“Russia needed what? A hammer,” said his wife. “To smash dissent?”
“Russians are a hard people to rule,” said Alexander. “And at best I am only a silver hammer,” said Alexander. “The shape without the strength. Useless against the iron will of Russia’s masses, especially the nobility. I fear it is too late for anything but the strong man.”
“And you don’t have the constitution to play that role,” said his wife, taking his hand. “There is too much of a gentle spirit in your heart.”
“Exactly,” said Alexander. “I am a disaster.”
“That compassion you scorn,” she said, closing her eyes, “is precisely why I have always loved you, Alexander.”
Alexander looked deep into Elizabeth’s eyes. Despite her age, they were still a magnificent shade of blue.
How can I tell her? How can I make her understand?
He took a deep breath.
“Elise, my love. Years ago, there was a young soldier—commended for valor, recommended for the St. George Cross, following the battles of Guttstadt and Friedland.
“Bloody engagements,” said Elizabeth, drawing a deep breath. “So many lost.”
“But this young soldier—perhaps the youngest to ever be honored with the St. George Cross … was different,” said Alexander. “Only a week before I met him I received a letter from a former cavalry captain living in Sarapul. He wanted the solder sent home. Because … that brave soldier was a girl! And that cavalry captain was her father.”
“What?” cried Elizabeth. “A girl. Fighting against Napoleon?”
“I awarded her the St. George Cross. And I sent her back to war, back to the bloodiest of all battles—Smolensk and then Borodino.”
“Oh! Alexander! How could you do such a thing to a girl, to her family?”
“I did it because she convinced me it was her destiny. She insisted she would have no other life but that of a cavalry soldier. I had the power—of course!—to smash her dreams and send her home safely. But instead I promoted her and sent her to join the Mariupol Hussars.”
Elizabeth’s hand touched her face with her fingertips.
“And she survived … Borodino?”
“She survived,” said Alexander, nodding. “She followed her dream and she survived.”
“What an extraordinary girl!”
Alexander turned away, looking out the palace windows at the Neva. A sailboat tacked out to sea.
“My darling Elise,” he said, still gazing out the window at the sailboat. “I find myself at a similar crossroads. I often think of that girl and her commitment to Russia. To her dream. She took an extraordinary road in her life, one that was impossible for most people to imagine. But nothing could stop her.”
He turned away from the window to look at Elizabeth.
“I wish I had that courage.”
“Oh, but Alexander, you do!”
“I wish to have the dedication and faith you possess, Elise. I am weary of politics, of war, of duty to Russia.”
Chapter 64
Taganrog, Russia, on the Sea of Azov
September 1825
The modest stone house had a glorious view of the sea. Alexander set to work preparing a home where his wife could heal.
Refreshed by the sea breeze, he was inspired not only to supervise the work, but to labor alongside his servants. He took up a spade and began digging.
“The Tsar with a spade in his hand,” whispered a peasant. “Could this indeed be our glorious emperor who defeated Napoleon?”
“Shut up and keep digging,” muttered his companion. “He could still order your ears lopped off for being lazy. He’s a Romanov.”
On the day she arrived in Taganrog, Elizabeth alighted from the carriage like a young girl despite the long journey. And from that day on, the Tsar and tsarina seemed healthier and more in love than they had ever been. They walked hand in hand about the gardens and even into the small town. In the evenings, the citizens of Taganrog—mostly Greeks and Tatars—watched their imperial residents from a respectful distance. The tradesmen emerged from their shops and stood along the unpaved road. The butcher wiping ox blood from his hands on his apron. The baker and his wife powdered with flour, sticky dough embedded under their fingernails.
The Tsar and tsarina stood on the shore, looking out to sea. The crowd gasped in delight as two separate silhouettes merged.
“They’re in love, those two!” said the baker’s wife, rubbing her eye.
“In love,” said the butcher. “That’s a notion! Tsars don’t have time for love.”
“Stranger things have happened,” replied the baker, kissing his wife’s floury cheek.
Chapter 65
Sarapul, Russia
March 1816
My hand was shaking, but I forced my fingers to obey. I wrote the letter, addressed it, and sent it directly to Count Arakcheyev.
I had seen enough war. I had seen enough death. Now I needed to see more life.
I formally resigned from the army.
As I prepared to leave for home, I was summoned to St. Petersburg to report to Count Arakcheyev himself. He had the most terrifying reputation, but he had always treated me with the utmost respect.
“Ah, there you are, Captain Alexandrov. I am glad to see you so fit,” said the count. “I trust you have found that I speedily fulfilled any requests on your part?”
“Yes, sir. I thank you for your attention.”
“Tsar Alexander has instructed me to see to your welfare. He commends you for your valor. You have served Russia honorably, Captain Alexandrov.”
If Emperor Alexander only knew that I never killed anyone in my decade of soldiering.
“The Tsar left something for you as a token of his admiration for your service and a memento of himself.”
The count presented me with a finely polished wooden box.
“Open it, please, Captain Alexandrov.”
I bowed. My fingers unlocked the catch.
There on the blue plush velvet lay a silver hammer.
What in the world does he mean by this?
My father enveloped me in his arms.
“You’ve come back to me! My staff in my old age. My Nadya.”
Yes, I quit the sword for my father. And for myself. I was tired of death, of killing.
Farewell to my friends, my merry life of the soldier. The end of parades, drills, and mounted formations. Good-bye to the jingle of spurs, the warm smell of excited horses, the smoke and fire of the battlefield.
And good-bye to the screams of the dying and the stench of the dead.
I was home again.
Chapter 66
Yelabuga, Russia
February 1864
I am haunted. My mind is filled with memories of war, memories that terrify me.
I am tired of remembering.
My eyes close. I must have slept, because when they open, a young man stands beside me. He has dark hair and gentle eyes. He studies me with concern.
I stare back at him. His face is so familiar.
“Grandmother,” he says.
Who is he talking to? Outside I hear a storm raging. Freezing snow rattles against the windows. No! I cannot let my mind drift away. I must stay right here with this stranger who calls me Grandmother.
“Grandmother, let me get you some more tea.” He rings a bell and Maria comes in to fetch the tea tray. The porcelain jingles as she carries the pot to the boiling samovar.
I touch my hand to my face. It is wet with tears and I am shaking. The young man covers my shoulders with a warm blanket my younger sister stitched many years ago.
“I have come to ask your blessing for my marriage,” he says.
“Who are you?”
He eyes look deep into my own.
“I am your grandson, Vladimir Chernov.”
“Grandson? I have no children. How can I have a grandson?”
“You are Nadezhda Durova Chernova. You were married in the year 1801 to a county
clerk. The following year my father, Ivan Chernov, was born.”
“What are you telling me? Lies! I am a cavalry soldier, a Hussar, an uhlan!”
“Da, da, Grandmama. You were all of this,” he says, grasping my hand, stroking it. “But first, before you left for the cavalry, you were a mother—and now you are a grandmother! You left your husband—and your son—to fight Napoleon.”
I reach out with my free hand to touch his face.
“I left my own son?”
“You left your husband. Your baby was left with your father and mother. You ran off to the cavalry.” He looked away. “To pursue a Cossack. You fell in love, they say.”
“Lies! I loved no one but the cavalry. Horses—”
“You have a gift with horses, Grandmama. You have passed on that gift to me.”
“Are you good with them?”
“Da. I am an animal trainer. A good one.”
I touch his cheek. “I am old. There seems to be so much I do not remember. So much I suddenly do not understand.”
“Oh, but Grandmama! You do have a remarkable memory. Perhaps your dates, your ages are a bit faulty, but what a tale you have told me!”
My head wobbles the way it does when I’m confused. Wobbles like a baby robin, this frail old head of mine.
“What of Tsar Alexander?” I do not know where that question came from. Or why I do not know the answer. But suddenly I have to know. “Does he still live?”
My grandson exhales slowly, making his cheeks puff out. I sniff his breath like a nervous horse. There is something familiar there. I trust his smell.
“There is a legend, Grandmama. They say he is a mystic, a hermit, and lives still. You know the tale better than I. Try to remember. Tell me. Then I will ask for nothing else but your blessing.”
I nod. For my guest—my grandson! I will fight one more battle. I will fight the shadows and I will remember.
Chapter 67
Taganrog, Russia
October 1825
After considerable persuasion, Tsar Alexander granted Count Volkonsky’s urgent request that he leave his seaside retreat for a journey to inspect the region of Crimea.
“But why must you leave me?” asked Elizabeth. “We have been so happy together here.”
“I must attend to Russia’s affairs, Elise,” he replied. “It is expected of me. But I shall be back before too long.”
The nation was unsettled. There were constant rumors of plots to overthrow the Tsar. Alexander kissed his wife and turned to go.
If I had a son, would he be plotting my assassination? Is this how my father felt before his death?
He touched the cloth sachet tied on a cord around his neck. The little bag that held a scrap of paper his father had written the night before his murder.
Alexander loved Crimea. Feasts were prepared for the Tsar: pilavs studded with meat and carrots, meat-stuffed grape leaves, spicy lamb and eggplant stews, fried turnovers with minced meat and onions.
The Tsar drank the local wines produced from Bordeaux and Champagne vines brought from France and lovingly cultivated on this southern border of Russia. Alexander was delighted with the rich heritage that marked Crimea.
All of these people—many who do not speak Russian—are my children.
He explored far-flung communities on horseback, traveling over nearly impassable roads. His excursions lasted many hours in the volatile maritime climate, where temperatures plunged and storms boiled up without warning. One night in late October he took a shortcut from Balaklava to the Monastery of St. George. A bitter wind came up from the sea. Alexander was wearing only a light uniform. Though shivering, he refused to stop and put on a coat.
When he reached Sevastopol he felt dizzy and asked for hot tea. He refused dinner.
The next morning he woke early and dressed.
“Why do you not rest, Your Majesty?” asked Count Volkonsky.
“I am the father of Russia and I must visit my many children. There are so many places I must visit yet. Only by showing my goodwill and interest will the people know I love them.”
“But you are exhausted, Your Majesty. And the weather has turned cruel.”
“So be it. I will travel in the barouche.”
Tsar Alexander pushed himself on through the day, rushing to visit churches, barracks, hospitals, and fortresses. Late in the afternoon, a courier named Major Maskov from St. Petersburg met his barouche and delivered a packet of dispatches. He was tall and broad shouldered like the tsar, though he sat his horse considerably better.
“Follow our carriage, Major,” ordered Alexander. “I will have some replies for you to carry back to St. Petersburg.”
The barouche took off scattering dust, the horses pulling the carriage at a gallop. The courier’s coach tried to keep up but hit a pothole in the road and overturned. Major Maskov was killed on the spot, his skull split on impact.
The Tsar was distraught at the thought of one more man’s blood on his hands.
At the end of the long day, the Tsar was ill with fatigue and nausea. He was haunted by the death of the courier, Major Maskov. He shivered, his teeth chattering, despite sitting by a blazing fire in a small inn.
“I must get home to the tsarina,” he insisted.
“First you must rest, Your Majesty,” said his doctor, James Wylie. “You are seriously ill.”
“You do not understand! I must return to the tsarina,” said Alexander.
“But, Your Majesty—” protested the physician.
“On to Taganrog!” ordered the Tsar, lurching upright and heading back out to his carriage.
Driven by the Tsar’s fierce insistence, they traveled almost without stopping for two days.
“I must reach home. I must see my wife,” he insisted. “Drive on!”
At last, the Tsarina Elizabeth received her husband.
“What is wrong with him?” she asked in panic as he collapsed in her arms.
“His Majesty has bilious gastric fever,” Doctor Wylie said. “I could not persuade him to rest.”
“But he was so sound, so healthy before he left for Crimea.”
“Yes, my tsarina. He took a chill. The illness struck him suddenly. And he had a dreadful shock. A courier was thrown from a coach and died. It seemed to affect the Tsar deeply.”
“Elizabeth,” whispered the Tsar. “My sweet Elise.”
The Tsar refused the medicine Doctor Wylie proposed to put in his drink. Plagued by his fever and a lifetime of fears, he was wary of strange potions, afraid he was being poisoned.
Alexander dreamt that night of this same Doctor Wylie, who had attended his father, Emperor Paul, after his brutal death and had directed a young artist to paint the corpse.
Several days passed and Alexander saw no improvement.
Alexander’s skin turned sallow. He passed in and out of consciousness.
Tsarina Elizabeth came to his beside and took his hand.
“My darling, you are gravely ill.”
“I think not,” he answered. “I’m just weak. Open the sash so I can breathe the sea air.”
A servant opened the window. The breeze filled the white curtain like a sail.
“I shall call for a priest,” Elizabeth said.
“Am I really so gravely ill?”
“Yes, my darling. You have reached the limits of this world.”
Alexander nodded, his eyes meeting hers. “You have always given me good counsel. Give orders. I am ready.”
The archpriest of the Cathedral of Taganrog came and performed last rites. Alexander asked all parties to leave his bedchamber while he gave a very long last confession.
Then with his wife, close advisors, and two of his six doctors watching, Alexander Romanov took communion.
At last, he took his wife’s hand and kissed it. “I have always relied on you, my dear. Never have I felt a greater pleasure than giving this final confession.”
He exchanged a look with his wife.
“It is finis
hed,” he said. “Now, physicians. Do your work as you see fit.”
The doctors applied thirty-five leeches to the Tsar’s body, chiefly behind the ears and on the back of his neck. They applied cold compresses to his head.
His condition improved but only briefly.
He lost consciousness again. Only when the tsarina would speak in his good ear would he respond. He took her hand, pressed it to his heart, and turned toward the icon beside his bed. He quietly prayed.
He fell asleep once more. With strangled groans, he struggled to live.
Only the Tsar’s closest confidants stayed in the bedroom. Elizabeth held her husband’s hand until his last breath. Her face wet with tears, the tsarina tied up his gaping jaw with her own embroidered handkerchief.
Tsarina Elizabeth was too weak to follow her husband’s body back to St. Petersburg. It was December and the weather was frigid. Her health was extremely fragile. Her illness, which had nearly disappeared during her stay in Taganrog, had returned.
She cried as she watched the coach roll away.
She wrote to her mother:
All earthly ties are severed. We walked through life together for thirty-two years. Often separated we always found each other in one way or another.
Will we ever find each other again in the world beyond?
The Tsar’s coffin was kept closed for the entire trip, though the crowds of his subjects begged to see their great tsar, the man who had defeated Napoleon. Shepherds came down from their hills with their flocks. They prostrated themselves in front of the royal coach. Peasants unhitched the horses and pulled the carriage themselves, their tears freezing on their faces like diamonds.
Chapter 68
Yelabuga, Russia
February 1864
“And that was the end of the great Tsar Alexander?”
Who is asking? Whose voice is that? My son. Ivan Chernov. The child I had before I ran away with Alcides to join the cavalry. No. That was long ago. This is my grandson. The child of the son I abandoned. How did I get so old?
The Girl Who Fought Napoleon: A Novel of the Russian Empire Page 33
