Sophie, who was becoming accustomed to thinking of Elizabeth as a second mother of sorts, sat up in bed, ate heartily, and began once again to study her Russian and her theology. Her cheeks grew pink again, and Elizabeth, gazing fondly at her, pronounced her almost well. It had been twenty-seven days since the onset of her illness. The first signs of spring had arrived, though snow still lay thick on the ground and cold winds invaded the drafty palace. Sophie wrote to her father, apologizing for her shaky handwriting and asking him to give her his permission to adopt the Orthodox faith.
Unknown to her, King Frederick was also using his influence on Christian August, trying to convince him, disingenuously, that the differences in theology between the Greek Orthodox church and the Lutheran church were slight. Frederick, who cared little about religion, had no qualms about misrepresenting matters of faith, while the devout and dutiful Christian August was in anguish. ("Meine Tochter nicht griechisch werden!" he cried again and again. "My daughter cannot become a Greek!") He was torn. His superior King Frederick, to whom he was indebted in countless ways, the man who had promoted him to field marshal, was asking him to go against his conscience. His daughter too had become convinced that she wanted to convert to Orthodoxy. His wife, never very scrupulous, took a neutral position. "I leave it to Sophie to decide," she told him bluntly, knowing as well as he did that in the end Sophie would either have to make her formal profession of faith in the Orthodox church or return home to Zerbst having lost her chance to become grand duchess.
While Christian August wrestled with his conscience and Sophie waited for his reply, the court witnessed a memorable display of the empress's wrath. Countess Lopukhin, the foolhardy beauty who had dared to wear pink despite the empress's prohibition, had been convicted of plotting to dethrone her mistress. She was one of several accused conspirators who had been found guilty of conducting an intrigue with the Austrian ambassador. She was sentenced to execution, along with her husband, yet the empress, ever squeamish when it came to taking life, gave other orders.
The courtiers joined a large crowd assembled in an open square where a broad wooden platform had been erected in the snow. It was very cold, a sea of fur hats and coats stretch away on all sides of the scaffold. Thousands of ordinary citizens looking forward to a spectacle thronged the edges of the open space and waited patiently for the solemnities to begin. Presently the count and countess, their hands tied, were dragged onto the platform by muscular guards, the countess struggling violently, appearing almost demented. Her clothes were torn, she tossed her head, screaming in fear. She had believed until moments earlier that she would be decapitated—now she was told that her life would be spared, she would be tortured instead. With her was the wife of the chancellor's brother Michael Bestuzhev, her closest friend and, in the judgment of her accusers, her fellow-conspirator.
One by one the victims faced their punishment. Count Lopukhin was tied to a rack, his wrists and ankles secured with strong ropes, and then the rack was slowly stretched until all his bones cracked and broke, while his sobbing, writhing wife stood nearby, in the grip of her captors. When her turn came she was forced to kneel and submit to repeated blows with a thick wooden stick. Gasping and crying for mercy, she endured only a few clouts before she fainted, her back a mass of welts and bruises. When the beating was finished the executioner seized the countess by her hair and reached into her mouth to cut out her tongue. Blood flowed from her mouth. The spectators, having savored every frisson of horror, and satisfied that the traitors had gotten what they deserved, shouted their approval.
The work of barbarity was over. No one noticed that, in the last moment of her friend's suffering, Madame Bestuzhev managed to drop a costly diamond cross into the executioner's hand. He gave no sign, but later, when the criminals were on their way to exile in Siberia, Countess Lopukhin discovered that she could still talk.
Chapter Five
IN THE WOMBLIKE DIMNESS OF THE PALACE CHAPEL, WHERE thousands of flickering candles cast a pale light on the gleaming mosaics and paintings on every wall and pillar, Sophie knelt to repeat her confession of faith. She was quite overawed by the dozens of golden chandeliers, the tall candlesticks, the precious icons in their jewel-studded frames and the wealth of decoration that seemed to cover every colorful surface. Her senses all but overpowered by the acrid odor of incense, the resonant music of the choir that vibrated and echoed in the vast sanctuary, the kaleidoscope of vivid hues and flashing gold, she seemed to drowse as she knelt, swaying slightly as her knees sank into the soft silken cushion.
She had been fasting for three days in preparation for the ritual to come, cleansing herself before offering her confession of faith. She felt dizzy and faint, yet her mind was keen enough to recall the Russian words she had painstakingly memorized, parrot-fashion, with the coaching of her Russian teacher Vasily Adadu-rov. Learning by rote was a skill she had mastered as a young child, when Pastor Wagner had hounded and threatened her and she had spent hours hunched over her German Bible.
The confession of faith she had memorized for this day had been written for her by Simon Todorsky. He had had it translated into German so that she would know what she was saying, yet she had to repeat it in Russian at this ceremony of confirmation, along with the Orthodox version of the Nicene Creed. In all, she had memorized some fifty handwritten pages of Russian, and she hoped that she would be able to repeat the words with conviction if not with understanding.
The empress had dressed her herself earlier that morning, in a gown which was the exact duplicate of her own gown of crimson brocade trimmed in silver. The two women had grown close, Elizabeth treated Sophie more and more like her own daughter and kept her nearby for much of each day. Since Sophie's illness they had traveled together, eaten many meals together, attended balls and concerts and plays together. Sophie viewed the empress at that time "as a divinity," she later wrote in her memoirs, "exempt from all fault." She had witnessed Elizabeth's sudden anger and savage capriciousness at first hand, yet she basked in the older woman's warmth and maternal tenderness. Her respect and gratitude knew no bounds; she was still somewhat timid toward Elizabeth yet her affection for her was strong.
She began her long recitation, striving to keep her voice audible and distinct, taking pains with her pronunciation following her tutor's instructions. Johanna, standing in the recesses of the chapel, watched her daughter with pride. "From the moment she entered the church until the end of the ceremony," Johanna wrote to Christian August, "she carried herself with the utmost nobleness and dignity. Even if she had not been my daughter I would have been forced to admire her."
Sophie's strong, low-pitched voice carried well in the vast chapel, filling every fold and niche in the high stone walls with its resonance and echoing among the painted pillars. A huge crowd had gathered, and many who listened to the voice were moved to tears.
When Sophie finally came to the end of her recitation, she faced her godparents, who conferred on her her baptismal name, the name by which she would from then on be known: Catherine Alekseyevna.
Sophie, the Lutheran Princess of Anhalt-Zerbst, had become Catherine of Russia, a daughter of the Orthodox church. She had made her choice, ensuring the displeasure of her father for the sake of pleasing her new parent, the empress.
And Elizabeth did seem very like a mother to her, overwhelming her with attention and solicitude, showering her with gowns and jewels, treating her with familial tenderness and affection. Her conversion was pleasing to Elizabeth, and so was her new name—which was also the name of Elizabeth's mother. Catherine she would proudly be from now on, as Catherine and not Sophie she would become betrothed to Peter.
That night the empress, with Catherine and Peter, were lodged inside the Kremlin, the immense white-walled fortress that dominated Moscow. To Catherine and her servants was assigned a suite of rooms high in an upper story of the old brick Terem Palace, abandoned for decades and now in a sorry state of disrepair yet made habitable for this one important nigh
t, the eve of Catherine and Peter's betrothal. If Catherine felt any qualms she did not remember them years later, when she recalled the experience in her memoirs. What she remembered was the view from the small windows, a panoramic view of the fortress and its many golden-domed churches and state buildings, and the city stretching away to the distant hills. She was so high that the people walking along the Kremlin wall far below were hard for her to distinguish, they looked like ants marching in winding columns toward unseen destinations.
It was the end of June, the sun lingered above the horizon until late in the evening and darkness seemed never to fall. Catherine, the center of all concern and attention, about to exchange solemn betrothal vows with the heir to the Russian throne, must have been wakeful with excitement. Besides, she had just concluded a taxing ceremony and had not eaten in three days; her fast may well have heightened her air of nervous expectation.
The following morning messengers arrived bearing gifts for Catherine. First the empress sent her a portrait miniature of herself in a diamond-studded frame, and shortly afterwards a miniature of Peter was delivered in a similar costly frame. The empress, resplendent in her imperial crown and mantle of state, walked ahead of the betrothal couple across the square and into the cathedral, past ranks of guardsmen who held back the crowds. Elizabeth walked under a massive silver canopy held by eight officers, but when she entered the church she abandoned this formality to take Catherine and Peter by the hand and lead them onto a velvet-covered dais in the middle of the sanctuary. There the Archbishop of Novgorod presided over the long, intricate betrothal ceremony, while the choir sang and the worshipful onlookers knelt and stood and knelt again. After four hours the empress handed Peter and Catherine their jewelled betrothal rings, which they exchanged, and stood by while Catherine was addressed for the first time by her new title of grand duchess.
The rest of the afternoon and evening was devoted to public rejoicing. Bells rang, cannon were fired time and time again, all normal life stopped while the city was swept into celebration. The empress held a dinner to which everyone of rank was invited, and afterwards a lavish ball. Catherine, much admired and congratulated, did her best to smile at everyone and be gracious. Now that she was grand duchess she had to become accustomed to being treated with elaborate deference. No one except the empress and Peter dared to sit in her presence, or to enter or leave a room ahead of her. People bowed or knelt and murmured 'Your Imperial Highness" when addressing her, and stepped aside with a bow to let her pass.
That Catherine was, after the empress herself, the highest ranking woman at the court was a fact not lost on Johanna, who suddenly had to kneel and kiss her daughter's hand like everyone else. What respect she had commanded as Catherine's mother now evaporated, for Catherine no longer needed her, she was a titled lady in her own right. Johanna was merely the Princess of Anhalt-Zerbst, a lowly German aristocrat lost in the sea of aristocratic ladies in the grand duchess's entourage. She could not walk near her daughter in the betrothal procession, but had to keep to the rear with the other women of low rank. At the wedding dinner she was informed that she could not sit with the other women present, but would have to find a humbler and lower seat. She protested—as did the British ambassador, who also felt insulted by the place assigned to him—and in the end the two of them dined together, at a special table off to the side, in exile from the festivities.
Johanna was humiliated, and at the same time thwarted. She had come to Russia on an important mission, to advance the interests of Prussia and Prussia's allies at the Russian court and to undermine the anti-Prussian policies of the Chancellor Bestuzhev. But she had failed dismally. Only four weeks earlier she had discovered just how formidable an enemy the chancellor could be.
Bestuzhev had been keeping himself informed of all Johanna's activities ever since her arrival in Russia, and, through his spies, had intercepted the dispatches of the French ambassador Chetar-die and had read there full details of Johanna's intrigues. The dispatches quoted the Princess of Anhalt-Zerbst saying many unflattering and critical things about the empress, and revealed a pattern of hypocrisy and political machination in her behavior. Gathering his evidence carefully, Bestuzhev presented it to Elizabeth, then stood back and waited for the explosion.
Furious that this German woman whom she had enriched and honored and treated like a close relative had shown her such disloyalty, Elizabeth was so enraged at Johanna that she threatened to call off the betrothal and send both Johanna and Catherine back home. She ordered Johanna brought before her and shouted at her accusingly, reducing the frightened Johanna to tears. For two hours the empress stormed and the princess suffered, doing her best to plead her case and beg for forgiveness. Too late Johanna realized that her clumsy and transparent maneuvering had placed her daughter's great prospects in peril. Ultimately Elizabeth relented, and agreed not to send either Johanna or her daughter away, though Chetardie was banished. But the incident had placed Johanna in more or less permanent disgrace, and her snubbing at the betrothal banquet was only one of many incidents designed to remind her of this.
Terrified of the empress, snubbed and denied respect, forced to abnegate herself before her exalted daughter, Johanna became petulant. Her bad humor made her impossible to talk to, she refused to be placated and took petty revenge on servants and minor officials—anyone with whom she could quarrel without risk of retribution. She spent her time with the Prince and Princess of Hesse-Homburg, who were sympathetic to her and gave her a refuge. Her relations with Catherine became more strained than ever, and Catherine, overwhelmingly eager to ingratiate herself with the empress, trying her best to please everyone, struggled in vain to please her difficult mother.
And there was another cloud on Catherine's horizon as well.
Peter, who had shown her a genuine if childlike friendship, now developed an attitude of swaggering antagonism. He was learning from his valet Roumberg how wives ought to be treated, and was practicing asserting his authority. Roumberg told Peter that a wife must be kept in constant fear of her husband, scarcely daring to breathe without his permission. Peter was to demand complete and unquestioned obedience from Catherine, never allowing her to express or even formulate views of her own on any subject; she was to be his to mold, use, and chastise. He would have to beat her from time to time, Peter told his fiancee. Roumberg recommended it, and he considered it good advice.
Peter became at once menacing, with his talk of beatings and subjection, and distant. Catherine did not expect fidelity from him, he had confided to her his infatuations with various women of the court and she knew that men were rarely faithful to their wives—her conscientious, virtuous father being a notable exception. Yet she must have begun to feel apprehensive about her future. What would Peter be like once they were married? Before she left home her father had given her a letter of advice, which she reread from time to time. He told her to look to Peter as "her Lord, Father, and Sovereign." "His will is to govern all," Christian August had written, and she had taken the phrase to heart. But what if Peter, willful as he was, became capricious and decided to mistreat her? Could she rely on the empress to protect her?
Women had very low status in Russia, as Catherine was beginning to find out. Until very recently, in the time of Elizabeth's father, Peter the Great, they had been kept in Oriental confinement in terems, or upper rooms, of Russian houses. In these women's quarters they lived out their lives, kept away from all men other than their relatives, shielded from prying eyes and from the temptations of the world, to which they were believed to be far more susceptible than men. The higher a woman's social class, the more complete her confinement was; only the poorest peasant women, whose labor was necessary to the survival of the family and whose living conditions did not permit segregation, were allowed to mingle freely with men.
Emperor Peter had done his best to put an end to the terem, though his female subjects resisted his efforts and clung to their familiar confinement. In his daughter's reign, however, they
were becoming emboldened, and were accustoming themselves to joining in public life. But though women were no longer kept physically confined, at least in Moscow and Petersburg where the impact of Emperor Peter's reforms was greatest, they were still in thrall to the teachings of the church, which viewed them as weak, vapid and prone to sin, especially sexual sin, and were still subject to the constraints of the law, which virtually enslaved them to their husbands and fathers and threatened them with barbarous punishments if they failed to be obedient to their natural masters.
When a young woman married, it was customary for her father to touch her lightly with a whip, and then to pass the whip on to the husband he had chosen for her—a reminder that she was exchanging one form of physical subjection for another. During the wedding ceremony itself the bride demonstrated her subjugation by prostrating herself before her husband and touching her forehead to his feet. While she lay at his feet he covered her with one of his garments in token of his obligation to care for her.
Later, as he led her away to her new home he struck her gently with the whip, saying with each stroke, "Forget the manners of your own family and learn those of mine." When the couple entered their bedroom together for the first time, the groom ordered the bride to take off his boots. She knelt to remove them, and discovered in one of them a whip, yet another reminder that, in the words of the Russian proverb, "the wife is in the power of her husband."
Throughout her married life a wife could expect to be on trial, constantly in danger of being sent away if she displeased her husband. The Orthodox church permitted a man to divorce his wife by sending her to a convent, where she became as one dead to the world, entombed among other rejected women and wives who had run away from their abusive husbands. The husband was then free to remarry. Many husbands took advantage of this expedient to rid themselves of unwanted spouses, but many more took out their frustrations on their hapless wives by beating them, frequently and brutally. Peter's valet was giving conventional advice when he told his master to give Catherine a few blows to the head from time to time. Such punishment was mild compared to the beatings some men administered, hanging their wives by their hair and stripping them naked, then beating them until their flesh was raw and their bones broken.
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