Terrible Tsarinas: Five Russian Women in Power (18 page)

The people around Elizabeth called him “the night emperor.” She often deceived him, but in the end she could never stand to give him up. Only in his arms could she feel that she was both dominant and dominated at the same time. He had a deep voice, and used to be the cantor in the imperial chapel; he spoke with a heavy Ukrainian accent, only said simple things, and - a rarity in the tsarina’s entourage - never asked for favors. At most he consented to have his mother, Natalya Demianovna, share the fortune that he was enjoying. He was concerned that contact with the court would harm a woman of her condition, accustomed to discretion and poverty. Natalya Demianovna’s first visit to the palace was an event. Seeing this
muzhik
’s widow stepping into her apartments, wedged into a formal gown, Elizabeth forgot all modesty and exclaimed with gratitude, “Blessed be the fruit of your entrails!” But her lover’s mother was not an ambitious woman. Hardly having been named lady-in-waiting and installed in the palace, “Razumikhina”2, as she was contemptuously called behind her back, requested permission to leave the court. Returning to obscurity, sheltered from scandalmongers, she once again donned her peasant clothing.

Alexis Razumovsky understood very well how frightened this “woman of the people” must have been by the excesses of those at the top. He insisted that Her Majesty spare his mother the signs of honor that others around her were so keen to receive. As for himself, in spite of his rising stature and fortune, he refused to consider himself worthy of the good fortune that had come to him. The more his influence over Elizabeth increased, the less he wished to be involved in politics.

His lack of interest in intrigues and rewards only gave his imperial mistress greater confidence in him. She made many public appearances with him, and she was proud of this companion whose only claim to respect from the nation were the titles that she had given him. When she presented him she was presenting
her own
handiwork, her personal Russia that she offered to her contemporaries for their assessment. He owed his elevation to her, and she was gratified to see her favorite receiving further honors. Scornful as he was of official distinctions, she was delighted, as much for herself as for him, when he was named count of the Holy Roman Empire by Charles VII. When she made him a field marshal, he smiled ironically and thanked her in terms that give a clear picture of the man he was: “Liz, you can do whatever you like, but you will never make anyone take me seriously, even as a simple lieutenant.”3 Soon, all the court considered Razumovsky not only the “night emperor” but a Prince Consort, as legitimate as if his union with Elizabeth had been consecrated by a priest. Moreover, rumors had been circulating for months that they had married, in great secrecy, in the church of the little village of Perovo, outside of Moscow. The couple supposedly had been blessed by Father Dubiansky, the empress’s chaplain and guardian of her deepest secrets. No courtier attended these clandestine nuptials. Nothing changed, outwardly, in the tsarina’s relations with her favorite. If Elizabeth had wanted this secret sacrament, it was simply to keep God on her side. Debauched and unruly as her lifestyle was, she needed to believe that the Almighty was with her in her everyday life and in her exercise of power. This illusion of a supernatural partnership helped her maintain some semblance of equilibrium in the midst of the many contradictions that shook her from all sides.

From that day forward, Razumovsky visited her at night with impunity. This new situation should have encouraged them to exchange political opinions with as much ease and confidence as their caresses, but Razumovsky was still hesitant to abandon his neutrality. However, while he never imposed his will on Elizabeth when it came to making fundamental decisions, she was well aware of his preferences. Guided by his instinct as a man of the earth, he was generally supportive of Chancellor Bestuzhev’s nationalist ideas. In such times, when some states are at war and others are preparing for it, and when forging alliances is the principal occupation of all the foreign ministries, it was difficult to see clearly where Russia’s best interests lay. What is clear, in any case, is that the hostilities between Russia and Sweden (recklessly started in 1741 under the regency of Anna Leopoldovna) came to an end. The Russians, led by Generals Lascy and Keith, won several victories over the Swedes and a peace agreement was signed on August 8, 1743. Via the treaty of Abo, Russia gave back some recently conquered territories but held onto most of Finland. With the Swedish conflict settled, Elizabeth hoped that France would prove less hostile to the idea of an accord. But, in the meantime, St. Petersburg had signed a pact of friendship with Berlin, which Versailles took very badly. Once again, every attempt would have to be made to assuage, reassure, and persuade them of Russia’s good faith.

It was on the background of this unsettled international context that an affair erupted that neither Bestuzhev nor Elizabeth had been prepared for in the least. In mid-summer, St. Petersburg was rocked by rumors of a plot being fomented among the highest nobility, intended to overthrow Elizabeth I, at the instigation of the Austrian ambassador Botta d’Adorno. This disloyal and disruptive coterie was said to be considering offering the throne to the Brunswick family, gathered around little Ivan VI. As soon as Elizabeth got wind of this, she ordered the impudent Botta d’Adorno arrested. But, having a good nose for danger, he had already left Russia. He was said to be on his way to Berlin, on the way to Austria.

This diplomatic felon may have escaped, but his Russian accomplices were still around. The most compromised were those who were close (or distant) relations of the Lopukhin clan. Elizabeth didn’t forget that she had had to slap Natalya Lopukhin for having the temerity to wear a rose in her hair. Moreover, her rival had been the mistress of Loewenwolde, recently exiled to Siberia. But there were other members of the conspiracy who were even more despicable. At the top of the list Elizabeth put Mrs. Mikhail Bestuzhev, née Golovkin, sister of a former vice-chancellor and sister-in-law of the current chancellor Alexis Bestuzhev, and widow, by her first marriage, of one of Peter the Great’s closest associates, Yaguzhinsky.

While waiting for the Russian culprits to be arrested and tried, she hoped that Austria would punish its ambassador severely. But, while King Frederick II expelled Botta as soon as he arrived in Berlin, the empress Maria Theresa, having welcomed the diplomat in Vienna, merely scolded him. Disappointed by the feeble reactions of two foreign sovereigns whom she had believed were more solid in their monarchical convictions, Elizabeth took revenge by locking up the princely couple of Brunswick and their son, young Ivan VI, in the maritime fortress of Dunamunde, on the Duna, where she could keep a closer eye on them than in Riga. She also considered dismissing Alexis Bestuzhev, whose family was so compromised. Then, no doubt under Razumovsky’s influence in favor of moderation, she allowed the chancellor to retain his post.

However, she needed victims on whom to vent her fury, and she chose to make Mrs. Lopukhin, her Ivan son and some of their close relatives take the brunt of it. For Natalya Lopukhin, a slap in the face was no longer punishment enough; this time, she was in for horrible torture - and her accomplices as well. Under the knout, the clippers and the branding iron, Lopukhin, her son Ivan, and Mrs. Bestuzhev, writhing in pain, repeated the calumnies that they had heard from the mouth of Botta. In spite of the lack of material evidence, a hastily convened emergency court (made up of several members of the Senate and three representatives of the clergy) sentenced all the “culprits” to the wheel, quartering, and decapitation. This exemplary sentence offered Elizabeth the opportunity to decide, during a ball, that she would spare life of the miserable wretches who had dared to conspire against her, and would limit their punishment to public “lesson.” When this extraordinary measure of leniency was announced, everyone present cheered Her Majesty’s angelic kindness.

On August 31, 1743, a scaffold was erected in front of the palace of Colleges. Standing before an enormous crowd of curious onlookers, Mrs. Mikhail Bestuzhev was brutally stripped by the torturer. As she had managed to find the time to slip him a jewel-studded cross just before he began, he barely stroked her back with the whip and slid his knife over her tongue without scratching the flesh. She suffered these apparent blows and wounds with heroic dignity. Less sure of her nerves, Mrs. Lopukhin struggled desperately when the torturer’s assistant ripped off her clothes.

The multitude was stunned to silence by the suddenly revealed nudity of this woman who was even more appealing in her distress. Then some of witnesses, impatient to see the rest, began to howl. Panicking at this outburst of raw hatred, the poor woman struggled, insulted the torturer and bit his hand. Furious, he grabbed her by the throat, forced open her jaws, held up the sacrificial weapon and presented the laughing crowd with a bloody scrap of meat. “Who’ll take the tongue of the beautiful Mrs. Lopukhin?,” he cried. “It is a lovely piece, and I am selling it cheap! One ruble for the tongue of the beautiful Mrs. Lopukhin!”4 This was a common type of joke from executioners in those days, but this time the public paid more attention than usual, for Natalya Lopukhin had just fainted from pain and horror. The torturer revived her with a large knout. When she came to her senses, she was thrown into a carriage and shipped off to Siberia! Her husband would soon join her in Seleguinsky, after being severely whipped, himself. He died there a few years later in a state of total abandonment. As for the Bestuzhevs, Madame lingered on for many miserable years in Yakutsk, suffering a life of hunger, cold and the indifference of her neighbors (who were reluctant to compromise themselves by looking after someone who had been rejected) while, in St. Petersburg, her husband Mikhail Bestuzhev (brother of Chancellor Alexis Bestuzhev) went on with his diplomatic career, and their daughter was a reigning beauty at Her Majesty’s court.

In settling the Botta matter, Elizabeth thought she had gained control over the volatile situation within her empire. Alexis Bestuzhev, having preserved his ministerial prerogatives in spite of the disgrace that had befallen most of his kin, had reason to think that his prestige had even been enhanced. However, in Versailles, Louis XV persisted in his intention to send La Chétardie on a reconnaissance mission to the tsarina, who (according to his advisors) would not mind engaging in a playful new fencing bout with a Frenchman whose gallantries she had once found amusing. But she was so flighty that, according to the same “experts on the Slavic soul,” she was liable to be upset over a trifle and to overreact to any misstep. To spare the sensitivities of this sovereign so susceptible to changing humors, the king gave La Chétardie two letters of introduction to Her Majesty. In one, Versailles’s emissary was presented as an ordinary person interested in everything that related to Russia, and in the other, as a plenipotentiary delegated to represent the king to “our very dear sister and absolutely perfect friend Elizabeth, empress and autocrat of all the Russias.”5 La Chétardie could decide on the spot which formula was best suited to the circumstances. With this double recommendation in his pocket, how could he help but succeed?

Traveling as quickly as possible, he arrived in St. Petersburg on the very same day when the empress was celebrating the tenth anniversary of her coup d’état. Amused by La Chétardie’s eagerness to congratulate her, Elizabeth granted him a part-friendly, part-protocol interview in the evening. She found him tired, fatter, but so well-spoken that he thought he had charmed her completely, making her forget her past complaints against France.

But, just as he was preparing to deploy every seductive wile in his possession, in came the titular Ambassador of France, Monsieur d’Allion. Mortified by what he considered unfair competition, d’Allion was anxious to stick an umbrella in his spokes. After a series of harsh statements, Louis XV’s two representatives exchanged insults, slapped each other, and drew their swords. Although he was wounded in the hand, La Chétardie kept his dignity. Finally, realizing how silly it was for two Frenchmen in foreign territory to quarrel, the adversaries reluctantly reconciled.

This took place just before Christmas. As it happens, it was precisely then, at the end of 1743, that the news Elizabeth had so much hoped for arrived from Berlin. The King of Prussia, solicited by various emissaries to find a bride for the heir to the Russian throne, finally presented a pearl: a princess of adequate birth, pleasant appearance and good education, who would be a credit to her husband without trying to eclipse him.

That was exactly the kind of daughter-in-law the empress had dreamed of finding. The candidate, just 15 years old, was born in Stettin; her name was Sophia of Anhalt-Zerbst (
Figchen
, to her family). Her father, Christian Augustus of Anhalt-Zerbst, was not even a reigning prince; he merely ruled over his small hereditary prerogative under the condescending protection of Frederick II.

Sophia’s mother, Johanna of Holstein-Gottorp, was a German cousin of the late Charles Frederick, father of the Grand Duke Peter, whom Elizabeth had made her heir. Johanna was 27 years younger than her husband and had great ambitions for her daughter. Elizabeth considered this all very good for the family, very German, and very promising. Just going over the genealogy of the fiancée, branch by branch, Elizabeth felt herself back on familiar ground.

While she was predisposed in favor of the young lady, she was very disappointed in her nephew, whom she had come to know all too well. Why wasn’t he more interested to learn the results of the matrimonial maneuvers that had been conducted in his behalf? The principal interested party, too, was kept out of the negotiations of which she was the object. Everything was agreed through confidential correspondence between Zerbst (where Sophia’s parents resided), Berlin (where Frederick II was headquartered), and St. Petersburg (where the empress was anxiously awaiting the news from Prussia).