Tsarina

by Ellen Alpsten

  Daria Menshikova wrote to me daily, telling me of little Peter Petrovich and his sisters, but also including news of the Tsarevich: Alexey had fallen back into his old ways, it seemed, and Afrosinja even wore the late Tsarevna Charlotte’s jewellery at banquets and feasts. Didn’t he know that he only had these few months to persuade his father that he could be trusted? I struggled to understand Alexey’s impertinence and recklessness. Sure enough, just before the date of his decision loomed, he did write to us, though I wish he never had: his words were like a rock thrown from a cliff ’s edge that kept on rolling, gathering momentum, eventually crushing all and everything in its way.

  I was getting dressed in the Castle of Mecklenburg when Peter came to me. The high windows were open and fresh air filled the room and made the delicate silk voile curtains billow in the autumn breeze. I felt homesick and lonely: in just a few days Peter Petrovich, my one and only surviving son, would celebrate his first birthday. Oh, to kiss his rosy cheeks, to see him stomp patterns with his little feet in the snowy park, or, even more fun, to throw snowballs at the unsuspecting servants and hide behind snow-capped statues, giggling and running back to the Palace, where hot chocolate awaited us. Here, the forests lazily turned golden, but their beauty left me untouched.

  Peter’s arrival in my room was like a fox’s in a henhouse. My damy scattered and regrouped, all flustered and giggly, but he ignored them; his face had a high colour; his hair, which he had lost in patches after Blumentrost’s mercury pills, was ruffled by the wind, and mud stuck to his boots from the military morning exercise. I could not read his face, but when he kissed me, I tasted beer. ‘Peter, you drank without me. That’s against the rules,’ I laughed, but ignoring this he sat down next to me on the padded bench in front of my mirror and drew two letters from his worn-out coat. The wax of the seal had turned brittle; the paper had been opened, read and folded again many times. I laid down the silver-studded brush and my heart thumped.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked, alarmed. ‘Is it word of our son?’

  ‘Peter Petrovich is fine, thank God. But these two letters from St Petersburg arrived this morning and they make no sense.’ Peter frowned. ‘One is from Menshikov. The Tsarevich has borrowed a thousand ducats from him to join us here together with his Finnish whore. Just before that, he had borrowed two thousand roubles from the Senate, giving the same reason.’

  ‘That’s a lot of money for one short journey, even if one travels like Alexey,’ I said. The Tsarevich easily trumped Menshikov’s extravagance while on the road. ‘And? Has he left St Petersburg already?’

  Peter chewed on his lower lip. ‘Apparently so. He is said to have left the city with Afrosinja, her brother and three servants.’

  ‘Alexey travelling with such a small retinue? Normally he does not take a step without his priests, singers, cooks, scribes, barbers, tailors and jesters.’

  ‘It sounded fishy to me, too. But listen to this: the other letter is from my half-sister Maria, who is a friend of both Alexey and his mother. She says she met the Tsarevich on her way back from Carlsbad, where he took the waters and was on his way to us.’

  I held the brush out to Peter. ‘Well, then, everything is in order, starik. Come, make yourself useful instead of moping about Alexey’s travel costs.’

  He brushed my hair nice and firm, so that my scalp tingled, chasing away my feelings of dark foreboding and fear. Then he stopped and frowned at his reflection in the mirror. ‘There’s something not quite right with that story. Carlsbad is not very far away. If he truly was there, he would have reached us long since. No. The Tsarevich, I’m sure, has fled.’

  INTERREGNUM, 1725

  Alexey. In my mind, the moody face of my stepson blended with the shadows of the dying night. A new day was creeping into the sky above St Petersburg; soon, dawn would drop its silver veil. No sound was to be heard outside the library. Where were the hundreds of courtiers who had spent the night on their feet? I was back at the windowsill: a frightened, tense silence lay over the Winter Palace, but on the forecourt, I spotted people gathering; carriages and sedan chairs were arriving. Were Ostermann and Tolstoy among them? From this distance I was as blind as the moles that as children we had smoked out of their holes, before bludgeoning and skinning them. Travelling traders paid us a good price for their soft, shiny furs, from which they sewed caps and collars, or lined the coats of rich people.

  Cold air crept through the cracks in the window frames and made the room even chillier, for the fire had burnt down. Elizabeth had fallen asleep, tired of waiting for the Privy Council and their decision. Her head was tilted and her pink mouth a little open. I envied her calm. Well, she had decided to fold for this round of the gamble for power and survival. For me, however, this was the last chance to play my cards.

  ‘What are you thinking about, Tsarina?’ Menshikov used the salutation as easily as Feofan Prokopovich had only a few hours before. I turned. How strange: I had seen him countless times, and still could not really describe him. Throughout his steep rise from baker boy selling pierogi on the streets to the richest and most powerful man in Russia, the astonishing Alexander Danilovich Menshikov was forever changing his appearance, as the coarse features that had once reminded me of a wood carving reflected all his fresh sins and shortcomings. He ran his fingers through his hair that still had the colour of the wet sand on the shores of the Bay of Finland. I knew that Menshikov was capable of taking his time before he struck; I had better watch my back.

  ‘I am thinking of the Tsarevich,’ I said.

  ‘Of your son Peter Petrovich?’ Menshikov glanced at the painting hanging above the fireplace, and Elizabeth sighed in her sleep and then settled again. When my little prince was bedridden with high fever, I had offered God a despicable trade, asking him to take my living, healthy daughters instead. But the heavens had laughed at my despair and punished us with a cruel, swift hand: Peter, as well as myself.

  ‘No, of Alexey. Was it not your duty to turn him into a Tsar?’

  Elizabeth smacked her lips in her sleep. Menshikov looked at her thoughtfully. What did he see in her – the throne of Russia? Were his ambitions limitless?

  ‘A Tsar! How should a man who is a fool, a coward and a drunkard be a Tsar?’ he said. ‘Do you remember when he came back from his studies in Dresden and Peter wanted to see if he had learnt how to draw maps?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He was so afraid of his father’s judgment that he shot himself in the hand. We heard the bang and then he staggered from his room, bleeding and sobbing like a child. A fool, a coward and a drunkard,’ he repeated.

  ‘Maybe he was just too trusting?’ Menshikov shrugged, but I was not yet finished with him. ‘Who could Alexey have trusted, if not you? Whose example might he have followed, if not yours? You left him to his weak, cruel tutors, and then an old Russian cleric was clever enough to offer him love, warmth and respect,’ I said.

  Menshikov narrowed his eyes. ‘You speak of trust? Do you know where Charlotte fled to, when Alexey beat her up the first time and no one was to know, or no one chose to know? She came to me, wicked old Uncle Alexander Danilovich.’ He slapped his chest. ‘My doctor put a brace on her broken shoulder and healed her splintered ribs. By God, it is a miracle that her children were born healthy. Alexey beat her worse than he did his dogs. He kicked her into labour. Not once, but twice.’

  I raised my hand. ‘I do not wish to hear this. Not now, at least.’

  Menshikov bowed his head. ‘Very well, Tsarina. I am not telling you anything new really, am I? You know about the pathetic letters the poor child wrote home. How strange her parents never replied . . . or rather, not so strange because those letters never reached Brunswick, did they? Charlotte hung around the corridors like a harbour girl waiting for her sweetheart, pacing up and down before the windows, looking out for the messenger from the West. But, alas, he never had an answer for her. And she trusted you!’

  The gloves were off now. ‘That was unavoidable,’ I
hissed. ‘If a Crown Princess of Russia writes home to Brunswick about how horrid her life here is, it reflects badly on the entire realm. This cannot happen. The Tsarevich’s wife is no daughter to any father and no sister to any brother, Menshikov. She belongs to Russia alone.’

  ‘Of course. So be it, my Empress.’ The bright light of morning blurred his features, and I could not tell his thoughts as he brooded by the window. Abruptly he wiped the clouded pane clear.

  ‘Catherine Alexeyevna,’ he called. ‘Come and look!’

  I hastened to join him: riders galloped into the courtyard of the Winter Palace. Their hats were pulled low over their faces and the fur collars of their cloaks turned up. The guard followed them; the Imperial green of the uniforms and the gold thread of their epaulettes and buttons gleamed in the sluggish morning light. The thunder of hoofbeats echoed off the façade of the palace. I suppressed a childish urge to press my fists against my ears.

  ‘Who is this?’ I whispered.

  Menshikov said, ‘Do you see little Petrushka amongst them? I don’t.’

  ‘Must he be with them to be named Tsar of All the Russias?’

  Menshikov hesitated. ‘No. Not strictly. But it’s better to force everyone to swear their allegiance to the new Tsar to his face, there and then.’ I took in those words before he added, ‘But it’s much more important that they get hold of us. Even in Siberia we are still far too dangerous to them. It will be the religious life for us, if they are merciful; the Trubetzkoi bastion and death, if not.’

  The men got off their horses and threw the sweating animals’ reins to the running stable boys. A guard looked up at Peter’s room and crossed himself with three fingers. The breeze caught the red cloth of the Imperial flag with its double-headed eagle, which still danced at the top of its pole: to the rest of Russia, the Tsar was still alive. The wind played along with our lie, our love and our hope. One man broke loose from the others and motioned them to follow him. Was that Prince Dolgoruki, Petrushka’s adviser? The blood rushed from my head. I ought not to faint; the moment of truth had come.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

  Menshikov waved his hand. ‘Don’t be. You’ve done everything possible. Now we are in God’s hand and can only pray for His mercy.’

  Just one breath later, a fist hammered against the door. It echoed like gunshots in my ears, and someone shouted, ‘Open, in the name of the Tsar!’ Which Tsar? I was wondering when Elizabeth woke up, rubbed her eyes, stretched herself like a cat and looked questioningly at me and Menshikov.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘Who is this?’

  Menshikov straightened his shoulders and his coat and retied his lace jabot before running his fingers through his hair once more, smoothing it. At a glance from me, he shrugged. ‘At least I will not look like the scoundrel I am when they arrest me.’

  In a couple of strides he reached the door and unlocked it.

  62

  Peter was furious. He turned the envelope this way and that before snarling: ‘The dog! He’s fooled me. Who, I wonder, conveyed this letter for him? They’ll pay for that. And where is Alexey now?’

  I tried to take it back but he would have none of it, folding it up and hiding it in his pocket. ‘The heir to the throne has fled my realm. He makes a fool of me in the eyes of the whole of Europe. Behold! The Tsar is so terrible that his own son must fear for his life and runs like a rabbit. Oh, how they will laugh in Paris, London, Vienna and Madrid! I hear their laughter here in Mecklenburg,’ he said, biting his lip. Then he urged me, ‘No one must know about this, Catherinushka. It’s a secret between us. Oh, the shame. When I catch him, I shall cut him off like a gangrenous limb.’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ I pleaded.

  ‘Do you know what he wrote to his mother in her convent? Thank God Makarov catches every letter of importance. Alexey said that once he was in power, he would reverse everything I had done: raze St Petersburg, use my fleet for firewood and reinstall the old customs.’

  I sat down, stunned at the madness of Alexey’s words. Peter paced the room. ‘Where can he be? Who gives a coward like him shelter?’

  ‘I do not know, my Tsar. Friends or relatives?’ I wondered.

  ‘In Russia, Alexey is surrounded by nothing but flatterers. Who wants to call such a misfit his friend? And we have no family in Europe apart from Jekaterina, here in Mecklenburg.’ He brooded by the window before looking back at me. ‘Oh, Catherine. This is monstrous. Relatives, you say?’ Patchy red blotches bloomed on his cheeks as he wrenched open the door to the hall. A servant, who had been leaning against it, struggled for balance. Peter shoved him aside. ‘Move, man, if you want to keep your dumb head on your shoulders. Get me Peter Andreyevich Tolstoy. And then bring me quill, paper and ink. Quick, quick!’

  Peter looked so cruelly determined that I dared not interfere. He paced while he waited, muttering to himself, kicking at the dainty furniture. Finally, he sat down in sullen silence.

  ‘Why are you sending for Tolstoy?’ I finally dared to ask.

  ‘Because he is the best bloodhound in the realm, of course. No prey he chases continues to live.’

  There was a knock at the door. Peter opened it and I recognised the familiar, broad figure of our visitor. ‘Tolstoy, saddle your horse. You must find a traitor who has fled Russia. I will dictate to you a letter that gives you unlimited funds and free passage.’

  Tolstoy thought the Tsar was joking. ‘Unlimited funds and free passage? That sounds tremendous. Where has this quarry disappeared to, my Tsar?’ he laughed.

  ‘To Vienna, Tolstoy. Vienna,’ Peter replied, before he pushed me out of my own dressing-room and shut the door in my face. I turned to see the look of horrified understanding on Tolstoy’s face giving way to one of determination.

  I took refuge in my bedroom. Raindrops drummed against the windowpanes. Strollers in the lush castle grounds hurriedly sought shelter from the gathering storm. Young trees bent in the gale and lightning flashed across the sky, making the roofs of Mecklenburg shine as brightly as on a summer’s day. To Vienna, Peter had said. What was about to happen?

  Peter abhorred the hunt. He did not own a pack of dogs and only used weapons in battle. But now he pursued the hunt for Alexey with shocking zeal and devotion. Tolstoy picked up the trail effortlessly. Under a false name, the Tsarevich had spent the night with his so-called wife and a servant in Frankfurt-on-the-Oder, where he bought Afrosinja men’s clothes made of dark brown velvet. In Prague, Tolstoy learnt, Alexey used the alias of a Polish trader. By the time he reached Vienna, Peter had marked out his route with a trail of small pins over a map of the European countries. He placed his tobacco-stained finger on Vienna. ‘I knew it,’ he said proudly. ‘My son is so easy to second guess. What a shame I’ve begotten a fool.’

  ‘How did Tolstoy find him so quickly?’ I asked.

  Peter laughed. ‘Alexey gets so drunk wherever he goes that everyone remembers both the bill and his misdeeds. A blind man in the night could have traced this good-for-nothing.’

  Vienna! Alexey had to be more desperate than I had thought. Was he really hoping for the grace of the Empress, who was a sister to poor Charlotte? Or did she not know what her little sister had suffered at his hands in St Petersburg? I would never have given shelter to a man who had beaten my sister to death. But the izby of Livonia were no preparation for the palaces of Europe.

  Peter read to me a secret report about the arrival of the Crown Prince at night-time in Vienna. ‘“The Chancellor was torn from his sleep at midnight, as the Tsarevich begged for an audience. The Crown Prince of Russia threw himself on his knees, asking for protection for both himself and his companion.”’ Here I had to hold Peter long and tight before he had calmed down enough to read on: the Tsarevich had bent his knee in front of a foreign chancellor! Peter was still shaking with anger as he read further: ‘“Alexey Petrovich Romanov asks the Emperor for the protection of his right to the throne and the rights of his children, but Charles VI also wishes
for peace with Russia and prefers not to interfere in the Tsar’s family quarrels. Vienna fears a Russian attack on Silesia and Bohemia, so he has asked Prince Alexey and his companions to stay near the city and await his decision.”’

  Peter’s fist clenched so tightly around the letter that his knuckles turned white. ‘The decision, my son, comes from St Petersburg and not from Vienna. Just you wait,’ he groaned, and brought his dubina down on a chair, breaking its artfully carved back.

  Winter came. I hoped that the child growing in my body would not be harmed by the bitterness and hatred all around. Peter’s dilemma was clear: he wanted to be perceived as a worthy ruler of a Western empire, while he also wanted Alexey caught and punished. In my presence he sent his Christmas wishes to Vienna, and only on the last page, underneath Makarov’s formal words, did he scrawl, ‘Please send Our Son back to us. We will lead him back to the right path with a loving heart; the heart of a father. Your dearest cousin, Peter.’ Yet when he received a reply of sorts, I was astonished by the Austrian ruler’s cockiness. At his New Year’s reception, Emperor Charles said to the Russian envoy, ‘As far as we are aware, the Tsarevich of Russia has never entered our Empire.’ Peter was fuming and sent the Russian Ambassador to the country two bags of gold. The glare of the coins loosened a number of tongues in the Imperial household in Vienna, but Alexey had first been taken to a Tyrolean castle, which clung like an eagle’s lair to the mountain, and then been spirited away from there in the night, together with Afrosinja. No one since had seen or heard a thing. Or perhaps did not want to say anything. But the Tsarevich could hardly have travelled north, towards his father, and so Tolstoy directed his horse towards Italy. He would hunt Alexey down and drag him back to Russia, even if he had to sweat blood to do it.