Tsarina

by Ellen Alpsten

  So I only heard about Peter riding into the Red Square on Finette, who was adorned with leopard skin, red velvet, shining leather and silver bridle. Behind him marched his regiments and his generals, followed by the endless stream of Swedish prisoners, half mad with fear, and the captured three hundred flags and thirty-six Swedish cannon. The crowds were beside themselves; boyars and wealthy merchants such as Peter’s friend Count Stroganov invited the Tsar and his generals to their houses: Peter and his men never refused. Seven thousand candles burnt, each of them seven foot high, and seven triumphal arches had been raised: once Peter had passed beneath them all, he reached the throne where his old crony, the fake Prince-Caesar sat, his hair and shoulders covered with snow.

  Peter laid his hand upon his heart: ‘With the help of God and the grace of Your Majesty, I have won the victory for Russia at Poltava.’ The Swedish soldiers thought they had now become completely mad: who was the Tsar after all? The man in the rough, worn uniform whom they had met in Poltava, or the toad who sat painted and adorned on the throne, giving his court of fools and jesters a signal for the feast to begin?

  Daria later told me that the Master of Ceremonies had to cross the hall on horseback, as there were so many guests, and the colourful ceiling of the Kremlin’s festival hall was destroyed when the men shot into the air instead of having fireworks.

  What she did not tell me, others did: Praskovia’s daughter, Peter’s pretty and nubile niece, the Tsarevna Jekaterina Ivanovna, would not leave the Tsar’s side. Perhaps he was right. It was a good idea to marry those girls off sooner rather than later.

  Only a few days after the victory celebrations a most violent labour began for me. During the long hours of pain I clung to the curtains of my bed or kicked the midwife who tried to soothe me. When I felt the delivery was close, Blumentrost shouted, ‘Quick, my God, quick! He is lying the wrong way around. I can feel the feet.’ The room went black: I fainted, which mercifully veiled the pain for a couple of seconds. When I came to, I saw Blumentrost’s fat hands holding my child’s perfect wriggling body to the dull light and frosty air of a Moscow winter day. A hoarse, strong scream tore through the exhausted, stifling silence of the room. I laughed, and stroked my damp, wet hair from my sweaty forehead. ‘He is to be named Peter, like his father!’

  Daria busied herself with bedlinen and Alexandra Tolstoya washed her bloodstained hands in a porcelain bowl full of warm water, avoiding my eyes. Blumentrost, the ass, turned to the window, checking the child, and then wrapped it in clean linen. He turned around and it looked at me, its eyes deep and blue. ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible, Your Grace. It’s a girl. A wonderful, healthy little daughter for our Tsar.’

  It took almost a week before I would hold Elizabeth in my arms. Peter, however, was beside himself with joy at her birth, calling her his little Princess of Poltava. She drained her wet-nurse, was soon strong as none of my other children had been and loudly refused to let herself be swaddled.

  49

  Things were looking up for Russia. After Poltava, Tolstoy not only negotiated a new peace treaty with the Turks, but also dismissed as nonsense rumours that the wounded Charles of Sweden was hiding at the Sultan’s court.

  I was in the storage rooms of the Kremlin together with Jagushinsky, choosing furniture for the new Winter Palace in St Petersburg, which was still bare, its rooms vast and our steps echoing in the endless corridors. Jagushinsky made careful note of every chest of drawers, chair and mirror that I liked, though there wasn’t too much. Peter’s hatred for the Kremlin as much as his love for all things new, shiny and European, made for the happiness of many a carpenter in France, Italy and Germany. Just before leaving, I spotted a painting, half covered with white linen, like a shroud.

  I frowned. ‘Is that not the portrait of the German princess the Tsarevich is to marry?’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Jagushinsky, all of a sudden eager to pack up his scroll and quill.

  Not so fast, my friend, I thought and ordered him: ‘Take off the cover. Why is it here and not in Alexey’s apartment, as ordered? He must get used to her face, pretty as it is,’ I added.

  ‘The Tsarevich ordered it to be brought here,’ the master of Peter’s household said, sweat beading on his face despite the chill in the storage rooms. I waved at his helper, who with one sweeping gesture made the shroud drop. I gasped: someone had drawn a thick moustache above the princess’s lovely lips and disfigured her rosy skin with black spots. Worst of all, the canvas was slashed all over.

  ‘What has happened here?’ I asked, stunned.

  ‘The Tsarevich practised his knife-throwing skills on the portrait,’ said Jagushinsky.

  ‘Does the Tsar know?’

  ‘No. Of course not.’ Jagushinsky mopped away sweat, as would anyone who had hidden an event of this magnitude from Peter. It was enough to earn them a serious thrashing.

  ‘Try to have it cleaned and mended. Then take it back to the Tsarevich’s rooms. Talks about the match are in progress,’ I ordered.

  ‘Thank you, Your Grace,’ said Jagushinsky, bowing out of the room backwards. What else, I wondered when I left, was going on that Peter and I knew nothing about?

  At a feast for the name day of St Alexander Nevsky in Menshikov’s new palace, it was apparent that Alexander Danilovich had spared no expense on his residence. Peter was delighted with its splendour, as well as glad that he needn’t foot the bill for the extravagant celebration. The building on the Vassilyev Island was the most glorious in the city, adorned with Persian silk, Italian marble, Libyan cedars, Siberian gold, Chinese lacquerwork and wallpaper, Delft tiles, African ivory and English silver. In Menshikov’s library three librarians took care of the thirteen thousand volumes, of which he himself could not read a single one, as well as of his unique collection of maps. The walls of the staircases, the corridors and the hundreds of private and public rooms and halls, were covered with tapestries, trophies, and countless paintings and portraits he had brought from abroad by the shipload, as well as the finest icons embellished with silver and gold.

  Daria led me through the long mirrored passages before the banquet, chatting and giggling as if not a moment since Marienburg had passed, and I saw some flattering paintings of myself and countless others of Peter at every age. Finally, she stopped, showing me an almost hidden row of smaller paintings. ‘This is the wall of my grief,’ she said, and I saw the little faces of her deceased sons, Paul Samson and Peter Lukas. A third childhood picture showed the delicate, rosy face of her daughter, who was just then bedridden with a high fever. Daria hastily dried her tears, for Peter did not tolerate any display of grief or sadness on a public holiday. I had pleaded for her to be allowed to stay away, but in vain. So we walked on, looking absent-mindedly at the pictures, such as a painting of a naked, beautiful girl holding up a decapitated head and laughing triumphantly. With her round cheeks and dark braids she reminded me of the Tsarevny Ivanovna, whom I intended to study closely while we were at dinner.

  Menshikov struck the floor with his diamond-studded cane and the first course was carried into the hall; Peter drank from his eagle cup and burped before openly eyeing his nieces, who seemed to wear just about everything they had been able to find in their wardrobes. No wonder the French and Spanish Ambassadors had had a good giggle upon seeing them! Still, I thought, as I rapidly moved my long fan made of grey ostrich feathers, ivory and mother-of-pearl, no one should laugh at a Russian Princess.

  Peter smacked his sticky lips: ‘Well, which of these girls shall we give to the young Duke of Courland? He is a nephew of the King of Prussia. Is there a better way to consolidate our conquest of the Baltics than by marriage into that royal family?’

  Just then, Praskovia’s eldest daughter Jekaterina rose as smoothly as a cat and came over to us, hips swaying and silk skirts rustling. She settled herself on Peter’s lap and put his cup to her own lips. ‘To a long and healthy life, my victorious uncle.’ She smiled at him, her eyes as dark and shiny as sour cherries
. She drank and Peter laughed, placing both his hands on her bosom and kissing her naked neck. She wriggled most invitingly, while I pretended to talk to Menshikov.

  ‘By God, it’s no wonder I forget too often that you are my niece,’ Peter said huskily.

  ‘Well, my father was only your half-brother,’ Jekaterina gasped, as he sucked her swelling flesh above the low-cut dress. I moved my fan, feeling all eyes on me. Of course, Peter had other girls, but being so open with his favour, in my presence, was a novelty for him. I read the curiosity in people’s eyes. Were my days of influence over? Would I join in? Was there a new mistress to be reckoned with here? I tried to keep calm, but Menshikov stroked the fine moustache he now sported and murmured, ‘Watch that little bird. She’d love to be the Tsar’s wife and order her mother and sisters around. It wouldn’t be the first time that a Tsar married a so-called close relative. Who knows who really sired those girls – certainly not Ivan the Idiot.’

  Jekaterina slipped her hand between Peter’s legs. I leapt up and dug my nails into the flesh of her arm, pulling her hand away. ‘We are not in a brothel but in Alexander Danilovich’s palace. He was just wondering about a suitable bride for the Duke of Courland,’ I said.

  ‘Hmm, what?’ asked Peter, breathing heavily.

  Jekaterina eyed me coldly, but Menshikov obligingly bobbed his head under his heavy powdered wig. ‘If we wish to prove the sincerity of our bond to the King of Prussia, we should give his nephew, the Duke of Courland, our most beautiful princess. That would be you then, Tsarevna Jekaterina Ivanovna,’ he said, beaming at her.

  Jekaterina was not fooled, but stuck out her tongue at Menshikov and pressed herself against Peter’s chest. ‘Dearest Father-Uncle, I only want to give children to Russia. Many, many sons. My mother has shown how fertile we are.’ She shot me a triumphant look. ‘I’ll be unhappy all my life if I have to leave you, my Tsar,’ she chirped, tousling Peter’s hair.

  I clenched my fists to stop myself from scratching the princess’s pretty pink face to shreds. ‘Fertile? Yes, my princess, your mother bore nothing but daughters,’ cattily

  Peter stopped our smouldering quarrel. ‘You might be right, Menshikov. But I think we can do better for Jekaterina here,’ he said, and embraced her while studying her mother and sisters: Praskovia had just smacked her second daughter Anna hard and pulled her by the hair. Peter grinned. ‘Anna Ivanovna should go. She is to be Duchess of Courland. And lovely Jekaterina and I, Alekasha, will visit your galleries together,’ he decided.

  Menshikov laughed uneasily and I smiled serenely as Peter and Jekaterina left. The sounds coming from the hall’s anteroom soon afterwards told me that Peter was not even waiting for the darkness of the corridors before he honoured Jekaterina Ivanovna with his attentions. I would not look.

  The night in the Summer Palace when he had promised me his hand, and the closeness we had felt then, seemed like a distant dream.

  The Tsarevna Anna Ivanovna was a proud young bride. The Duke of Courland had originally asked for portraits of all the Princesses Ivanovna, Peter’s nieces, but was eventually satisfied with Peter’s choice for him – Anna was a tall brunette with rosy cheeks and dark, radiant eyes – and even more so with his bride’s dowry of two hundred thousand roubles. The duke immediately repaid his gambling debts.

  On their wedding day, a first layer of thin ice glistened on the Neva and the air was crackling with the promise of snow. Peter and I visited Anna Ivanovna as she was being dressed by her sisters for the ceremony.

  Jekaterina lifted her sister’s hair away from the nape of her neck while beaming at Peter. ‘My Tsar, what an honour for my sister: what more can any woman desire than to be a happy bride? May God give her many sons.’ I felt like slapping the troublemaker. Oh, I would make sure that the eldest princess was married soon! She was like a bitch on heat, and Peter came ever more rarely, and only very half-heartedly, into my bed. What if she, a Tsarevna of royal blood, bore him a son?

  Peter kissed Jekaterina on both cheeks before cupping her sister’s face. ‘Anna Ivanovna. You must honour Russia and your dead father, my beloved brother, Tsar Ivan, in your marriage. You marry for your country: keep faith, love your new home and obey your husband.’

  ‘I shall, dearest Father-Uncle,’ the bride sobbed.

  Peter led her up the aisle of the Peter and Paul Cathedral. Our breath hung in clouds in the icy air as we prayed and chanted, but when the ceremony proper was about to begin, the priest held up his prayer-book and said in a trembling voice: ‘I shall not carry out this marriage, for reasons of faith.’

  ‘What is the matter?’ The young duke looked nervously at the Prussian Ambassador, who rolled his eyes. Nothing here surprised him anymore, I felt.

  Anna Ivanovna sobbed, bewildered, and Praskovia rushed to her. ‘My dove, my little sunshine. Don’t worry,’ I heard her cooing.

  Peter rose, grabbed the priest by the collar and drew his dubina. ‘And why is that, you cursed little traitor?’ he thundered.

  The man bravely spoke up. ‘In the name of the Holy Russian Church, I refuse to marry a Tsarevna to a disbeliever. This is blasphemy and against our law.’

  ‘The law? I am the law!’ Peter shouted, his voice echoing, as he beat the priest twice over the head. Blood dripped onto the colourful marble of the altar and Anna Ivanovna gasped. I crossed myself but Peter threw the priest towards his guards. ‘Scourge him. Thirty lashes for insulting the Tsar of All the Russias in front of foreign dignitaries.’ The Prussian Ambassador looked as if he wanted to speak up for the priest, then changed his mind, seeing Peter’s anger. The bride was in shock: tears left ugly marks on her carefully painted, chalk-white face.

  ‘Blood on the altar! What a horrid omen for my marriage,’ she cried. I offered her smelling salts, but Praskovia scolded her, ‘Pull yourself together.’

  ‘Menshikov!’ Peter roared. ‘Bring me one of your priests. But warn him what will happen if he refuses to marry my niece to the German.’

  All our Russian customs had disappeared from the very joyful wedding feast that followed: men and women mingled freely and instead of the traditional kournik, a multi-layered dome-shaped pie made of breadcrust stuffed with candied fruit, there was a giant cake fashioned to look like Peter’s new Winter Palace. We danced through the night and splendid fireworks etched the flaming coats-of-arms of the Romanovs and the House of Courland into the sleeping skies. The young duke was too drunk to do his marital duty that night. Three days later the newly-weds climbed into their sleigh to travel to Courland, while the new duchess wailed and embraced her sisters and mother, with whom she had almost always fought. The hooves of the strong ponies tethered to their sleigh struck sparks off the hard ice of the Neva pier and colourful flags waved them goodbye in the fresh morning breeze.

  Only three days later, Anna Ivanovna, the young Duchess of Courland, was back with us, a widow. Fifty miles away from St Petersburg her husband had felt unwell and had climbed out of the sleigh where he fell headfirst into the snow and suffocated on his own bile, to the accompaniment of the horrified screams of his helpless young wife.

  50

  ‘Tolstoy is certainly the most demanding of my ambassadors,’ Peter snorted, crumpling up the latest letter. ‘This is the third petition he has sent in a week. Is he not kept busy enough with shopping at the slave market of Constantinople?’ Peter chucked the paper ball amongst other papers, plans and ukazy. ‘He always wants more gold, more silver, more sables. Either the greed of the Sultan at the Golden Gate knows no bounds, or Peter Andreyevich fills his own pockets.’

  I rolled onto my belly, nibbling on warm pierogi filled with smetana, nuts and honey. The cushions in front of the fireplace, where I kept myself busy looking at drawings of new dresses, were soft, but when the logs in the fire shifted and fell, my lapdog started. ‘Silly,’ I said, and kissed him on his damp muzzle. Peter circled me like an eagle in the sky; I watched his scruffy boots with their rundown heels and scraped tips coming and going. Sudden
ly he stood still and clenched his fists.

  He sighed. ‘I just can’t do this on my own anymore. So be it then. The accursed French and English are right. I shall follow suit.’

  ‘What are they right about? Come here to me,’ I said, patting one of the cushions. Peter rested his head on my shoulder and my lips tasted the cold sweat on his forehead while I tousled his hair. He suffered and I felt like chasing that quack Blumentrost away to find a proper doctor, one who could heal the Tsar.

  ‘I simply cannot rule Russia alone,’ Peter sighed. ‘This yoke crushes me.’

  My fingers halted in their caress. ‘What does that mean?’ I asked, my voice unsteady. Peter had never said anything of this sort before. He certainly didn’t mean that it was time for Alexey to ascend to the throne. Did the Tsar want to marry a foreign princess? A young woman who could give him sons and always have sound advice to offer? His niece Jekaterina’s self-indulgence, as well as her steady demands for clothes and jewellery, had started to bore him, this much I knew. Peter gave gladly, but he would not be asked to do so. In the past few months he had returned to my bed, but at twenty-seven I would not fall pregnant so easily anymore.

  ‘In former times, Russia was easy to rule. It was like a simple hut. But now my realm is a palace, with endless corridors, many storeys, stairs and towers. I feel like a boy who must clear the huge forest around it using a penknife.’

  ‘What do you want to do?’ If it was too much for Peter, who on earth could bear this burden?

  He looked into the flames. ‘I need a Senate. Russia needs many men to lead it, not just one.’

  ‘A Senate? What is that?’ That word sounded better to me than another princess’s name. From a small Venetian phial I poured rose oil into my palms and gently rubbed Peter’s temples. The fragrance, scented with the last of summer, filled the air. He sighed with pleasure. ‘A group of men who will help me govern Russia; but not men who are chosen just because of their high birth.’