Curse Not the King (30 page)

“But you didn't expect him to succeed, did you, Mother?” the Grand Duke interrupted softly, drawing the contrast between the wish of a powerless and unpopular Czarevitch, and an omnipotent and decidedly self-willed Czar.

“No, but he has, and
everything's
been upset since he quarrelled with Katya. But there's one thing I want you to know, my son,” she said, and stood facing him, her solid jaw set in determination. “Whatever happens, nothing shall harm
you.
Without me, you'd be powerless here, but if I have to kneel to this slut he's bringing back from Moscow, I'll try and secure her good offices and keep my place as Empress. You can be assured of that!”

“I don't want you to humiliate yourself, Mother,” he whispered, content to despise her methods and take advantage of the results obtained by them at the same time.

“I know that,” she told him, returning to his side and linking her arm through his.

“But you can leave all that to me, Alexis. Promise me you won't worry, my dear boy. Paul won't get rid of me; I'll always be here to speak for you and safeguard your interests. I'll give this Lapoukhine presents and flatter her; she'll be complimented, you'll see! And even if … if anything should go wrong with your father and myself,
you
must give me your word that you'll be sensible and not endanger yourself in my defence!

“I can bear anything, providing I know that you, my own darling son, are safe and in friendship with the Emperor!”

It was a vow he knew she meant to keep, but his only true reactions were a confusion of contempt for the stupidity which imagined it could patronize a woman of this Anna Lapoukhine's mettle, genuine fear lest his threat to his mother might come to pass and his most devoted advocate and spy be enclosed in some convent where she could no longer help him, anxiety for himself as usual, and the knowledge that he had succeeded in frightening the Empress even more deeply than he had hoped.

She was very much afraid and he knew it, despite her phlegmatic show of courage and her nauseating, self-sacrificing mother love. The idea that Paul might decide to get rid of her and marry someone else had terrified her on her son's account and her own to such an extent that Alexander counted on it to undermine whatever scruples she still possessed where the life of her husband was concerned.

That was the real purpose of his words to her that day; it had been his purpose all the time. He was deliberately frightening her, tearing her with anxiety and suspicion and gradually sowing the seeds of acquiescence to the plan which had been formed by Catherine Alexeievna and which her grandson was already plotting to put into practice.

His schedule differed from the old Empress's in only one respect. There would be no outward show of abdications, no lull while Paul's blood was shed in prison, after the palace revolution had removed him from the throne.

He must be struck down by sudden death, killed with the savagery inspired by fear before a hand could be raised to save him. Only then could his son hope to take his crown in safety.

And in that year of 1798, just eighteen months after Paul's accession to the throne, the last phase of his destiny opened with the arrival in Petersburg of Count von Pahlen.

Marie's request, made before the Czar left for Moscow to seek out Anna Lapoukhine, had been carelessly granted. If the former Governor of Riga was really sorry for his fault, then he might come to the capital and be restored to favour. So Paul decided, his mind distracted by thoughts of his journey, and by longing for the woman he had dreamed of and desired for months; he was ready to please Marie Feodorovna, since he intended further infidelity; and thereby opened the door to the man Alexander hoped to cast in the assassin's rôle.

Soon after his return from Kazan, the Emperor held an evening reception at the Winter Palace and it was there that Paul Petrovitch and Count von Pahlen met for the first time.

The Count was a tall man, his bearing was erect, as befitted a soldier, and his high colour and genial expression radiated good humour and benevolence. These factors disguised the thin nose, and the narrow-lipped mouth, flanked by two curving lines as if he laughed continuously. A fan of wrinkles, the badge of a merry disposition, showed at the outer corner of each flat blue eye, so that, looking into his eyes, an observer failed to notice their opaqueness and the fact that, whatever the Count's mood, no light or alteration was ever reflected in their depths.

He bowed almost to the ground when brought before the Emperor. Paul stared at him with the suspicion habitual to him when viewing strangers, remembering his promise to his wife, recalling also that this big, red-faced man had dared to thwart him by showing honour to that Plato Zubov, whose practices had engulfed the old Empress Catherine in everlasting infamy.

For a moment a great rage stirred in Paul's breast, and an instinctive, violent impulse to shout for the guard and watch them drag the Count von Pahlen from his presence by the heels.…

It was an unreasoning urge, born of some buried sense of self-protection and it drained the colour from his face and caused the pulsing under his left eye to leap under the skin.

But such impulses were only too familiar; for years now they had assailed him, their intensity increasing. He had learnt to know the signs of anger, the murmur in his head that rose to a raving bellow of suspicion, of fear, of blind resentment that transformed the object, whether innocent or guilty, into an enemy of half-remembered form that must be struck down, exiled, beaten … for some crime he knew it had committed but which his boiling brain could not distinguish at that moment.

He knew the signs, and with all his strength he fought them, often successfully, or when disaster overtook him and an order of barbarity escaped his lips, seemingly spoken by another will than his, he hurried to the victim's rescue, horror and contrition in his heart.

The terrible events of the next two years hung in the balance while Paul struggled with his hysterical, sick predilections, and at last conquered them, pardoning the man who stood before him, in apparent humility, with hatred, vengeance and murder seething behind his flat little eyes.

“Welcome to Court, sir,” he said at last, and the Count bowed again. Then he faced the Czar and smiled, making a good-humoured mask of honesty, portraying the bluff soldier, eager to be pardoned for a fault most bitterly regretted.

“I thank you, your Imperial Majesty. Due to my own folly I never hoped to hear those words. Now I can offer my old carcass in your service.…”

“The past is forgotten, Count.”

Suddenly Paul's features relaxed, the last phrase, ringing with loyalty and gratitude, had touched him.

“I shall be glad of your service. And the carcass you mention appears young enough to render me many good years yet!”

“As you please, Sire.… But I'm close to sixty! However, I trust you'll find use for me, however humble. I am your servant, Sire, till death.…”

Paul stepped forward, motioning the Count to walk with him, and the royal entourage melted away to let them pass.

“I admire humility in a man of courage, Count von Pahlen, and I need faithful friends on whose loyalty I can rely. You've admitted your error, and I assure you you're completely forgiven. We will have some wine, Count, and you shall tell me about conditions in Riga.”

They talked for nearly half an hour, and several times an astonished, watching Court heard the sound of Paul's infrequent laughter, followed by the Count's hearty uninhibited guffaw.

Meeting the Grand Duke Alexander's eye, Marie Feodorovna raised her brows and smiled encouragingly.

See, my son, what a good impression your Count Pahlen has already made upon the Czar! See, and take heart!

That was the message he read in her anxious, maternal gaze, and seeing his father's hated figure, topped by the Count's superior height, he gained in confidence and hope, answering his foolish mother with the gentle smile that served to mask his true emotions.

Clever Pahlen! So bluff and honest featured; the very picture of a soldier, guileless, brave, obedient and jolly. His jollity was Alexander's marvel and abhorrence, for he knew it covered a nature of extraordinary ferocity and vindictiveness, capable of sustaining the most reckless and implacable resolve.

And as he watched him with the Czar, conversing with just the right mixture of ease, interest and respect, Alexander forgot his fears of Anna Lapoukhine and the reversal of Court influence that must follow in her train, for he felt that here, at Paul's side, stood a man capable of withstanding and conquering a dozen women, however beautiful, and in whom stiff, fanatical Araktchéief, and even the supremely wily Rastopchine, would meet their match at last.

That night, when the reception was ended, von Pahlen shut himself into the privacy of his bedroom in a friend's house on the Nevsky Prospect, and sat down heavily upon his bed.

No valet attended him, for he wished to be alone, to collect his thoughts and review his progress; the inconvenience of undressing himself was a small price to pay for valuable solitude at such a moment.

Once alone, his whole appearance had altered, changed as if a tight-fitting mask had been peeled off his face. The sharp features were hard and pinched with fatigue and his flat eyes considered the floor in unseeing, inward concentration.

The dominant trait in Pahlen's soul was pride, an egotism so intense and so insanely sensitive that, once wounded, he knew neither peace nor mercy until the insult was revenged.

The Emperor Paul had humiliated him; the abusive phrases of that fatal letter of dismissal still rang in his head, and the memory of his public disgrace and the amusement of his enemies in Riga reduced him to a state of apoplectic fury.

But with the cunning of the monomaniac, he hid his feelings, enjoying the popularity his genial manners won him, content to masquerade before an audience of dupes, until the moment to reveal his talent came. He played at honesty, practised his loud, ready laugh with the attention of an actor mastering the smallest details of a character, and meanwhile watched himself, fascinated and lost in self-admiration for the skill of the performance.

He thought of the Czar of all the Russias who had received him with such graciousness that night, and sneered with angry malice. He, who was tall, and in his youth judged rather handsome, pictured the short, ugly son of Catherine Alexeievna, and raged in fresh resentment that the man who had humiliated him resembled nothing so much as a tragic monkey who had succeeded in frightening a lot of pampered courtiers with his bursts of temper.…

But the Empress Marie was afraid of him, Pahlen had seen that immediately, and his handsome son watched him with uneasy eyes. Even Plato, who for all his viciousness was no coward, spoke of the Czar as a man to be reckoned with.

Yet the stories of ruthless purging of corruption, coupled with disciplinary measures for the army and civilians which raised even Pahlen's far-from-squeamish brows, were contradicted by the tales of Paul's gentleness to his first wife and to the younger children Marie tore him.

What manner of man was he, the Count wondered, who struck so fiercely at the privileged aristocracy and passed extraordinary laws for the protection of the serfs.…

It was Pahlen's experience that in order to destroy an enemy it was necessary first to understand him, and then to become his friend. He had never failed to accomplish either object, and he had never hated any man as much or owed him such a debt of vengeance as he did Paul Petrovitch.

But it was also his experience that all rulers shared a common weakness; it was a lonely destiny, devoid of the comforts of disinterested affection for which all human beings longed. He was already sure that Paul was no exception, that the man who could win his friendship was the man who could eventually stab him in the back. And even if it took him years, Pahlen determined to fill both positions. Upon that resolution he fell asleep.

14

The Court was at Tsarskoë Selo when Anna Lapoukhine was reunited with her lover, and there, in one of the most beautiful of all the Imperial palaces, they enjoyed a brief, personal idyll.

The Empress had retired to Pavlovsk so as not to intrude upon her husband and his favourite, determined at all costs to herself to maintain friendly relations with Paul and to placate the new mistress.

No sooner had Anna arrived than she was hurried to her lover's rooms, accorded almost royal honours by the Court, who took care that their murmurs of admiration were audible to her ears. But Anna neither heard nor cared. Naturally cynical, suspicious of flattery, and ruthless in her treatment of self-seekers, she almost ran down the long corridors, longing to see Paul, to rush into his arms and repeat their own magic formula of passion and laughter, safely enclosed in the compass of the love which had flared up between them and in which opportunism, power, or notoriety had no place.

He embraced her immediately, forgetting his worries, the insistence of his English and Austrian allies that he should resume his mother's plan and go to war with France, the sudden hostility of his old friend Rastopchine to the likeable, trustworthy Panlen, and a hundred other problems of varying importance.

The moment he held her against his heart, his burdens lifted, and as he kissed her eagerly, he noticed that even his persistent headache seemed to have lost its throbbing impetus.…

“Why were you so long? I've counted every second, waiting for you … Anna, Anna, my darling.…”

“They wouldn't hurry. My parents, I mean. I told them I'd leave without them in the end! Oh, Paul, I'm so pleased to be with you, so happy now, my lover! And I want to tell you everything and hear everything.… Oh, let me go, Pavlouchka,” she whispered, “let me take off my travelling dress.…” And with the perversity that was so great a measure of her fascination, she locked her hands behind his head and clung to him, even as she asked to be released.