Empress of the Night

Empress of the Night
is a work of historical fiction. Apart from the well-known actual people, events, and locales that figure in the narrative, all names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to current events or locales, or to living persons, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2014 by Eva Stachniak

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

BANTAM BOOKS and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA Stachniak, Eva
Empress of the night: a novel of Catherine the Great / Eva Stachniak.
pages cm.
ISBN 978-0-553-80813-1 — ISBN 978-0-553-90805-3 (eBook)
1. Catherine II, Empress of Russia,
1729–1796—Fiction. I. Title.
PR9199.4.S728E47 2013
813′.6—dc23
2013010159

www.bantamdell.com

Jacket design: Marietta Anastassatos
Jacket images: Scala/Art Resource (woman), age fotostock (fan), The Bridgeman Art Library (landscape)

v3.1

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

Cast of Most Important Characters

Prologue

Part I - November 5, 1796

Part II - November 5, 1796

Part III - November 5, 1796

Part IV - November 6, 1796

Afterword

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Other Books by This Author

About the Author

She exercised a constant self-control over herself, and herein appeared the greatness of her character, for nothing is more difficult.

JACQUES CASANOVA DE SEINGALT ON CATHERINE THE GREAT

And you shall fall, in no way different,

As withered leaves shall fall from trees;

And you shall die, in no way different,

As your most humble slave shall die.

GAVRILA DERZHAVIN, QUOTED IN
THE ROMANOVS

CAST OF MOST IMPORTANT
CHARACTERS

Empress Catherine II, previously Grand Duchess Catherine Alekseyevna, born Sophie Friederike Auguste of Anhalt-Zerbst

Father: Christian August of Anhalt-Zerbst

Mother: Johanna of Holstein-Gottorp

HER FAMILY

Emperor Peter III, Catherine’s husband, previously Grand Duke Peter Fyodorovich, born Karl Peter Ulrich, Duke of Holstein-Gottorp

Empress Elizabeth, aunt of Peter III and daughter of Peter the Great

Her children

Grand Duke Paul Petrovich (married to Grand Duchess Maria Fyodorovna)

Grand Duchess Anna Petrovna (fathered by Stanislav Poniatowski)

Count Alexei Bobrinsky (a love child with Grigory Orlov)

Her grandchildren

Grand Duke Alexander Pavlovich (married to Grand Duchess Elizabeth Alexeyevna)

Grand Duke Constantine Pavlovich (married to Grand Duchess Anna Fyodorovna)

Grand Duchess Alexandrine Pavlovna (to be betrothed to Gustav Adolf of Sweden)

Grand Duchess Yelena Pavlovna

Grand Duchess Maria Pavlovna

Grand Duchess Olga Pavlovna

Grand Duke Nicholas Pavlovich

HER LOVERS/FAVORITES

Serge Saltykov

Stanislav Poniatowski, later the King of Poland

Grigory Orlov

Alexander Vasilchikov

Grigory Potemkin (Grisha, Grishenka)

Alexander Lanskoy (Sashenka)

Alexander Matveyevich Mamonov (Mister Redcoat)

Platon Alexandrovich Zubov (Le Noiraud)

HER ATTENDANTS

Varvara Nikolayevna Malikina, a servant and confidante; Darya (also Darenka), her daughter

Vishka (Maria Savishna Perekusikhina), Catherine’s confidante

Queenie (Anna Stepanovna Protasova), Catherine’s confidante

Zakhar Ivanovich Zotov, Catherine’s valet

Doctor Rogerson, court physician

COURTIERS

Count Alexei Orlov

Count Nikita Ivanovich Panin

Prince Lev Naryshkin

Count Alexander Andreyevich Bezborodko, first her secretary, then minister

Adrian Moseyevich Gribovsky, Catherine’s last secretary

Count Morkov

Prince Adam Czartoryski, a Polish noble, Alexander Pavlovich’s best friend

Valerian Zubov, a soldier/courtier, brother of the last Favorite

Count Cobenzl, Austrian Ambassador

Prince Repnin, former Russian Ambassador in Poland, governor-general of the newly acquired Eastern Provinces after the last Partition of Poland, Adam Czartoryski’s natural father

Alexandra Branicka (Sashenka), Potemkin’s niece

Princess Catherine (Katya) Dashkova, Catherine’s friend

POLITICAL OPPONENTS

Emelyan Pugachev, the leader of the serf/Cossack uprising of 1773–75

Tadeusz Kosciuszko, the leader of the Polish uprising of 1794

She is dressed in a robe of silver brocade. A golden mantle trimmed with ermine and silver tassels covers her feet. Her eyes are closed, cheeks rouged, lips slightly parted
.

In the Grand Gallery of the Winter Palace, illuminated by rows of thick wax candles, the imperial coffin rests on a raised platform beneath a canopy draped in black velvet. Imperial courtiers stifle their sobs. Grief-stricken subjects line up to kiss their late sovereign’s hand. Imperial Guards stand at attention. The choir intones
Memory Eternal.
The priests in their black vestments embroidered with silver chant the prayers for the dead. The air is choked with clouds of sweet incense
.

Crowds have gathered in front of the Winter Palace, along the Embankment, on the streets and bridges. This is the time of lamentation, when the soul of the newly departed still lingers, awaiting forgiveness for sins, gathering strength for the passage to the next world. Ancient Russian customs call for special foods and the street vendors oblige with pancakes, fish pies, and
kissiel
made of oatmeal. To fortify the spirit, shots of vodka are sold by the glass
.

But something rings louder than sobs and requiem chants. Russia’s beloved Tsarina, Catherine, Empress of all the Russias, is lying in state and yet no courtiers, ministers, or high priests make laudatory speeches, praise the long prosperous years and glorious conquests of her extraordinary reign. The poets, too, are silent. No odes, no ballads, no dirges sing the despair of Catherine’s orphaned subjects
.

At the Nevsky monastery, with the whole Imperial Family gathered around him, His Imperial Majesty Tsar Paul I, the rightful heir to the Romanov blood, orders the monks to fetch his father’s coffin from its anonymous grave. Two Russian sovereigns will make their last earthly journey together. Old debts must be paid, old sins punished
.

Thirty-four glorious years of Catherine’s reign have been erased with a wave of her son’s hand. How can the mind grasp that such a time has come?

9:00
A
.
M
.

The pain is sharp, piercing, a burning dagger’s thrust inside her skull, somewhere behind the right eye. It hits just as she lifts her quill out of an inkwell. Her hand freezes. The quill, dropped, stains the letter she was just about to sign.

The mantel clock begins to chime. She recalls being frightened as a child to see the hands of a clock turned back, believing time itself might go back and she would be forced to live again through everything she had already lived through, depriving her of the adventure of the future.

The pain doesn’t stop or diminish. It is already nine o’clock and she is still behind with the reading she must finish before her secretary arrives. She considers calling Zotov, her valet, but dismisses the thought quickly. The headache will go away by itself, but once her old servant begins to fuss, she won’t be able to send him away.

Pani, her Italian greyhound, sniffs her mistress’s hand with fierce concentration, licking the skin of her palm. The dog is slender and fine-boned, a direct descendant of beloved Zemira, who lies buried in the Tsarskoye Selo gardens.

“I’ve nothing for you there,” she mutters. She tries to pat Pani’s head, but her right hand is strangely wooden, stiff and unwieldy, so she settles for an awkward caress, noting thick drops of pus in the corners of her dog’s eyes. Just like Zemira, Pani is prone to lingering infections.

Outside her study, pattering feet and muted voices dissolve into furtive silence: The Empress is working. The Empress must not be disturbed.

She stands. With her left hand she grips the edge of her desk, clumsily, sending the papers flying.
How intriguing
, she thinks, watching the vellum pages glide on invisible currents, hover in the air, silent like birds
of prey. Pani, too, watches, head cocked to the side. A wagging tail thumps at the floor.

The cup of coffee on the desk must be cold by now, but a drink will do her good. Her right hand is still heavy and stiff, so she picks up the cup with her left. The first bitter sip is refreshing, but the second one makes her choke.

She spits the coffee out. On the encrusted wood, on her papers. Brown, watery splashes she should wipe right away, but instead she lets her tongue probe the inside of her mouth, the soft, ribbed folds of her palate.
Like calf’s brain
, she thinks, her mother’s favorite dish.

She tries to put the cup back on the desk, but her hand refuses to obey, and it shatters on the floor.

If she walks a bit, will the headache dissolve?

Her first step is wobbly, unsure, making her clutch whatever is within her reach. The corner of her desk, the chair.

Behind her something falls down. Something big and heavy.

Her right knee is still sore. It’s been like this ever since that dreadful fall three years ago, when she toppled down the stairs on her way to the
banya
. Zotov had heard the noise and rushed after her. Made her sit on the marble step for a while. Only when she assured him the dizzy spell had passed did he help her stand up, slowly. She didn’t think she had been truly hurt, bruised and frightened as she was, but the knee is not letting her forget the fall.

9:01
A.M
.

Each step, unsteady as it is, is a marvel. The muscles contracting and releasing. The feet shuffling forward, one after another. Like the mechanical doll her granddaughters loved to play with, before Constantine, her grandson, cut it open to see what was hidden inside.