The Imperial Wife (17 page)

When they are out of earshot, Catherine says, “It seems wrong to run. Am I not neglecting my duties?”

“Don't you understand? Your sister's death. It would all be for nothing.”

Just a week before, the letter came. Her two-year-old sister was dead of smallpox. She died in dreadful pain and motherless, a sacrifice to their royal ambitions. They have funneled all their fortunes into the scrawny, ailing boy on the other side of the door.

She summons the words they are both thinking. “But Mama, what if he dies?”

Outside the window, snow is being added to more snow. From time to time, a lone wolf comes into view, a speck of gray fur. Other than sledding or the occasional ride in the carriage, she has been confined to the palace for days. They watch the messenger to the doctor climbing into his sled, shaking his black coat from the onslaught of flakes.

She does not want Peter to die, she knows that much. Is it love, pity, or a stubborn projection for her future? She has no idea.

“We'll go to Moscow,” her mother decides. “Send your Katya to pack our bags.” This is her mother at her most regal. In moments of crisis, she sees clearly what must be done, arranges all the details. She will have them settled before nightfall. This is the part of her mother Catherine hopes to forge in herself.

“What if he dies, Mama?”

They are flying up the stairs, ready to disperse to their chambers and begin the work of leaving. And before disappearing to her wing, Johanna adds, “We need him alive but we need us alive more.”

“Shall I send him a note, a few kind words?”

“Yes, that would be strategic,” Johanna says, in the breathy way of having remembered a crucial item for the journey. “Reiterate your affection, prayers for his full recovery, those kinds of sentiments.”

In her rooms, Catherine sits down at her desk. These days, when she sets her mind to writing, she finds that words are materializing in Russian just as frequently as in German. She has always loved jotting thoughts down on paper, her favorite exercise being describing herself: proud, not unattractive, lively eyes, practical, busy, not as patient as she would like, hungry to learn. She can picture her future self exchanging letters with the foremost philosophers of the day, who would take her seriously for the incisive, fluid nature of her prose. They would be impressed that a woman shared their curiosity about the world, despised shallow political intrigue, and loved frank, military character. They would read the contents of her letters at dinners, quote them to eminent friends. She will be at the helm of salons, she decides, bringing together European luminaries. Her library will be the largest in the world. Not to mention art. Standing before Peter the Great's sole Rembrandt, featuring the two men and their sad parting, she felt a new thirst for acquisition.

Then she remembers that all this glory hinges on Peter not dying. Should he die, her words will not be read, her library unformed, no philosophers would be gathered in her drawing rooms. Who would want to pore over the memoirs of a common princess from Zerbst?

“My dear Grand Duke,” she begins, conjuring up that weak chin, those doggish, mercurial eyes. Her mind is blank. She plays with the handle of the dressing table, slides the drawer open and closed. The knob twists loose in her hand. Under the empress's distracted care, the entire palace is an underbuilt mixture of extravagance and filth. If she were empress, she would call in European architects immediately. She would be ashamed to call this her home.

“My dear Grand Duke. I pray for your recovery.” She crosses this out. A banal repetition of her mother's words. “I long to fortify the mettle of your soul.” Strikes this out too.

Her mother stands at the door. “The carriage is ready.”

She is already in her fine coat, the heavy brocade one; underneath she wears her blue velvet gown lined with silver and silk. Behind her glows the face of her too loyal Katya, armed with their bags and dressed for the journey.

Catherine rushes along the page. “Each day, I will await news of your recovery. I will pray for your health and light candles in your name. My future husband, my dear friend, cousin. The companion of my life. My love.” She struck the last part out, then reinstated it. Should this letter be intercepted later she will seem adequately attached.

Ekaterina, she signs at the bottom. As if to say: this name will not be taken away from me. A contract must be honored when it is committed to paper.

*   *   *

While she waits for news in Moscow, there is music and dancing and cards. Also visitors from abroad, familiar faces she knew back in Germany. The one she has been eagerly awaiting is Count Gyllenborg. He is sipping tea across from her while the Swedish diplomats are gathered around the faro table in animated conversation about someone named Colley Cibber and an anticipated London production of
Papal Tyranny in the Reign of King John
.

“Do you know the plays of Mr. Cibber?” Gyllenborg asks.

“I'm afraid I haven't had the pleasure to acquaint myself…”

She blushes, deeply. More and more she is reminded of being in a far-flung land, far from the centers of culture. If she were empress, she thinks, Colley Cibber would perform the play in St. Petersburg or, better yet, she would send promising Russian playwrights like Sumarokoff to London to cultivate their talents. Her mind is racing: rather than merely importing culture, it is crucial to encourage it to flourish at home. Except for art. That must be imported; there was barely anything to look at in this country apart from that Rembrandt.

“Cibber's actually a vain fool, nothing in the world would entice me to see work that is in conspicuously bad taste.”

“Oh,” she says, even more mortified. Cibber will not be invited then, she notes to herself.

“No need for meekness. You must exercise your mind first and foremost,” Gyllenborg is snapping. The orchestra is playing a pleasing medley of Italian concertos but the noise drowns out the possibility of intimate conversation. The entertainment was her idea, a way to impress upon the man that her taste for music is discerning, but now he is leaning forward to make himself heard over the din of it. She shoots a look at the violinist, the worst offender.

“That is indeed how I occupy my days.”

“Very good. You were not a little fool, as I recall.”

Count Gyllenborg is older than she remembers him from their meeting in Hamburg a few years ago. On top of his head sits a short wig held together by a giant bow at the nape of his neck. His fleshy features rarely distract from a vivacious sparkle in his eye, the seductive curl of his lip. She feels shy before him, eager to stun him with her singularity, the refined quality of her taste.

“I have heard talk of a writer named Samuel Richardson. Are his books any good?”

The count is gulping at his tea as if thirsty, his eyes trained on hers. “Reading the proper philosophical books should be the first step of your education.”

“I would be happy for any recommendations, Count.”

She sends Katya for paper and writing utensils, awakened to the prospect of being taken seriously. Here he is, a great scholar and politician, spending his days of diplomacy by her side. Hers! At only fifteen years old, and he at least thirty. A man of letters, a respected Swedish politician, this man with the penetrating gaze. Even her mother hovers around him, ready to shoo away servants and tend to him herself. He tolerates her scurrying for a bit, then Johanna is called away to scold a new maid. They are left to their private corner, the glow of fire, of after-dinner candles. The shadow of Peter has been dispersed, and she is free.

“Even as a young child, you were not stupid,” he says, pushing away the tray of sweets, then changing his mind and popping a corner of cake into his mouth. She rued the simplicity of the dessert. Had Peter not been ill and had she access to the Parisian confectioner, she could have commissioned a cake in the shape of the Swedish capital.

He does not look past her like Brummer, Bestuzhev, and the rest of them. He meets her gaze directly, holds it, penetrates it. His eyes are a cool, light brown of new earth.

“I took note of you even then, your quick wit. You were smarter than many of the guests. Your mother never appreciated you.”

She is silent, too suffused with joy to speak.

“I remember even as a child you always had a philosophical turn of mind. How are you faring in your new surroundings?” He does a little tilt with his fingers, indicating the apartments.

The empress is right: she has been nervously spending money all over Europe. The chintz upholstery of the chaise is new, she has been replacing the frayed drapes, ordering gold tinsel braid for curtains. Then there is the light blue riding habit on order in addition to two identical dresses from Paris.

“I'm reading books recommended to me by philosophers and friends. In my spare time, I study the language and play the harpsichord.”

He smiles, sets down his cup. “I've been watching you here. You have lost something of yourself in this place. Your character is weaker, absorbed with pleasure and luxury and, dare I say it, romance?”

She reaches for her tea, to shield her face behind the rim of the porcelain. He is right, of course. Her impulse has been to celebrate her new position, and she has found herself in a loop of amusements and idle purchases. No romance, however, none of that.

“You must recover the natural inclination of your mind.”

His words stir her. A man has not taken her this seriously since George. “If you have suggestions, I would be pleased to hear them.”

Katya rushes into the room, her slim hand holding out the sheaves of paper.

The orchestra pauses, and Gyllenborg leans back into his armchair. “Of course you must read Plutarch and Cicero and
The Cause of the Grandeur and Decline of the Roman Republic
by Montesquieu.”

“I will send for them at once.”

Catherine is wearing her finest velvet, the one that so delicately reveals the neck and, unless she is mistaken, he is taking note of the slope of her shoulders. This is not the first time she has been awakened to the salacious glances of men; they have grown more presumptuous the longer her wedding is delayed. Is it disloyal to inwardly burn while her future husband is possibly dying back in St. Petersburg?

Suddenly Gyllenborg bends before her on the rug. His face is so close to hers that their lips are almost touching. “A pity you will marry him.”

“A pity?” she says.

“A great pity. Such an imbalance of talents.”

She waits nervously, nostrils flaring. She is aware of the wide hoop of her gown, the artificiality of the tall wig that has recently become fashionable at court, the outline of her still too small breasts. A deep swell rises to wind the clock of her mind. She is wasting time, valuable time.

The orchestra strikes up again, the violinist piercing in his renewed intensity. Gyllenborg seems to observe her closely and decide. His attention returns to his seat and his unfinished cake. “Never mind, Sophia. Forget I said anything.”

*   *   *

Just a few short weeks later, Peter and the empress are returned to the Winter Palace and it is cold again, a dreadful cold and empty rooms. She can hear them dropping off parcels in the foyer. The ceremony of intricate greetings floods its way to her, their welcome by the staff, the empress's ringing voice.
We are happy to report that the Grand Duke has made a complete recovery.

Catherine assesses herself in the mirror, the stray hairs framing her temple, the rash at her neck she tries not to scratch, the freshly applied mauve of her lips. She is looking for what Gyllenborg had observed in her, bright eyes, pink skin, tall, intelligent forehead. This time, she resolves to start fresh, to be more patient with her future groom. His childish smirk is merely shyness, his tiresome drilling of soldiers should be treated as loneliness. With her help, he will outgrow his boyishness. Who knows? Lying day after day in the thrall of death, he may have thought of her too, his imagination darting to the very same places Gyllenborg so admired. She will share with him her new revelation (the happy queen and her consort, Maria-Theresa and Francis, and what about the great love Peter the Great shared with his Catherine in their log cabin?). Already, thanks to Gyllenborg, she is spending her free time reading and weaving tales about who she wants to be.

The rooms are bare of light at four o'clock, and she runs to the reception area, shaking off a deepening chill. At this hour, the shawl barely warms, even her nose is cold. The shadows are so deep, the milling faces almost indistinguishable to her. An influx of spring air wafts through the front door, dispersing the smell of unwashed bodies.

Once the flurry of kisses are concluded, the grand duke is placed before her. She cannot help it—she cringes. His illness has cratered and puckered his face, the oversized wig meant to camouflage his new baldness only emphasizes his bulbous face. The creature is hideous. Only the eyes gazing out from the ravaged landscape look familiar, and they are coldly scanning her for a reaction.

“Am I so changed that you do not recognize me?” he asks, voice raspy, ill-used.

She is speechless. She should be grateful for this recovery. There is no one to challenge her now. The marriage will go forward. The imaginary world of salons and libraries and philosophical discourse is open to her once more. But he is dreadful to behold, unthinkable almost in his scarred hideousness. So far from Gyllenborg, from her uncle.

She sees that in the brief span of time she is absorbing her shock and gathering herself to lie, he has made a decision about her. She watches him blinking rapidly, his jaw set and angry. He spins around to his footman: “Be careful with my purchases, idiot.”

“I have been personally praying for your recovery,” she stammers. But he is already wandering off in the direction of his chambers, an enormous wig on top of an emaciated body. The hands folded behind him are crossed in warning.