Empress of the Night (46 page)

I nodded my agreement
.

“
For some time now I’ve been awaiting the moment when I can unveil my true thoughts before you,” he said. “I don’t want you to equate me with those who surround me. I’m not in agreement with this court.
”

I kept my pace; I didn’t look at him
.

“
I think it cruel and wrong to take what is not ours. To see greed disguised as policy, to watch shameless flatterers receive the estates robbed from those far more worthy only because they dared to defend their own country from destruction!

“
I’ve noticed that you’ve been cautious around me, that you don’t dare say the words that you carry in your heart. You don’t have to be
.

“
I want you to know how often my wishes were for Kosciuszko and his insurrection against our Russian troops. I want to assure you of my great admiration for this noble man and to tell you that I have been deeply saddened by his defeat.
”

He spoke fast, as if we had only this short time in the world when all that is of true importance can be said. He spoke, and I could not believe the words I heard were truly coming from the lips of a Grand Duke who will one day sit upon the Russian throne
.

“
How often I wished I could sneak into Kosciuszko’s prison cell! Shake his hand and tell him of my admiration for his character, his courage in opposing tyranny. Assure him that my heart is on the side of his unfortunate compatriots who cannot speak up for their country if they don’t want to lose their freedom and their fortune.
”

I became conscious of a new note of bitterness in the Grand Duke’s voice. He paused, and for a moment the flow of his confession—for this is what it truly was—broke. Deep emotions were fighting for their supremacy: “I’m not entirely trusted … I’m continuously being honored by concerns … my sentiments are dismissed as childish and transient.
”

How I wished to stop walking and hold his hand, assure him of my joy at hearing such noble words, but I remained true to my promise and let my legs carry me forward
.

“
As I’m honest with you, I’m hoping you will soon trust me enough to be honest with me. Believe me when I say that I respect your feelings, share your sorrow and your pain. Out of everyone at this loathsome court only my wife shares my way of thinking. She, too, cringes at the thought of injustice. Anyone else would’ve betrayed me.
”

The Grand Duke of Russia stopped at this moment and briefly touched my arm
.

“
Will you honor me with your full confidence and trust?” he asked me. “As I have just trusted you?
”

I nodded my agreement, too moved to express my joy. A Tsarevich brought up in hatred of all that is Polish, surrounded by flattery and dreams of absolute power, has emerged with his soul unscathed! What other proofs do I need to believe that the rule of tyranny has no future? That the end of injustice is near!

There is a painting of the Annunciation in the Imperial Bedroom that she likes to examine. It amazes her how little a skillful painter needs to achieve an effect of sumptuousness. The pearls on the fringe of Mary’s robe are but a dollop of gray, each touched with a tiny spot of white, yet so perfect in tone that from even a step away each drop of paint becomes a jewel.

There is a lesson in this. Eyes are easily fooled. One doesn’t need to provide all details—just a hint is enough. Everything else can be completed from memory or desire.

Stretched on her bed, she listens as Le Noiraud assures her that the negotiations with the Swedes are proceeding well. He and Morkov have drafted all the clauses. They are meeting with the Swedes tomorrow, to discuss the final wording.

This is Russia’s time. Her Russia, which has shown Europe its true mettle. This is the time of acquisitions and tough bargains. Compared to the Ottoman Porte and Poland, the Swedish one has been longest in the making. And the Regent is still trying to approach the French. All of this will stop once Alexandrine is their Queen.

“Tomorrow?” she asks.

“Right after breakfast,” Le Noiraud replies.

She looks at the clock. “Show me what you’ve prepared so far,” she
says. The tone of her voice is a mistake, she realizes, as soon as the words leave her lips. Platon is not Bezborodko. For him, the negotiations are not government business but a chance to prove himself, to assert his usefulness. She should have been more indirect, milder, more encouraging.

“Do you not trust me even that much, Katinka? Or is Bezborodko whispering to you again?” The hurt in his voice singes her.

“I don’t discuss you with anyone,” she replies, hoping this will do, at least for now.

Le Noiraud nods but doesn’t look at her. What will come next, if she doesn’t stop this silliness, is sulky silence, his ultimate weapon. She should let him be, her young lover.
Be more indulgent
, she tells herself.
He wishes to impress you
.

This is the time for a compromise. She won’t ask to see the draft, but she cannot entirely abstain from offering her warning. “The Regent is the one you have to watch,” she says. “In spite of all his promises, he is the one who will try to come up with obstacles.”

“I watch him. I know.”

“All right, then.”

A small victory, and yet what pleasure it gives Platon. He opens his arms and embraces her, his face bright like the North Star. “It shall all be the way you want it, Katinka,” he murmurs. Alexandrine, the Queen of Sweden. Her husband’s beloved. At her side, her Orthodox confessor and priests whispering advice. Swedish policy slowly adjusting to further and aid Russian interests.

For a moment, he does look like a triumphant warrior, on a mountaintop surveying the slain enemies strewn on the field. The bloodied banners, the groans of the dying. The shouts of his own troops, who worship him.

For he who is beloved of women wishes men to love him.

For a moment, she remembers Potemkin, the two of them giggling over their triumphs over Mustafa’s defeat. Counting the fallen fortresses. Discounting the Turkish threats. The children of Providence. Charting the carefully chosen steps that nudge fortune along.

There is still some pleasure in the warm, moist kisses, the cuddles of young arms. The look of adoration that holds her above all other women.
The pride in a young man’s eyes that she, his Empress, has chosen him from among so many others.

Le Noiraud leaves, beaming. When the doors close, his voice comes to her from the anteroom, chastising someone’s slowness, urging someone else into action.

Soothed by her lover’s happiness, Catherine allows herself to think of the dead. Not for long, but long enough to hear their warnings.

Don’t be too foolish, Katinka
, Grishenka chastises her.
He is vain. He thinks too highly of himself
.

Does he love you enough
, matushka? Sasha Lanskoy’s voice echoes.
Is he even capable of love?

But aren’t the dead always jealous of the living?

What I cannot change, I undermine
, she thinks as Prince Adam is announced.

The gilded doors open, and Alexander’s friend walks in with an air of studied concern, a mask of his unease.

Prince Adam has come here because she has willed it. Made his sojourn at the Russian court a condition of her future benevolence toward his family after their foolish support of the uprising. The Czartoryski estates have only been sequestered, not confiscated, but the old Prince Czartoryski has taken her decision for what it was, a warning. Give me one more reason for Russia’s displeasure and a mighty family shall fall. If you wish me to forgive you and reverse my order, let your heir see what Russia truly is, let him watch and learn.

This is what she thought then. Was it a mistake?

For it also might be argued that this friendship—with all its youthful follies—is a good thing. An heir of a grand Polish family is bound to a Russian heir to the throne. Ties forged so early might last a long time. Survive the change of circumstances. A gamble? Yes. But if it succeeds, ties that strong cannot be bought or legislated.

Prince Adam bows with a polished grace. There are dark circles under his eyes, evidence of a sleepless night. Another long talk with Alexander? Do the young ever sleep?

“I wish to tell you how grateful I am for your influence over the Grand Duke,” she says.

At the mention of Alexander’s name, Prince Adam’s face stiffens. If he hopes to cover his thoughts, his mask is a porous one.

“My grandson tells me wonderful things of your summer walks,” the Empress continues. “Exertion paired with stimulating conversations is the best medicine.”

“Getting to know His Imperial Highness has been an honor,” the Prince says.

“You’ve been with us a whole year. And I have heard nothing but good about your conduct. You, monsieur, are a reader, which I respect more than anything. You care about ideas. You want to learn what you do not know. Your mother should be proud of such a son!”

Prince Adam raises his blue-gray eyes. There is a flicker in them. Of amusement? Of fear? Is he worried the Russian Empress is trying to entrap him?

“But this is not why I summoned you,” Catherine continues with a benevolent smile. “I want to ask for your help.” She does not say “in return for the favor of my forgiveness your family requests.” There is no need for such vulgar bluntness.

“How can I be of service, Your Majesty?”

“I’m worried about Alexander.”

His face stiffens again. He is really too predictable.

“What I want to say,” she continues, “I must say in utter confidence. Not a word must ever be revealed of this conversation. We are both people of reason. I won’t make you kneel and swear secrecy on the Virgin Mary. But I will ask for your word of honor.”

He nods, whispers his agreement.

Now that she has his word of honor, backed up with a hammering heart, she begins: “There is no good way to say it, so let me be straightforward. My grandson Alexander will succeed me. Over his father. I won’t dwell on my reasons. You are an intelligent young man, and you’ve seen enough. It’ll be better for Russia. Which includes you and your family, for Russia is your homeland now.”

She pauses. On Prince Adam’s face a whole constellation changes. It
is not often that one sees so much joyful hope fighting to burst out from under a mask of caution.

The words flow off her lips, each a jewel. “Alexander understands. His reasoning mind accepts my arguments, but his heart is troubled. He dreads causing pain, crushing his father’s hopes.”

Prince Adam nods his head vigorously. What did he write in his diary?
What other proofs do I need to believe that the rule of tyranny has no future, that the end of injustice is near!

“Do not mention it first,” she continues, “but should my grandson seek your advice in however roundabout a way, put his mind at ease. Tell him how important it is for a country to be ruled with the wisdom and courage he possesses. Tell him that a son’s duty to his father is not greater than a Grand Duke’s duty to his Motherland.”

She speaks for a while longer. On friendship and its duties. On the need to offer support when it is necessary. “I know you agree with my assessment of my grandson’s virtues. His mind and his heart.”

Another nod, a smile appearing and folding into seriousness. Her young guest needs time to collect his thoughts, hide the excess of his joy.

“Your Imperial Majesty can count on my help,” he says solemnly, as if taking the vows of a monk.

“You have my gratitude,” Catherine says.

All that is left now is a wave of her hand. A smile. A few words of excuse. She has no more time. The Empire is a hard taskmaster.

The Prince bows and walks toward the door with the springy step of a youth whose prayers have been answered.

Later the same day, she tackles the growing flood of papers. Treaties, petitions, lists of titles to approve. All demanding amendments, suggestions, requests for more thorough investigations. Arrows appear on the margins; her comments grow longer, more elaborate. Her fingers are stained with ink. She has gone through a whole bunch of quills.

Conjectures need to be separated from facts. Ledgers of advantages and disadvantages made. This, too, awaits Alexander, who needs to get over his youthful enthusiasm for rebels. Should she start him on it now? With the simplest of tasks?

With a Grodno report, a confiscated letter. Addressed to His Majesty Stanislav August, the King of Poland.

For Your Majesty’s eyes only
.

The handwriting is clear enough, but the letters are very small, making the reading difficult.

I’m hoping that this letter will find Your Majesty in good health, in spite of the trying circumstances and uncertainty of the last tragic months. It is really an apology, as Your Majesty will discover in due course, but before I reveal the reason for this act of contrition, I must explain the circumstances that proceeded it
.

My name is Darya. I am Varvara Nikolayevna’s daughter. I hope that Your Majesty still remembers us, for I carry fond memories of those days, which seem to me more a beautiful dream than reality
.

My own daughters, when they were little, begged me to tell them of the time when I played in the corridors of the Winter Palace with the Grand Duke Paul. They loved to hear that I once sat on the lap of the Empress of Russia and listened to her stories. But I haven’t talked of these times for many years now. The circumstances we live in have not made such memories welcome
.

My dearest mama died in peace, almost two years to the day after my stepfather died. Not a day passes without me thinking of her, but I’m trying to remember her the way she was, not the way she became in the last months of her life
.