The Winter Palace (34 page)

“Send them all away,” the Empress ordered.

I did.

By the time I returned, the Empress was lying on her bed, propped up by two fat pillows. Her hands and feet were swollen, her face oily with sweat. One of her maids was sweeping broken glass from the carpet. Another was trying to draw the curtains tighter.

“Where is my rosewood dresser, Varvara?” the Empress screamed. “I want it here. Right now.”

She didn’t wish to hear any explanations.

I sent the footmen to the attic for the dresser. I waved the frightened maids away.

I spoke of good omens. A litter of kittens, a new moon, a four-leaved clover. The cuckoo who counted out the twenty years still left to her. I kept my voice soft and soothing. Next door, in the nursery, the Grand Duke Paul was whimpering, protesting some ministration he would have to submit to. The gossip was that the baby was easily terrified and woke up screaming at night.

Sir Charles Hanbury-Williams was as frequent a visitor at the Great Perspective Road as he had been in the old Winter Palace. As everyone expected, the colonial war between England and France had spilled into Europe, whipping up old conflicts, forcing new alliances. The British Ambassador was trying to secure a treaty between England and Russia, a treaty that Chancellor Bestuzhev was ready to support but the pro-French Shuvalovs tried to kill.

It always came to this, a battle for Elizabeth’s mind, a battle in which all moves were permitted. Visitors followed visitors, all armed with flattery and gifts, all hoping to sway her in their direction. To Masha’s delight, even my paltry position in the Imperial Bedroom merited baskets of delicacies and toiletries, gifts of kid gloves and ostrich feathers, lengths of lace and fancy ribbons. All to buy a chance to cross the Empress’s path, a hint when to come and when to wait.

Sir Charles flattered the Empress shamelessly, declared himself smitten by her beauty, longing for her presence, quoting her own words, which he claimed were “unforgettable.”

I had seen her take this in like an eager puppy.

Sir Charles’s specialty was gossip from all the European courts he had resided at or visited, gossip he milked for all its worth. I heard him assure Elizabeth that Berlin was a mere hamlet beside the magnificence of St. Petersburg. Without its garrison of fourteen thousand, the German capital was practically empty. And scrawny Prussian women could not compare to Russian beauties.

Polish royal hunts were no match for Russian ones, either. “The sitting-down hunts,” Sir Charles called them. In the Polish forest of Białowieża, boars, wolves, and bears were put in cages so that the King of Poland could shoot at them upon their release. “No chase, no thrill. Your Imperial Highness would find it tediously boring.”

The Empress made a little snort of pleasure.

Once I walked in on the two of them talking of England. Elizabeth was convinced that the Russian troops could march all the way from St. Petersburg to London in two weeks.

“I’d have to agree,” Sir Charles said with a deep bow. He was not going to mention the existence of the sea that would have interfered with Elizabeth’s will.

It was after one of Sir Charles’s visits that I remarked to him how well he kept the Empress entertained.

“I aim to please, Madame Malikina,” he replied, with a twinkle in his dark blue eyes and a flash of his monocle. “Though I would not like the Empress to question me too closely on whose pleasure is most dear to me.”

I hesitated.

“You must excuse my directness, Madame,” he said. “But your devotion to the Grand Duchess has not escaped me.”

“I, too, aim to please,” I replied, impassively.

His full face lit up, smoothing the wrinkles around his eyes, an intricate network of laugh lines that gave him the appearance of a naughty boy up to some prank. “Then we have more in common than I could ever have imagined.”

I was not surprised that evening when a messenger from the British Embassy delivered a case of claret and a basket of preserves.

By mid-October, the court had settled into a routine of receptions and soirees, Russian Theater nights, broken by frequent trips to Peterhof when the Empress wished for more comfort.

For Elizabeth it was the time of card laying. Seven of hearts: broken promises. Ace of spades: bad news. Six of spades: gradual improvement. Ten of clubs: unexpected gift. For a while the jack of spades appeared in these readings in awkward places, overshadowed by doubt. When she changed to the tarot deck, it was the tower that showed up repeatedly, another sign of tensions brewing, a prediction of a violent release.

Fortune-tellers, bearded
dziady, babas
with toothless mouths, mumbled their warnings of a treacherous woman, a child’s life threatened with a sword, a sudden flight of seagulls. The business of the Russian court hung on the Devil’s bile and the shadows cast by angel wings. Audiences were canceled at the last moment; urgent documents were left unsigned. A departure was either rushed or delayed, a route diverted, a return postponed.

The Chancellor bristled at the delays. Whatever papers he had brought, Elizabeth had me tell him, could wait for another day. Ruling the Empire had been reduced to a waiting game. Swooping on the moment of Elizabeth’s benign mood, softened by an auspicious card, a dream.

Many a time I saw him walk away, dismissed abruptly from Elizabeth’s rooms, his shoulders stooped, rolls of papers under his arm. Once when we found ourselves alone, he could not restrain himself any longer.

“Did you manage to remind the Grand Duchess of my profound respect for her?” he asked.

I said I did.

“What did she say?” he demanded.

“Nothing.”

He was waiting for me to say more, but I didn’t. Anticipating his disappointment I slyly glanced at his face, but all I saw was a little light of contempt.

By the end of October, the evenings were windy and icy-cold. Horses, their backs covered with blankets, spewed soft mist with every breath. On the Great Perspective Road, coachmen in long sheepskin coats stomped their feet, slapped their palms together, casting anxious glances at the palace doors, waiting for their masters to emerge. Every so often a hand dipped inside a coat to extract a flask for a quick sip.

“What are they doing?” Catherine asked as we slipped secretly out of the palace.

“It’s vodka. To keep them warm.”

“The Grand Duchess deserves to live a little, too,” Prince Lev Naryshkin had said. It was his idea, these evening gatherings of friends in his sister’s house on the embankment, as soon as the imperial carriage left for Peterhof. “No one needs to know.”

I saw the flash of childish joy in Catherine’s eyes at his words. Leaving the palace without permission from the Empress? In disguise?

“Will you help me, Varenka?” she asked.

I swore to her that I would keep her safe.

I kept my word.

I still smile at the memory, our hands hastily undoing the buttons of our gowns, letting the petticoats fall, lacing our stays tighter to flatten our breasts. Hers refusing to yield until I remembered the length of wide linen ribbon the midwife had given her after the
accouchement
to wrap herself with. I had smuggled the uniforms of the Preobrazhensky Guards into Catherine’s room, and now we both donned our disguises: white breeches, black jackboots, the fitted tunics of dark green woolen cloth that made us look so lithe and light.

An officer and his escort, ready for their night on the town.

I remember Catherine, standing at attention, clicking her heels, saying, “To think that everything might become useful”—meaning the hours she had spent practicing Peter’s drills, presenting an imaginary musket, learning to walk with the arrogant wide stride of a man.

I remember a knock at the door, a moment of panic, then the unsure voice of Madame Vladislavova asking through the door if she would be needed again before the morning.

“No, no. Go to sleep. I have everything,” Catherine assured her.

The service door, warped already, opened with a piercing squeak. Shielding the candle flame with my hand, I led Catherine through the corridor, past a hall where a sleeping groom opened his eyes, gave us a dull glance, then turned away into his dreams. We hurried into the street, the frigid winter air pricking our lungs. The rays of the moon lit up the fresh layer of snow.

On the Great Perspective Road a rattling carriage made the horses raise their heads. One of the coachmen, well warmed by the vodka in his veins, crooned:

Be so kind, oh joy of mine
As to try an apple from my tree

The singer’s large mustache was frosty white.

“A night out, officers?” he muttered. He looked down at our jackboots, unable to decide if we were trouble or an opportunity.

“What do you want for a few good sips from your bottle?” I called up to him.

Before I could stop her, Catherine fished a coin from her pocket.

The bottle changed hands quickly. It was a vile concoction. A fiery snake, a viper going straight into our brains.

Catherine’s eyes flamed with joy. Her gloved hand grabbed mine, strong and firm.

They were waiting for Catherine at Princess Naryshkina’s palace.

“My sister brought your
bijou
here.” Prince Naryshkin meant Count Poniatowski. “Anna and I expect a hefty reward for my powers of persuasion.” In the next room someone sang “Awake Awake.” Someone else demanded more champagne.

I turned to leave, promising to wait for the Grand Duchess at the palace. To make sure no one saw her return.

“No, Varenka,” Catherine said. “I want you here, at my side.”

Hesitation flickered in Prince Naryshkin’s eyes. A warning for a bookbinder’s daughter to beware of recklessly crossing boundaries. But the warning died as swiftly as it had appeared.

“Madame Malikina is most welcome.”

I followed Catherine into the Naryshkin parlor, taking note of the velvet burgundy curtains drawn over the windows, the opulence of the soft carpet and gilded armchairs. On the marble mantel a golden clock chimed nine, the simpering cherub perched on top glittering in candlelight.

The guests all gathered around Catherine, maids-of-honor, princes and counts, raising champagne glasses, laughing as Prince Naryshkin did his imitation of the Grand Duke playing the violin, struggling not to fall down.

Count Poniatowski was their guest of honor. Impeccable in his white jacket trimmed with silver thread, he rose at the sight of Catherine. A smile lit his handsome face.

“Your Highness,” he said.

“Catherine,” she corrected. Christian names only tonight, she demanded. No titles. No fuss. No ceremony. Just Stanislav, Anna, Lev, Varvara.

I took a step back, into the shadows.

“I’ll call you by your true name, then. Sophie,” Count Poniatowski said, bowing to kiss Catherine’s hand.

Was it the uniform? The boldness of disguise? The freedom from hooped dresses and petticoats? The swirl of vodka in her head?

Clicking the heels of her jackboots, Catherine lifted Stanislav’s hand to her own lips.

For an instant he hesitated. Then his look of surprise melted in sheer delight, erasing the clanking of food trays, glances of other guests straying toward them, erupting in knowing smiles.

The hostess kept ringing for the servants, summoning more and more food.
Botvinia
with salmon and parsley, honeyed cucumber,
bliny
dipped in sour cream. Borscht and fish soup. Quails. Stewed mushrooms. Astrakhan grapes.

Catherine in the Preobrazhensky uniform, seated in a chintz-covered armchair, ankle crossed on her knee, seemed both recognizable and unknown. It was Stanislav she spoke to most often.

“So what else have you learned from your travels?”

“That people have far more in common than they believe. That all societies, no matter how different, tend to call good what they consider useful for their survival.”

Her questions were the most pressing. Her laughter the most resonant.

They read the same books; they admired the same
philosophes
. They agreed that wars could often bring about unforeseen progress. They declared their fascination with paradoxes: A man says, “I am lying.” Is his statement true or false?

True.

Then he is not lying.

False.

Then he is lying.

Neither true or false? But how is that possible? How can something be true and false at the same time?

Their heads, his dark and powdered, hers black and shiny, leaned toward each other. I listened to their voices and to a crack of silence between them. I watched them withdraw from the safety of the gathering, melt into shadows. Over a glass shelf covered with curiosities, by the window with a view of the Neva, I heard them exchange words that signaled the quickening of danger.

“Must duty wipe out all happiness?”

“Should marriage be a prison?”

It was well past three in the morning when, heavy from food and wine, Catherine and I set off for the Great Perspective Road. Stanislav and Lev Naryshkin insisted on seeing us off. By the embankment, the shores of the Neva had frozen already, the northern night broken only by the fires the sentries lit, in search of warmth.

Catherine and Stanislav walked slowly ahead, stretching the remnants of the night. Lev Naryshkin, forced to keep me company, tried chasing me with his groping hands and vodka breath, until I pushed him away.

I thought of Egor, freezing in some distant camp.
No rashes or itches so far
, he had written in one of his short letters,
for which the Russian soldiers can thank the heat of the banya
. One of the letters contained a drawing for Darenka, showing her Papa shoeing a horse.
Trying to learn everything
, the caption said.
To be ready when the need arises
.

The Great Perspective Road was deserted by that hour, the sleighs all gone, leaving behind trampled snow and hardened balls of horse dung, but I insisted that Stanislav and Lev must leave us and let us walk on alone.

“The things Stanislav has seen, Varenka,” Catherine told me as we hurried together toward the palace. “The people who love him!”