great land of foreigners, he chose his friends from among the declared Germanophiles, and put together a little homeland to console himself. He surrounded himself with a close circle of sympathizers, and pretended to live with them in Russia as if their mission were to colonize that backward and uncultivated country.

Elizabeth looked on helplessly as this young man, whom she had sought to forcibly integrate into a nation where he felt completely out of place, developed an obsession. Apparently, a sovereign’s so-called absolute power has its limits. Believing she had acted for the good of all, she wondered whether she had not made the gravest error in her life in entrusting the future of Peter the Great’s empire to a prince who clearly hated both Russia and the Russians.

Footnotes

1. Cited by Daria Olivier,
Op. Cit.

2.
Ibid
.

3. Letter dated 27 February 1742; cf. Brian-Chaninov,
Op. Cit.

4. Letters from Mardefeld, dated 12 and 19 December 1741, quoted by Simievski: “Elisabeth Petrovna”, in
Parole russe
, 1859, cited by K. Waliszewski in
La Dernière des Romanov, Elisabeth Ire
.

5. Letter dated 16 December 1741; cf. Daria Olivier,
Op. Cit.

6. Cf. Daria Olivier,
Op. Cit.

7.
Ibid
.

Elizabeth’s main challenge was to enjoy herself fully without neglecting the interests of Russia too much. That was a difficult balance to achieve in a world where temptations, romantic and otherwise, were rife. Given Louis XV’s obstinate refusal to extend a hand to her, should she not rather follow her nephew’s example and seek the friendship of Prussia, which was more favorably disposed to her? Although her adoptive son was just 15 years old, she felt it was time to give some thought to finding him a bride - a German bride, preferably - or at least one who had been born and raised on Frederick II’s territory. At the same time, she still preserved the hope that good relations could be restored with Versailles; she charged her ambassador, Prince Kantemir, with discreetly notifying the king that she regretted the marquis of La Chétardie’s departure and that she would be happy to receive him at her court again. He had been replaced in St. Petersburg by an ambassador plenipotentiary, Mr. d’Usson d’Allion, a strait-laced character who the empress found neither attractive nor impressive.

With the French continually letting her down, she comforted herself by imitating (in her own way) the fads and fashions of that country that she so admired. This fancy resulted in an unrestrained passion for clothing, jewels, bibelots and conversational tics that seemed to have a Parisian cachet. She never missed a chance to round out her wardrobe; indeed, since dancing made her perspire profusely, she would change her garb three times during a ball. As soon as a French ship arrived in the port of St. Petersburg, she would have the cargo inspected; and the latest innovations of Parisian dressmakers were brought to her first, so that none of her subjects might know the latest fashions before her. Her favorite gowns were of colorful silk, preferably overlaid with gold or silver embroidery; but she would also dress as a man to surprise her entourage by the pleasing contour of her calves and her trim ankles. Twice a week, a masquerade ball was held at the court. Her Majesty would participate, in the costume of a Cossack
hetman
, a Louis XIII musketeer, or a Dutch sailor. Judging that she was more attractive in male clothing than any of her usual female guests, she instituted masked balls where the women were required to dress in Parisian-style jackets and knee-breeches and the men in skirts with panniers.

She was over-weaningly jealous of other women’s beauty and could not brook the slightest competition. Once, she arrived at a ball wearing a rose in her hair, only to notice with indignation that Madame Natalya Lopukhin, famous for her social successes, was also wearing one. No mere coincidence, thought Elizabeth; she considered it an obvious attack upon the imperial honor. Stopping the orchestra in the middle of a minuet, she made Mrs. Lopukhin kneel, called for a pair of scissors, furiously clipped the offending flower and the tresses that had been cleverly curled around the stem, slapped the unfortunate woman on both cheeks in front of a group of stunned courtiers, and signaled to the orchestra to go on with the dance. At the end of the piece, somebody whispered in her ear that Mrs. Lopukhin had fainted with shame. Shrugging, the tsarina muttered, “She only got what she deserved, the imbecile!” And immediately after taking this little revenge, she returned to her usual serene mood, as if it had been some other person who had been so upset just a moment before.

Similarly, during a trip through the countryside Aksakov, one of her last buffoons, thought it would be funny to show her a porcupine in his hat - he had just captured it, alive; Elizabeth shrieked with horror, fled to her tent, and gave orders for the insolent entertainer to be tortured to death for the crime of “having frightened Her Majesty.”1 These disproportionate reprisals were counterbalanced by sudden exercises of religious devotion; she could be easily enraged or spontaneously repentant. She would take it upon herself to make pilgrimages, on foot, to various holy places, testing the limits of her strength. She would stand for hours on end during church services, and she observed fasts scrupulously, to the point of sometimes fainting after leaving the table without having eaten anything. The following day she would suffer from indigestion while trying to make up for lost time. Her conduct was excessive and unpredictable. She enjoyed surprising others and being surprised, herself (only, not with porcupines). She was chaotic, odd, and only half-civilized. She scorned fixed schedules, was as quick to punish as to forget, fraternized with those of humble station and sneered at the great. She had a habit of dropping in at the kitchen to enjoy the smells of the simmering dishes. She would laugh or shout unexpectedly, and gave those who knew her well the impression of being an old-fashioned housewife whose taste for French frills had not stifled her healthy Slavic rusticity.

In Peter the Great’s day, the courtiers had had to suffer through “assemblies” convoked by the tsar in order to introduce his subjects to Western customs. They were more like tedious meetings of poorly-groomed aristocrats, condemned by the Reformer to obey, to dissimulate and to show obeisance. Under Anna Ivanovna, these assemblies had deteriorated into nests of intrigue and worry. Unspoken fear was rampant, under the mask of courtesy. The shadow of the devilish Bühren was on the prowl. And now a princess who loved dressing up, dancing, and playing games was insisting that they come to her palace purely for enjoyment’s sake. Certainly, the Empress was known to have fits of anger sometimes, or to come up with strange innovations, but all her guests had to admit that, for the first time, the palace was suffused with a blend of Russian good-naturedness and Parisian elegance. Instead of being a chore, these visits to the temple of monarchy finally seemed to offer an occasion to enjoy oneself socially.

Not satisfied with organizing “new style” events at her own many residences, Elizabeth obliged the greatest families of the empire to host masked balls, in turn, under their own roofs. The French ballet master de Landet taught everyone at court the graceful moves of the minuet. He soon made the claim that, under his direction, gallantry and civility were more in evidence along the Neva than anywhere else in the world. The parties would start at one mansion or another at 6:00 in the evening; dancing and card-playing would go on until ten o’clock. Then the Empress, surrounded by certain favored individuals, would sit down at table for supper; the other guests would eat standing up, elbow to elbow, struggling to avoid dropping anything on their fancy clothes. Once Her Majesty had downed her last mouthful, the dancing would begin again; and it would go on until 2:00 in the morning. To please in the leading lady, the menu would be both abundant and refined. Her Majesty liked French cuisine and her chefs (first Fornay, and then Fuchs, an Alsatian) were paid 800 rubles per annum to make it a success at these great suppers.

Elizabeth’s admiration for Peter the Great stopped short of imitating his enthusiasm for enormous feasts and drink-to-death binges; however, she did inherit his appreciation for the robust national gastronomy. Her favorite dishes, aside from gala feasts, were
blini
,
kulebiaka
and buckwheat kasha. At the solemn banquets of the
Leib-Kompania
, which she would attend dressed as a captain of the regiment, she would give the signal to drink by emptying large glasses of vodka in one draught.

This penchant for rich food and strong drink conferred upon Her Majesty a premature plumpness and annoying red blotches on the cheeks. After eating and drinking her fill, she would allow herself to nap for an hour or two. To facilitate this rest, a kind of sleepy meditation, she employed the services of a few women who would take turns sitting by her side, speaking softly and scratching the bottoms of her feet. Elizabeth Ivanovna Shuvalov, the sister of Her Majesty’s new lover Ivan Shuvalov, was a specialist in this soporific tickling. She would hear all the tsarina’s confidences during these foot-rubbing sessions, so that she began to be known at the court as “the real Minister of Foreign Affairs.” When the tsarina had finished resting, the foot-scratchers would give way to the favorite of the moment. Sometimes that was Ivan Shuvalov, sometimes the chamberlain Basil Chulkov, sometimes Her Majesty’s eternal suitor Simon Naryshkin, sometimes Shubin (a private in her guard), and sometimes the indestructible and ever so accommodating Alexis Razumovsky, the most assiduous and honored of all.