Tsarina

by Ellen Alpsten

  I knelt at his bedside and kissed his fingers. Tears welled in my eyes. ‘Who cares? All I want is you here with me.’ He nodded and tried to move towards me, but dropped back onto his pillows, faint and pale. I bit my lip: would he ever recover from this mystery illness?

  I prayed for it, and my wish was granted: he recovered and rose from his bed, wearing his old green velvet dressing-gown and simple felt slippers, to look out of the window over St Petersburg, where thousands of forced labourers toiled like ants; eagerly, incessantly, giving shape to his dream. The plans for the Winter Palace were ready. As soon as he was strong enough, we visited the different building sites and met the German builders, the Italian sculptors, the French painters and Dutch carpenters whom Peter had lured to Russia in that spring with big promises and even bigger bags of gold. When all the snow had melted, a French expert in fountains and canals arrived, as Peter wanted to stage water games, like the ones he had heard happened at Versailles.

  The number of forced labourers rose steadily. In any approach to the city they were visible like a dark river whose source was hidden somewhere on the horizon, where the sky met the earth, while its estuary was our city. Only at close range did the stream of humanity gain form and faces. Peter had them guarded ruthlessly, as labourers tried to flee at each stop along the way. Once captured, their leaders were executed and the rest of the group whipped. At a second attempt, their noses would be cut off. The sight of the many gaping holes in those gloomy, bony faces made me feel sick.

  42

  It was Shafirov who dared shake the Tsar from his sleep. Peter sat up with a jolt, which woke me as well. The milky summer night seeped into my mind, blending reality with the realm of dreams.

  Peter held his head in both hands, eyes searching the room. ‘What is it, Mother? The Streltsy soldiers?’ He started twitching and kicking but Shafirov lunged forward and held him, dodging the Tsar’s thrashing arms. ‘It is I, my Tsar, Shafirov. I have news . . .’

  Peter’s breathing calmed. ‘Shafirov, you old Jew! Why are you sneaking through the palace at night? What is your news? Spit it out and then let me sleep as any honest man would.’ He embraced me and I felt his tension.

  ‘The Swedes . . .’ Shafirov began.

  ‘Yes?’ Peter’s voice was alert. ‘Where are they?’

  Shafirov chuckled. ‘The Swedes are moving south, as they should, marching directly into the scorched earth! Our Seventh Dragoons captured a food train and took thousands of prisoners. The Swedish general and six thousand of his men were able to flee, but several thousand carts of food and ammunition are ours.’

  ‘So already they have nothing to eat and they are moving south?’ Peter whispered, his eyes shining. ‘They will die of hunger.’

  He jumped out of bed, radiant with joy, embraced Shafirov and pulled him into a short, sharp dance, before kissing his cheeks and holding him at arm’s length. ‘Shafirov, my brother, this is the dawn of our new happiness.’

  The men clapped each other’s backs and chuckled, but in the dawn’s dull light I felt their words crawl like a spiders over my skin.

  ‘What do you think of her? She’s a German princess: Charlotte Christine von Brunswick.’

  ‘Quite a mouthful,’ I said dryly.

  ‘Is she pretty or not? Will she like Alexey? And, more importantly, will he like her?’ Peter asked doubtfully, as he studied the portrait. It had been propped up close to the window and the morning light fell unforgivingly on the face of the young woman depicted. She wore a short, wavy and powdered wig, her cheeks glowed brightly, and she was unadorned with any jewellery. A heavy cloak of blue velvet and ermine covered her shoulders and half of her plain-cut dress of light yellow silk. One slender hand held a rose; she smiled with closed lips, but her round blue eyes looked at us blankly.

  ‘She seems pleasant enough,’ I said, for to me all these paintings looked the same. Was there a secret workshop somewhere, which made portraits of nubile princesses to order, following a pattern? ‘Is it true that she suffered from smallpox as a child?’

  ‘Who says that? Her skin looks as soft as Anna’s bottom. And even if she did, good on her if she survived; scars cannot be passed on. She just has to powder herself more, that’s all. But she is so thin! Will such skin and bone bear me a dozen healthy grandsons?’ Peter wondered, before shrugging his shoulders. ‘Her sister is married to the Crown Prince of Austria. With those relations, I can happily ignore a flat bosom and a bony bottom.’

  ‘Good. It’s not you who is supposed to touch that bosom and bottom anyway,’ I said, but without any hint of jealousy. There is nothing like vinegar in a woman’s voice to drive men away. Still, sometimes that strange night in the Summer Palace, as well as Peter’s oath, seemed like a dream to me. Would he ever keep his promise? I’d rather slice my wrists than remind him of it. ‘You heard that the Emperor in Vienna wishes to introduce the death penalty as punishment for adultery?’ I teased him instead.

  Peter laughed. ‘My cousin on the Danube probably has more subjects than he thinks necessary. If I did that, I’d soon be without any Russians to rule.’ He waved at Pavel Jagushinsky, who had been waiting patiently behind us. ‘Take the painting to the Tsarevich’s room, so he gets used to her face,’ Peter said. ‘She will be his wife. Until then he can go on mounting the thickest and ugliest chambermaids he can find, and drinking himself into a stupor every day. Marriage will be a kick in the pants for the useless sod.’

  ‘Don’t say that about your own son,’ I scolded him, as Jagushinsky was listening. Peter shrugged. ‘He can marry her and love elsewhere.’

  ‘That is not what you do, I hope?’ I asked, arching my eyebrows. He nuzzled my fingers.

  ‘What other man is as lucky as I am, to be with the best of women?’

  I smiled tenderly at him, already feeling pity for the slender young German princess. Alexey had been unhappy and restless ever since he couldn’t prove himself against the Swedes. Perhaps he could appease Peter by fathering a strong son? I did not know what to believe any longer: the Tsarevich wrote me cordial and pleading letters, whilst at the same time I heard shocking stories about him that I refused to believe. True, he surrounded himself with flatterers, but wasn’t that hard for any prince to avoid? Surely all that was said was malicious gossip, even if I had decided to talk to him about his drinking. It was fine to get into a stupor every night – only not if it rendered Alexey helpless and sick the next day. This was against Peter’s rules: after every feast he was the first up and back at work, more eager than ever. Worst of all, Alexey was said to have bragged: ‘When it happens, as it must, I’ll put my father’s friends and his washerwoman whore on the stake. Just you wait.’ I kept the words – if indeed they were his – secret from Peter, as I feared for Alexey’s safety if they were made known to his father.

  Peter continued talking. ‘But before I can think of grandchildren, I must marry off my nieces, the Tsaritsa Praskovia Saltykova’s daughters.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked. Praskovia and her daughters lived outside Moscow in Ismailov Palace, where they had assembled an old-style court of loafers and jesters to whom she doled out her charity. When Peter and I visited, the courtiers fled in terror, hiding in the Tsarevny Ivanovnas’ chests and cupboards, as they knew just the sight of them made him angry.

  ‘Those girls are pure politics. I want a foreign prince for each of them, in marriage. Alliances are the new way forward, Catherine. No one should live alone.’ He leant in to me, burying his nose in my cleavage. ‘Above all not me. You are my finest flesh, Catherine. I’m so glad to be back with you. I hate any time I have to leave you. Now my shirts are clean, my boots are polished and my stockings mended.’ He purred like a cat while I played with the unruly little strands of hair on his neck, just above the collar. I relished the moment and we held each other close, until I heard feet shuffling: Pavel Jagushinsky had returned. With his deep-set eyes, strong cheekbones and sagging cheeks, he always reminded me of a sad old dog.

  ‘M
y Tsar, Dr Blumentrost is here,’ he said, and I was startled: was Peter’s treatment not yet over? Was he still suffering from that same strange ailment that Blumentrost would not name, even though I badgered him about it at the same time as I feared his answer: was this Peter’s reason for staying away from my bed? How should I give him a son if we never had a moment together or if he was ill? I scanned the Tsar’s hands: the red blotches were still there, but had paled under the effects of the mercury ointment.

  Peter pulled a face. ‘Blumentrost may go to hell! But bring him in, Pavel. The quicker he starts, the sooner it’s over and done with.’ Then he held Jagushinsky back. ‘Wait, wait, wait. What is this? Your cheek is swollen and I hadn’t even noticed. Come here.’ Jagushinsky did not dare to resist when Peter grabbed him by the hair and bent his head back: ‘Open up, as far as possible. That’s it.’ He stared into Jagushinsky’s mouth and wrinkled his nose. ‘Your breath stinks like a donkey’s arse. How does your wife bear your kisses? Or do you mount her when she is too drunk to notice? Never mind, I shall soon sort you out.’

  He dragged the stumbling man over to the window and did not let go of him while he rummaged in the top drawer of a little desk, looking for a bulging bag and a long, thin pair of pliers. Jagushinsky gurgled, begging in vain for mercy. ‘Open your mouth again . . .’

  Peter grabbed the tooth he thought to be the culprit with the pliers, and gave a good twist and an even better jerk. Pavel Jagushinsky spat out a stream of blood. Peter laughed, let go of him and proudly held the tooth to the light, turning it this way and that. ‘Splendid. Into the bag with it.’ Pavel’s tooth fell into the little sack already filled with teeth: it bulged more than a miser’s purse. When Peter and his friends roamed the streets, taverns and brothels of the city, both the bag and the pliers were always hanging from his belt. If he spotted a swollen cheek anywhere, he’d set to work. Pavel Jagushinsky held on to a chair, lest he collapse, but Peter stamped his foot impatiently. ‘What are you waiting for, Jagushinsky? Let Blumentrost in.’

  The physician pressed past me with muttered greetings. Peter opened his arms to him. ‘Finally you come! I have ulcers all over my arse, my cock seeps pus and pissing burns like hell. What am I paying you for, man? Your cures simply do not help, and Russia needs many heirs. Will I ever be healthy again?’ Before I could hear Blumentrost’s reply, the door closed behind him. I wished I could press my ear against the timber door – I had to be able to tame my mounting fears – but Jagushinsky lingered in the corridor. He was bent double with pain, crying like a child that had hurt its knee. I gently placed my hand on his face. ‘Ask my damy to send for my Cherkessk maid Jakovlena from the kitchen. She has many secret recipes and will surely mix you a soothing paste.’

  ‘Yes, Your Grace,’ he answered, but still lingered.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked. Something weighed on him. He cleared his throat and spoke.

  ‘The Tsar has assigned a new chambermaid to your household.’

  ‘Has he now. What is her name?’ I made my voice sound even.

  ‘The Tsar calls her Boi-Baba. She already has a couple of children and . . .’

  ‘And let me guess – she’s pregnant again, isn’t she? Do I happen to know the father of this child?’ I tried hard not to sound shrewish.

  Jagushinsky blushed with the shame Peter would not feel. I sighed. ‘Leave it to me, I’ll take care of her. It’s not the first time this has happened, is it?’

  He darted away, only too glad to obey me.

  I took Boi-Baba in. She wore her thick dark red hair in a single braid and had so many freckles, you hardly saw her skin. Her wide mouth was always ready to smile, showing strong, healthy teeth. I scanned her waist, but her body was as vast and soft as a cushion, so her pregnancy wouldn’t show. She gladly followed my orders and fulfilled her tasks without complaint.

  I congratulated Peter laughingly on the strength of his loins, and he smiled, flattered, and bobbed his head; after several bottles of wine and beer he was in an indulgent mood. Before he fell asleep in my arms, he murmured, ‘Whatever I do, old girl, my best belongs to you.’ He dug his face into my hair like a sow in straw. Only a breath later, he was snoring heavily. I carefully slid away from under him and stared up at the dark ceiling.

  What if this girl Boi-Baba meant something to him, and what if she gave birth to a healthy boy? I had not yet fallen pregnant again, and only little Anna Petrovna lived of my many children. I could not suppress my sobs, the pain ran too deep. Iron chains were tightening themselves around my heart and I wept and wept, my body heaving. Only after a long while did I, too, fall into a deep, exhausted sleep.

  43

  In winter, the Neva clenched its icy fist around St Petersburg. Our city froze into a single, glittering crystal, and on a sunny day, all life there was caught in a shiny, frosty bubble. Waves froze mid-tide, ships lay enclosed like the skeletons of huge, mysterious sea creatures, and skaters or sledges drew patterns on the uneven surface of the ice, pearly against the dense blue sky. On the other hand, it was now much easier to get from one place to another: as Peter still refused to build a bridge over the Neva, each noble family had to maintain boats and barges. In the summer there were public ferrymen as well, but only the poorest went for free. Russians of standing had to pay one kopek for the crossing, each way. Perhaps that was why St Petersburg grew much more slowly than Peter had hoped: work suffered from both the turmoil of the war as well as the silent, sullen resistance that both nature and man put up to his orders.

  In the spring, during the ottepel, the ice floes broke with deafening roars and shocking force, tearing us from the sleep that the still-dark nights encouraged. The river flooded the paths and washed away the foundations of the new buildings, while the thaw cut us off from the rest of the country. The east wind could blow so violently that the Neva flowed back into the Bay of Finland, its waters swelling, rising and crashing down in a storm wave on the freshly laid out fortifications and quays of the young city. The city seemed like a boat lost at sea, ready to be swallowed in the maelstrom of Peter’s dreams and desires.

  But if the buildings scattered along the banks looked like oysters devoid of pearls, the cathedral of the Holy Trinity was almost finished next to the imposing Fortress of Peter and Paul with its bastions and church, while the former market of Nyenschantz with its motley assembly of shops and stalls had moved into a gostiny dvor. On Peter’s orders, to satisfy the foreign sailors, a Lutheran church and guesthouse were built, even if no vessel was allowed into the harbour unless it carried a load of at least thirty blocks of stone and a ton of earth – a levy which made construction possible. Nowhere else in Russia was anyone allowed to build in stone, yet to move the masses of materials needed to our marshy lands was a horrible task. The building sites lacked everything: the forced labourers shovelled the soggy clay soil with their bare hands into aprons or shirts, because they had no proper buckets with which to carry the mud and brackish slush.

  Despite the setbacks, Peter and I would hold on to each other, shaking with laughter, when we saw people wading up to their knees in water, carrying their belongings on their back or paddling on whatever they’d found, be it a door or an upside-down table. After every flood, Peter himself marked the high point of the receding water on the stone walls of the Peter and Paul Fortress, and then had barrels of beer and bottles of vodka cracked open: his city was still standing! Soon the stench of mould would hang over the streets and prospects, but before it even appeared Peter ordered both the forced labourers as well as the hired foreign artisans back to work. Rasia Menshikova’s husband, Antonio Devier, the head of Peter’s secret police, intercepted a letter written by the French Ambassador, Campredon. It was destined for Versailles and made Peter foam with rage: ‘This city is built on bones. St Petersburg is no better than a rotting corpse.’

  ‘A corpse?’ First he hit Campredon with the dubina, his ever-ready knout, tearing the French Ambassador’s fancy new coat and making his cheek bleed. Then he c
rumpled up the letter and stamped on it in front of the whole court. ‘You French fool! Building a city is like waging war. Neither can be done successfully without sacrificing human life.’ He lashed out again at the Frenchman, who dared neither duck nor defend himself. I tried to calm Peter down with the help of Jagushinsky and Menshikov, but the Tsar drew his sword and injured both of them, cutting their cheeks and ears.

  Campredon fled, holding his bleeding cheek and sobbing. ‘It took me twenty-four days to move here on these godforsaken roads! I have paid twelve hundred roubles from my own pocket. Eight of my horses have died, and half of my luggage has disappeared without trace. And now this. Mon Dieu, what have I done to deserve this?’

  ‘Keep your anger and your thoughts for the pages of your diary, Monsieur Campredon, where they are safe from discovery and betrayal,’ I said dryly. He stared at me like a pig that had found truffles in his home country’s forests. His hand patted a breast pocket, where he kept his secret little book. Was he truly surprised I knew of its existence? Surely he realised that Peter’s police kept close watch on any strangers residing in Russia.

  ‘Madame.’ The ambassador bowed to me. ‘My deepest respects.’

  Peter found a kindred soul in the Italian architect Domenico Trezzini. Even if I did not like the tall man with his arrogant expression, aquiline nose and dark curly hair arranged so as to tumble over his shoulders, at least he did not complain about life in St Petersburg, like other craftsmen did. When we visited the building sites, there was nothing but moaning from them.

  ‘How can I live and work in this dump? My mind needs space and beauty,’ said the German painter.