The Tsarina's Daughter

by Ellen Alpsten

  I let go and my soft slippers allowed me to land soundlessly. I crawled underneath the table, motioning Petrushka to join me in the hiding place, just before the door opened. I drew the Persian carpet, which served as a tablecloth, over Petrushka and me, leaving a narrow gap. He snuggled up to me, his scared eyes huge in his narrow face. I held him close as Father, Mother, some guards and Feofan Prokopovich crossed the room towards Father’s study. The Tsar shoved the guards back out into the hall, towards us. ‘Out! This is not for your grimy ears.’ Then he turned to Mother: ‘I have taken a decision that no Tsar before me has. Feofan Prokopovich has once more supported me in my daring.’ I pulled Petrushka closer. When Father and Feofan were together, not even the sky was the limit for their visionary ideas. He continued to Mother: ‘I wish to reward you for all and everything you have done for me and for Russia. Listen well, matka,’ he said, calling her by her pet-name, before shutting the door to his study.

  In our hiding place in the antechamber, Petrushka wrapped his gangly limbs around me and pressed his nose against my flesh – had he not been my nephew, it might have felt inappropriate. ‘You are so soft and warm,’ he said incredulously. ‘How do you do that?’

  ‘A girl’s trick,’ I said, crawling out from under the table.

  He followed me but looked forlorn. ‘Is the Kokolores over? As soon as I like something, or somebody, it stops, or they go away.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ I said, eyeing the damage we had done, while inside the study Mother gasped audibly in surprise and Father laughed, the sound full of pride and emotion.

  I ached with curiosity. What else apart from his decision to elevate Anoushka and me to Tsesarevny had Father come up with? How exciting to be alive!

  ‘Do you mind?’ Petrushka interrupted my thoughts as he seized the vodka carafe from the table. He raised it to his rosy boy’s lips and gulped, the spirit running over his cheeks.

  ‘Don’t, Petrushka.’ I gently took the half-empty carafe from him.

  ‘At least now I can face Ostermann again.’ He swayed and stuck some of the chewing tobacco beneath his upper lip, noisily sucking it and casting me a challenging glance. God, where had he learned this? One could blame Ostermann for many things, but not for encouraging a boy’s debauchery. His long, thin fingers, which had nothing childish about them any more, clutched mine as I walked him back to his study.

  At the door, he cupped my face in his hands and pulled it close to his. I recoiled, surprised, and also because his gums were stained blood-red. ‘Promise me, Lizenka,’ he slurred, his eyes glazed. ‘Promise always to love me as no one else does. Promise never to leave me… ’

  ‘Well, of course. Whatever else would I do?’ I gently freed myself from his grip. ‘We’ll have so much fun together.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Plenty of things! Hunting trips in spring, picnics in summer, foraging for mushrooms in autumn and ice skating and sledging in winter. That’s just for starters.’

  ‘How wonderful!’ Petrushka clapped his hands but then stared hard at me. ‘If you love someone else more than me, I shall punish him.’

  I caught my breath, shocked at his resemblance to Father when he threatened one of his cronies. Then I said playfully: ‘Yes. On the stake with the rascal!’ I ruffled his hair, pushing him back into the study, though Ostermann had disappeared. Admittedly, as Vice-Chancellor of Russia, besides being Petrushka’s tutor, he had better things to do than count the flies on the wall.

  That afternoon, when I had sought out Petrushka from pity for a lonely child, the Leshy spirit down in the Golosov Ravine must have observed our childish joy through its veil of sulphur stench. Did it foresee the forces that would soon tear apart my family and all our lives? Curse the Romanovs! Already as I walked away, wondering what Mother had learned from Father and which other changes were afoot in a realm so in want of an heir, I had dismissed Petrushka’s threat.

  19

  Only a couple of days later, I chanced upon my mother in my rooms. The blue haze of a St Petersburg spring morning blended the heavens and the river, a veil of silver softening any hard edge, when I came in from my morning ride, wearing breeches, high boots and a simple white blouse, my hair tucked up in a bun beneath a flat Polish triangular hat. She stood by my desk, studying drawings for a new gown.

  ‘Mother, welcome.’ I kissed her, glancing at the drawing of a stately gown of crimson velvet, stiffly embroidered in gold thread. Besides that both the stomacher and the skirt were studded with gilt Imperial double-headed eagles, while diamond shoulder clasps held a sheer endless train of crimson velvet with a rim of ermine fur. ‘What is this?’ I asked, unfastening my riding jacket and my blouse at the throat, feeling hot.

  ‘I need your advice.’ Mother’s eyes gleamed with excitement. ‘But first, I would like you to meet somebody.’

  ‘Who is it?’ I turned around when I sensed someone move.

  Behind us stood the most handsome man I could imagine.

  I blushed. Would I feel the same way when I finally came face to face with the King of France? The thought sobered me. I proudly lowered my gaze and took off my riding gloves, ignoring the stranger who stood to attention. I cast a quick glance around, trying to see my apartment through his eyes. My toiletry set made of tortoiseshell and gold had been laid out neatly on my dressing table. A silk ballgown in a becoming shade of silver, embroidered with pearls and white crystals, lay draped over an armchair: I was to wear it later tonight at one of Father’s assemblées to entertain up to three hundred guests. Dainty silk slippers were kicked off next to my monkey’s golden cage. A marble game of solitaire on my desk had been started but not finished, just where Mother stood. Thank God the maid had closed the doors to my bedroom – what if this unknown man had seen my plumped-up, starched bedlinen? My cheeks were aflame.

  ‘What shall I wear to my Coronation?’ Mother beamed at me, clearly unaware of the effect the stranger had had on me.

  ‘Your – Coronation?’ I stood dumbfounded. No Tsar’s wife had ever been honoured in such a way. Ever. It was unthinkable, as most Tsaritsas had been of lesser boyar families, who should not be encouraged in their ambitions. Had my astonishing mother, who had often supported my father more staunchly than any of his generals, put an end to that custom? Once crowned, she would reign in Russia as Regent if the Tsar were to leave it on a military campaign or to travel abroad.

  Appointing Anoushka and me as Tsesarevny might have been only the first step in an era of even greater change.

  ‘Yes. Just imagine! Father will crown me himself in May, in the Kremlin Cathedral of the Assumption, where all Tsars have been anointed,’ Mother said, turning the drawing of the dress this way and that. ‘The whole court has to buy tickets to attend in order to cover the cost. Such a marvellous idea.’

  I was unable to tell if there was fear lurking beneath her excitement.

  ‘What about Petrushka?’ I asked. Mother’s elevation removed him even further from the throne.

  ‘Oh, Lizenka. I so feel for the poor little boy. Petrushka should not be held accountable for Alexey’s sins. As Father was in such a good mood, I convinced him that the child needs his own retinue, however small. Meet Alexander Borisovich Buturlin. He is to be Petrushka’s First Chamberlain.’

  She smiled up at the tall young man, who bowed deeply. I checked him out again beneath my lowered lashes. His V-shaped hairline was set high on a tanned forehead, the black hair brushed back. Eyebrows swooped like wings above gleaming grey-green eyes, hooded by heavy lids; his high cheekbones as well as his full lips gave away Tatar ancestry. The Preobrazhensky Regiment’s dark green ceremonial jacket fitted tightly over his broad chest. Despite his youth, a medal flashed beneath the wolfskin cloak he wore clasped over one shoulder. Long, slim fingers rested on the brass buckle of his belt and the bejewelled hilt of his sword. Buturlin’s gaze held me captive as if he read my thoughts. Heat crept up my throat, as I accepted his reverence with a polite smile and turned away.

&n
bsp; Mother seemed oblivious to my confusion and still admired the sketch. ‘Once I was a serf girl sold for a piece of silver. Now I shall be the first-ever crowned Tsarina of All the Russias.’

  ‘But Mother—’ I began.

  ‘Yes?’ Rays of pale spring sunshine framed her tall, voluptuous body, making her diamond jewellery sparkle brighter. ‘What is it, Elizabeth?’

  Buturlin’s gaze fastened on me.

  ‘But – you are a woman,’ I said.

  Mother gave a small, delighted laugh. ‘Well spotted. And what if I am?’

  I felt warm with pride for her courage and attitude. There was no one in the world to beat a mother like mine.

  20

  ALEXANDER BORISOVICH BUTURLIN

  His family were courtiers by blood. They had been ratshids – royal equerries – and old Russian aristocrats, Boyary. They were part of the voyvody, the Council of Moscow, and had been close to the ruler’s ear ever since the Rurik Tsars, who had preceded my family as rulers of Russia. A Buturlin had shielded my great-grandfather Tsar Mikhail, when he, as the first Romanov, brought Russia peace after the Time of Troubles. Buturlin, who was officially assigned to Petrushka, in truth became the first member of my retinue, together with a French physician, Jean Armand de Lestocq, whom Mother had called back from banishment in Kazan. Together with my Austrian music and dance teacher, Herr Schwartz, these men formed the trio that was to shape my life.

  ‘Are you going hunting with Buturlin?’

  How Petrushka had sneaked into my rooms so early in the morning, crossing the Winter Palace on his own, I did not know. His amber eyes still looked sleepy. I had finished feeding my monkeys and parrots, who were making a racket, rattling their cages and squawking, and now the maid was belting my breeches. As I kissed him, I furtively sniffed his breath. Good, he had not yet drunk alcohol.

  ‘Not only with him. My new physician, the Frenchman Lestocq, and my music teacher Schwartz are coming as well. I was hoping to find you a wolf cub to raise.’

  ‘I don’t want a wolf cub. I want to go hunting with you. Strictly speaking, Buturlin is my chamberlain.’ He crossed his arms defiantly.

  ‘Strictly speaking, you ought to be in your study with Ostermann. You will come hunting with me once you’ve learned where London and Paris are.’

  ‘Do you know where they are?’

  ‘No. Well, I know where Paris is. Kind of. I ought to. It’s next to Versailles, isn’t it?’

  ‘Ostermann isn’t any fun.’ Petrushka added, his voice sullen, ‘You are.’

  ‘Tell me something new,’ I giggled.

  ‘He doesn’t like you.’

  ‘I don’t like him either,’ I answered and checked my hair – thick blonde plaits were wrapped in a low bun at the nape of my neck as I was to wear my flat Polish hat. I hesitated briefly… but I could always remove the hat later, showing off my tresses.

  ‘Can I eat your breakfast?’ Petrushka asked.

  ‘Hmm? Yes. Of course.’ Thinking of the hunt ahead, I had not touched the silver tray laden with chilled caviar, warm blini, chopped egg and fresh smetana. Petrushka chewed hungrily while the maid struggled to pull the thigh-high riding boots over my round calves. I had always worn men’s clothes to ride, much to Anoushka’s horror. I did not mind revealing the shape of my legs and hips. Riding dresses made sitting astride impossible.

  ‘Ostermann thinks you are corrupting me,’ Petrushka said with his mouth full.

  ‘That’s a big word.’ I turned to the mirror and tucked my shirt tighter, then placed my palms flat on my cheeks, feeling their fire when I thought of the day spent with Buturlin ahead.

  ‘Lizenka?’ Petrushka sat, the blin in his hand hovering, caviar dripping, waiting for me to answer. I stooped and snapped at the plump little pancake, eating it clean out of his fingers. ‘Sorry.’ I chewed and smiled. ‘I, on the contrary, think that Ostermann is a good influence on you. So grow up quickly, will you? Then you can come hunting with us.’ I put on my hat. As I left, Petrushka jumped up: ‘Lizenka, wait… ’

  I blew him some kisses on my way out. ‘These are for you! Catch them if you can, Petrushka!’

  Being accompanied on a hunt by one man only would be scandalous. Taking three along, however, meant I had a respectable bodyguard. I set off with Lestocq, Schwartz and Buturlin. The clean sky plunged into the Neva, the last floes crashing together in the sea swell. No clouds lingered overhead; it was too windy. Overnight, tiles had blown from the palace’s roof, and the courtyard, finished only six months earlier, was already being repaved. The Italian envoy had angered Father by writing that: ‘St Petersburg is the only town where ruins are being built to order. It is a city that a man in haste has built in a hurry.’ At least the breeze dissipated the stench of the corpses strung up opposite Aunt Pasha’s former palace, on a busy crossing in St Petersburg. A couple of knouted, broken and decapitated bodies spun there – thieves, tax evaders, slanderers and Old Believers alike – and a cloud of ravens rose from their feast as I cantered past astride, my hat pulled low over my forehead. We were all in high spirits: hyenas had been sighted in the Karelian Hills.

  Buturlin sat as if tied to his saddle. He rode like a Cossack, taut as an iron spring. My new physician Lestocq was delighted with his change of fortune on being called back from exile. A Frenchman, he was always hopelessly overdressed. The muddy ride and wild chase would spoil his fine breeches and the carefully tied lace jabot. To prove his worth, he had insisted on bleeding me first thing in the morning, saying: ‘Your spirits are too high for your own good.’ I had given in, though the loss of an ounce of blood made me feel dizzy when I tried to master my steed. Finally, the musician Schwartz wobbled along behind us on his sturdy mare, which was also laden with the picnic. At least his enormous Stradivari violin-cello travelled ahead with the cook and servants to this night’s resting place.

  We settled for lunch after a first hunt: Buturlin was a brilliant shot. Already, he had added two young wild boars to the tally. While Schwartz snoozed in the cool shade of an oak, his mouth slack and his palms turned up, like a child, Buturlin nimbly stacked the kindling, chipped off sparks with his flint and gently blew on the first embers, encouraging the flames. I could not take my eyes off his elegant hands stoking the fire, yet I pulled up my knees and hugged my shins, apparently giving all my attention to Lestocq. He did not shoot; instead, he pondered how best to prepare the game.

  ‘If you French aren’t eating, you’re talking about food, Lestocq,’ I laughed, reaching for some Isfahan fig confiture that Father’s cook had packed together with three loaves of sourdough bread, a jar of venison pâté spiced with juniper berries, a small vat of pickled onions and a round of cheese.

  ‘With good reason, Tsarevna. Knowing how to talk about food is essential in Versailles,’ Lestocq teased. ‘I am happy to be of service to your Imperial house.’

  Buturlin had cooled the Rhine wine in a clear and icy brook. Its light freshness made me feel curious and courageous. I saw the chamberlain casting Lestocq an amused glance. ‘But your services have not always been so appreciated, Lestocq. Why did my Father banish you to Kazan? Tell us,’ I said.

  ‘Oh,’ Lestocq said vaguely, his smile lopsided, showing a chipped front tooth. His dark copper hair matched his freckles and warm-hued skin. ‘I had taken a liking to a jester’s daughter, but once I got to know her better, she was a bore.’

  ‘A jester?’ I giggled. ‘Go on. I want names.’

  ‘Very well. It was d’Acosta’s girl, with whom I parted ways amicably after a brief flirtation. The Tsar’s imp has a beautiful full-grown daughter.’

  ‘That is one version, you cad,’ Buturlin said, lying back in the grass, a straw between his teeth, and lazily gazing at the blue sky. ‘It wasn’t quite so brief a flirtation. The girl fell pregnant. Our friend here refused to marry her. D’Acosta has hated him ever since.’

  I sat up straight, trying to shrug off the memory of d’Acosta sitting in the Kolomenskoye kitchen, his dark gaze w
illing our nurse Illinchaya to cease her indiscreet chatter. She had paid with her life for underestimating the jester.

  Lestocq shrugged. ‘Why serve a life sentence for a week’s infatuation? It would have been misery for the two of us. Anyway, she lost the baby. But d’Acosta pestered the Tsar to exile me to Kazan, until the Tsaritsa so kindly remembered my art.’

  I eyed Lestocq over the rim of my silver goblet. ‘You are quite a gambler.’

  ‘What, if not a gamble, is life? We all are given a set of cards. Some receive a stunning hand at birth, such as a royal flush – ’ he bowed to me ‘ – yet lose it all from indolence. Others have but a two of spades and win the game by their cunning. It is more fascinating than any play or performance.’

  ‘Well. Not any play or performance.’ Buturlin rose, turning to a little path that led to our resting place.

  ‘What is it, Buturlin?’ I felt a bit faint in the hot midday sun. Damn Lestocq and his bleeding.

  ‘A beautiful surprise for an even more beautiful Tsesarevna.’ He bowed as the jingle of cymbals and tambourines became audible amidst the beating of a goatskin drum and the strumming of balalaika chords.

  ‘I know how you adore the old Russian songs and dances, despite the best efforts of our friend Schwartz, who even snores in a three-quarter rhythm,’ said Buturlin. Lestocq raised his eyebrows: Buturlin had beaten him in a game I was unaware they had been playing.

  ‘Look,’ I cheered, as young people from the nearby mir – a village with a couple of rickety izby along a dusty road, where our horses’ hooves had made the sinewy hens scatter in panic – stepped into the clearing. In their old-style Russian dress, which my father had banned, they looked like walking blossom. The collars of the men’s belted, hip-long vests were embroidered in every shade of red – krazny in Russian, also meaning beautiful. Their wide trousers billowed around the thighs and then were stuck into knee-high boots with pointed toes. The girls’ thick plaits swung with each step; each sarafan a swirl of colours, the long, wide skirts ready to fan out and rise in the dance. They belonged to a beautiful world that had passed. One girl in particular caught my eye, her cheeks rosy, her hair as pale as wheat, her smile dimming the sun’s lustre.