Empress of the Night (33 page)

Catherine is sitting in her gilded armchair carved with double-headed eagles. She is rouged and powdered, clad in cloth of gold, flashing with precious stones. Her gown is heavy and stiff like armor. Drops of perspiration gather on her back into a stream that rolls down her spine. It is an early afternoon, hot, in spite of open windows and a breeze from the Neva.

The Empress has ordered Platon to bring the Swedish visitors here through Raphael’s Loggias. The gallery is Quarenghi’s masterpiece, but her own idea, copied from the Raphael Bible in the Vatican Palace. Frescoes depicting scenes from the Creation to the Last Supper, set in the borders of stucco, among the bustle of flowers, fruits, and birds, have been called an art school for all Europe. The scenes are both peaceful and serene. Raphael, like her, preferred happy endings. Only the images of the Last Supper hint at death and resurrection.

The guests have also passed by the Hermitage library, where the walls are covered with the finest Romanov portraits. Platon was to make sure the King stopped by the likeness of Alexandrine, at seven, wearing a Russian
kokoshnik
and looking particularly sweet and virginal.

“Your Imperial Majesty!” A pair of burning brown eyes rise to meet hers. Gustav Adolf bends to kiss her hand.

“I cannot allow this,” Catherine says, smiling. “I cannot forget that the Count of Haga is a King.”

The King bows again with an easy grace. “If Your Majesty will not give me permission to kiss her hand as Empress, at least allow it as a lady to whom I owe so much respect and admiration.” He speaks in perfect, elegant French. His pleasure at being in the presence of a Russian Sovereign is an honor he will not soon forget. It is a yardstick he will measure all future honors against and is sure to find them wanting.

The sun streams through open curtains, lighting up the squares on the intricate mosaic floor, bouncing off the gilt vases on the marble mantel.

The King’s hands are white and very soft. Could he rein in a horse? Stop it from bolting?

After a moment of hesitation, Le Noiraud puffs up his chest and positions himself right beside her. The King and the Regent no longer pay any attention to him, which will be reason enough for sulking.

The King does not mention God or Destiny, but—is it modesty or caution?—he doesn’t inquire about Alexandrine, either. Instead, he recounts praises of the Winter Palace he has heard from his late father. No descriptions, however, could ever do justice to what he has now had the privilege to observe with his own eyes. He has paid attention to Raphael’s Loggias. “What a pleasure it must be,” he exclaims, “to possess what the greedy Vatican considers its own unique treasure.”

The Regent bobs his head at his nephew’s praise. Pudgy and pasty, Catherine thinks him, like an underbaked dinner roll.

“The choice of subject matter in particular,” the King continues. “What pleasure to see art that draws a human mind so deeply into the beauty of spiritual transformations!”

These words are followed by a straightforward, earnest gaze. This man will not cringe. Or irritate her with incessant flattery.

From behind the Diamond Room doors come the impatient noises of the court awaiting the first glimpse of the guests. The voices rise and fall, hushed only to break out into a hum of pretended indifference. But before she proceeds to the reception hall, she points to the glass cases and the giant ruby in her scepter. “The size of a hen’s egg,” she says with an impish smile. “I only mention this because Your Majesty’s late father presented it to me during his last visit here. He had no son yet, and I had no granddaughters, but it was his wish then that our houses might be connected one day.”

Is it a blush she sees on Gustav Adolf’s cheeks?

“But I have to make a confession before we proceed any further,” the Empress continues. “My eldest granddaughter, Alexandrine, has had a misfortune of losing her beloved dog. So you must forgive her if she seems distracted and sad. It’s not on your account, though I’m afraid that you might have been an unwitting cause of the unfortunate occurrence.”

“Me, Your Majesty?”

“My granddaughter blames herself for letting the dog run away. Her mind has been too much occupied by today’s ball, which, as you know, we are giving in your honor. The child has been weeping all day.”

“A sign of a tender heart,” the King replies.

She claps her hands, and the doors of the Diamond Room open wide. She turns toward the King, who promptly positions himself at her side, forcing Platon to move back. She leans on Gustav Adolf’s arm and stands up. Her steps are slow but deliberate; she ignores the pain.

Platon glances at himself in the silver-framed mirror. Quickly, as if he needed reassurance that he is still here.

In the Audience Room the courtiers are waiting. As Catherine passes by, all eyes are on her, gauging the amount of her attention, the measure of how far they have climbed or fallen. Have they merited a full greeting? A mere inclination of her head? Or just a consoling smile? After she has passed, they will jostle, push away those who have lost, take the precious inches of their space, watchful for those wishing to unseat them.

And so the parade begins, in full glittering splendor. Her swarming family, lined up. Son: pug-nosed Paul, in his Preobrazhensky uniform,
stiff at attention. Daughter-in-law: Maria Fyodorovna, flat-faced, wide-bottomed, still weak from the last pregnancy, leaning on Paul’s arm. Never mind them. Beauty may have skipped one generation, but it has certainly favored her grandchildren. On their right, dashing Alexander with his Elizabeth. On their left, Constantine with his Anna. Behind them, Alexander’s new friend, Prince Adam, his embroidered jacket the hue of ripe plums. It’s of him that Bezborodko says “possibly too serious.” As if reading and talking about books with Alexander can be construed as a fault.

And the girls! Three granddaughters, grouped together, their fresh faces like the first blush of spring. Alexandrine is in the middle. A chain of roses crowns her forehead. On her chest, pinned, her grandmother’s portrait, its frame glittering with diamond lights. The white muslin of her underdress is enlivened by the sumptuous pink gown, trimmed with gold lace. Her hands are folded on her chest; her eyes are cast down. A fairy virgin princess awaiting her fate.

The King bows with a flourish in front of the Grand Duchesses. He cannot take his gaze away. Louise of Mecklenburg is not going to be betrothed much longer.

Alexandrine lifts her chin slightly. Her quick, furtive look deserves an approving smile of encouragement. The King says something to Alexandrine, then pauses to hear her response. He should move on, but he doesn’t, coming up with more questions. Alexandrine must be answering them to his satisfaction, for he makes no effort to leave her. In the end, Alexander intervenes, indicating the line of courtiers awaiting their introductions, with the always-too-eager Madame Lebrun pushing herself forward. The King bows again and folds his hands, begging for forgiveness. Alexandrine smiles and nods her understanding of royal obligations.

The charms of coyness are as powerful as the brilliancy of wit.

“He’s ours,” Catherine whispers triumphantly into Le Noiraud’s ear as he leads her to her comfortable ottoman, from which she will watch the evening unfold. “Smitten already.”

When she asked Alexander to play host, her grandson had flinched, as if pricked by a pin a seamstress overlooked in the folds of his shirt. “Won’t Papa mind terribly if I do?” he had asked. But now Alexander is
all charm, Elizabeth at his side, radiant in ivory-white satin. The dress is laced too tightly, though. Elizabeth should think of motherhood, not vanity. Which is as bad as the excessive melancholy she confesses in her letters home:
Each pang of sorrow is like a drop of ink falling into a glass of water, turning something that used to be clear into dirty gray
.

Gustav Adolf glides from one cluster of courtiers to another. From her vantage point Catherine follows his nods, his elegant steps. There is no shyness in his gestures, no hesitation. Naked, he must be marble-like and solid. With a slight pang of regret she has to admit that even Alexander and Constantine, her two strapping grandsons, pale beside him.

The Prussian Ambassador, in black velvet, approaches to pay his respects and—no doubt—gauge her latest thoughts on the Polish partition treaty, which she’ll thwart: The Prussians always wish for more than their share. But there is no need, for he merely offers praises for her granddaughter’s charms. “Grand Duchess Alexandrine has managed,” he gushes, “to shine, among such condensation of beauty.”

Beside her, Platon sits silent, his fingers toying with the ribbon across his chest. A deep frown creases his impeccably sculptured forehead. Le Noiraud is piqued because the Prussian Ambassador has addressed him as
Mon Prince
, a slight he will neither forget nor forgive. Prince Zubov, according to the Prussian Ambassador, does not deserve to be called
Mon Seigneur
or
Votre Altesse
, because his title was too recently acquired.

Across the ballroom, her son stands, gawking, an emptiness around him like a magic circle no one but his wife and children dare to cross. Her eyes quickly slide over Paul’s lanky frame, his small head that looks as if it will wobble off his shoulders the moment he moves too quickly.

There has always been something wrong about Paul. As a boy, he was never still, pushing ahead of everybody else. Rushing to the table before meals were ready. Eating too fast, finishing before others barely started, and then complaining how slow they were. Talking incessantly. Arguing when it was no longer necessary. Stubborn. Wanting things his own way or not wanting them at all. “Impatience is a common flaw of extreme youth. His Highness will outgrow it,” his tutor assured her, but she knew better. Impatience was like a cancer of the spirit. It would grow and poison all that it touched.

Paul makes her think of a cuckoo. Not of the echoing calls said to
predict the number of years one has on this earth, but of how it lays its egg in another bird’s nest. Of how the cuckoo chick grows bigger than the duped parents and still demands to be fed. Not that she believes the rumors that the child she gave birth to had been snatched and another placed in its stead, that Paul is Elizabeth Petrovna’s bastard. Simpler explanations suffice. The overheated nursery, the careless and ignorant nurses who filled her young son’s head with nonsense. Stories of
bogatyri
who leaped through mountains and slew monster nightingales or of clever peasants who outwitted sly merchants and married princesses of the realm. Or that she, his mother, could make herself invisible and thus will always know what he says.

The nurses must have thought little of such teasing; a good-natured joke of no consequence, the stuff of their own childhoods. But her son was not a sturdy peasant boy who would laugh at such nonsense. Her son screamed in terror at the sight of her.

Paul’s gaze acknowledges hers, but he will not approach her again. They’ve already exchanged their customary greetings.
Dear son. Beloved mother
. No need for anything else. She’ll not spoil the bubbly feeling of pleasure. She’ll watch the young dance. Lithe bodies hopping about, still capable of such exertions. Alexander holding his head high, his dance steps perfectly assured. Elizabeth beside him, her shining hair adorned with black pearls. Anna Fyodorovna, perfectly content as she skips over the ballroom floor, Constantine holding her by the tips of her fingers.

Fans flutter like butterflies’ wings. Skirts swell and rustle. Feet mark time. The scents of orange flowers and jasmine mingle with musk and snuff.

When the music stops, she can hear the clink of coins thrown on the card table next door. And the thumping of the billiard cues, sending the wooden balls on their way.

Having fulfilled his duty of court introductions, the Swedish King is not leaving Alexandrine’s side.

Alexandrine Pavlovna, the future Queen of Sweden, is still panting after the dance. The King has taken off his soft velvet cap and plays with its jeweled trim. For a moment, brief and fleeting, Alexandrine touches it, too, then withdraws her finger quickly, as if in fright. He talks and the child listens, her eyes fixed on the tips of her satin slippers. But she is not
entirely silent, for at times the King laughs heartily in response to her words. The two young lovers are given wide berth. No one wishes to interrupt what has been so eagerly anticipated.

The Regent has been watching the young lovers, too. Now, defeated, he approaches the imperial ottoman. He clears his throat. “Some actions seem preordained, Your Majesty,” he says. “Impossible to resist. Like flood. Like winter snow.”

“Seem?” Catherine asks. She doesn’t care to remind this ugly, balding man that she was not the one to break her end of the bargain with this Mecklenburg charade, which will now have to be undone.

The Regent mutters something about ill-wishers betting on the wrong horse, unleashing a torrent when they merely desired a sip of water. He will not be remembered in Russia for the precision of his metaphors, but what he is trying to express merits attention. When he speaks of “important events, the implications of which are still not fully understood,” he means Russia’s latest acquisitions. He is saying that the partition of Poland has not gone down well in Sweden. Russia is getting bigger, and Europe is afraid. Which country will she swallow next?

“Negotiations are still required,” the Regent says in a hoarse whisper. He seems convinced that vagueness carries more clout with her than straightforward admissions. “A variety of approaches might have to be suggested. Safeguards considered, mutually agreed upon.”

The music resumes. Alexandrine tips her sweet face up toward the King’s. She is saying something, and he watches her with rapture. Then he clasps his fingers to his lips, as if her granddaughter managed to astonish him even more than he thought possible.

A surge of magnanimity overwhelms Catherine. She will not gloat.

“I’ve heard much praise of the King’s palace,” she tells the Regent, opening her swanskin fan, rimmed with black feathers. “It is just outside Stockholm, isn’t it? Where the air is good?”