Curse Not the King (26 page)

For a year or more the jealous eyes of Koutaïssof, now waiting anxiously for the publication of his master's Coronation Honours; the interest of Rastopchine, who mistrusted the truce existing between the mistress and the wife, believing as he did that the Grand Duke Alexander might use his doting mother for intrigue; and the deadly enmity of Araktchéief, had been turned upon the problem of ousting the woman who had held sway with Paul Petrovitch for nine long years. It was not immediately apparent that Catherine Nelidoff's position was only nominal.

Paul took her back in public, moved by the pleas of Marie Feodorovna, who painted a pitiful picture of his mistress's fear and misery as a result of his anger. He had loved her deeply once, relied on her for tenderness and compassion, burying his throbbing head in her breast and believing himself safe in the compass of her disinterested affection. But that comfort had been stripped from him; he no longer trusted her desperate avowals of love, and, afraid to fall a victim to a double practice of deceit, Paul gradually withdrew his confidence and affection from her in private, while saving her face before the Court.

Paul danced the minuet with her, invited her to his table in public and showed her every mark of favour before the eyes of her enemies, for he could not bring himself to abandon her, and there were still moments when the beseeching gaze of those gentle brown eyes gave the lie to his suspicions. But thanks to the lesson of his first wife's betrayal, he was incapable of sustaining and conquering a doubt of that nature when it had once entered his mind, and when the Court receptions ended and the watch of prying eyes no longer followed him, the Czar more often wished Katya Nelidoff good night and passed into his heavily guarded bedroom alone.

At the most crucial moment of his life, he had retreated into solitude, bearing the burden of an immense kingdom in urgent need of reform, and endowed with a degree of despotic power which had turned the brain of many better balanced men. The throne was his, but among the fawning crowds who thronged his palace there were scores of potential traitors, friends of Catherine's and partisans of the Grand Duke Alexander; Paul had never trusted Alexander; the latter's submission on the day of Catherine's death had not deceived that fierce, suspicious mind; and lately, watching her fluttering devotion to her eldest son, the Czar no longer trusted Marie Feodorovna either.…

They talked of that terrible funeral of Catherine for months to come; the silent crowds of Petersburg, speechless with horror, the frightened courtiers, the ambassadors, who hurried to report to their respective governments that the Emperor of Russia was undoubtedly mad. And over the years the story persisted, unexaggerated even by the most colourful relater, for no imagination could have improved upon the dreadful symbolism devised by Paul.

The whole city was silent, the streets hung with black, the blinds drawn over every window as a sign of mourning, and in this setting, the procession of burial for the late Empress wound its way over a long route.

It was no ordinary cortège, for a great catafalque of gold headed the line, and in it lay a skeleton, the bones cleaned of dust and the grime of decomposing flesh, surrounded by guards who marched with their heads bowed in grief.

Immediately behind this ghastly bier, a tall old man walked alone, walked in the van of the poor remains of Peter Feodorovitch, and seeing him the people pointed, whispering.

“That is the murderer, Alexis Orlov.…”

That was the judgment pronounced upon him by the Czar, and with the coffin of Catherine Alexeievna moving after him, Alexis trod that road of public penance, his white head held proudly before the curious, accusing gaze of thousands, closing his ear to their murmurs.

“Alexis Orlov … the murderer.…”

Immediate burial was not Paul's plan, for an omission of his dead father's reign had to be rectified.

Peter the Third had never worn his crown; Catherine's rebellion had hurled him off the throne and into a premature grave before the ceremony of coronation.

Therefore Paul paid this gruesome honour to the dead, and while the cortège bearing Catherine's coffin waited, the skeleton of Peter Feodorovitch was wedged into the Imperial throne, and the magnificent, blazing Crown of Russia solemnly placed on the yellow skull in token of the legitimate rule which a usurper had interrupted.

Then, in the chapel at the fortress of St. Peter and Paul, traditional burial place of the sovereigns of Russia, the body of Catherine Alexeievna was lowered into a deep grave, and with her they interred the remains of her mortal enemy, and sealed this posthumous reconciliation by closing the tomb.

It was dark when the crowds dispersed, muttering in fear and wonder; and by the time that Plato Zubov sat with his brother Nicholas in the former's house outside the palace, it was nearly midnight.

At first they said little, the soldier drinking long draughts of wine, while Catherine's favourite ate sweetmeats and reflected.

“How safe is this place?” Nicholas Zubov asked suddenly.

“Entirely safe,” his brother reassured him. “I am in mourning for the Empress …” He gestured towards the walls of the room which were swathed in black drapery. “Wishing to be alone in my sorrow, and to talk freely while I am still at liberty, I have also dismissed my servants for a few days.”

“What do you mean, still at liberty?” Nicholas questioned suddenly, and in answer Plato shrugged and smiled his handsome sinister smile.

“I don't altogether trust him … do you?”

Nicholas stared into the bottom of his wine glass and then set it down slowly, formulating his thought into words, reassured by the knowledge that there was no one in the building besides themselves.

“Plato,” he said at last. “Plato, I think we made a mistake.…”

Catherine's former lover nodded, and his black eyes blazed for a second, before the lazy arrogance habitual to him filmed over them like shutters.

“I think so, too, brother,” he said gently. “But mistakes can be rectified.… It may be possible with this one.”

On the sixth of December the whole Court was electrified by the news that the Czar had ceased his enigmatic game of friendship with Prince Plato Zubov. For weeks they had watched in wonder, while the Emperor acted a sinister comedy with his mother's infamous favourite, setting out with the Empress to take tea with the Prince in his house, where the. frightened observers reported that Paul treated his uncomfortable host with an amiability more menacing than threats.

It was a subtle revenge, more distorted and less bloody than his subjects had expected, and for those few weeks Paul sat and savoured the spectacle of the languid, insolent male courtesan doubling himself to the ground in the effort to placate his sovereign.

Then, suddenly he struck.

The Prince was dismissed his numerous posts, prosecuted and banished. And before the Court had recovered its breath, Alexis Orlov, who had also received the same marks of macabre favour for a short period, followed Catherine's lover on the road of exile.

Like a whirlwind, Paul's long-delayed revenge was loosed upon the more powerful of his enemies; the prisons were already filled with lesser creatures and within months of his accession the way to Siberia was crowded with soldiers, with statesmen and nobles, many of whom were being justly punished for rifling the coffers of the State during the previous reign. Even Potemkin's tomb was broken open and his remains thrown into the Neva. Every statue erected to his memory was destroyed, and any towns called after him renamed.

At the same time Catherine's son set out to redress Catherine's tyranny. The prisoners convicted by her courts were released, the exiles recalled, and the Polish captives employed under conditions of unspeakable brutality and hardship on the fortifications at Rogerwick were amnestied and sent home.

The nobility had always hated Paul, and Paul returned the sentiment with terrible intensity. They, the wealthy and high born, had laughed at him, snubbed him in his miserably unhappy youth; a dissolute aristocrat had seduced his first wife and turned the gentle virgin he had married into a deceitful whore.… They persecuted his people, ill-treated their serfs and squandered the country's funds when in office.

“No more!” he vowed to Araktchéief, his voice raised to a roar of anger. “They've had too much freedom for too long! But I'll break them, my friend … I'll break them!”

No sentiment could have been closer to the feelings of the Commandant, born the son of a poor country gentleman, and for every snub received by the great nobles in Catherine's day, he devised a humiliation which the Czar made law.

“Koutaïssof! Come here immediately.…”

The Turk had been dozing on a sofa in his master's anteroom, when the sound of that familiar voice, harsh and quivering with fury, brought him running to the Czar's study.

Paul sat at his desk, surrounded by despatch boxes which he had been opening; there were papers on the floor where his impatient hand had swept them, and with his knees knocking with fear, Koutaïssof bent to pick them up, only to be interrupted by a furious order to leave them where they were.

Paul's face was livid with anger, the bounding pulse dragged at the corner of his left eye as it always did when his temper rose to danger point.

He held a despatch crumpled in one hand, and he threw it at the Turk's head with the injunction to read it. Koutaïssof smoothed the sheets of paper and tried to decipher what was written on them, his brown fingers shaking with nervousness.

“Oh, God, how slow you are,” the Emperor snarled suddenly. “Give it to me, if you can't read!”

“What is it,-Sire? Only tell me.… Have I done wrong?” Koutaïssof quavered, prèparing to prostrate himself and beg forgiveness before he even knew the nature of his fault.

“Not you … not you! What are you cringing for, fool? God's death, have I ever mistreated you that you cower like a whipped dog? Listen to this, Koutaïssof …' Since the former King of Poland did not arrive on time at Riga, the banquet prepared for him was held in any case, as Prince Plato Zubov was passing through the town on that date.…' Zubov! Zubov whom I disgraced and banished, received at Riga and given royal honours! Ah, by God, no man shall dare insult me in that way.… Who is the Governor of Riga?”

“I don't know, Sire,” the Turk replied, sweating with relief that this unknown was to be the culprit rather than himself.

“Then find out!” Paul ordered sharply. “Send for my secretary. I have a letter to dictate to this Governor who gives banquets to an exile.…”

And in due course, the letter was written, signed and despatched, and by that evening the incident had faded from Paul's mind. In fact while that letter, the most fateful in consequence that he would ever write throughout the short time that remained to him, sped on its journey to Riga by special courier, the Czar dined and attended a play in the royal theatre. Throughout the evening he was in the best of humours, his manner marked by his old gentleness so that a good many of those who hated him since his accession watched him and wondered, their hostility towards him weakening.

But the letter addressed to the Governor of Riga travelled across Russia, bearing a furious rebuke and an ignominious dismissal for the man responsible for the foolish act of courtesy to Catherine's favourite.

In a moment of rage, spurred by the jealousy, disgust and shame any reference to his mother's sexual weakness always aroused in him, however distantly connected with the subject, Paul Petrovitch had humiliated the most dangerous, vindictive and implacable man in Russia. The enmity of Count Von Pahlen, Governor of Riga, was to cost him his life.

12

The coronation of Paul Petrovitch took place on a beautiful April day, a day on which the sun shone down from a perfect, cloudless sky, bathing the ancient capital of Russia in golden light.

The dense crowds assembled in the Kremlin Square looked up at that serene and lovely sky, and accounted it an omen for the new reign. Thank God for a Czar, they said among themselves; after fifty years of feminine rule, it would be good to have a man upon the throne. And a good man, by all accounts, a friend to the people, whose first thought had been the release of all his mother's prisoners, and who had delighted his subjects by filling the gaols and the hovels in Siberia with their former oppressors.

The people approved his morals also; remembering the scandals of Catherine's notorious amours, Paul's placid wife and unassuming mistress proved him a model of respectability.

On that day when he was crowned in the magnificent Cathedral of the Assumption, the citizens of Moscow cheered and waved with unaffected joy, delighted by the spectacle, the ranks of Guards in their gorgeous uniforms, the colour and dignity of the royal procession which passed down the Beautiful Staircase out of the Kremlin buildings on its way to the cathedral.

The Metropolitan of Novgorod and St. Petersburg performed the rite and placed the blazing diamond crown upon the head of Catherine's son. It was a moment of inexpressible solemnity; great clouds of sweet-scented incense rose to the distant roof, thousands of candles illumined the vast interior of the church and gleamed on the jewels and orders of the massed congregation.

The Metropolitan and his attendant priests stood on the steps of the High Altar, facing the still, lonely figure of the Emperor of all the Russias.

At the climax of the ceremony a deep flush rose in Paul's face, disguising the weariness and pallor; his head lifted proudly under the weight of the Imperial Crown and for all his lack of height his figure seemed to gain in stature and in dignity. The heavy velvet mantle, thickly embroidered with gold and lined with ermine, flowed down from his broad shoulders, and his breast was covered with glittering orders. A few yards behind him Marie Feodorovna waited, bearing the weight of her robes and the stifling, scented atmosphere with no sign of outward strain. The music, the ritual and significance of the occasion did not move her as it did Paul; unlike him she felt no surge of emotion, no mystical sensation of a great trust received and a sacred duty undertaken. She experienced a strong degree of satisfaction, of complacence in the assumption of her rôle as Consort, and moving from one tired foot to the other, regretted the Slavic passion for prolonged religious services. The knowledge that Paul was rigid in a kind of ecstasy would have amazed and horrified her. In all their years of married life, Marie had never understood him, never divined the loneliness and inferiority that his fierce exterior concealed.