A Treasury of Royal Scandals: The Shocking True Stories History's Wickedest Weirdest Most Wanton Kings Queens (2 page)

“
L
ust’s passion will be served,” the French libertine and novelist Marquis de Sade once wrote. “It demands, it militates, it tyrannizes.” The Marquis might have added that this relentless vice has always been oblivious to social status. So, the whole theory behind royalty—that it conferred a certain exalted status over ordinary mortals; a place closer to God in the hierarchy of the universe—was compromised somewhat by the fact that kings and queens proved themselves to be every bit as sex-driven as the peons who served them. The only difference was that, from their positions of power, royal folk were able to serve the demands of lust more creatively and energetically than most.

Henri III preening amongst his minions.

 

 

C
atherine the Great loved horses. She also loved sex. Contrary to popular legend, however, she never managed to unite the two passions. Still, the autocratic empress of Russia brought all the enthusiasm of a vigorous ride to her extremely busy bedroom.

After ridding herself of her imbecile husband Peter III in 1762,
¹
Catherine grabbed the Russian crown and came to dominate her kingdom for the next thirty-four years. Boldly indulging herself as she grew more secure in her position, the empress consumed handsome young lovers with an appetite that sometimes shocked her contemporaries. “She’s no woman,” exclaimed one, “she’s a siren!”

The empress relished her weakness for men, abandoning herself to a giddy romanticism that belied her cold and pragmatic rule. She loved being entertained, even into old age, by a succession of well-formed young studs eager to please her. “It is my misfortune that my heart cannot be content, even for one hour, without love,” she wrote.

Sharing the empress’s bed brought ample rewards, not the least of which was an intimate proximity to power, but getting there wasn’t easy. A good body and a pleasant face, combined whenever possible with wit and intelligence, were merely starters. Potential lovers also had to have the right pedigree and pass a crucial test. Catherine had several ladies-in-waiting—test drivers of sorts—whose job it was to ensure that all candidates for their mistress’s bed were up to the highly demanding task of satisfying her.

The applicants were most often supplied by the empress’s one-eyed ex-lover—the man many assumed to be her secret husband—Gregory Potemkin. She had fallen in love with this rough, hulking officer relatively early in her industrious sexual career, overcome by his brash courage, quick wit, and almost primitive sexuality. Wasting little time disposing of Alexander Vassilzhikov, her boyfriend at the time, Catherine was delighted the first night Potemkin came to her bedroom, naked under his nightshirt and ready for action. “I have parted from a certain excellent but very boring citizen,” the empress wrote to a confidante, “who has been replaced, I know not how, by one of the greatest, oddest, most amusing and original personalities of this Iron Age.”

Because of his long greasy hair, and brutish unwashed body, many women found Potemkin repulsive. Catherine, however, reveled in his strength, charm, and sexual domination. She couldn’t get enough of this strange man who made her forget her royal dignity. Whenever they were parted, even for a few hours, she regaled him with an avalanche of feverish love notes, each peppered with at least one of her special pet names: “My marble beauty,” “my darling pet,” “my dearest doll,” “golden cock,” “lion of the jungle,” “my professional bon bon.”

In one letter, she pretended to be shocked at the intensity of her passion and tried to get hold of herself: “I have issued strict orders to my whole body, down to the smallest hair on my head, not to show you the least sign of love. I have locked my love inside my heart and bolted it ten times, it is suffocating there, it is constrained, and I fear it may explode.” In other letters she gloried in his good company: “Darling, what comical stories you told me yesterday! I can’t stop laughing when I think of them . . . we spend four hours together without a shadow of boredom, and it is always with reluctance that I leave you. My dearest pigeon, I love you very much. You are handsome, intelligent, amusing.”