Empress of the Night (6 page)

Mother, oblivious to what has just happened, is doggedly protesting her innocence. “My daughter, Your Imperial Majesty, has merely suffered from indigestion. She has not been in any danger.”

“Enough, you ingrate,” the Empress hisses. “Look at this child. Look how pale she is.”

The box with lancets closes with a snap. There will be no better moment to open her eyes wide. Unclasp her hands and raise herself on her elbows. No better moment to avoid her mother’s frantic glances, the pearly drops of sweat on her high forehead. To ignore how she drops to her knees, shuddering. A lot can be said without words. What has been assumed can be denied. What has been defined can be refashioned, turned inside out.

Beside the rock that is the Empress of Russia, Mother is an empty seashell, enticing but hollow and so easy to crush.

“I have a request, Your Majesty.”

The imperial ears do not miss the slightest alteration of her small but clear voice.

“I don’t want a pastor. Please, could Father Theodorsky come pray with me instead?”

The Empress fixes her with her stare. Then she raises her eyebrows.
What is it that I have just heard, Sophie?
her eyes ask.
A sign of your cunning? Or a vow of compliance?

Or both?

In the fireplace, birch logs crackle and hiss, sending a wave of warmth toward her.

It is time to fall back on the silk pillows. Let her thoughts dwell on the enticing vastness of this land, an immensity that defies the senses. Bring back the memory of the frozen fields, of dark, thick forests covered with snow, of rivers locked under ice. Time to envisage what she, Sophie of Anhalt-Zerbst, has heard about but not yet seen. Chains of mountains that fill the horizon, endless meadows of the steppes, where grasses are tall enough to hide a man on horseback.

Time to make her face say:
I’m not like my mother. I’ll not disappoint. No matter what the price
. Time to blink, make tears well up and flow down her cheeks.

Beside her, seated on her bed, the Empress of Russia blinks and stirs. Her large, soft body has made the mattress sag. Her hand lifts, reaches forward. It is perfumed, its pink nails buffed and rubbed with rose oil.

Why this moment of hesitation? Has she, Sophie, been too crude? Too hasty? Has she betrayed her deepest wishes, the price she is willing to pay for them?

She has been warned. Told to wait for the right moment.
Watch and learn from those who have seen more
, her new friend has whispered.

But what has been done cannot be taken back. Sophie has placed her bet. Now all there is left is to wait.

The imperial head turns away from her.

“Listen, you ingrate,” the Empress of All the Russias tells Mother. There is the unmistakable note of triumph in the imperial voice. “Listen to what this sweet child is asking me to do.”

The thoughts that come are of a cat in wild catmint. Pawing it, chewing, leaping about with joy.

Sophie of Anhalt-Zerbst has a new Russian name: Catherine Alekseyevna, after Elizabeth’s own mother. According to the Russian custom, she should be called Catherine Christyanevna, for her father’s name is Christian, but the Empress decided that it would’ve sounded too foreign to a Russian ear. And a Russian Grand Duchess, a wife of the Crown Prince, should not sound foreign.

Varvara Nikolayevna, who knows the ways of the court, says that the Empress has declared Prince Christian of Anhalt-Zerbst a man of no substance. A parasite who feeds off his wife’s connections. A man whose name would only have impeded his daughter’s position. “Don’t let anyone see your tears,” her new friend whispers. “It’s not that hard!”

In her notebook, Catherine Alekseyevna is carefully writing down the Russian proverbs her tutor is giving her to learn by heart:

Delit’ shkuru neubitovo medvedya
. It is foolish to divide the pelt of a bear that has not been killed yet.

Every night, the maids untie her stays, wipe her breasts with almond milk, rub her nipples until they harden, brush her hair. Slip thin cambric undershirts over her perfumed body. Her breasts are full, her womb is alive.

They lead her to the marital bed—the bed blessed with a Holy Icon and sprinkled with holy water—and leave hastily.

She waits. Sometimes she sits in bed holding her knees. Sometimes she runs her hand over her breasts and then her belly and her thighs. Sometimes she runs her fingers through the curls of her pubic hair, which is black and thick like a mink pelt.

She thinks of the day she arrived in Moscow, when she was stripped naked and her German clothes were taken away. How she was dressed in a silk chemise, light as gossamer, and a brocade dress. She thinks of the wedding in the Kazan cathedral—when she stood beside Peter and the Archbishop blessed them and anointed them with holy oil. Of the wedding feast, where whole landscapes were made of sugar: a sugar castle with a sugar garden, sugar trees laden with sugar fruit. She thinks of the Empress putting her ringed hand on her flat belly, ordering her to give Russia another heir to her throne. A healthy Romanov boy to succeed his father. She thinks of Mother, who has left for Zerbst without a word of farewell and who hasn’t written to her yet. Of Father, who wasn’t invited to her wedding.

Sooner or later, Peter, her husband, the future Tsar, always comes into the bedroom. He, too, has no choice.

There are many faces Peter may put on. Of boredom. Of indifference. Of petulance. Or of rapt concentration, but this happens only when he manages to fool his minders and smuggle his toy soldiers into the bedroom. Then she, his bride, can watch him place them in formations, re-create battles long ago lost or won, battles over which he has total control.

She can ask him questions, then, and Peter will answer. Explain a
tricky maneuver, a clever evasion that once assured a Prussian victory. Or she may make herself useful. Straighten the line of pikemen with spears held at an angle to keep the enemy horsemen at bay. Or pick up fallen heroes.

She reminds herself how a few months ago Peter almost died of smallpox. How she despaired when those who called themselves her friends withdrew from her, knowing that if Peter died, the Empress would send her back to Zerbst. She might be fending off Mother’s scorn now, sifting through threadbare marriage offers. Hearing that she was always both too proud and unlucky. Always hungering after what was not meant for her.

“It’ll happen, you’ll see.” Varvara Nikolayevna always knows what to say at the worst of moments when hope vanishes. “Some men get easily scared and grow soft.”

The smallpox swelling is almost gone from her husband’s face. The redness, too, has dissipated or has been hidden under a layer of concealing cream. Besides, she tells Peter, a man doesn’t need to worry about a few pockmarks.

“I know that,” he snaps.

He eyes her with suspicion. He hears her with impatience. He thinks her too clever for her own good. Madame Resourceful, he mocks her, who always has a solution to all problems—whether anyone wants it or not. In the palace corridors he hastens his steps to avoid her. In their marital bed he gives her a wide berth. When she tries to touch his hand, he recoils.

“Stand up, wife,” he yells. “
Schnelle! Schnelle!
”

Sophie jumps out of bed and stands at attention. He tells her to bend and pick up his sword. He orders her to march across the room. Present the sword as if it were a musket. Lift her legs high, like a good Prussian soldier on parade.

He forbids her to speak. He watches her from the bed as she marches, his head resting on his hands.

“Why are you so silent, wife?” he asks.

“Because you told me not to speak, Peter,” she answers, and for a moment her obedience pleases him and his face brightens.

“Enough!” he yells. “Come back!”

She puts the sword away and gets into bed beside him. The mattress
is warm and smells sweetly. The maids have spread jasmine and rose petals under the sheets. Varvara has told her not to lose heart. To be patient. Men are like that sometimes. Shy. Afraid to show their weakness. It doesn’t have to mean anything.

She is patient.

She is waiting, in silence, until Peter laughs, turns his back on her, and begins to snore.

In Russia, death is pictured as an old, bony woman with a scythe. Silent and relentless, impossible to outwit. A hag asking through her toothless mouth: “Who will govern when
I
come to the Empress’s bed?”

In the inner chambers of the Imperial Palace there is no need for subtlety. A country needs an heir, a child patiently groomed for power, a Tsarevich of imperial blood.

A fruit of the imperial marriage. A Grand Duchess’s sacred duty.

So why is her womb still empty?

Her ill wishers, her slanderers, hide in the back passageways, in the corridors, behind two-way mirrors. They call her a barren tree, a withered blossom dropping without forming fruit. To the Empress, who has brought her to Russia, they whisper:
Another year has passed. What is the use of a tree that yields no fruit? Hours flow faster than we think. What if what we took for signs of divine approval were the whispers of the Devil?

A woman has to please her husband, not to hide in books. Or ride a horse astride like a man. Or ask too many questions.

If Catherine smiles, her slanderers call her flippant; if she wipes the smile from her face, they call her proud.

She has made a bargain and has not delivered. Her punishment has only just begun.

She has no more friends at court. Anyone who has dared to show her any kindness has been sent away. Prince Naryshkin has been told the Grand Duchess has no time for idle prattle. Maids have been dismissed for whispering a few words of comfort. Varvara Nikolayevna, too, is gone, married, already awaiting a child. Varvara, who once warned: “This
court is a dangerous ground. Life here is a game, and every player is cheating.”

“I’ve chosen you over others,” the Empress seethes, poking at her belly. A punch, harsh and insistent, is meant to hurt, and it does. “Where is my heir now? How much longer do I have to wait, Catherine?”

Six years she has been married, and her husband has not touched her. This is her shameful secret. For isn’t it always a woman’s fault?

She must have repulsed him somehow. With her looks? Her words? Her actions? Was she too haughty? Too quick to speak? Not obedient enough?

Sometimes when she is alone, she opens her shift and sniffs at her body. Is it her smell that stops Peter from desiring her? Or her bony hips that refuse to take on a layer of soft fat? Are her breasts too small, or too big? Her skin too rough? Her chin too pointed? Her teeth too rotten? Her lips too parched?

In the palace chapel, Russian saints look at her with empty eyes.
We have suffered in silence
, they say,
and so should you. Such is the Russian way
.

It is the month of May. The Imperial Court is visiting Gostilitsa, Count Razumovsky’s country estate outside St. Petersburg. Their host, in embroidered yellow caftan, Empress Elizabeth’s portrait pinned on his chest, welcomes them with bread and salt. At his home, his esteemed guests, the Count announces, have no duty but to amuse themselves.

On the way to her Favorite’s house, Empress Elizabeth has complained about the foul smells, the horses, which were far too slow, and her new dress, which was too tight and made her skin itch. She has ordered three stops to relieve herself behind a screen the servants unfolded for her. At the last stop, she spotted crows circling the carcass of a mule and ordered a change of route, adding another hour to the four-hour journey.

But by the time the carriage rolls into the courtyard of the Gostilitsa
mansion, Elizabeth’s irritation has vanished. Everything now pleases the Empress. What a relief to leave the Winter Palace behind, she tells Count Razumovsky. To breathe the country air. To see the birch grove, the lush meadow, the lake where wild fowl is nestling among the reeds. She wants to row a boat herself, she wants to fish, for nothing tastes better than a fish caught with one’s own hands.

Count Razumovsky is a considerate host. The handsome red boat with padded seats is ready for his beloved Empress to embark. The fishing rods are waiting, fresh worms wiggling on the hooks. Settled at her feet when Elizabeth deftly rows the boat to the middle of the lake, he holds the tin bucket at the ready.

For a whole hour, the courtiers await their return. No one else wishes to follow their mistress. No one wishes to catch a bigger fish.

When the boat finally bumps back to shore, everyone gathers to admire the catch. Elizabeth beams as, one by one, her ladies-in-waiting recoil at the mere thought of touching the wriggling flesh. “You would’ve made my father laugh,” the Empress says, motioning to a bearded servant who stands by with a tray of knives.

“Are they sharp?” she asks.

When the servant nods, the Empress rolls up the sleeves of her blouse. She picks up the longest of the knives, with a stag-bone handle. She tests the sharpness of the blade with her index finger.

All small fish will be boiled whole, for
ucha
, the fish broth. Only the bigger ones will be filleted and fried.