Curse Not the King (13 page)

6

On the twentieth of November, Marie Feodorovna's labour pains began. A messenger summoned the Czarevitch, who found his mother already standing by the mattress and the room rapidly filling with courtiers. Paul bowed stiffly to the Empress and then saluted his wife.

“I wish you comfort in your pain, Madame,” he said formally. Then he turned towards Catherine, and for a moment mother and son looked on each other with the cold hostility that neither troubled to conceal.

“This time you shan't be disappointed; you shall have your heir, Madame,” he said quietly.

“I trust so,” she answered him. “You owe me that, at least.” He walked away from her then, pushing his way through the crowds who stood on tiptoe, watching the sweating Marie in the indignity of childbirth, and stood by one of the long windows, staring out with dilated, sightless eyes.

He knew what was to come, knew that this spectacle was only the prelude to a drama that all Petersburg had waited for for years. The birth of his child was to be the signal for his arrest. Catherine had made up her mind; the resolution looked out of her eyes when they rested on him, and sounded in the tones of her voice. It would soon be over, this merciless battle for supremacy between them, a battle rendered doubly bitter by the natural antipathy they felt for one another.

He stood by the window, insensible to the sounds of activity in the room behind him, certain that Marie would bring forth a living child, and for a time he became strangely calm.

His father had died, at thirty-six, after ruling Russia for less than half a year; the wretched Ivan Ivanovitch had perished within two years of Catherine's accession to the throne; now he, her only son and rightful heir, would follow his predecessors' bloody path, being the youngest of them all and never having donned the crown that they had worn so briefly.…

He leant his forehead against the window pane and closed his eyes, surrendering to a throbbing pain that pulsed in his head, a pain that had seldom left him since Natalie Alexeievna's death.

Her image came into his mind before his will-power had had time to banish it and a spasm of almost physical suffering convulsed him.

He had been ready to endure this fate in order to protect her; he might have died at peace believing that his wife whom he adored and the child conceived in mutual love would live on after him in safety, but even that false comfort was denied him. Instead his ruin was being wrought by the stupid Marie Feodorovna and by an infant for whom he felt no glimmer of paternal feeling.

“I am accursed,” he whispered, and two tears seeped under his eyelids and ran down his ugly face.

Alone and unloved, his father's murder unrevenged, his own destiny unfulfilled, his life was ebbing away with every passing moment. It would be Catherine's final triumph that he should die as he had lived, fruitlessly, achieving nothing.…

He felt a touch upon his shoulder and he stiffened, one hand creeping to his sword.

“Your Imperial Highness …”

It was a page who stood at his elbow.

“You have a son. The Empress asks that you come and bear witness.” It must be legal, this important birth, he, the father, must look on the baby and acknowledge it his before the world.… Then when Catherine's men laid hands on him, his child could be proclaimed Heir Apparent without the danger of dissenting voices saying that Paul had been supplanted by a bastard or a changeling.

“I will come,” he said, and with his hand still resting on the pommel of his sword he walked through the staring, silent crowd who made a lane for him to pass among them.

The infant Prince was already cradled in the Empress's arms; Paul approached her and bent to look on the face of his son.

For an instant he regarded the tiny, flushed countenance, crowned by a fuzz of fair hair, and heard the baby's shrill protesting cry against the misery of being born into the world.

Then he raised his head and met his mother's triumphant gaze, squarely and defiantly.

“It is my son.”

“Amen,” murmured the voice of the Grand Duchess's confessor, and the next moment Paul had almost knocked him down as he thrust forward and began pushing his way out of the room.

They let him go without a word, knowing, by rumour, what he guessed by instinct, dismissing him as dead already, for he had begotten his own rival and successor.

The corridors were empty except for the sentries who stood guard at intervals; not even the members of his household dared to follow their master when he left the lying-in. Instead he walked to his own suite alone, listening to the eerie echo of his own footfalls on the marble floors.

His valet waited in his bedroom, and one look at the man's terrified face assured Paul that even his servants accounted him lost. They were all so sure, he thought grimly, so certain that he would be taken.… Certain, too, that he would submit without a struggle.

But in that last he would prove them wrong. A flood of desperate courage surged into his heart, born of the knowledge that he had nothing to lose which was not already declared forfeit by his mother.

Let them come then, he would be ready! His father had died secretly, outnumbered by four to one, and no man could swear to the manner of his death. Not so with him! He'd perish where he stood, and by God, a few of Catherine's soldiers should die with him.…

He turned to the silent, shrinking valet, and increased the man's terror by laughing aloud.

“Why do you tremble, Serge? It's not your head they want! Here, take off this coat of mine … it hampers me. I must move freely, no man can fight properly in a coat.… Ah, by God's Death, that's easier! Now withdraw my sword from the scabbard and give it to me! So. We will wait. But not for very long, I think.…”

But it was longer than he anticipated. His son was four hours old before he heard the sound of footsteps coming down the corridor, where they halted at the entrance to his rooms.

The first thing Catherine did was to send for Nikita Panin. Her grandson was in the care of his wet nurse. The mother, the least important factor now that her purpose was fulfilled, was sleeping peacefully, and Paul Petrovitch waited conveniently in his rooms. Panin, knowing his mistress's mind, hurried to his audience with a light heart, sure of the downfall of one enemy, hopeful of the decline of another.

She was going to follow his advice at last and make an end of Paul; he addressed a fervent prayer to his complacent Deity that the Empress's love for Potemkin was about to follow the same route as her maternal scruples, for his hatred of the Czarevitch was only equalled by his loathing and jealousy of the former favourite.

When Catherine received him, Panin's fat face was wreathed in smiles and he hurried to bow and kiss her hand, murmuring congratulations.

“God has heard your people's prayers, your Majesty,” he said. “Not only a living child, but a son! My heart rejoices for you!”

“My heart rejoices too, Nikita,” she told him truthfully. “Sit down, my friend. Here, beside me. Oh, Panin, I'm tired, but I'm so happy! At last we have the solution of our problem, you and I!”

“You mean the little Grand Duke, Madame?”

“My grandson, the heir I needed. And the physician says he's a fine, healthy baby. Nikita, you know what I've been thinking … The Czarevitch … He's been very strange these last months, have you noticed?”

“I've heard things; since the death of Natalie Alexeievna and his discovery of her adultery he's shown marked eccentricity.… It's said that he spends hours talking to a miniature of the late Czar. And Marie Feodorovna is terrified of him.… He seems to be developing his father's unfortunate tendencies.…”

“I know, Nikita, I've remarked it. He grows worse, more morose and intractable, more hostile to me. Now I think the time has come to take the counsel you've been giving me for many years. I think he should be imprisoned. For the good of Russia.”

“I think so too, Madame. As usual, you're supremely wise.”

Catherine looked down and smoothed a crease out of her skirt where none existed; for a moment it seemed to Panin that she was almost nervous.

“There is only one thing,” she said quietly. “I am afraid that General Potemkin doesn't approve of what I contemplate … I mentioned the matter to him and he advised me to wait a little longer before taking drastic action. That's why I sent for you, my friend. To support me, to strengthen my resolution, for I believe that what I am going to do is the only right and safe remedy for us all.”

Panin reflected briefly what he and others might expect if Catherine were to die suddenly and her dreaded son succeed her, and nodded vigorously.

“Oh, I agree with you, Madame, with all my heart! The General is a great soldier, but I fear his experience of statecraft is still limited. He's a sentimentalist; he doesn't understand the dangerous nature of the Czarevitch. Take my advice. Have your son arrested now, without delay! Once it's done, the General will have to see the wisdom of it.”

Catherine listened to him and agreed, swayed by the dictates of her own insistent malice. Resolutely, she brushed Potemkin's objections from her mind. He told her to wait, he argued that her people and the whole civilized world would condemn such a tyrannical action as the imprisonment of her son without a shred of evidence that he deserved that awful fate. But he did deserve it, she countered angrily. He hated her and knew her for all the things she was, a usurper, an adulteress many times over, a party to her husband's murder.

Whatever Potemkin said, however great his anger, she made up her mind to defy him and have her own way.

Suddenly she rose, and tugged at the bell rope by the fireplace. It was the Countess Bruce who answered the summons, and blinked when she saw the superseded Panin sitting with her mistress.

“Send the Captain of the Guard to me,” the Empress ordered, and understanding what this meant, the Minister folded his plump hands in his lap and smiled.

When the young Captain of the Ismailovs entered, Catherine wasted neither time nor words.

“Take an escort and arrest the Czarevitch. Convey him to a safe place in the Schüsselburg and then report to me! It must be done for the safety of Russia!”

The officer bowed low and saluted.

“Your Majesty, it shall be done.”

“Thank God, Nikita,” she exclaimed when the soldier had retired. “Thank God! In a little while, we shall all be able to breathe freely.…”

“I applaud you, Madame,” he said solemnly, composing his features with great difficulty, for he wanted to laugh with relief. “Always remember that my advice is at your service.…”

I have triumphed, he thought inwardly; she has acted against Paul and defied Potemkin. And Potemkin will rave when he hears of it. He'll abuse her, perhaps go too far.… She may even dismiss him, but at least I've struck a blow at his influence … a great blow, thanks be to God!

They were drinking wine together when Countess Bruce opened the door without even waiting to knock. The confidante was pale and agitated.

“Madame … Madame,” she stuttered. “The General … the General is here!”

Before Catherine had time to speak Countess Bruce disappeared as if some powerful hand had dragged her back, and the next moment the door crashed back and Gregory Potemkin stood framed in the opening.

Catherine Alexeievna lay across her bed and wept. He had swept into her room like a tornado; he had learned of the Ismailov Captain's mission, for he had surprised the escort on their way to execute it.

He had turned on Panin like a tiger, his great voice roaring accusations.

“You damned eunuch! You'd destroy your Empress to satisfy your woman's spite! Go, before I tear you limb from limb for your treachery!” he bellowed, and Catherine, terrified for the safety of her Minister, urged him to leave them alone.

When he had left the full weight of Potemkin's wrath fell on her and it was an experience that utterly unnerved her.

He strode up and down her room, shouting and shaking his enormous fists, his face suffused with anger.

Now, when the storm had subsided, the memory of it haunted her; phrases flung at her in the heat of passion repeated themselves in her aching brain.

He had called her a murderess, accused her to her face of the late Czar's death, reminded her in the most brutal terms of the killing of the unhappy Ivan in his dungeon.

And then he told her savagely that she wished to shed Paul's blood to satisfy her personal malice. “Do this,” he threatened, “and you'll go down in history as an infamous tyrant! Your name will be vilified for ever. Nothing that you've achieved will count for anything against such a crime. You have
no
excuse, Catherine! There is no rebellion, no plot, nothing to justify you.…”

The truth of what he said robbed her of argument. Instead she began to weep hysterically, unable to explain that apart from her own hatred of him, there was something about Paul Petrovitch that almost frightened her.…

Sensing that she weakened, Potemkin heaped reproaches on her, declaring that she had broken his heart by the discovery of her deceit, asking scornfully whether she wished to imprison him with her son and send them both to death.… She no longer needed him, he knew; her love for him was dead, his uses at an end. Then he would go, he announced, adding caustically that doubtless her soldiers were already waiting.… It was a shrewd, merciless attack; by linking himself with Paul he brought Catherine to her knees, and she ran to him, sobbing her denials, begging him to believe that he was still as dear to her as ever.

The General turned away, refusing to be convinced, knowing that if he hurt and frightened her sufficiently she would agree to anything rather than lose him.

“I am a broken man,” he muttered. “I will go into a monastery and devote myself to God.…”

The fact that he had studied for the priesthood as a youth always lent weight to this most dreaded threat. For all her brilliance and her judgment, his sway was such that she was blind to subterfuge, and the menace to embrace religion and retire from her was still effective and he used it regularly when she crossed his will.