The Tsarina's Daughter

by Ellen Alpsten

  The door opened and in came Petrushka, followed by Buturlin. Before anyone could prevent him, Dolgoruky slipped in behind them. Petrushka looked bewildered after the chase from the countryside to the city in the middle of the night. He had grown almost as tall as Father, already standing more than seven feet in his boots. Menshikov glowered at Dolgoruky, warning him away as one great beast might another: the Tsarevich was his prey!

  All I cared for was my mother. The darkness drew close, cloaking her. Around her the silence widened, a silver lake on which she would soon embark upon her last journey. As she took her very last breath, a short and painful-sounding gasp, I lunged forward, pushing Menshikov aside, sobbing, to seize her hand: a heartbeat later, her thumb ceased to caress my palm and her raised chest stilled, caught in its last gasp. Menshikov and Dolgoruky both wanted to wrestle the Imperial seal from her finger. I, however, folded her hands inside mine, hiding them away, protecting Russia from usurpers as long as I could. Finally, I slipped off the Imperial seal and handed it over to Ostermann, my fingers trembling. The Vice-Chancellor marvelled at it for a second or two before bowing his aching, swollen knee to Petrushka, his former pupil. While Feofan Prokopovich blessed the young Tsar, Ostermann slipped the ruby ring onto my nephew’s long, slender finger, where it hung slack, before pressing his lips to the crimson stone.

  He struggled to contain his emotion as he rose and shouted: ‘The Tsarina is dead. Long live the Tsar! Long live Peter II.’ Then he cried uncontrollably, clutching both Petrushka’s hands, kissing his fingers again and again. As I myself fought tears, I met Buturlin’s eyes. He stood tall, guarding his young Tsar. Even though Augustus was standing behind me, his hands on my shoulders in a gesture of comfort, my eyes meeting Buturlin’s made the air between us crackle like a lightning strike. I felt his restless, pent-up energy from endless, sedate months spent with Petrushka in Oranienbaum. While I had never told Augustus about my forbidden, foolish feelings for Buturlin, his searing gaze singled me out, his longing for the unattainable palpable. No! Life had moved on for me and the childish past must be relinquished. Then it was my turn to curtsy to Petrushka and swear my Oath of Allegiance to the young Tsar. Yet as he raised me to my feet – standing two heads taller than me – his hands would not let go of mine. Surprised, I looked up: his eyes were no longer a boy’s, but a man’s.

  I felt as if I was surrounded by a pack of wolves – wild, ferocious beasts that the plains of Holstein at least no longer harboured. I thought with relief of my imminent escape to safety there.

  37

  Menshikov lost no time. As Mother’s lying-in-state was being prepared, he banished Count Peter Tolstoy, who was in the eighty-second year of his life, to Solovetsky Monastery on the White Sea. There were no birds to watch. No one ever returned from there; nor did Tolstoy. Anoushka slid in and out of the death chamber, an ever-slimmer dark shadow, accompanied by Karl, who greeted Augustus cordially and gave me only the curtest of nods. How would things be when we were all in Holstein? I chased away my misgivings.

  We took turns to sit and pray by Mother’s coffin until the interminable queue of courtiers, officials and wealthy people from all over Russia, who wanted to see their dead Matushka, had finally dwindled. A priest stood at her head, chanting an interminable liturgy of prayers, supported by a miraculously refilling jug of vodka. The sight of Mother illuminated by banks of candles was unreal. Surely at any moment she would turn her head; we would see her dark curls slipping unruly from beneath the tiara, those green, slanted eyes shining with mischief. But no: she lay still, the back seams of her velvet Coronation gown sliced open to accommodate her ample flesh. I stepped closer, squinting in disbelief: some of the studded gold double-headed eagles were missing from the dress already, plucked off by fingers seemingly folded in prayer. I checked further. In the first days of lying-in-state, her body had been decked with jewellery, barely an inch of flesh showing. Now bracelets were missing, and she wore only one earring. Her tiara had shifted. Was that Menshikov’s doing, too?

  Already he had taken the Imperial seal from Petrushka, for, as he put it, ‘safe keeping’. I could not turn to Anoushka. Also, Alexis Dolgoruky had convinced the young Tsar to place Feofan Prokopovich, a friend since my childhood days, under house arrest.

  It was winter and Ded Moroz had touched my soul. Augustus stroked the hair gently from my forehead as I cried on his shoulder, both of us numb with grief and terrified by Tolstoy’s and Feofan’s incarceration. ‘I will keep you safe. We will be formally engaged as soon as the mourning period ends. Come,’ said my fiancé, leading me to the bed. We lay together between the starched linen and the heavy furs. Feeling his strength next to me was the best consolation I could imagine. He whispered endearments to me as well as promises of eternal love.

  The moment for me to leave for Holstein and marry Augustus there drew closer. To arrange to receive my dowry, my inheritance from Mother and all the smaller sums and gifts that had been promised to me on marriage, I asked for an audience with Menshikov. The young Tsar was once more in Oranienbaum; supposedly because the Baltic air was good for his lungs.

  Menshikov made me wait for long weeks. The hour finally came early on a late spring morning, just days away from my formal engagement to Augustus. Mother’s death had delayed the ceremony but it would still coincide with the public announcement of Petrushka’s engagement to Maria Menshikova. A fresh wind chased away the last of the winter chill, helping along the first buds on the fruit trees planted on the quays; on the Neva the last ice broke, the glare of it flashing among the steely waves. I still wore white, mourning my mother, when Menshikov invited me into my father’s former study.

  ‘Come in, Lizenka,’ he said, withholding my proper title. Yet I should not play into his hands by reacting angrily. Worse than his insulting familiarity was the sight of him sitting at my father’s desk, legs stretched out and feet comfortably crossed. His fingers twirled the great Tsar’s quill – what for? He could not even read or write! The man he was today had obliterated any memory of the loyal, low-born friend he had pretended to be, who had been raised literally from the Russian dust.

  ‘What a delight to see you.’ Menshikov shifted one buttock half-heartedly but stayed seated in my presence on a chair my father had made, lathing the night hours away to chase his demons or hatch new ideas.

  ‘I see you are busy,’ I said, trying not to let discomfiture colour my tone. ‘But where is the rest of the State Council? I thought this was a formal meeting.’

  ‘Too many cooks spoil the broth.’ He crossed his arms behind his head and leaned back in the chair, balancing it on two legs like a schoolboy. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I come for my mother’s bequest to me. My dowry as well as recompense for relinquishing my right to the throne, to Petrushka’s possible heirs. It can all be sent to a Hamburg bank. Mother’s plate, silver and jewels I shall take with me in person. I trust no one here,’ I added, smiling sweetly, looking him straight in the eye.

  ‘Bequest? What bequest?’ Menshikov shuffled some papers on the desk, as if to find the answer there. He frowned and shook his head. ‘I am at a loss, Lizenka. Nothing is owed to you and the Tsar has generously gifted all your late mother’s belongings to his beloved fiancée, my daughter Maria.’ He gave a short, wolfish grin.

  ‘I was promised one million roubles in recompense for relinquishing to Petrushka and his heirs, my right to the throne—’ I started, unable to contain my anger.

  ‘The wisdom of your decision will be remembered. Tsar Peter is delighted.’

  ‘I imagine. My mother’s will… ’

  ‘… of which I am the careful executor, remember.’

  ‘Careful indeed,’ I interrupted him, my voice brittle, remembering my mother’s lying-in-state: had Menshikov himself plucked the rings off her fingers, carelessly breaking a bone or two in the process? Had he untangled the tiara from her tresses, or had he simply torn it off, and clumps of hair with it? I hated him so much then that it stole my
voice away. I had to clench my fists so as not to claw him. ‘What shall I live off?’ I asked, fighting back tears. ‘Augustus is a minor prince of the House of Holstein.’

  ‘You made your bed, you must lie in it. Surely, young Augustus has a stipend or possibly wages as a sailor in the Holstein Navy?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’ A sailor’s wages would not pay for a single ribbon on one of my dresses. From my cousins Ekaterina Ivanovna’s and Anna Ivanovna’s impoverished existences, I knew what kind of life I was facing. Augustus and I were to reside in a far-flung, freezing corner of an inhospitable castle in Gottorf, more suffered than welcome there, running our meagre household and stroppy retinue on a shoestring. Each log on the fire would be counted and only rind should enrich the pea soup, never proper bacon. During big family dinners, once or twice a year, we would be served last with the scraps from the platters, the servants already hovering, impatient to get away. At Easter, my painted egg would be cracked; for Yuletide, an unwanted gift from the past year’s celebration would be offered. My children stood to inherit nothing. For as long as Karl reigned as Duke in Holstein, we would walk two, if not three, steps behind him and my sister. How had life turned the tables so swiftly on me? Well, I could do it, I decided: I could live with the fall in status because I loved Augustus.

  Menshikov watched me, alert. ‘There is no room for further negotiation. All your mother’s belongings are already with Maria,’ he said. ‘Including her furs. My daughter, the future Tsarina, does love a good sable coat. Petrushka will offer her your mother’s crown. My grandchildren will rule over All the Russias. Better give in, Lizenka. We are a family now. One large, loving family.’

  Give in? Never! He was basted in self-regard. I fought back the tears for good. I was not a little girl but a Tsarevna of All the Russias, claiming her rightful inheritance. Any show of weakness would be fatal. ‘You owe everything you are to my father. My mother, the Tsarina, left her daughters a fortune.’

  Menshikov slithered out from behind the desk towards me, teeth bared, all vice and venom. ‘Believe me, I am intent on repaying all debts. Without me, Petrushka would not become Tsar. There is always someone else, Lizenka – someone such as you.’

  Me?

  His eyes pinned me to the spot. ‘As you so helpfully recently pointed out, you have not yet renounced the throne. You would make a spirited Tsarina, wouldn’t you? Possibly the regiments would support you, for some… consideration?’ It took all my self-control not to slap him for that insult. ‘Whoever is favoured by the Russian regiments, is favoured by fate. But there can only be one ruler, my dear girl.’

  My dear girl. I saw every broken blood vessel in his cheeks and could smell his perfume of sandalwood and jasmine, too sweet for a man, as well as his sour breath – his steady chewing of cumin was in vain; his teeth had reached the point of no return. The threat was clear: if I did not leave for Holstein, he would stalk and slay me here. Better not to test his ingenuity in dreaming up a justification for it. Menshikov smiled as if reading my thoughts. He laid one hand casually on the nape of my neck. I froze at his touch, our gazes locking. For an incredible moment, it seemed he might actually force a kiss on me. I stared at him and he hovered, undecided, not moving any closer. Finally, he said: ‘So, in memory of all the generosity your father showed me, I am letting you live. More so, I am letting you leave. How long would you survive a damp, freezing nunnery, lovely Lizenka? There is not a shred of sanctity about you. I know what Augustus and you did in Peterhof.’

  I blushed deeply.

  ‘But what might His Majesty think of that, who loves you as an aunt and wishes to respect you as a Tsarevna of his house?’

  I freed myself from Menshikov’s grip, my eyes blazing. ‘I am engaged to marry Augustus,’ I said, gathering my last shreds of dignity.

  ‘Yes, he is only your husband-to-be,’ Menshikov chuckled. ‘That which made your father virile, makes you a harlot. Such behaviour in a woman warrants a heavy punishment.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Death,’ he mouthed, as ruthless as a gun dog. ‘The choice is yours. Cease your demands and your carriage to Germany is ready to depart at any time you choose. Persist in them and you will be shamed and punished severely. Now, is there anything else? I have a country to rule. But I am not ungrateful.’ Once more he sifted through the papers that were waiting to be sealed and signed. ‘I might or might not forget the words you spoke to me today.’

  Anger and pride won over fear. If I had to leave the only country I should ever love, I refused to do so like a stray dog, my tail between my legs. With a single movement, I swiped the desk clear of all the papers. They billowed and flew up in the air before scattering all over the beautiful rugs and parquet, like doves spreading their wings. Now it was I who leaned in, placing my knuckles on the Tsar’s desk. Menshikov stood there, taken by surprise. Time flowed slowly, like fresh sap bleeding from a tree. It was true, the choice was mine.

  Menshikov recoiled when I spat: ‘Rule the country? You might as well pee against the wind, callous coward that you are. A man like you cannot even begin to rule Russia. You are dust!’

  The last vestiges of civility between us had disappeared. Menshikov’s eyes became hard and unforgiving, that nasty smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. I should not be fooled by it ever again but would hide my feelings. Otherwise, the hunter in him would feast on them, devouring his prey’s most tender part with relish: the heart.

  ‘And you? No wonder France rejected you! What a joke it was to the Bourbons: the illegitimately born daughter of a serf, a washer-maid, wanting to reign in Versailles! And France knew only half the story. I myself plucked your mother from a heap of prisoners-of- war because she was as irresistible as a beautiful animal. She had me to thank for everything – and she did, believe me, many times over. You have forgotten where you come from, Lizenka.’

  Menshikov was not wrong.

  He did not know how grateful I was for the reminder.

  38

  ‘You don’t need money,’ Augustus consoled me as I paced my rooms, raging and wringing my hands, stamping my feet and kicking furniture about. If only that toppled chair or skidding footstool were Menshikov! Evening fell. Outside, the Neva’s banks took on a silver hue, allowing the glossy day to blend into a White Night. I felt immune from the beauty of the scene, a thought that only increased my pain. I should take it all in before I was forced to leave it forever.

  ‘No? Do you have any money then?’ I asked, hands on hips.

  ‘No,’ he admitted, looking tired. ‘To be honest, I was rather looking forward to acquiring your dowry before I met you. Now, I would take you without a shred of clothing on your body. Actually, I’d especially take you without a shred of clothing on your body.’

  I had to laugh. Augustus would happily have lived as a sailor, free and poor. Life with him would be good – he was always able to soothe my worries, a priceless gift. He kissed my fingertips, his eyes shiny and cheeks flushed. As I caressed his thick, dark auburn hair, his forehead felt clammy. No wonder: he was as excited as I was. In a couple of days’ time our engagement was to be announced formally together with Petrushka’s. Menshikov had presented this as a mark of Imperial favour since my parents’ deaths and my nephew’s accession had reduced me in importance and rank. It seemed I should be grateful to be included in the pomp and splendour of other people’s celebrations. A reception, banquet and ball were planned, and the palace was already buzzing with excitement.

  ‘Soon we shall be engaged. On that day, my new life begins,’ I said, forcing back tears. ‘Nothing else counts. I shall not allow Menshikov to spoil this moment. We will be happy together.’

  ‘It is the day I was born for,’ Augustus said.

  I pushed back the two leather strips he wore around his wrist – beneath, all around the hidden star tattoo, the skin looked red and angry, as if a slight rash were breaking out. I tenderly kissed the tattoo. ‘What is this?’ I asked then, touching the
slight bumps and pimples on his skin.

  ‘Just a bit of an irritation,’ he said, pulling his sleeve back down. ‘Listen. I have learned a Russian love song, just for you.’ I listened while he began: ‘Shine, shine my star’. He sang out of tune, butchering the famously romantic lyrics, but that made me smile once more. When he stopped, he shivered and tightened his silk jabot around his throat, saying: ‘I think I might be getting a sore throat.’

  I kissed him. ‘As long as you can speak your vows.’

  I had last worn my pink and silver dress and the matching diamond parure at Anoushka’s wedding, I remembered, as I sat and waited for Augustus two days later: somehow, they had escaped Menshikov’s purge of my belongings. Soon Augustus and I would step into the Winter Palace’s Great Hall for the festivities to begin and our engagement to be announced. This might be the last time I should appear at court as a Tsarevna; for his sake I wanted to be the most beautiful woman present. My hair was twisted in a braided crown on my head. Once engaged, I must not wear it loose as it might entice other men.

  While waiting, I thought of everything that had led to this moment. In hindsight, the last two years had been like being pulled along by a raging river, struggling to stay afloat and not to sink and drown. I did not notice the time pass. Suddenly, though, morning had turned to noon: clouds skimmed through the sky and swallows darted about. The sounds of St Petersburg reached my ears: the guard changing, cartwheels on cobblestones, pie-sellers touting their wares, wind catching in sails – making the canvas crack like a whiplash, seagulls crying, horses neighing, children calling.

  Augustus was late. I did not wish to embarrass myself by sending for him, so I sat and waited a bit longer. My monkeys and parrots shrieked and squawked as my ladies-in-waiting shuffled and whispered in agitation. Had I, the Tsarevna Elizabeth, been rejected by my fiancé? Their eyes sought me out, gazes quickly averted when I looked up.